Last Nocturne by Marjorie Eccles Page B

relieved by the hard glitter of the diamond choker round her neck and the matching drops in her ears. Her sable-lined evening cloak and her embroidered and beaded evening bag were thrown over a sofa. The lamp silhouetted her haughty profile like a Greek cameo against the black lacquered Japanese screen behind her. She turned as he came in, and he was shocked, as much by her face, drained of colour, as by a droop in her shoulders he had never seen before, the unusual stillness of those expressive hands of hers, now clasped tightly in her lap. But then she automatically drew herself up, a lifetime’s discipline asserting itself against a slovenly posture, pinning on her habitual social smile. Her shoulders straightened, her chin lifted, but the smile was a travesty.
    ‘Mother, what are you doing here, all alone? Is anything wrong?’
    ‘It’s been an exhausting evening, nothing more, and I was so very tired.’
    ‘Then should you not be in bed? I’ll get Manners—’
    ‘No.’ She held up a hand to stop him as he reached for the bell. ‘I’m not ready for sleep yet. I’ll go up presently, when I am.’
    ‘Mother?’
    ‘Yes?’ She barely turned, but the soft light of the silk-shaded lamp fell on her rigid face. He was shocked, and then absolutely astonished when he caught the glint of a tear in her eye corner. Never in his life had he seen his mother cry – and nor did he now. She blinked angrily and the treacherous betrayal disappeared. But when he pulled up a stool, sat by her knee and took her hand in his, she, who never welcomed personal contact, even from her children, left it there for the moment, unresisting. It was cold as ice.
    ‘Tell me. What is the matter?’
    ‘I’ve told you, nothing. It’s simply been such a very long day and I’m desperately tired.’
    ‘As an explanation, that leaves something to be desired, you know,’ he said with a half smile. ‘Wait a moment.’
    He left the room and returned with two fat-bellied crystal glasses and a cognac decanter. He poured out two measures and sat by her while she lifted her glass and sipped. ‘Now, what’s all this? Something’s evidently wrong and I warn you, I don’t intend to leave you until you tell me what it is.’ Gradually a little colour came back into her face, but she still sat as if turned to stone. ‘Come, tell me.’
    The Martagons were not a demonstrative family. She had certainly never exchanged confidences with either of her children, given or asked for understanding. Perhaps she suddenly realised this; perhaps it was simply the cognac which loosened her tongue. ‘Oh, very well. I see no harm in telling you. It’s only a small problem regarding some letters which I – which I found in your father’s desk after he died…and which I kept, God knows why, and hid away. And that is all there is to it, so there is no need to look so fierce, Guy.’
    ‘What kind of problem?’
    ‘Nothing that need concern you, I assure you.’
    ‘My dear mother, seeing you like this is every reason for my concern. Doesn’t it occur to you that I might be of some assistance?’ Never had she asked him for help, and he couldn’t keep the edge of bitterness from his voice, but it did nothing to move her. ‘Why should these letters only now cause you so much distress? What kind of letters? Hmm? Were they love letters?’ he asked bluntly when she didn’t answer.
    She turned angrily away. ‘I suppose you might call them that. At any rate, they were from a woman.’
    ‘To my father?’
    ‘It would appear so.’ Two spots of colour appeared on her cheeks.
    ‘What do you mean – appear so?’
    ‘They began only with an endearment – and were unsigned. Oh, really – it quite demeans me even to think of them. I should never have mentioned them to you. Please, forget what I’ve said, and leave me now.’
    With a smothered exclamation, he rose and fed the fire with a few small pieces of coal, then tossed the tongs back into the scuttle,