Dubious Legacy by Mary Wesley Page A

It comes from Dior. Perhaps you can persuade her, one never knows. I have it in my room.’
    Antonia and Barbara said, ‘Dior!’ and ‘Goodness!’ Of course they were anxious to see it; they would each bring a dress, then there would be an element of choice. Though naturally Margaret would choose the Dior, it stood to reason.
    ‘Reason is something she stands on its head,’ said Henry wryly, ‘but it’s worth a bash. Meet you at the top of the stairs?’
    The girls ran ahead and Henry followed more slowly with his dogs.
    As he waited at the head of the stairs, the cockatoo crept under the sash of an open window. When it saw Henry it raised its crest and twisted its neck, glinting at him with one eye. Henry said, ‘Aha! I want you. You will be safer shut up.’ But as he reached for the bird it dodged out of the window and flew away, squawking. Henry said, ‘Damn you.’
    ‘Damn who?’ Barbara and Antonia came along the corridor empty-handed; they had decided to see the Dior before deciding on their own dresses. The comparison would be too odious.
    ‘The cockatoo. I missed. I don’t want him to bother people at the party, he’s been known to nip.’
    Antonia said, ‘Catch him later. We’ve not brought our dresses. Where’s the Dior? Is it really from Dior?’
    ‘Come. I’ll show you.’ Henry led the way. ‘I live in this wing,’ he said. ‘The room was my father’s. My mother’s, too, when she was alive.’
    ‘A separate wing.’ Barbara hurried to keep pace. ‘Well away from the rest of the house and visitors.’ And well away from your wife, she thought.
    Henry said, ‘Here we are.’ He opened a door and stood aside for the girls to pass.
    It was a large room, full of sun. Facing the open window was a four-poster, against one wall a kneehole desk; there were armchairs and a sofa; the boards were carpeted with worn Persian rugs, the walls papered in a faded, indistinguishable pattern; there were no pictures, only an inkstain, as though a bottle had been thrown. There was a bookshelf, but no mirrors. The chairs and sofa were covered in a material which, once red, had faded with washing to coral pink. One could see why, thought Barbara, as Henry’s dogs climbed each to its habitual place to curl up but remain watchful.
    Antonia said, ‘Some person threw an ink bottle.’
    Henry said, ‘Some person did,’ but did not explain. Barbara walked to the window to look out and Henry followed her.
    Antonia focused on the bed, impressed by its height and width, its beautiful but tattered hangings. From that bed, she thought, Henry can see across the fields to the hills; what an admirable bed. She wished fiercely for a similar bed for herself but Matthew, she was sure, would never put up with it. He would like modern divans. Staring at the bed, Antonia imagined being in it with Henry, who stood with his back to her. Barbara was pointing at something in the garden, standing close to him. Her hair brushed his sleeve; her head barely came up to his shoulder.
    In Henry’s arms love would be very different to love with Matthew, Antonia thought; she was not sure she cared for Matthew’s legs. He had a footballer’s muscular thighs. She could see that Henry’s legs were not thick, even in those shapeless trousers. They had none of the springy energy she found daunting in Matthew’s; they were so long and thin they looked as if they would snap if he played football. So Henry slept in that bed. And who with, she wondered? Not Margaret, that was plain, even if one did not believe half Margaret’s hints.
    Antonia said, ‘What a wonderful bed. I would love to sleep in it.’
    Turning from the window, Henry said, ‘You would?’ It was not an invitation; rather she had the impression that she would sleep there at her peril.
    Perhaps after all it would be best to stick to Matthew. She would get used to his thighs; they were not as bulgy as some people’s, her brother Richard’s, for instance.
    She said,