seen all there was to see. ‘Gosh, it’s silly, but I find I’ve developed rather a thing for him myself.’
‘A thing? How is that possible? You’re Lydia, you don’t do
things.
You leave that sort of mess to the rest of us.’
‘I’m not going to do anything at all. I have no intention … Only I can’t quite bring myself to think about
you
doing it.’
‘I see.’
Both women fell silent. Lydia abandoned all show of dignity and pushed on, desperate for a pledge, ‘So you’ll leave him be?’
‘I will.’
She sighed, relieved. She firmly believed that if Ava wanted a man, she could have him, and Ava would want the perfect man if she saw him; how could she not? Lydia had had to put the barrier in the way. Her request was irrational, revealing and ignoble, but she could not stop herself. For the first time in her life, she felt the vines of jealousy creep through her body. Ava was single and free to pursue; Lydia was not. She shook her head, confused. ‘We may never find him, and he may be married, of course, in which case this entire conversation is irrelevant,’ she blustered, trying to erase the tension that choked the room.
‘Why would you think that? Half my lovers have been married. They are the very best sort. So discreet and practised and grateful.’
‘You say the most terrible things.’
Ava smiled unhurriedly. ‘Yes, darling, I do. That’s what separates me from the pack. Everybody else simply thinks them.’
13
L YDIA, S ARAH AND Beatrice stood together in the crowded drawing room, waiting with varied levels of patience and animation as the extra guests arrived for dinner. Ava, as the hostess, had to circulate. She moved through the throng, greeting and delighting. Her many attributes sharpened in front of their eyes. Her beauty ripened, her conversation sparkled, and without exerting any real effort she became everyone’s focal point. She saturated the space around her with an aura of rare magnificence; to many she seemed more exquisitely regal than even Her Highness Princess Mary. Ava progressed at an unhurried pace, the dignity of which contrasted with the frenetic energy that surrounded her, as her guests eagerly tried to catch and hold her attention. Artfully, she appeared to scarcely see those clamouring for her notice, which encouraged their desperation. Then, when they seemed to be on the brink of collapsing with frustration and despair that she’d never turn their way, she would bestow a smile that singled them out in time and space, convincing each and every person that he or she was her particular and absolute favourite. As she passed by her best friends, she whispered into Bea’s ear, ‘Have you seen Lady Anna Renwick is wearing teal evening gloves?’
‘Not white?’ asked Bea.
‘No.’
‘Or black?’
‘Are you deaf? I said teal.’
‘Well I never.’
‘No, darling,
you
would never,’ commented Ava, and melted back into the crowd, leaving Beatrice unsure about her view on teal glove wearing.
‘Teal gloves, how exciting,’ commented Bea, avoiding making a gaffe by committing herself one way or the other to the effect and appropriateness of the fashion; exciting could be a good or a bad thing.
Lydia sighed at her life; a life where coloured evening gloves defined excitement. She had forced herself to be polite to the three or four people who’d approached her in the last half-hour, even though she had found them predictable in their conversations and concerns. The women had complimented her on her dress – gold velvet decorated with a substantial amount of intricate jet beading; she’d agreed it was divine. The men had asked after Lawrence, commenting that it was a shame he couldn’t join the party and sharing their opinions that he was, perhaps, rather
too
conscientious, because everyone knew what all work and no play led to. A dull boy. Lydia nodded and shook her head when appropriate; she smiled gently, but did not let loose her full beam. She
‘A thing? How is that possible? You’re Lydia, you don’t do
things.
You leave that sort of mess to the rest of us.’
‘I’m not going to do anything at all. I have no intention … Only I can’t quite bring myself to think about
you
doing it.’
‘I see.’
Both women fell silent. Lydia abandoned all show of dignity and pushed on, desperate for a pledge, ‘So you’ll leave him be?’
‘I will.’
She sighed, relieved. She firmly believed that if Ava wanted a man, she could have him, and Ava would want the perfect man if she saw him; how could she not? Lydia had had to put the barrier in the way. Her request was irrational, revealing and ignoble, but she could not stop herself. For the first time in her life, she felt the vines of jealousy creep through her body. Ava was single and free to pursue; Lydia was not. She shook her head, confused. ‘We may never find him, and he may be married, of course, in which case this entire conversation is irrelevant,’ she blustered, trying to erase the tension that choked the room.
‘Why would you think that? Half my lovers have been married. They are the very best sort. So discreet and practised and grateful.’
‘You say the most terrible things.’
Ava smiled unhurriedly. ‘Yes, darling, I do. That’s what separates me from the pack. Everybody else simply thinks them.’
13
L YDIA, S ARAH AND Beatrice stood together in the crowded drawing room, waiting with varied levels of patience and animation as the extra guests arrived for dinner. Ava, as the hostess, had to circulate. She moved through the throng, greeting and delighting. Her many attributes sharpened in front of their eyes. Her beauty ripened, her conversation sparkled, and without exerting any real effort she became everyone’s focal point. She saturated the space around her with an aura of rare magnificence; to many she seemed more exquisitely regal than even Her Highness Princess Mary. Ava progressed at an unhurried pace, the dignity of which contrasted with the frenetic energy that surrounded her, as her guests eagerly tried to catch and hold her attention. Artfully, she appeared to scarcely see those clamouring for her notice, which encouraged their desperation. Then, when they seemed to be on the brink of collapsing with frustration and despair that she’d never turn their way, she would bestow a smile that singled them out in time and space, convincing each and every person that he or she was her particular and absolute favourite. As she passed by her best friends, she whispered into Bea’s ear, ‘Have you seen Lady Anna Renwick is wearing teal evening gloves?’
‘Not white?’ asked Bea.
‘No.’
‘Or black?’
‘Are you deaf? I said teal.’
‘Well I never.’
‘No, darling,
you
would never,’ commented Ava, and melted back into the crowd, leaving Beatrice unsure about her view on teal glove wearing.
‘Teal gloves, how exciting,’ commented Bea, avoiding making a gaffe by committing herself one way or the other to the effect and appropriateness of the fashion; exciting could be a good or a bad thing.
Lydia sighed at her life; a life where coloured evening gloves defined excitement. She had forced herself to be polite to the three or four people who’d approached her in the last half-hour, even though she had found them predictable in their conversations and concerns. The women had complimented her on her dress – gold velvet decorated with a substantial amount of intricate jet beading; she’d agreed it was divine. The men had asked after Lawrence, commenting that it was a shame he couldn’t join the party and sharing their opinions that he was, perhaps, rather
too
conscientious, because everyone knew what all work and no play led to. A dull boy. Lydia nodded and shook her head when appropriate; she smiled gently, but did not let loose her full beam. She
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