A Fragile Peace Read online

  ‘Darling, you look lovely.’ Myra’s words were, in fact, an understatement. Libby looked stunning. Her excitement and pleasure at being the centre of so much attention served to heighten her natural beauty. The dress was a marvel. She picked up her glass and toasted them all, her eyes sparkling. ‘Here’s to a night to remember.’

  On the drive, the scrunch of tyres heralded the first guests.

  * * *

  The problem, Allie thought much later, was not so much that the advice offered by her unknown mentors in The Modern Woman had not worked, but that it had worked a little too well, and on entirely the wrong person. Arthur Millson’s rather nasal voice and silly, yelping laugh had driven her to distraction ever since they had joined the tennis club together ten years ago. She had been listening to the voice – and the laugh – now for more than an hour. And she had had enough.

  ‘… I must say, Al, you’re looking quite topping…’ It must have been, she thought, quite the hundredth time he’d used the word – he applied it to everything from the fishing rod his mother had given him for Christmas to the dance band and the champagne. She smiled politely. ‘Bit different from the old tennis shorts, what? Remember the day you fell into those beastly stinging nettles?’

  Allie opened her mouth to tell him that, in fact, there were few things that she wanted to remember less, then, trapped as always by her infuriating inability to say anything that might upset anyone, shut it again.

  ‘Who’s the chappie that Libby’s dancing with?’ Arthur craned his neck, rather rudely. ‘He’s not local, is he? Not one of the crowd? Can’t say I’ve ever seen him before.’

  Allie, too, had been watching her sister. The young man with whom Libby was dancing – with whom, indeed, she had danced a noticeable number of times during the evening – was tall, and as fair-headed as she was herself, impeccable in his white tie and tails. They made a striking pair.

  ‘His name’s Edward something – Mayhew or Maybury or something. He came with Celia’s crowd. He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?’

  ‘Mm.’ Arthur chose not to pursue that. ‘Celia? Do I know her?’

  ‘Probably not. Libby met her in Switzerland. They “finished” together. They’re great friends – I like her a lot. There she is, dancing over there, by the band. The tall red-headed girl in green.’

  ‘She doesn’t look very happy. If Edward what’s-his-name came with her, then he’s certainly having a better time than she is.’

  This was self-evidently true. Celia’s thin face was unsmiling, her mouth sombre. She was dancing stiffly, an arm’s length away from her partner – a young man whom Allie vaguely remembered being introduced as Peter – her eyes fixed in that disconcerting way that she sometimes had on some point in a distance that no one else could perceive.

  The band’s rhythm changed. The sleek-haired singer, who reminded Allie irresistibly of a tailor’s dummy, confided to the microphone that he was nobody’s sweetheart now…

  ‘Oh, I say, a quickstep. My favourite. Well…’ Arthur yelped, self-consciously ‘… actually the only dance I can do. Come on, old girl – I’ll give you a turn around the floor.’

  Five minutes later, in self-defence, Allie decided that enough was quite enough, good manners notwithstanding. Gently but very firmly indeed, she excused herself and went to join her mother and father who were sitting at a table with Libby, Celia and the two young men. Libby was laughing, flirting quite openly with Edward Maybury, who appeared utterly dazzled by her. He could not take his eyes from her small, vivacious face. Allie had the distinct impression that for him no one else in the room existed. Celia watched with cool eyes in which Allie could discern no expression at all. Certainly there was something amiss with Celia. It was unlike her to be moody. Allie wondered if perhaps she had designs on Edward Maybury herself – if she had, then patently she had lost before the game had truly started. Undoubtedly she was paying no attention to Peter, the young man who sat beside her; she sipped her champagne in silence, her face brooding, a still island in a noisy sea of merriment. Allie was not the only one to notice it.

  ‘Is something wrong, Celia?’ Myra’s voice was concerned. She was in her favourite blue; she looked almost as beautiful as her elder daughter.

  Celia shook her head, then shrugged. ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache to tell the truth. I think I might go and lie down for a while.’

  ‘What a pity,’ Myra began. ‘Perhaps you should—’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Robert Jordan stood up. The band had swung into the melodic ‘These Foolish Things’. He extended a hand, smiling. ‘We can’t have pretty girls headaching on a night like this. Whatever next? Come and treat an old man to a dance.’

  Celia hesitated for a moment, then, obviously captive to good manners, rose to dance with her host. In the distance Allie saw Arthur bearing down on her again. ‘Dammit!’ she said under her breath, but not quite quietly enough. Libby pealed with laughter, Myra frowned repressively. In desperation Allie reached for the deserted Peter’s hand. ‘I’ll be your friend for life if you’ll dance with me,’ she hissed urgently, aware of her mother’s brilliant, astonished eyes. ‘Just once round the floor. Please!’

  He was too much a gentleman to refuse such an appeal. He stood up smiling, offering his arm and they stepped onto the floor past a perspiring and disappointed-looking Arthur. Allie firmly suppressed her conscience and gave herself up to the pleasure of dancing. She had always loved to dance – and Peter, it soon became apparent, was a very good dancer indeed. It did not matter in the least that he did not attempt to manufacture a conversation as they swept and spun around the floor. On the contrary, she was grateful for his easy silence. It enabled her almost to detach herself from him, to lose herself entirely in the pleasant physical sensation of their shared movement. They danced easily and fluently, carried by the music into an intricate, moving pattern that was a delight to them both. They hardly paused as the music died, changed tempo, lifted again. It was several dances later that the band stopped for quick refreshment and Peter, smiling, offered his escort back to the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I really enjoyed that.’

  Allie flushed. Released from the spell of the music she felt gauche and awkward again, ashamed of the way that she had wished herself upon him. She was suddenly and painfully embarrassed by the sensations that the last minutes had aroused in her, sensations that, quite truthfully, had nothing to do with the particular man with whom she had been dancing, but that stemmed entirely from those magical, sensual moments when his body had moved in perfect harmony with her own. An awful excitement seemed to be thumping through her heart with her blood, disturbing and confusing her. Clumsily she tripped over her own feet as she left the dance floor, blushing violently as Peter good-naturedly took her arm to steer her back to her parents’ table. She shivered a little. He laughed.

  ‘Not cold, surely?’ The tent was heated with paraffin stoves, and the press of bodies had made the atmosphere almost tropical.

  She shook her head. At the table she could see Arthur talking earnestly with her mother, who looked, beneath a veneer of polite interest, very bored indeed. Libby and Edward, her father and Celia were still on the dance floor. As the music started again, Allie caught sight of Celia’s face as she drifted past, her expression still distant and unhappy, almost sullen. Allie’s mind hardly registered it. She could only see the awful Arthur, waiting for her, with his clammy hands and silly, neighing laugh. Quite incontrovertibly, she knew that under no circumstances could she expose the surprising, frightening, delightful web of emotional and physical sensation that had been so suddenly woven about her to that painfully insensitive gaze. She stopped.

  ‘I need to powder my nose. Tell the others I won’t be long, would you?’ and she slipped away from him, through the flap of the great tent and out into the freezing night. Clouds had built from the north, and a first, stinging flurry of snow swirled spitefully in the lamplight as she hurried across the rimed grass to
the house, the freezing air striking like steel on her warm, damp skin. The house was deserted. The noise of revelry faded behind her as she shut the door. She had had enough champagne to feel pleasantly detached; she had no desire for the moment but to be alone. She hoped to heaven, fervently, that Arthur would not follow her…

  She wandered into the drawing room. The glasses from which they had drunk earlier were on a small table. One of them was half full. She picked it up and sipped, wrinkling her nose at the taste of flat, warm champagne. She carried the glass into the dim conservatory. Through the curtain of vine leaves the garden with the lantern light glittering on the still-falling snow was like fairyland. Above the faint hubbub of voices, music rose. She folded her arms across her breasts and swayed softly in the darkness, humming.

  The drawing-room door opened.

  She froze, visions of Arthur Millson’s pale and pudgy face filling her mind.

  Footsteps approached the conservatory.

  Quicker than thought she fled to the farthest corner, slipping into darkness behind a trailing curtain of vine leaves. As she stood, tense as a spring, her heart thumping, memories of a thousand games of hide-and-seek slipped through her mind – ‘Ninety-nine, a hundred – coming…’

  Someone entered the conservatory, his footsteps clicking briskly on the tile floor. Then she froze utterly as she heard a second, lighter set of steps, heard, too, a faint, sighing breath, the rustle of their clothing as the two turned into each other’s arms. Allie felt a dreadful warmth steal through her body and up into her face. She had read often enough of people wishing that the earth might swallow them up; she had never before experienced it. She shrank back into the shadows. She could not, absolutely could not, reveal herself, could not bring herself to be the cause of such awful embarrassment. Veiled by foliage she could see reflected in the window the shimmering outline of the lovers, the man’s head bent, the woman’s hand caressing his face. She shut her eyes. There came the sound of a sharp, almost violent movement and a familiar, husky voice said, ‘And that, I take it, is supposed to make it all right?’

  Celia’s voice, instantly recognizable for all its savage harshness. In her surprise Allie almost betrayed herself, and was so taken aback that the shock of recognition of the second voice, even more familiar and distinctive than the first, was delayed by a split second.

  ‘My darling – please – what do you expect? We knew it would be difficult …’

  Allie reached out a hand and steadied herself against the wall, not believing her ears. Refusing to believe.

  Celia uttered a bark of laughter. ‘Difficult?’ she said bitterly. ‘Is that the best you can manage? Try impossible. Try bloody impossible.’

  ‘Celia, Celia…’ Allie’s father’s voice was gently pleading. ‘You know that we have to be careful. We’ve both known, all along, that it would be—’

  ‘Difficult,’ supplied Celia with brittle acidity. She turned away from him, her shoulders hunched against him, her arms crossed tightly against her breasts, shutting him out. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Celia. Darling—’ Robert Jordan reached for her. She neither turned nor pulled away but after a moment leaned back into his embrace, her head tilted back onto his shoulder. In the faint light, translucent pearls of moisture glistened on her cheeks. ‘I can’t stand it,’ she said.

  Robert cradled her gently, his cheek against her hair, his hands still and strong on her breasts. He said nothing.

  ‘You’re right, of course. I know it,’ Celia said at last, her voice drained, ‘but, Robert, I’m simply not strong enough. I swear it will drive me mad – being in the same house with you, not being able to touch you, talk to you, love you as I want to. When I’m with you there is nothing but pain. When I leave you there is nothing but emptiness. There is no place for me. You are destroying me—’

  Roughly Robert spun her to face him, bent his mouth to hers to stop the words. ‘Don’t!’ There was an edge of violence in the word.

  In her hiding place Allie, her body clenched like a fist, her face an agony, covered her ears with hands that shook, squeezed her eyes shut until bright stars wheeled about her.

  A long time later she lifted her head. She was alone. The lanterns around the marquee were dancing and swinging in a fresh-lifted breeze, the light reflecting on spasmodic flurries of snow. Shadows swayed, grotesque, tentacled plant-shadows that stretched and reached around her as if with life. Her body ached with tension, here eyes were hot and dry. Blindly she left the conservatory, stood for a moment of dazed uncertainty in the drawing room. She could not go back to the party. She could not face her father and Celia. She could not face anyone. From beyond the door she heard the sound of a giggle, a sharp command: ‘You be careful now, Maxwell. You drop this and I’ll skin you.’

  Allie opened the door. Mrs Welsh and one of the young waitresses were bearing with care a huge board upon which rested a most splendid confection of white and silver adorned with an enormous key. On seeing Allie, Mrs Welsh stopped, her face concerned.

  ‘You all right, Miss Allie?’

  Allie struggled for a moment. ‘I’m – no, I’m not, actually, Welshy. I feel rather unwell.’

  ‘Oh, deary me. Here, Maxwell, get this thing onto the table for a minute—’

  ‘No, really.’ Allie held up a hand. The hall light seemed unbearably bright. She could think of nothing but her desire to get away to her own room, to darkness and to peace. ‘I just need to rest. Too much champagne, I expect. I’d be pleased if you’d tell Mother that I’ve gone to bed. But, please, don’t worry her. And ask her not to disturb me, would you? I’ll be all right in the morning—’

  She fled to the stairs, the satin of her dress swishing at each step. She felt Mrs Welsh’s worried eyes as they followed her up to the landing. Inside her own room at last, she leaned back on the closed door, her eyes tight shut. In the garden there was a sudden, expectant hush. Then the old church clock began its chime, mellow and musical in the quiet air. One, two, three…

  Allie moved to the window. The brightly lit marquee was quiet for this moment as the revellers listened for that all-important stroke that would usher in the new year and Elizabeth Jordan’s twenty-first birthday.

  … nine, ten, eleven, twelve. It was 1937.

  There was a tremendous burst of cheering. The band struck up ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Voices were raised, roaring the old tune. Shadows leapt and flickered on the canvas walls.

  Allie leaned her hot forehead against the cold, misted glass. She could see nothing, hear nothing, but the insistent, terrible tableau of her father and Celia Hinton.

  The revelry was at its height now. With stamping, clapping rhythm the guests were serenading Libby: ‘For she’s a jolly good fellow…’ Fleetingly Allie wished that she were there to kiss her sister, to give her the small gold locket she had bought for her to commemorate the day. She hoped that Libby would not miss her, knew, with the faintest twist of self-pity, that she would not.

  As she watched, a group of rowdy young people, Libby in their midst, burst from the marquee into the pool of light cast by the lanterns onto the snowy lawn. Despite the cold, two of the young men had taken off their jackets and their white shirts blazed brilliantly in the lantern glow. Edward Maybury’s bright head shone in the light. He was holding Libby’s hand. Laughing and shouting the crowd streamed down the garden towards the river. One of the girls stumbled in her high-heeled shoes, bent to pull them off and toss them into the bushes before shrieking off after the others. They flickered like shadows through the orchard, their young, excited voices echoing in the darkness. Allie heard the splashes as two of the punts were launched, the shouts as the company, at risk of life, limb and expensive apparel, clambered into them.

  She left the window, her movements slow, and stretched out upon the bed, the gleaming brown satin of which she had been so proud crumpled about her as she stared with wide, unfocused eyes at the flickering pattern of light and shade that moved upon the high ceiling.

&nb
sp; Part Two

  Spring 1937

  Chapter Four

  The same marquee in which Libby had celebrated her twenty-first birthday was re-erected on the lawns of Ashdown in the gentle sunshine of May that same year.

  ‘We were actually rather lucky to get it.’ Myra was sitting at the dining-room table, her chin resting upon one well-shaped hand, a pen in the other, her attention on a sheaf of papers in front of her. ‘With the weather so good, everyone’s had the same idea, I suppose. They’ve charged us over the odds, of course – but, well, one doesn’t celebrate a coronation every day, does one? It could be thirty years before there’s another, so we might as well make a splash of it. And the New Year’s affair was such an enormous success…’ She lifted her head and regarded the still figure of her husband with bright and slightly exasperated eyes. ‘Am I talking to myself?’ she asked mildly.

  Robert Jordan was standing with his back to her, looking into the garden, which lay warmly tranquil in the early summer sunshine. Through the open window came the sound of a racket striking a tennis ball, a call, a shout of laughter. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. What did you say?’

  ‘I said—’ Myra laughed suddenly. ‘Oh, it really doesn’t matter.’ She laid down her pen, pushed her chair back and came to join him at the window, her every movement perfectly graceful, the fine, pale blue wool of her dress complementing marvellously the sheened silver of her hair. As she stood with him watching the young people on the tennis court below the terrace, Allie tossed the ball into the air and served thunderously to Edward, who hastily stuck his racket in the way of the hurtling ball and was rewarded by seeing it shoot skywards, skitter through the branches of the new-leafed oak tree and drop into the flower bed beneath.