I Capture the Castle (15 page)

But I couldn’t make that up at all—I just couldn’t imagine how it would feel. And I suddenly wished I hadn’t imagined any of it..

I am finishing this in the bedroom because I heard Stephen washing at the garden pump and dashed upstairs. I have just looked down on him from the window and I feel most guilty about taking him for that walk in my mind; guilty and ashamed, with a weak feeling round my ribs. I won’t do that sort of imagining again. And I am now quite certain I don’t want him to kiss me.

He does look extremely handsome there by the pump but the daft look is back again-oh, poor Stephen, I am a beast, it isn’t really daft! Though he certainly couldn’t have thought of all those things I made him say; some of them were rather good.

I won’t think about it any more. My spare time pleasure-thinking shall be about the party at Scoatney, which is really much more interesting-though perhaps more interesting for Rose than for me.

I wonder what it would be like to be kissed by either of the Cottons. NO! I am not going to imagine that.

Really, I’m shocked at myself And anyway, there isn’t time Rose and Topaz are due back.

I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book.

Shall I his No-a journal ought not to cheat. And I feel sure no one but me can read my speed-writing. But I shall hide the book —I always lock it up in my school attache case and this time I shall take the case out to Belmotte Tower; I have a special place for hiding things there that not even Rose knows of. I shall go through the front door to avoid meeting Stephen I really don’t know how I can look him in the face after borrowing him as I have done. I will be brisk with him in future-I swear I will!

I shall have to do the evening at Scoatney bit by bit, for I know I shall be interrupted-I shall want to be, really, because life is too exciting to sit still for long. On top of the Cottons’ appearing to like us, we have actually come by twenty pounds, the Vicar having bought the rug that looks like a collie dog. Tomorrow we are going shopping in King’s Crypt. I am to have a summer dress. Oh, it is wonderful to wake up in the morning with things to look forward to!

Now about Scoatney. All week we were getting ready for the party. Topaz bought yards and yards of pink muslin for Rose’s frock and made it most beautifully. (at one time, before she was an artists’ model, Topaz worked at a great dressmaker’s, but she will never tell us about it—or about any of her pasts, which always surprises me because she is so frank about many things.) Rose had a real crinoline to wear under the dress; only a small one but it made all the difference. We borrowed it from Mr. Stebbins’s grandmother, who is ninety-two. When the dress was finished, he brought her over to see Rose in it and she told us she had worn the crinoline at her wedding in Godsend Church, when she was sixteen. I thought of Wallet’s “Go, Lovely Rose’ How small a part of time they share that are so wondrous sweet and fair! —though I refrained from mentioning it; the poor old lady was crying enough without that. But she said she had enjoyed the outing.

It was fun while we were all sewing the frills for the dress; I kept pretending we were in a Victorian novel. Rose was fairly willing to play, but she always shut up if I brought the Cottons into the game. And we had no nice friendly candlelight conversations about them.

She wasn’t cross or sulky, she just seemed preoccupied—given to lying in bed not even reading, with a faint smirk on her face. Now I come to think of it, I was just as secretive about myself and Stephen, it would have embarrassed me dreadfully to tell her about my feelings; but then I have always been more secretive than she usually is.

And I know that she thinks of him as-well, as a boy of a different class from ours. (do I think it, too? If so, I am ashamed of such snobbishness.) I am thankful to be able to record that I have been brisk-though perhaps it would be truer to say that I haven’t been un brisk except for that second last night when I took his hand But that is part of the evening at Scoatney Hall.

It was thrilling when we started to get dressed. There was still some daylight left, but we drew the curtains and brought up the lamp and lit candles, because I once read that women of fashion dress for candlelight by candlelight. Our frocks were laid out on the four-poster, mine had been washed and Topaz had cut the neck down a bit. Miss Blossom was ecstatic about Rose’s —she said: “My word, that’ll fetch the gentlemen. And I never knew yon had such white shoulders-fancy God giving you that hair but no freckles!” Rose laughed, but she was cross because she couldn’t see herself full length; our long looking-glass got sold. I held our small one so that she could look at herself in sections, but it was tantalizing for her.

“There’s the glass over the drawing-room fireplace,” I said.

“Perhaps if you stood on the piano-was She went down to try.

Father came from the bathroom and went through to his bed room. The next second I heard him shout:

“Good God, what have you done to yourself?” He sounded so horrified that I thought Topaz had had some accident. I dashed into Buffer State but stopped myself outside their bedroom door; I could see her from there. She was wearing a black evening dress that she never has liked herself in, a very conventional dress. Her hair was done up in a bun and she had make-up on-not much, just a little rouge and lipstick. The result was astounding. She looked quite ordinary—just vaguely pretty but not worth a second glance.

Neither of them saw me. I heard her say:

“Oh, Mortmain, this is Rose’s night. I want all the attention to be focussed on her” I tiptoed back to the bedroom. I was bewildered at such unselfishness, particularly as she had spent hours mending her best evening dress. I knew what she meant, of course —at her most striking she can make Rose’s beauty look like mere prettiness. Suddenly I remembered that first night the Cottons came here, how she tried to efface herself. Oh, noble Topaz!

I heard Father shout:

“To hell with that. God knows I’ve very little left to be proud of. At least let me be proud of my wife.”

There was a throaty gasp from Topaz: “Oh, my darling!”—and then I hastily went downstairs and kept Rose talking in the drawing room I felt this was something we oughtn’t to be in on. And I felt embarrassed— I always do when I really think of Father and Topaz being married.

When they came down Topaz was as white as usual and her silvery hair, which was at its very cleanest, was hanging down her back. She had her best dress on which is Grecian in shape, like a clinging gray cloud, with a great gray scarf which she had draped round her head and shoulders. She looked most beautiful—and just how I imagine the Angel of Death.

The Cottons’ car came, with a uniformed chauffeur, and out we sailed. I was harrowed at leaving Stephen and Thomas behind, but Topaz had arranged they should have a supper with consoling sausages.

It was a huge, wonderful car. We none of us talked very much in it—personally, I was too conscious of the chauffeur; he was so rigid and correct and had such outstanding ears. I just sat back watching the darkening fields drift past, feeling rather frail and luxurious. And I thought about us all and wondered how the others were feeling. Father looked very handsome in his evening clothes and he was kind and smiling but I could see he was nervous; at least, I thought I could, but then it struck me how little I know of him, or of Topaz or Rose or anyone in the world, really, except myself. I used to flatter myself that I could get flashes of what people were thinking but if I did, it was only of quick, surface thoughts.

All these years and I don’t know what has stopped Father working!

And I don’t really know what Rose feels about the Cottons. As for Topaz—but I never did get any flashes of knowing her. Of course I have always realized that she is kind, but I should never have thought her capable of making that noble sacrifice for Rose. And just as I was feeling ashamed of ever having thought her bogus, she said in a voice like plum-cake:

“Look, Mortmain, look! Oh, don’t you long to be an old, old man in a lamplit inn?”

“Yes, particularly one with rheumatism,” said Father.

“My dear, you’re an ass.”

We called for the Vicar, which made it rather a squash, what with Rose’s crinoline… He is the nicest man-about fifty, plump, with curly golden hair; rather like an elderly baby-and most unholy. Father once said to him: “God knows how you came to be a clergyman.” And the Vicar said: “Well, it’s His business to know.”

After he’d had a look at us he said:

“Mortmain, your women are spectacular.”

“I’m not,” I said.

“Ah, but you’re the insidious type—Jane Eyre with a touch of Becky Sharp. A thoroughly dangerous girl. I like your string of coral.”

Then he got us all talking and even made the chauffeur laugh the odd thing is that he makes people laugh without saying anything very funny. I suppose it is because he is such a comfortable sort of man.

It was dark when we got to Scoatney Hall and all the windows were lit up. There is a right-of-way through the park and I had often cycled there on my way home from school, so I knew what the outside of the house was like—it is sixteenth-century except for the seventeenth-century pavilion in the water-garden; but I was longing to see inside. We went up shallow steps that had been worn into a deep curve, and the front door was opened before we had time to ring the bell. I had never met a butler before and he made me feel selfconscious, but the Vicar knew him and said something normal to him.

We left our wraps in the hall—Topaz had lent us things to save us the shame of wearing our winter coats. There was a wonderful atmosphere of gentle age, a smell of flowers and beeswax, sweet yet faintly sour and musty; a smell that makes you feel very tender towards the past.

We went into quite a little drawing-room, where the Cottons were standing by the fireplace with two other people. Mrs.

Cotton was talking up to the moment we were announced; then she turned to us and was absolutely silent for a second—I think she was astonished at how Rose and Topaz looked. I noticed Simon looking at Rose. Then we were all shaking hands and being introduced to the others.

They were a Mr. and Mrs. Fox-Cotton-English relations of the Cottons; rather distant ones, I think. As soon as I heard the husband called “Aubrey” I remembered that he is an architect-I read something about his work in a magazine once. He is middle-aged, with a grayish face and thin, no-colored hair. There is something very elegant about him and he has a beautiful speaking-voice, though it is a bit affected. I was next to him while we were drinking our cocktails (my first—and it tasted horrid) so I asked him about the architecture of the house. He launched forth at once.

“What makes it so perfect,” he said, “is that it’s a miniature great house. It has everything—great hall, long gallery, central court yard-but it’s on so small a scale that it’s manageable, even in these days. I’ve hankered for it for years. How I wish I could persuade Simon to let me have it on a long lease.”

He said it as much for Simon to hear as for me.

Simon laughed and said: “Not on your life.”

Then Mr. Fox-Cotton said: “Do tell me—the exquisite lady in gray-surely she’s the Topaz of Macmorris’s picture in the Tate Gallery?” And after we had talked about Topaz for a minute or two, he drifted over to her. I had time to notice that Simon was admiring Rose’s dress and that she was telling him about the crinoline-which seemed to fascinate him, he said he must go and see old Mrs.

Stebbins; then the Vicar joined me and obligingly finished my cocktail for me. Soon after that we went in to dinner.

The table was a pool of candlelight—so bright that the rest of the room seemed almost black, with the faces of the family portraits floating in the darkness.

Mrs. Cotton had Father on her right and the Vicar on her left.

Topaz was on Simon’s right, Mrs.

Fox-Cotton on his left. Rose was between the Vicar and Mr. Fox-Cotton—I wished she could have been next to Simon, but I suppose married women have to be given precedence. I have an idea that Neil just may have asked for me to be next to him, because he told me I would be, as we went in. It made me feel very warm towards him.

It was a wonderful dinner with real champagne (lovely, rather like very good ginger ale without the ginger). But I wish I could have had that food when I wasn’t at a party, because you can’t notice food fully when you are being polite. And I was a little bit nervous —the knives and forks were so complicated. I never expected to feel ignorant about such things—we always had several courses for dinner at Aunt Millicent’s -but I couldn’t even recognize all the dishes. And it was no use trying to copy Neil because his table manners were quite strange to me. I fear he must have seen me staring at him once because he said: “Mother thinks I ought to eat in the English way-she and Simon have gotten into it —but I’m darned if I will.” I asked him to explain the difference. It appears that in America it is polite to cut up each mouthful, lay down the knife on your plate, change your fork from the left to the right hand, load it, eat the fork-full, change the fork back to your left hand, and pick up the knife again-and you must take only one kind of food on the fork at a time; never a nice comfortable podge of meat and vegetables together.

“But that takes so long,” I said.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Neil.

“Anyway, it looks terrible to me the way you all hang on to your knives.”

The idea of anything English people do looking terrible quite annoyed me, but I held my peace.

“Tell you another thing that’s wrong over here,” Neil went on, waving his fork slightly.

“Look at the way everything’s being handed to your stepmother first. Back home it’d be handed to Mother.”

“Don’t you care to be polite to the guest?” I said. Dear me, what a superior little horror I must have sounded.

“But it is polite—it’s a lot more considerate, anyway. Because the hostess can always show you what to do with the food-if you turn out soup on your plate or take a whole one of anything-don’t you see what I mean?”