The Velvet Glove by Mary Williams Page B

including Jon, who looked distinctly ill-at-ease. And no wonder, thought Kate, considering Cassandra’s appearance. She was attired all in black – a high-necked dress, with a cape-like arrangement falling over the shoulders, and a spreading skirt covering the tips of her shoes. Her light hair was dragged to the back of her head almost entirely covered by black lace veiling resembling a miniature mantilla, of some religious order perhaps. Kate’s nerves lurched. Over the dark bodice of the gown a pearl cross hung at the breast from a silver chain.
    The whole effect – the demure severity of expression on the pale face against the unrelieved black was startling, and somehow macabre.
    Kate went forward mechanically, forcing a smile.
    ‘Hullo, Cass, how are you?’
    ‘ Perfectly well, thank you,’ Cassandra answered in high sweet tones. ‘And how are you?’
    ‘ Me? Oh, I’m all right. I haven’t seen you lately.’
    ‘ No. I’ve been busy.’
    ‘ Painting?’
    ‘ Yes, and other things.’
    ‘ Cass doesn’t make a habit of mingling with us normal folk these days,’ Jon said sarcastically, coming to join them. ‘She is much too pure.’ Instantly he regretted the cruel comment, but it was too late.
    An embarrassed flush rose to Kate ’s cheeks. She was wondering wildly what to say, whether to make a joke of Jon’s rebuff or change the conversation quickly into other channels, when Lady Wentworth mercifully intervened.
    ‘ Do come and sit down, my dear,’ she said to Kate. ‘I was just saying to your dear mama that I hadn’t seen your delightful babies since the christening. One day you must bring them along in the afternoon, and we can have a cosy cup of tea together without these wicked men of ours.’ Her smile at Kate was as sugar sweet as her brief frown at Jon was strong with warning.
    Of Cassie, whose wedding anniversary it was, she took no notice at all.
    The whole short interlude had the atmosphere of a social drama being enacted on a stage with no one knowing quite what the climax was to be, a situation saved only by a veneer of good manners, and the good food and wine that followed.
    Actually such an assessment would have been correct, although it was three hours before the finale took shape, and one which neither the Wentworths nor Barringtons could have anticipated.
    By 10.30 the guests had departed. Jon and Cassandra were the last to leave after a cold farewell from Lady Wentworth and a gruff ‘Hope all’s well with you two – have a good night m’boy’, from Sir William.
    Two bright spots of colour burned on Olivia ’s high cheek-bones as she returned to the dining-room followed by her husband. A fire was still burning brightly, the air was warm; small signs of festivity remained there – massed bowls of roses, a large framed photograph of Jon and Cassandra on their wedding day standing in a silver frame on a side table. Light leaped from logs and coal, catching the glint of wall lamps and the immense crystal chandelier hanging from the high encrusted ceiling. Soft shadows mingled with the rich warm scent of the flowers evocative of bygone romantic luxury. A gentle tune from a French china clock upheld by baby angels tinkled merrily from the mantelshelf. But Olivia Wentworth’s face was grim. The very atmosphere seemed to chill as she spoke.
    ‘ Outrageous. That girl’s behaviour was quite inexcusable. To appear like that –making a mockery of her marriage to our son. And in front of those – those Barringtons. So demure and sly. As if she was in mourning . Or about to enter a convent. We must do something William. It can’t go on. Jon has aged years, even in the short time since they moved to the Dower House. We must have advice. Marriages can be annulled in certain cases. I’m sure something’s very wrong. In cases like this—’ She broke off, lifting a shred of lace handkerchief to one eye, her upper lip trembled beneath her long aristocratic nose.
    William patted her