difficulties? he wondered. Had Tom already been enlisted to ‘have a word’, and was that the reason behind the flask? He hoped not. He wanted only the respite of the evening; the chance for him and Evvie to laugh and forget. Surely that was what she wanted too? Surely it wasn’t too late for life to return to what it had been just a month ago? Might she relax enough not to turn her back to him in bed later on? For even that he’d be grateful.
Fourteen years ago, she had appeared beneath a Chinese lantern in these gardens, a girl in a thin white gown. She hadn’t accepted a cigarette or a seat on the bench beside him but she’d stayed, and her company that night had felt charmed, fleeting. Indeed it had been hard to believe she wouldn’t dissolve when they stepped beyond the light of the lantern, but instead, she’d taken form.
He knew what it was to hold her in the night, adjusting himself in sleep to her. He knew the round of her bottom as she nestled against him. He knew the curve of her hip beneath his palm and the dip of her lower back. Her laugh, bigger than she was, still surprised him, if only, perhaps, because he heard it less these days.
Behind the shutters and blackout curtains, the Midsummer Ball was in motion, a decorous secret the building kept to itself. Was itonly he who felt that the collective cheer of the night was strained, that the band was too emphatically carefree? Even there, in the fullness of the evening, with the music seducing everyone beyond thought, the laughter, the bare shoulders and the toasts seemed to him a kind of mime they all performed without heart for one another. It was meant to be a final, heady indulgence, a last hurrah, and if it was not quite that, it was at least a relief to see Evvie relaxing in Sylvia and Tom’s company, to see her swaying to the music and laughing at Sylvia’s round-up of London gossip.
That night years ago, Evelyn had simply asked him the time. She had lost her cousin. She’d been lovely, awkward. He’d never seen such delicate wrists and ankles, and she had so much life, such spark and brightness in her eyes that the honesty of her gaze made their polite conversation seem a nonsense. Then she’d done that outlandish, most undebutante-like of things, poking him in the armpit, sweetly mocking the state of his tailcoat, and in doing so, she’d somehow transformed them both into their real selves. In the pulse of that moment, she’d felt like a familiar, a loved one.
Her unexpected arrival in his evening had also made the earlier ruckus with Leo’s friend seem inconsequential … As those particular tensions had mounted, it was Tom who had taken him aside to suggest he step outside to clear his head. It was true, he had started it, in the gentlemen’s smoking room, by asking Leo what he’d been thinking, bringing to the ball that night so contemptible a character. Of course Leo’s friend overheard. He had meant him to overhear.
Freddie and Art had pretended to be deep in another conversation, though Geoffrey knew they were of the same mind as he. Fitz had grabbed a drink off a passing tray and downed it before returning to the two debs, and their chaperones, who had been shadowing him all evening. Things got heated. Geoffrey spoke his mind. Perhaps he’dused some regrettable language. A bit of name-calling. He couldn’t remember. It had not been his finest hour. He’d had too much to drink.
He probably threw the first punch. He’d never asked Tom to con-firm. They didn’t remove their jackets. Hence the split seam. He remembered that much. A card table had tipped. A few glasses had crashed. Tom had taken charge of the situation – no wonder he’d ended up in the Diplomatic Service. He’d taken Geoffrey by the arm and led him to the door: ‘Of course it’s not on. Leo was a fool to bring him. But what’s to be done about it? Let’s just get through the night, shall we? Go on. Go clear your head.’
Geoffrey had come down from
Fourteen years ago, she had appeared beneath a Chinese lantern in these gardens, a girl in a thin white gown. She hadn’t accepted a cigarette or a seat on the bench beside him but she’d stayed, and her company that night had felt charmed, fleeting. Indeed it had been hard to believe she wouldn’t dissolve when they stepped beyond the light of the lantern, but instead, she’d taken form.
He knew what it was to hold her in the night, adjusting himself in sleep to her. He knew the round of her bottom as she nestled against him. He knew the curve of her hip beneath his palm and the dip of her lower back. Her laugh, bigger than she was, still surprised him, if only, perhaps, because he heard it less these days.
Behind the shutters and blackout curtains, the Midsummer Ball was in motion, a decorous secret the building kept to itself. Was itonly he who felt that the collective cheer of the night was strained, that the band was too emphatically carefree? Even there, in the fullness of the evening, with the music seducing everyone beyond thought, the laughter, the bare shoulders and the toasts seemed to him a kind of mime they all performed without heart for one another. It was meant to be a final, heady indulgence, a last hurrah, and if it was not quite that, it was at least a relief to see Evvie relaxing in Sylvia and Tom’s company, to see her swaying to the music and laughing at Sylvia’s round-up of London gossip.
That night years ago, Evelyn had simply asked him the time. She had lost her cousin. She’d been lovely, awkward. He’d never seen such delicate wrists and ankles, and she had so much life, such spark and brightness in her eyes that the honesty of her gaze made their polite conversation seem a nonsense. Then she’d done that outlandish, most undebutante-like of things, poking him in the armpit, sweetly mocking the state of his tailcoat, and in doing so, she’d somehow transformed them both into their real selves. In the pulse of that moment, she’d felt like a familiar, a loved one.
Her unexpected arrival in his evening had also made the earlier ruckus with Leo’s friend seem inconsequential … As those particular tensions had mounted, it was Tom who had taken him aside to suggest he step outside to clear his head. It was true, he had started it, in the gentlemen’s smoking room, by asking Leo what he’d been thinking, bringing to the ball that night so contemptible a character. Of course Leo’s friend overheard. He had meant him to overhear.
Freddie and Art had pretended to be deep in another conversation, though Geoffrey knew they were of the same mind as he. Fitz had grabbed a drink off a passing tray and downed it before returning to the two debs, and their chaperones, who had been shadowing him all evening. Things got heated. Geoffrey spoke his mind. Perhaps he’dused some regrettable language. A bit of name-calling. He couldn’t remember. It had not been his finest hour. He’d had too much to drink.
He probably threw the first punch. He’d never asked Tom to con-firm. They didn’t remove their jackets. Hence the split seam. He remembered that much. A card table had tipped. A few glasses had crashed. Tom had taken charge of the situation – no wonder he’d ended up in the Diplomatic Service. He’d taken Geoffrey by the arm and led him to the door: ‘Of course it’s not on. Leo was a fool to bring him. But what’s to be done about it? Let’s just get through the night, shall we? Go on. Go clear your head.’
Geoffrey had come down from
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