favourite weed?”
“And where none may say them nay, more to the point,” added Nigel Bathe glancing up the table at Eustacia.
The luncheon party was breaking up. Gabriel and Charis were being introduced to family friends by Mrs Cobb, the children were scampering around on the terrace, the major seemed to be asleep. Felix got to his feet and went to join his two brothers-in-law in the inner hall. Cigars were produced and lit, Henry Hyams dispensed brandy. Greville Verschoyle slipped into the room two minutes later.
“Brandy, Greville?” Henry Hyams offered.
“Rather. Some beano, eh? The major’s trying to collar a partner for billiards. Made my escape just in time.”
“Where’s Hinshelwood?” Nigel Bathe asked.
“Caught up in the bridal party, worse luck for him.”
“I thought you were meant to be best man anyway, Felix,” Henry Hyams said.
“That was the idea. But it was just a contingency plan. In case Sammy couldn’t get leave.”
“Bloody awful speech, I thought,” Greville said, as Henry Hyams lit his cigar.
Felix wandered over to the window and looked out over the drive. He felt a sense of bleak sadness spread slowly through him like a stain. Now Gabriel had gone, nothing could ever be the same here again, he thought. Ever. He heard a burst of raucous laughter from his brothers-in-law and turned back to look at the group. He felt like an anthropologist or explorer contemplating some foreign tribe. Henry Hyams was pouring more brandy. Felix went over to get his glass refilled.
“I should think old Gabriel’s looking forward to tonight,” Greville said with a smirk. “What’s the plan exactly? Are they stopping for the night in town? Or going straight to Deauville?”
“Deauville?” exclaimed Nigel Bathe in outrage. “Why on earth are they going to Deauville?”
“It’s called a honeymoon, Nigel,” Greville said. “They’re having a honeymoon in Deauville. It is Deauville, isn’t it?”
“Good God ,” Nigel Bathe uttered, appalled, his sense of injustice causing his nostrils to twitch in disgust.
Henry Hyams ignored him. “It’s Trouville, actually. Just next door. No, they’re going straight over. Being driven to Folkestone. Steamer, then a train to Paris. Then on to Trouville.”
“Be a bit awkward on the train, won’t it?” Greville said.
Henry Hyams went purple in the face as he tried to prevent the mouthful of brandy he’d just taken snorting out of his nose.
“Are the Cobbs paying for this?” an aggrieved Nigel Bathe demanded. “That’s what I want to know. We only went to Brighton.”
Henry Hyams was swaying around as if in a railway carriage travelling at speed, lunging repeatedly at an imaginary bride. Greville Verschoyle was stooped over, pigeon-toed, pounding his knee with a fist, his face screwed up around his fat cigar in a rictus of mirth. To his surprise and shame Felix felt himself blushing. He left the room unobtrusively, hearing, as he closed the door behind him, Nigel Bathe plaintively demanding explanations.
“Look, come on you chaps. Do stop it. How can anyone afford Normandy in high season on a captain’s pay? That’s what I want to know. Has the gel got money of her own or something?”
Felix paused outside the door. He thought about going back into the dining room but decided against it. He walked instead up the passageway to the main hall. There it was cool and quiet. Through the front windows was a glimpse of the lawn, lime-green in the afternoon sun.
Felix was annoyed to find that he still felt offended and ashamed: offended to hear the men talking like that about Gabriel; ashamed that he—who prided himself on his worldliness—should be offended. He shook his head and allowed a bitter little smile to pass across his features. He couldn’t remember feeling so apart from his family: not one of them understood him, not one had an inkling of how his mind worked. Not even Gabriel, who—
“Hello, am I wanted or
“And where none may say them nay, more to the point,” added Nigel Bathe glancing up the table at Eustacia.
The luncheon party was breaking up. Gabriel and Charis were being introduced to family friends by Mrs Cobb, the children were scampering around on the terrace, the major seemed to be asleep. Felix got to his feet and went to join his two brothers-in-law in the inner hall. Cigars were produced and lit, Henry Hyams dispensed brandy. Greville Verschoyle slipped into the room two minutes later.
“Brandy, Greville?” Henry Hyams offered.
“Rather. Some beano, eh? The major’s trying to collar a partner for billiards. Made my escape just in time.”
“Where’s Hinshelwood?” Nigel Bathe asked.
“Caught up in the bridal party, worse luck for him.”
“I thought you were meant to be best man anyway, Felix,” Henry Hyams said.
“That was the idea. But it was just a contingency plan. In case Sammy couldn’t get leave.”
“Bloody awful speech, I thought,” Greville said, as Henry Hyams lit his cigar.
Felix wandered over to the window and looked out over the drive. He felt a sense of bleak sadness spread slowly through him like a stain. Now Gabriel had gone, nothing could ever be the same here again, he thought. Ever. He heard a burst of raucous laughter from his brothers-in-law and turned back to look at the group. He felt like an anthropologist or explorer contemplating some foreign tribe. Henry Hyams was pouring more brandy. Felix went over to get his glass refilled.
“I should think old Gabriel’s looking forward to tonight,” Greville said with a smirk. “What’s the plan exactly? Are they stopping for the night in town? Or going straight to Deauville?”
“Deauville?” exclaimed Nigel Bathe in outrage. “Why on earth are they going to Deauville?”
“It’s called a honeymoon, Nigel,” Greville said. “They’re having a honeymoon in Deauville. It is Deauville, isn’t it?”
“Good God ,” Nigel Bathe uttered, appalled, his sense of injustice causing his nostrils to twitch in disgust.
Henry Hyams ignored him. “It’s Trouville, actually. Just next door. No, they’re going straight over. Being driven to Folkestone. Steamer, then a train to Paris. Then on to Trouville.”
“Be a bit awkward on the train, won’t it?” Greville said.
Henry Hyams went purple in the face as he tried to prevent the mouthful of brandy he’d just taken snorting out of his nose.
“Are the Cobbs paying for this?” an aggrieved Nigel Bathe demanded. “That’s what I want to know. We only went to Brighton.”
Henry Hyams was swaying around as if in a railway carriage travelling at speed, lunging repeatedly at an imaginary bride. Greville Verschoyle was stooped over, pigeon-toed, pounding his knee with a fist, his face screwed up around his fat cigar in a rictus of mirth. To his surprise and shame Felix felt himself blushing. He left the room unobtrusively, hearing, as he closed the door behind him, Nigel Bathe plaintively demanding explanations.
“Look, come on you chaps. Do stop it. How can anyone afford Normandy in high season on a captain’s pay? That’s what I want to know. Has the gel got money of her own or something?”
Felix paused outside the door. He thought about going back into the dining room but decided against it. He walked instead up the passageway to the main hall. There it was cool and quiet. Through the front windows was a glimpse of the lawn, lime-green in the afternoon sun.
Felix was annoyed to find that he still felt offended and ashamed: offended to hear the men talking like that about Gabriel; ashamed that he—who prided himself on his worldliness—should be offended. He shook his head and allowed a bitter little smile to pass across his features. He couldn’t remember feeling so apart from his family: not one of them understood him, not one had an inkling of how his mind worked. Not even Gabriel, who—
“Hello, am I wanted or
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