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‘Yes,’ Christy told her shakily. She forced a tight smile to her mouth as she turned to face her mother.
‘I know how much you love him, Christy,’ Sarah Marsden told her quietly, ‘and I had thought…that is, your father and I…’ she bit her lip. ‘I’m more sorry than I can say, my dear. I thought this time… Now that you’re both adults…’
Unable to bear listening to any more, Christy picked up the skirts of her dress and escaped into her own room. It was no use telling herself that it was stupid and, worse still, pointless for a grown woman of twenty-five to fling herself down on her bed and cry as though her heart was breaking for a man who would always be out of reach, but that was exactly what she did.
It was teatime before she had enough self-control to face the world again. Although she had bathed her face in cold water, her eyes remained suspiciously pink, but tactfully her mother said nothing about Dominic when she went back to ask her if she would like something to drink, instead chatting to Christy about her visit to London.
* * *
Two days later at a committee meeting of the fundraising committee, Christy had a brief chance to speak to Dominic alone. The others had all left, and her father was standing outside the Vicarage talking to the Major.
‘Dominic…about the Valentine’s Night Ball. There’s really no need to pick me up and bring me back. I’d really prefer…’
‘What? To be escorted by your married lover?’ His mouth twisted with what was becoming familiar contempt. ‘Why don’t you ask him to do so, then, Christy, or are you afraid that he wouldn’t leave his wife? Men like that rarely do, you know. The arrangement stands.’
Tense with frustration, Christy heard her father call out to her.
‘You’d better go,’ Dominic told her, opening the study door for her. She paused, torn between leaving and staying to argue with him, and then the phone rang.
As she hesitated he picked up the receiver, his voice deepening with pleasure, a smile curling his mouth as he said warmly into the mouthpiece, ‘Amanda! Of course I’ve missed you…’
Later Christy wasn’t quite sure how she got to the car. She only knew that she was shaking almost violently with a mixture of rage and jealousy as her father drove them home.
* * *
A phone call from the Major towards the end of the week to check up on the final details for the Valentine’s Night Ball took Christy over to his Queen Anne house set against the backdrop of fields and hills. The house had once belonged to the Anthony estate, and the Major’s father had purchased it from them just after the First World War.
He lived alone in the attractive red-brick mansion, looked after by a daily cleaning lady from the village, and by his batman, who had left the Army at the same time as the Major. Christy had only been inside the house once or twice, but she had heard a lot about it from her parents, who had been there to dinner and to play bridge on several occasions, and so she was already prepared for the almost spartan neatness when the Major’s batman opened the door for her.
A long time ago, when he had first left the Army, the Major’s pernickety ways had caused comment among the villagers, but now they were so used to him that he no longer drew their awe. Indulgent amusement was probably a closer description of the locals’ attitude towards the Army-like way in which the Major ran his farm and his home, and Christy almost expected him to ask her if she was ready to take ‘tiffin’ as he escorted her into his book-lined study.
A painting of his father hung above the fire, and Christy noted their physical similarities as she sat down. The Major saw her studying the portrait and smiled at her.
‘My father was a fine man,’ he told her proudly, his smile turning to an almost brooding frown as he added, almost under his breath, ‘even if there were those hereabouts who thought him beneath them…’
It was such an odd remark for him to make that Christy was nonplussed for a moment. As far as she was aware, everyone in the locale held the Major, if not in esteem, then in a certain amount of awe. He was known for his strict fairness and adherence to a code long since gone out of fashion, but a fairer or more moral man Christy doubted that anyone could find, and she had assumed that his family had been held in the same high repute.
However, she wasn’t allowed to pursue the matter even mentally, because the Major had a long list on his desk in front of him, and he was clearing his throat preparatory to getting down to business. It amused Christy to realise that he had even listed his queries alphabetically.
‘Now, about the dancing.’ He cleared his throat again, and if she hadn’t known better Christy might almost have thought he was slightly embarrassed. ‘I don’t know what you have in mind, Christy…but I hope there’ll be some music for the…er…older brigade to dance to.’
It took several seconds for his meaning to sink in, but once it had Christy hid a small grin. It wouldn’t do to hurt his feelings by letting him think she was laughing at him.
‘A great many of the tickets have been sold to people in their thirties and above,’ she told him, ‘and of course, since this is a romantic occasion, they’ll be expecting appropriate dance music. I’ve provisionally booked a small combo who will play traditional waltz music, and of course the more romantic slower numbers. They come well recommended—they’ve played at a lot of local weddings—but if you’d like to interview them yourself…they’ve also offered to play for free since it’s for a good cause…’
‘No…no, that sounds excellent. Have you seen the ballroom at the Manor yet?’
Christy hadn’t, and had been loath to ring up Lady Anthony and ask if she might lest it brought her into contact with Amanda. She had no idea whether or not the other woman had returned from London, although with the ball only just over a week away, it seemed unlikely that she would stay away much longer.
‘Well, I’ve taken the liberty of arranging to show it to you today,’ the Major suggested.
Christy wasn’t quite quick enough to conceal her surprise. As far as she knew, the Major and Lady Anthony were such enemies that neither was likely to contact the other voluntarily.
‘If you’ve got the time we could drive over there once we’ve gone through these queries.’
As David’s personal assistant, Christy was skilled at ferreting out and finding the impossible; nevertheless she felt pleased when they reached the end of the the list and the Major complimented her on her work.
Everyone she had approached in connection with the ball had given their services freely. A local florist’s had agreed to decorate the ballroom, and Christy liked the Major’s suggestion that he contact an acquaintance of his who freelanced for The Dalesman and Country Life with a view to doing a piece on the ball for those publications.
Almost an hour later they set out for the Manor, Christy driving behind the Major in his ancient but immaculately kept Daimler. She was familiar with the grounds of the Manor from various fêtes and summer fairs, but she had only rarely been inside. Over the years the house had grown from the original Borders’ fortress into a rambling collection of various styles of architecture, with the interior being remodelled by an eighteenth-century Anthony, who had happened to get on the right side of Elector George.
There was no sign of Lady Anthony when they were shown up an impressive flight of stairs to the ballroom.
The strong winter sunlight was not kind, revealing unsightly patches of damp and cracks in the ornate plaster ceiling, and the Major shook his head sadly over the room’s deterioration.
‘I remember dancing here the year I was twenty-one. You should have seen it. I’ll always remember the scent of the gardenias decorating the room. It was lit with chandelier
s…’ Lost in the past, he looked round the room.
Darkness and soft illuminations would be kind to its fading glory, Christy recognised, and nothing could ever detract from its elegant proportions. She felt a deep inward sadness as she realised how impossible it must be for someone like Lady Anthony to afford all the restoration work that was necessary. Houses like these simply ate up money, and the families who had built and cherished them could often no longer afford their maintenance.
‘Ronnie was twenty-one that year as well. He died at the beginning of the war.’
‘Ronnie?’
‘Celia’s…’ he caught himself up, his ruddy complexion darkening slightly, as he amended, ‘Lady Anthony’s husband… Ronald Anthony. He was her cousin. He was killed in action at the beginning of the war.’
Christy told her mother about the sadly deteriorating state of the ballroom when she returned home, and about the Major’s revelations about the Anthony family.
‘Yes, I seem to remember someone once mentioning that Lady Anthony was widowed as a bride. Her husband was the only heir to the title, I believe. I’ve also heard it rumoured that the marriage was an arranged one. Her father was apparently a very proud man. Since he had no sons of his own to inherit, he decided that his daughter should marry her only male cousin to preserve the family line.’
‘I wonder if she loved him,’ Christy mused. ‘I don’t know. Tell me, what have you got planned for the food?’
Christy allowed herself to be diverted. ‘Everyone’s been wonderfully helpful. The WI are providing the buffet, which reminds me, Mrs Neilson asked me if she could use your raspberry ´ souffle receipe—and they’re taking care of setting up the tables and chairs in a couple of rooms off the ballroom. The Major’s donating some salmon.’
The Major owned and fished a small slice of salmon river in Scotland, and Mrs Marsden grinned as Christy told her this.
‘His freezer is full of the stuff, or so Mrs Fiddler says, but he hates parting with it normally.’
They went on to discuss the floral decoration of the ballroom, and they were still deep in discussion when Christy’s father returned from work.
