Gather the Bones (14 page)

On the other hand, the gentlemen did not seem to have quite the same reservations and Helen found herself in the centre of a circle of young men who all appeared to have known Charlie and were keen to talk about him, reminiscing about the happier times of their shared youth. It was strange and disorienting to hear her husband talked about with such familiarity.

“I say is that Morrow?” one of the men drawled.

Her companions fell silent and turned to the door, where Angela and Paul stood. Angela had her hand tucked into Paul’s arm. Both were tall and carried themselves with a natural elegance, enhanced by the good cut of their evening dress. With their dark hair and finely chiseled faces, they made a stunning couple, Helen thought with a twinge of envy. They were both born to this life; she would always be an outsider.

Angela relinquished Paul, took a glass of champagne and joined Helen. Taking her arm, she steered her over to a window seat.

“God, these parties of Mother’s are such a bore. Tell me how did you get Paul to come?”

“I didn’t. He appears to have come of his own volition.”

Angela gave her a skeptical glance before lighting another cigarette. “Darling, I haven’t seen Paul Morrow at a society event since before the war.” She blew out the smoke, watching the haze as it climbed to the ceiling. “So you’re the girl Charlie Morrow broke all these hearts for?” She gestured to the young women across the room

“Surely not? They’re all too young.”

“It doesn’t matter if it were these girls or the matrons in there, Charlie would have stolen their hearts the moment he stepped through the door.” Before Helen could reply, Angela continued, “I can’t think what Mother is thinking. Do you suppose for a moment Tony, or any of these men, want to marry vapid women like this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was a VAD ambulance driver in the war.” She laughed. “You look shocked. Can’t imagine me out there in the mud and the filth? I know what these men went through. Not just Paul but the others, like Tony, who came through without an injury. Believe me, none of them came through untouched. When you’ve looked death in the face every day for four years, a man needs more than just a comfortable home with a well-bred wife. They might not know it, but they’re looking for something different, something that will provide them with a bit more excitement.” She leaned in toward Helen. “Look at these girls, Helen, they hate you. You can see it in their eyes. You’re exotic, a colonial. You’ve already snared one of their own. I think they’re frightened of you.”

Helen shivered. “What a dreadful thought. Should I leave?”

Angela’s eyes widened. “Leave, darling? Not for a minute. You’re a breath of fresh air. You stay and charm the men and have a wonderful night. God knows, I fully intend to enjoy Father’s best wine and have a marvelous time.” Her eyes moved to Paul who leaned against a wall, a glass of champagne in his hand, his head bent to one side, listening to the conversation around him.

As if aware of being observed, he looked up and his gaze met Angela’s. A quick conspiratorial smile flashed across his face.

The dinner gong announced supper and Tony crossed the floor toward Helen, a dozen women watching his progress.

He crooked his elbow at her. “Helen?”

“I think you should ask one of the other girls.”

“You’re my guest, Helen, and this is my party. I’m damned if I’m going to be caught all night making polite conversation with a debutante whose only interest is dresses and parties. I want to know all about Australia and that place where you live. Tralee?”

“Terrala,” Helen replied with a laugh.

* * * *

Across the room, Angela took Paul’s arm. “Are you taking me into supper?” she asked.

“Do I have a choice?” he enquired.

Angela smiled up at him. “None. I want you all to myself for a few moments. I must say you look well, Paul,” she said as they walked into the dining room.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am.”

“The dust of the desert must agree with you.”

“It is preferable to the cold and damp of an English winter.”

He held out her chair for her and they sat, passing the appropriate pleasantries with their neighbors before allowing the conversation to turn to themselves.

“Tony said you weren’t coming,” Angela said. “What made you change your mind?”

“I thought I’d better wave the Morrow flag. I didn’t think Charlie would thank me if I left Helen to the vultures.”

“Oh, she seems to be managing,” Angela observed.

Paul glanced down the table. Every male within Helen’s circle appeared to be watching her as she talked.

“You know, I think Tony is more than a little in love with her already?” Angela said.

Paul turned sharply to look at Angela. “He hardly knows her.”

Angela shrugged. “Don’t you believe in love at first sight, Paul?”

Paul evaded the question. “What does your mother think?”

“What do you suppose she thinks? Look at her face, Paul.”

Lady Hartfield, while giving every impression of paying animated attention to her neighbor, had her attention firmly fixed on Helen. If those eyes could have shot blue sparks, they would have done.

“I was right,” Paul said, “They’ll eat her alive.”

“There’s nothing you can do, Paul. She’s an adult. She’ll manage and at the end of the day she’ll go back to Australia and her coming will just have just been a diversion in an otherwise dull world.”

Paul picked up his wine glass and looked at the contents, golden in the beautiful crystal and the candlelight.

“What about you, Ange?”

“Me?”

“I hear your paintings are selling well.”

Angela shrugged. “I can’t complain.”

“And your current lover?”

She gave him a sideways glance from underneath her long lashes. “That would be telling.”

“Ah, so he’s married?”

“Darling, it would be no fun if I told you.”

He leaned his head toward her. “You and I have no secrets, remember, Ange?”

She put a long nailed finger to her lips. “Yes, we do, Paul.”

* * * *

Dinner was served at the longest table Helen had ever seen in her life. It easily accommodated the fifty guests. Lady Hartfield sat at one end and her husband, a bald man with a luxuriant moustache, sat at the other.

Helen glanced up the table and saw Angela Lambton’s dark head bent close to Paul’s in a close and private conversation. Paul smiled in response to something she said to him. The two had an air of familiarity that went deeper than mere long friendship. A strange sensation of envy, or maybe even jealousy tugged at Helen’s heart. She had no right or claim to Paul Morrow. He and Angela had known each other since they were children, and of course they had a whole shared life to which she did not belong.

Helen turned to look in the other direction, seeking out Evelyn who was seated at the far end near the Viscountess. Even as she watched, Evelyn’s gaze turned to her nephew as if drawn by some magnet.

Helen turned her attention back to her immediate companions. A retired general had been seated on her right and after several abortive attempts at conversation, she concluded he was deaf. Abandoning the frustrating one-sided conversation, she turned back to Tony on her left.

“Do you know much about your ancestors?” she asked.

“This lot?” Tony waved a hand at the walls from which generations of Scarvells glowered down on the party. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been amusing myself with some research into the Morrow family. In some of the family papers, I came across the mention of an Adrian Scarvell. He was an officer in the 6th Regiment of Foot during the Peninsula War.”

Tony shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve heard mention of him. That family group over there dates from about then.”

He indicated a massive family portrait that took up a whole wall. The Viscount, resplendent in an immaculate powdered wig, stood behind his wife and a brood of eight children and assorted dogs.

Tony contemplated the painting for a moment. “It’s quite likely he was a younger son. You know how it goes. The eldest son inherits, the second goes into the army and the third into the church.”

“What happened to four and five?”

“Oh, they went out to the colonies. If you really want to know about the family, I shall have to introduce you to Great Aunt Philomena. She’s the family historian.”

“Where does she live?”

“In the village. Pa offered her rooms here but she prefers her cottage.”

Helen glanced down the table as Angela threw her head back, laughing at something Paul had said. Angela bent toward him, whispering in his ear. He shook his head, raised his wine glass and smiled. He leaned toward her responding to his companion with an animation she had never seen in her short acquaintance with him.

Tony followed her gaze. “What do you think of Angela?”

“She’s not what I expected,” Helen said.

Tony laughed. “Somewhat unconventional you mean? Strong minded, Mother calls her, when she’s feeling generous. Did Ange tell you she drove ambulances on the western front?”

Helen nodded. “That must have taken considerable courage.”

“She can tell you the story, but her husband was killed at Pozières, so that was how she coped with it.”

“Her husband?” Helen asked, reaching for her wineglass.

“Harry Lambton.” He leaned closer to her. “Frankly, I always thought Ange had her heart set on Paul but after he got engaged, she snared Harry. Poor blighter, must have wondered what hit him.”

Helen’s hand stayed frozen to the stem of the glass. “Paul? Engaged?”

“You didn’t know about that?”

Helen shook her head. “Charlie never mentioned it.”

“It was one of those ‘early in the war’ romances. More on her side than his, I suspect. It was considered romantic to have a fiancé at the front but in 1917 the reality of a badly wounded fiancé who may have been crippled for life was too much for Fi and so she broke off the engagement and six months later married Freddy Adamson.”

“What was she like?”

“Fi?” Tony looked up and down the table and tapped his wine glass thoughtfully. “Pretty but dull, just like this bunch. Paul was better off without her.”

“Did he mind?”

“Don’t think he even noticed and by the time he did, he was past caring and she was married.”

“Does your sister live here?” Helen asked, returning her gaze to Angela.

“God no. She and Mother couldn’t live in the same house together.”

Helen thought about the size of Wellmore House and smiled. They could live in different wings and never see each other.

“She has a flat in Chelsea,” Tony continued. “Not sure that you would know, but she’s a bit of an artist, is our Angela. Actually, she’s bloody good. Did some pretty graphic stuff of the trenches and showed them in London. Critics raved and the authorities tried to shut it down. They only like the stuff the official war artists did, let alone anything done by a woman.”

Helen looked at Angela with new eyes.

“Have Angela and Paul, ever...” she began to ask, but at the quizzical look on Tony’s face, picked up her napkin. “Never mind.”

“Ange and Paul?” Tony picked up her train of thought and blinked in surprise as if the idea had never occurred to him. “No. Not that I know of. They’ve known each other since we were all children. Just like Charlie.”

* * * *

As dinner concluded, the Viscountess rose to her feet and the ladies left the dining room, adjourning to the reception room.

“Oh God,” Angela Lambton whispered in Helen’s ear. “Let’s skip this shall we? I can’t bear it. I can see they’re dying to gossip about you. Better you and I go for a stroll on the terrace and leave them to their tattling.”

She seized Helen’s arm and propelled her out of the French windows on to the terrace. Beneath a high moon, the lovely gardens stretched away below the terrace toward the ornamental lake, which shimmered with the silver light.

“It’s so beautiful,” Helen leaned on the wall and breathed in the fresh, cool air.

“Did a painting of this once. About the only one of mine Mother ever liked. It hangs in her bedroom.”

“Tony said you were an artist.”

“I dabble.” Angela lit another cigarette.

She took Helen’s arm again and they promenaded the length of the terrace.

“He said your war paintings were held in high regard.”

“Did he say that?” Angela spoke without taking the cigarette out of her mouth. “Never heard him say anything about my work before. How sweet of him.”

“He also told me about your husband.”

“Ah, I see you got the whole family history,” Angela said “Yes, Harry, poor sod. I miss him. He was damned good fun.”

“There’s been no one else?”

“Men? Oh God yes, hundreds but nothing serious. To be quite honest, when you’ve seen men like I have, they sort of lose their mystique. Fun to have around but I wouldn’t want to have one on a permanent basis.”