Dance While You Can (19 page)

I couldn’t help wondering what Alexander would make of my new life – wondering, too, if he ever thought about me. To be thinking of him so frequently after all this time, and when my life was now so complete, was madness, I knew. But how could I help it, with Charlotte there, looking more like him every day? What would I do if he were to walk into my life now?

‘Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Where are you?’

I blinked, wondering how long they had been calling my name. ‘Sorry,’ I laughed. ‘I was miles away.’

‘We could see that,’ said Christine. ‘We want to know where?’ Sometimes her manner of asking questions was hard, accusatory even, and I felt Edward’s hand move through my hair as if to take away the edge of her sharpness.

At that moment the double doors were thrown open and Jeffrey, the butler-cum-chauffeur-cum-part-time chef, walked stiffly into the room. ‘Mesdames et messieurs, dinner is now being served in the Baroque Room,’ he announced.

Everyone burst out laughing, and as if someone had removed his backbone, Jeffrey fell against the door and laughed too. ‘Honestly,’ he complained, as we filed out of the room, ‘no one ever takes me seriously. By the way, love the rock, Mrs Walters.’

‘Thank you, Jeffrey,’ I said, and offered up my hand for him to have a better look. As he gushed his delight and Edward looked on with pride, I couldn’t help remembering the ring Alexander had given me, the one that had cost a fraction of this, and sat untouched now in a little box upstairs. I swallowed hard against the unexpected nostalgia. Why, tonight of all nights, was I thinking about Alexander?

Over dinner I noticed that Christine seemed agitated, but when I asked if there was anything on her mind she smiled brightly and said no. David and Edward smiled indulgently; they were used to her erratic moods and had learned to ignore them. I listened as she talked about the furniture she had taken to the restorers that day, then abruptly changed the subject to discuss a board meeting called for the following week. I tried to fight back the niggardly envy. It was ironic; she envied me my looks and figure, and I envied her the respect she had earned through her knowledge of antiques. It seemed to me that Christine always had something of value to say, while I could only engage in the kind of affected small talk favoured by art dealers’wives. I hated myself for minding. I was luckier than any woman deserved to be, and would be grateful to Edward for the rest of my life. But still, I couldn’t stop myself from being envious of Christine, not only for her intelligence but also for the freedom she had to be herself. She didn’t have to hide what she was really thinking, or bear the guilt of not loving her brother enough . . . .

I caught her grinning in my direction, and smiled back. She really was much more striking than she realised. I’d asked her once why she had never married. ‘What, and give up all this?’ she’d cried. ‘Why should I do that? And now I’ve got you and little Charlotte too, what more could I want?’

I was to find out.

Charlotte dipped her head and stared at the floor. Her hands were clasped in a knot behind her back and I could see her little shoulders heaving up and down as she struggled valiantly to accept her undeserved fate. ‘I do understand, Mother,’ she said, her eyes still riveted to the carpet. She shifted her weight on to one leg and a little knee poked out from under the rags of her skirt. ‘Will there be some mending for me to do while you are gone?’

I caught David’s eye across the room, and had to turn away so that she wouldn’t see I was laughing. Ever since David had taken her to see Cinderella, the entire household had been both wittingly and unwittingly playing the roles she cast them in. Needless to say, she was Cinderella; I was the wicked step-mother, and Christine and Jeffrey the ugly sisters. I suspected that Canary, her nanny – called after her bright yellow uniform – was expected to appear at any moment as the fairy godmother, and deliver her to Prince Charming – Edward. David was a less than enthusiastic Buttons.

She was waiting for an answer, so putting on my best haughty face I glared down at her. ‘You mean you haven’t already scrubbed the grates today, you lazy child? What do you think you’re about? Off to the kitchens with you.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ she murmured, and keeping her head lowered she sidled past me and let herself out through the door.

‘Charlotte!’ I called, just before the door closed. Her face peeped back in. ‘Did you call, Mother?’ she said. ‘Have I done something wrong? Oh, please don’t beat me, Mother.’

That was too much, and I burst out laughing. ‘Come and give me a kiss before I go,’ I said.

‘Oh, Mummy! You’ve spoilt it all now.’ Then seeing I was laughing, her face turned pink and she ran into my arms. ‘Can’t I come too?’ she said.

‘Not today, darling. I have to do something for Edward. I thought you were doing something for him too. Weren’t you making him a cushion to put your glass slipper on?’

Her face brightened immediately. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. Then hugging me tightly, she pressed her mouth to my ear. ‘Canary’s making it really, but don’t tell.’

‘No, of course I won’t,’ I whispered. ‘Now, how about that kiss?’

It was wet and slobbery, and very long. She had walked in on Edward and me a few nights ago and caught us kissing – not that she hadn’t seen us kissing before, but this time she had wanted to know why we took so long over it. Edward had done the explaining, and it was now her mission in life to perfect the art of long kissing. She practised on anyone who would allow her close enough, which was all of us – but not on Edward; he was Prince Charming, and destined to be the recipient of the final, perfect version.

‘Hey, how about one of those for me?’ David said.

She slid out of my arms and ran across the room. David, stooping to catch her, was knocked off his feet as she bowled into his arms.

‘I think I’ll leave you two to it,’ I said, laughing as they rolled across the carpet.

I found Christine organising Jeffrey into the van, listing the errands he needed to run before he drove over to Rowe House to collect the sofa. It made me both pleased and nervous to think that Edward was so sure I would succeed in obtaining it. It had been quite a battle to get him to let me go to this auction, but I had explained as gently as I could that, like so many other women these days, I needed to prove that I could be more than just a wife.

‘But darling,’ he had said when I’d first suggested I might take a more active role in the business, ‘I love you being “just a wife”, as you put it. I want you and Charlotte to be happy and not to have to worry about anything. You are happy, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I am,’ I answered. ‘It’s just that I want to share more with you.’

By the time I had persuaded him to see it my way, he actually seemed to like the idea of his wife being a working woman. ‘Who knows, you might have a seat on the board before long, and then there’ll be no stopping us, will there?’

And provided I pulled it off at this auction, then who could tell, he might well be right.

‘All set?’ Christine said as we got into her Volkswagen Beetle.

‘I think so.’

‘Good God, Elizabeth, you sound like a lamb going to the slaughter. It’s only an auction, you know.’

At eleven-thirty we hurtled up the drive of Rowe House and lurched to a stop at the front door. I say lurched because Christine had very little regard for a clutch. I was so relieved that we had survived the ordeal of her driving and arrived in one piece – albeit late – that the auction seemed as nothing in comparison.

The house was sombre, even menacing inside, but I refused to be daunted. Christie’s had set up an office in the library, so I went off to register, and Christine, spotting someone she knew, wandered off in the direction of the stables. I wasn’t unduly worried by her disappearance for it was some time before Lot 137 was to be auctioned, so I sat and watched the other dealers as they made their bids for the various items of Queen Anne and Regency furniture. There were several paintings too, one of which fetched the staggering sum of one hundred and eighty-five thousand pounds. I was beginning to feel a little sorry that Edward had set a limit on what he was prepared to pay for the Bullock sofa – the idea of bidding and winning whatever the cost, held a certain appeal. But there would be time enough for that sort of thing in the future; what was important now was to show Edward that I had the confidence to carry out his instructions. I knew the American collector who wanted the sofa was important to him, and I sent up a silent prayer that no one would outbid me. I looked at my catalogue for the hundredth time and the neat figures written beside Lot 137: fifteen thousand pounds. I felt comforted as I looked at the picture beside it. Surely no one would want to pay so much for such an ugly piece. I might even get it for less.

In what seemed no time at all Lot 135 went under the hammer, and I looked round for Christine. A Minton porcelain and brass lamp was Lot 136 and I heaved a sigh of relief as she appeared in the doorway.

‘Ready?’ she said, sitting down in the chair next to me.

‘Of course,’ I answered, despising my stomach for calling me a liar.

The auctioneer was speaking. ‘I offer you Lot 137. Who will start the bidding: Ten thousand pounds. I have ten thousand pounds. Ten thousand five hundred. You sir, you at the back, eleven thousand? Yes, eleven thousand.’

Within seconds I was overwhelmed by the certain knowledge that I was invisible. I looked at Christine in panic. She must have sensed my fear because instead of turning to look at me, she fixed her eyes on the auctioneer and nodded her head.

‘Eleven thousand five hundred,’ he said. ‘Twelve thousand. A new bidder in the middle there. Twelve thousand five hundred.’ Had it really been me who had pushed it up another five hundred?

‘Twelve thousand five hundred. Your bid at the moment, madam. Twelve thousand five hundred. Thirteen thousand.’

I nodded. ‘Thirteen thousand five hundred.’

I felt a movement beside me but was too tense to look round. ‘Are you bidding, madam? Yes. Fourteen thousand.’ The woman beside me had entered the bidding, and calmly folded one leg over the other as I raised my card.

‘Fourteen thousand five hundred. Fifteen thousand.’ Suddenly it occurred to me that the woman next to me must have seen my catalogue and would know what I was prepared to go to.

‘Fifteen thousand five hundred.’ I hadn’t moved, and the woman beside me would not be bidding against herself, so there must be someone else in the arena. I leaned to one side, peering between the backs of heads to see if I could spot who it was.

‘Sixteen thousand.’ I caught my breath. Had the auctioneer thought I made a bid?

‘Sixteen thousand five hundred.’ It was the woman again. I looked at her, hating her and wanting to shout that she had cheated. How had everything got beyond my reach so quickly?

‘Seventeen thousand.’

My head swung round and I felt as though I were caught in a nightmare. All around me people were bidding, and I had lost. Didn’t they know my husband wanted that piece of furniture? Didn’t they understand that I couldn’t let him down? Why didn’t they stop?

‘Eighteen thousand.’

My hand shot to my head.

‘Eighteen thousand five hundred.’

Christine turned to look at me, her smile triumphant, and I knew that had she been in my shoes, she too would have carried on.

‘Nineteen thousand. Nineteen thousand five hundred.’ I wouldn’t allow myself to look at the figure on my catalogue. What would Edward have done? He would go on, I knew he would. The woman beside me was slumped in her chair, now intent on watching me, and whoever it was at the front of the room who was bidding against me.

‘Twenty thousand pounds.’

Would no one make the auctioneer stop? I couldn’t go any higher.

‘Twenty-one thousand pounds. Twenty-two thousand pounds.’ People were stirring in their seats and-turning round to see who was bidding against the man at the front.

‘Twenty-six thousand pounds.’

To hell with everyone. I was going to win that sofa. No matter what it cost, that sofa was going back to Westmoor.

‘Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty thousand pounds.’

Suddenly I stopped. Thirty thousand pounds. Twice the figure Edward had set down. There had been no let-up in the bidding, no hesitancy from the man in the front row. He wanted that sofa too. He was going to have it.

‘Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Any advance on thirty- three? Are you going on, madam?’ The auctioneer’s gaze was fixed on me. The room was silent. Everyone was waiting for me. Christine’s eyes were gleaming and I noticed the moisture on her forehead. Had I done wrong? She had said she. wouldn’t interfere, that she was only there to lend me moral support. But surely if I had gone too far she would have stopped me. Gone too far? Was I mad? I had more than doubled what Edward had said he was prepared to pay. I couldn’t go on. Feeling slightly sick, I slumped back in my chair.

‘The George Bullock sofa, sold for thirty-three thousand pounds.’ The hammer went down, tearing through my nerves like a sweeping scythe.

‘Damn!’ Christine muttered.

My eyes stung as I looked at her. ‘Oh my God, should I have gone on?’ I gasped.

She shook her head irritably. ‘No. No, it’s just that he didn’t say who bought it.’ She craned her neck to get a better view of the front row. ‘Who is it?’ she hissed.

I could only see the back of his head. I was feeling nauseous, all I wanted to do was to get out. I stood up and began to clamber my way along the row, to the door. I stumbled as I got to the end, and a doorman caught me and supported me by the elbow into the hall.

A few seconds later Christine followed. ‘Take me home,’ I breathed. She put her arm around my shoulder. ‘Come on, don’t take it so hard. Someone has to lose and let’s face it, you put up a hell of a fight. I would have lost my nerve long before that. Just wait ‘til I tell Edward, he’ll be so proud of you he’ll probably . . .’

‘No!’ I cried. ‘You mustn’t tell him. Please, Christine. He was so clear about the fifteen thousand pounds. He mustn’t know, he’ll never trust me again.’