I Capture the Castle (37 page)

laid out for me-again, the fashionable black!

Though it turned out that Rose had only chosen that dress for me because it was her shortest. It fitted me very well, just clearing the ground, and was utterly luxurious-though Rose said, “Oh, it’s only one of the ready-made ones, bought to tide me over.”

As I finished dressing, I heard Neil’s voice in the hall.

“You’re complimented,” said Rose, “he hasn’t been near us weeks. Dear me, I hope he won’t put poison in my soup.”

I said it was a pity they didn’t get on with each other.

“Well, it’s not my fault,” said Rose.

“I’m perfectly willing to friends with him-for Simon’s sake. I’ve tried again and again, I’ll try tonight, just to show you. But it won’t be any good.”

When she said “for Simon’s sake” I thought: “Of course she loves him. I was an idiot to believe Thomas.” Yet I went on feeling I kept saying to myself: “I’ve seen him-in a minute I shall see him again. That’s almost enough.”

Neil knocked on the bedroom door and called:

“Where’s friend Cassandra?”

Rose wasn’t quite ready so I went out to him alone.

I had forgotten how very nice he is. We went into the drawing-room and Simon said: “Why, she’s grown up!”

“And grown up very prettily,” said Mrs.

Cotton.

“We must go shopping next week, my dear.”

I think I did look reasonably nice in Rose’s dress.

Everyone was wonderfully kind to me I perhaps they felt that I had been a bit neglected. When Rose came in she put her arm through mine and said: “She must stay a long, long time, mustn’t she? Father will just have to look after himself.”

Topaz would never have passed that, but she had gone out with Aubrey Fox-Cotton. After dinner (four courses; the jellied soup was marvelous), they decided where we should dance. Mrs. Cotton wouldn’t come she said she was going to stay at home and reread Proust.

“I started last night,” she told Simon, “and I’m longing to get back to him. This time I’m making notes—trying to keep track of my favorite paragraphs, as you did.”

Then they began a conversation about Proust that I longed to listen to, but Rose swept me out to her bedroom to get ready.

“The way those two talk about books!” she said.

“And without ever mentioning an author I’ve read a line of.”

It was fascinating strolling along Park Lane to the hotel where the dance was, with the sky deep blue beyond the street lamps. But after the first few steps I realized that I was in for trouble with Rose’s satin shoes—they had seemed to fit quite well when I put them on, but I found that they slipped off when I walked unless I held my feet stiffly. Dancing proved to be worse than walking-after one turn around the room I knew it was hopeless.

“I shall just have to watch,” I told Neil.

He said, “Not on your life,” and then led me to a deserted corridor just off the ballroom. It must have been intended as a sitting-out place—there were little alcoves let into the pink brocaded walls —but Neil said people hardly ever came there.

“Now take those darn shoes off,” he told me, “and I’ll take mine off, too, in case I step on you.”

It was the queerest feeling, dancing or the thick carpet, but I quite enjoyed it. When the music stopped, we sat in one of the alcoves and talked.

“I’m glad you came to London,” he said.

“If you hadn’t, I might not have seen you again. I’m going back home a week today.”

I was most astonished. “You mean California his Aren’t you going to stay for the wedding his I thought you were to be best man.”

“Simon will have to get someone else. I can’t miss this chance.

I’ve been offered a partnership in a ranch—got the cable today.

They need me at once.”

lust then we saw Rose and Simon coming out of the ballroom, obviously looking for us.

“Don’t mention it, will you?” said Neil, quickly.

“I want to break it to Mother before I tell the others. She isn’t going to be pleased.”

The music started again soon after Rose and Simon joined us.

She turned to Neil and said in a really nice voice: “Will you dance this with me?”

I saw then that she had been right in thinking it was hopeless to be friends with him—for a moment I thought he would actually refuse to dance. But in the end he just said “Sure, if you want me to,” quite politely but without the flicker of a smile, and they went off together, leaving me alone with Simon.

We talked first about Rose; he was worried in case so much shopping had tired her.

“I wish we could be married at once and get out of London,” he said.

“But both she and Mother insist on waiting for the trousseau.”

I had thought myself that Rose seemed a little less alive than usual, but nothing like so tired as he, himself, did.

He was paler than usual and his manner was so quiet. It made me care for him more than ever—I wanted so terribly to be good to him.

After we had taken a great interest in Rose for a very long time he asked about Father and we discussed the possibility that he was doing some work and keeping it quiet.

“He was most odd when he stayed in the flat a few weeks ago,” said Simon.

“Mother told me he went into the kitchen and borrowed all the cookery books.” I began to have a desperate feeling that time was rushing by and we weren’t talking about anything I could treasure for the future —he was being charming and kind, as he always is, but he hardly seemed to notice me as a person. I longed to say something amusing but couldn’t think of anything, so I tried to be intelligent.

“Do you think I ought to read Proust?” I asked.

Apparently that was more amusing than it was intelligent, because it made him laugh.

“Well, I wouldn’t say it was a duty,” he said, “but you could have a shot at it. I’ll send you Swann” Way.”

Then I talked about his birthday present to me, and he said what a nice letter I had written to thank him.

“I hope you’re borrowing all the records you want from Scoatney,” he told me.

When he said that I suddenly saw the pavilion, lit by moonlight and candlelight—and then, by the most cruel coincidence, the band, which had been playing a medley of tunes, began “Lover.”

I felt myself blushing violently-never have I known such embarrassment. I sprang up and ran towards a mirror, some way along the corridor.

“What’s the matter?” Simon called after me.

“An eyelash in my eye,” I called back.

He asked if he could help but I said I could manage, and fidgeted with my handkerchief until the blush died down—I don’t believe he ever noticed it. As I walked back to him he said:

“It’s odd how that dress changes you. I don’t know that I approve of your growing up. Oh, I shall get used to it.” He smiled at me.

“But you were perfect as you were.”

It was the funny little girl he had liked-the comic child playing at Midsummer rites; she was the one he kissed. Though I don’t think I shall ever quite know why he did it.

After that I talked easily enough, making him laugh quite a bit—I could see he was liking me again. But it wasn’t my present self talking at all; I was giving an imitation of myself as I used to be. I was very “consciously naive.” Never, never was I that with him before; however I may have sounded, I always felt perfectly natural. But I knew, as I sat there amusing him while the band played “Lover,” that many things which had felt natural to me before I first heard it would never feel natural again.

It wasn’t only the black dress that had made me grow up.

Rose and Neil came back when the music stopped; then Neil went off to order us some drinks.

“That was a good tune that last one,” she remarked.

“What’s it called?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice it,” said Simon.

“Nor I,” I said.

Rose sat down in the opposite alcove and put her feet up.

“Tired?” Simon asked, going over to her.

She said: “Yes, very,” and didn’t offer to make room for him; so he sat on the floor beside her.

“Would you like me to take you home as soon as we’ve had our drinks?” he asked, and she said she would.

Neil would have stayed on with me, but I said we couldn’t keep dancing without shoes in that corridor.

“It does begin to feel like a padded cell,” he admitted.

I shall never forget it—the thick carpet, the brocade-covered the bright lights staring back from the gilt mirrors;

everything was so luxurious—and so meaningless, so lifeless.

When we reached the entrance to the flats Neil said he wouldn’t come up, but he walked along to the lift with us and managed so that he and I were well behind the others.

“This looks like being good-bye for us,” he said.

I felt a sadness quite separate from my personal ton of misery.

“But we’ll meet again someday, won’t we?”

“Why, surely. You must come to America.”

“Won’t you ever come back here?”

He said he doubted it—then laughed and added:

“Well, maybe I will, when I’m a rich old man.”

“Why do you dislike us so, Neil?”

“I don’t dislike you,” he said quickly.

“Oh, I don’t dislike any thing. But I’m just all wrong over here.”

Then the others called that the lift was waiting for me, so we shook hands quickly. I hated to think it might be years and years before I saw him again.

There was a message from Stephen for me at the flat —I had quite forgotten that he was going to telephone me. Rose read aloud:

“For Miss C. Mortmain from Mr. S. Colly. The gentleman asked to say that he was completely at your service if required.”

“I do call that a nice message,” said Simon.

“Hadn’t you better call him back?”

“Oh, leave it till the morning,” said Rose, “and let’s go to bed.

I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you yet.”

Just then Topaz came out of her bedroom and said she wanted to speak to me.

“Can’t you wait until tomorrow?” asked Rose.

Topaz said she didn’t see why she should.

“It’s only half-past ten and I came back early on purpose.”

“Well, hurry up, anyway,” said Rose.

Topaz took me up to the roof-garden.

“You never know if you’re going to be overheard in that flat,” she said. It was nice on the roof, there were lots of little trees in tubs, and some pretty garden furniture. No one but us was about. We sat down on a large swinging seat and I waited for her to say something important; but, as I might have guessed, she only wanted to talk about Father.

“I hardly had a minute with him when he stayed here,” she said.

“My room’s too small to share. And Mrs.

Cotton kept him up talking very late both nights.”

I asked if she was still worried about them.

“Oh, not in the way I was. Anyway, there’s certainly nothing on her side. I see now it’s not the man she’s interested in, but the famous man—if he’ll oblige her by being one again.

She hopes be will and she wants to have a hand in it. So does Simon.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” I said.

“You know they mean it kindly.”

“Simon does; he’s interested in Mortmain’s work for its own sake —and for Mortmain’s sake. But I think Mrs.

Cotton’s just a celebrity collector—she even values me now that she’s seen some of the paintings of me.”

“She asked you to stay with her before she saw them,” I said.

I like Mrs. Cotton; and her kindness to our family has been little short of fabulous.

“Go on—tell me I’m unjust.” Topaz heaved one of her groaning sighs, then added: “I know I am, really. But she gets on my nerves until I could scream. Why doesn’t she get on Mortmain’s? It’s a mystery to me. Talk, talk, talk—and never did I see such vitality.

I don’t believe it’s normal for a woman of her age to be so healthy.

If you ask me, it’s glandular.”

I began to laugh, then saw she was perfectly serious; “glandular” has always been a popular word with Topaz.

“Well, come back to the castle and take a rest,” I suggested.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Has Mortmain showed the slightest sign of needing me?”

I tried to think of a tactful way to say “No.” Fortunately, she went straight on: “I’ve got to be needed, Cassandra—I always have been. Men have either painted me, or been in love with me, or just plain ill-treated me-some men have to do a lot of ill-treating, you know, it’s good for their work; but one way or another, I’ve always been needed.

I’ve got to inspire people, Cassandra—it’s my job in life.” I told her then that I had a faint hope that Father was working.

“Do you mean I’ve inspired him just by keeping away from him?” We both roared with laughter. Topaz’s sense of humor is intermittent, but good when it turns up. When we had calmed down, she said: “What do you think of Aubrey Fox-Cotton?”

“Not much,” I said.

“Does he need inspiring? He seems to be doing pretty well as it is.”

“He could do greater work.

He feels he could.”

“You mean, if you both got divorces and married each other?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Topaz. I suddenly felt it was an important moment and wondered what on earth I could say to influence her. It was no use pretending that Father needed her, because I knew she would find out he didn’t before she had been home half an hour.

At last I said: “I suppose it wouldn’t be enough that Thomas and I need you?” She looked pleased -then came out with a dreadful Topazism:

“Oh, darling! But can’t you see that art comes before the individual?” Inspiration came to me.

“Then you can’t leave Father,” I said.

“Oh, Topaz-don’t you see that whether he misses you or not, a shock like that might wreck him completely? Just imagine his biographer writing: “Mortmain was about to start on the second phase of his career, when the faithlessness of his artist-model wife shattered the fabric of his life. We shall never know what was lost to the world through this worthless young woman ” and you never would know, Topaz, because if Father never wrote another line after you left him, you’d always feel it might be your fault.” She was staring at me—I could see I was making a magnificent impression. Luckily it hadn’t struck her that no one will write Father’s biography unless he does do some more work.