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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 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 chandeliers…' 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 soufflé 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.'
