Keeping Bad Company (18 page)

‘Liberty, you're looking very well.'

I hoped he might kiss me on the cheek, as George had done, but either he couldn't bring himself to do that in company or I wasn't quite forgiven. In any case, there was no time to do anything about it because other guests were arriving thick and fast and George was now on duty in the drawing room, making sure everybody was introduced to each other. Tom was soon whirled away from me. I stood by a bookcase, watching him smiling at other people, talking animatedly. It was good to see, but there was a little ache in my heart. I kept looking at the door, wondering if I'd identify Tom's friend Mr Tillington when he arrived. Beattie had promised to sit me beside him at dinner.

‘So glad you could get here,' George said to somebody just outside the door. He moved forward to meet whoever was coming in. Tom must have noticed, because his eyes went to the door too. For a moment George's back was blocking my view of the new arrival, then he stood back and in walked the last person I wanted to see there. A tall man, with jutting eyebrows, broad nose and an air of important hurry about him, even walking into a drawing room. Apart from the absence of the diamond hawk from his coat lapel, Mr McPherson was just as I'd seen him in Westminster Hall. A silence fell. I didn't know if it was one of those natural gaps in conversation or because some of those present knew an embarrassing situation was developing. I could see Calloway's face and knew that he understood. George, oblivious, was leading McPherson straight towards Tom.

‘Mr McPherson, may I introduce my young friend Thomas Lane. Like you, he's quite recently arrived from India. Mr Lane, Alexander McPherson.'

‘We have met.'

I was proud that Tom was the one who managed to get those words out first. McPherson echoed them in a bass rumble. Both were too glacial to leave any doubt about how each felt about the other.

George instantly picked up the signal and understood that his broad trawl in the way of guest invitations had netted two fighting fish. Hastily, he moved Mr McPherson on towards Calloway. My attention was caught by the plump lady, Mrs Glass. Up to that point she'd been sitting in an armchair, chattering happily to a gentleman beside her. Now her jaw had dropped open, her forehead was puckered, and she was making frenzied fanning movements with her hand. The gentleman she'd been talking to looked alarmed. As much from curiosity as humanity, I went over to her and asked if she needed any help. She gulped and blinked her round blue eyes.

‘Thank you. Just a shock. Didn't expect to see him of all people.'

Her hand closed on her sherry glass. She drained it and blinked again. It struck me that she too had been unpleasantly surprised by the appearance of McPherson. She and he seemed much of an age. Could there have been some romantic involvement in their past? The gentleman beside her remarked on the heat. It wasn't particularly warm, but she seized the excuse gladly. She was quite all right, she said. Sorry to have alarmed us.

My attention went back to Tom. I was relieved to see him in easy conversation with a gentleman who looked to be about sixty. He must have come in just behind McPherson, unnoticed in the general embarrassment. He was tall and very thin, leaning on an ebony cane with white hair worn rather long, a scholarly stoop to the shoulders and a faint yellow tinge to the complexion. His evening clothes were old-fashioned in cut. From Tom's relaxed air and his obvious interest in what the gentleman was saying, I guessed it must be Mr Tillington and moved towards them. I wanted Tom to introduce us and it was almost time to go in to dinner. George was glancing towards the front door, clearly waiting for last arrivals. The doorbell sounded and he hurried out to the hall. I touched Tom on the shoulder and smiled at Mr Tillington.

‘Tom, will you kindly . . .'

And got no further, because George had returned triumphantly escorting his two tardy guests. They were a gentleman with dark, amused eyes and long flowing locks and a middle-aged woman dressed at least ten years too young for her age in white muslin frills and ringlets twined with jasmine. Just the very two people in London that, from my point of view, an unkind fate had sent to make an already problematic dinner party ten times worse. George was hastily making introductions but they were hardly needed because the gentleman was quite well known and it was probably a coup for the Talbots to secure the couple.

‘Of course, you know Mr and Mrs Disraeli.'

We went in to dinner. Mr Tillington was sitting on my right, Mr Calloway on my left (Beatrice hopefully matchmaking, as usual). Tom was half a table's length away from me, on Beattie's right, with Mary Anne Disraeli on his other side. McPherson was at the far end of the table, which was either good luck or deft manipulation of place cards by Beattie when she saw which way the wind was blowing. The quieter of the two widows, Mrs Dulas, was on one side of him and a middle-aged woman I didn't recognize on the other. Mrs Glass was near the head of the table, opposite Tom. I thought she still looked ill at ease, but at least she too was separated by some distance from McPherson. Mr Disraeli was sitting opposite McPherson. With anybody else, that might have been inconvenient placing too, because Disraeli had been sarcastic in print about the men who'd made their fortunes from opium, but he'd probably find it amusing. Both he and McPherson were capable of looking after themselves. Still, there was an atmosphere, no doubt about it, though things thawed to some extent with the circulation of the food and wine. I wish I could give a better account of the dinner, since Beattie had taken such trouble with it, but beyond noting that the vegetable mulligatawny hadn't been tamed much by the addition of arrowroot and the chapattis tasted better than they looked, I didn't give it much attention. Tom had contrived to introduce Mr Tillington to me between drawing room and dining room and most of my attention was on him.

He was courtly and pleasantly old-fashioned in his manner, but what made me like him was his willingness to talk about Tom. He said almost at once how pleased he was to have made his acquaintance.

‘I was afraid he might have thought me importunate in writing to him. I'm sure Griffiths would have introduced us if he'd lived. He'd mentioned your brother in letters as a great support to him in Bombay.'

‘I'm sure Mr Griffiths was a great support to Tom as well,' I said.

‘Griffiths did give the impression that your brother wasn't a fervent admirer of some of the Company's policies and might feel isolated from the other men. In fact, he was worried that associating with him might damage Tom's career.'

‘He said that in his letters?'

‘Yes, and when we met in London. He also said India needed young men like your brother. I do hope he won't be deterred by this . . . unpleasantness.'

A hesitation, and the slightest nod of the head down the table towards where McPherson was sitting. As far as I could see, Disraeli was happily holding forth as usual. McPherson looked glum. A waiter appeared at our shoulders, offering hock or milk punch. I chose hock. So did Mr Tillington and Mr Calloway. Still, the punch looked better than I expected, sparkling with crushed ice in a crystal decanter. I glanced up the table and saw Mrs Glass and Mary Anne Disraeli drinking it with obvious enjoyment.

As the plates were changed for the next course, I turned to talk to Mr Calloway. He grinned at me and spoke softly.

‘Poor George.'

‘I don't think he realized he was bringing civil war under his roof,' I said. ‘He admitted he didn't know a lot about Indian affairs. Still, at least McPherson is outnumbered.'

Calloway was forking up chicken curry with an enthusiasm that might have been real or diplomatic. He swallowed and took a hasty gulp of water.

‘Outnumbered? I'm not sure about that. At least two of the other men are four star shareholders in the East India Company, which probably puts them on McPherson's side.'

‘Four star?'

‘Four asterisks against their names in the list of shareholders. That means they have ten thousand or more invested.'

‘Oh dear.'

‘Don't worry, they can hardly start shouting at each other at their hosts' table. It's quite amusing in its way.'

I said I was glad he found it so, and turned back to Mr Tillington as the next course of curry arrived. Since he must be as aware of the undercurrents as anybody, I risked a question.

‘Did you know Mr McPherson in India?'

‘Our paths crossed when we were much younger. I didn't stay in India long enough to know him well. I have many regrets about leaving the country, but that is not one of them.'

For so polite a man, his tone was emphatic.

‘I have the impression that Mrs Glass shares your opinion,' I said. ‘She seemed shocked to find he'd been invited.'

‘Mrs Glass?'

He followed my glance and saw her taking a hearty gulp of the punch.

‘I can't recall her. She was in India?'

‘With her husband. Some time ago, I think.'

The ill-assorted party was relaxing now, conversation flowing. I tried another question, more direct.

‘Tom tells me you don't believe Mr Griffiths killed himself. Is that right?'

‘I'm sure he didn't and I intend to prove it.'

Mr Tillington spoke quite loudly and drew his shoulders back so that he was looking straight into my eyes. His eyes were bright grey, with chalky rings round the pupils.

‘How?'

My question was too blunt. His eyes left mine and his voice dropped.

‘Forgive me for being carried away, Miss Lane. Mine is hardly suitable conversation for a charming young woman at a dinner party. I hope you will excuse me, but the memory of my friend . . .'

It was my fault for raising the subject, I said, and I was the one who should be asking for forgiveness. I meant it, and was glad of the arrival of dessert – pineapple creams, pistachio cake, mangoes in brandy – as a signal to turn back to Mr Calloway.

He'd been amusing himself observing the polite hostilities further down the table.

‘Disraeli's stopped talking and started listening. That's when he's dangerous.'

‘Dangerous?'

‘Politically speaking. Have you noticed what an instinct he has for people's weaknesses?'

It hadn't struck me until then, but I could see he was right.

‘McPherson is looking quite heated,' Calloway said. ‘I dare say Disraeli's managed to say something to get under his skin.'

On my other side, Mr Tillington had gone quiet, refusing dessert and not attempting conversation with his neighbour. It was something of a relief when Beattie stood up, the signal for the ladies to withdraw and leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars. We trooped into the drawing room for coffee and sweets of almond paste. Milk punch was still being served to the ladies who wanted it, and several did. Mrs Glass had become bright eyed and even more talkative.

‘So delicious, so good for the digestion. You must let me have the recipe.'

Beattie promised that she would and, ever generous, offered to have some bottled and sent round to Mrs Glass's address. After cheerfully circulating round her other guests she came over to me, letting her anxiety show.

‘It's not a success, is it Libby?'

I tried to comfort her. The curries had clearly been appreciated – give or take a few outbreaks of coughing – and most of her guests looked happy. She was too experienced a hostess to believe me.

‘There's an atmosphere, isn't there? George likes to invite people with different views, but this is more than that. Some of them just can't stand each other.'

‘I'm afraid that's true.'

‘Maybe George and Mr Calloway will be able to reconcile them over the port. Do you think they might?'

Unlikely, I thought, but didn't depress her further by saying so. She went to talk to Mrs Dulas, who was sitting on her own. Immediately, Mary Anne Disraeli moved on to the sofa beside me.

‘Miss Lane, isn't it? So good to meet you again.'

Not pausing for breath, she launched into a series of questions about me, my family, my political views with the efficiency of a butterfly sucking up nectar. Since she'd shown very little interest when we'd met at her ‘At Homes' I guessed Disraeli had been talking about me and wondered what he'd said. When she ran out of questions at last she turned to the subject of her husband: how unjust it was that he hadn't been given ministerial office, when he was clearly so much more brilliant, well informed, influential than any other young politician.

‘Jealousy, that's all it is, pure jealousy. One day they'll see how much they need him.'

Her opinion of Disraeli was clearly even higher than his own of himself. Luckily, after some more of this, she decided that she'd extracted as much as she needed from me and took herself off rather abruptly.

That left me free to do something I'd been hoping to do all evening: have a few words with Mrs Glass on her own. I moved to a footstool beside her chair and remarked that it was hot in here.

‘Nothing compared to India,' she said. ‘There were afternoons in Calcutta so hot you couldn't bear to put a foot to the ground. Too hot to breathe, almost. Of course, it killed poor Humphrey in the end.'

Her late husband, I assumed. I listened for a while as she talked about the impossibility of comfort in India, then made my move.

‘You've recovered, I hope,' I said.

‘You never recover from India.'

‘I meant earlier this evening, before dinner. I thought you seemed a little indisposed.'

‘Oh that.' She seemed embarrassed. ‘A gentleman had come in that I never wanted to see again. Of course Mrs Talbot couldn't have known poor thing or I'm sure she'd never have invited him. It was such a long time ago, you see.'

I'm sure I could have persuaded her to tell me more, but there was a general stir as the gentlemen came to join us and somehow the room rearranged itself so that I had to abandon my place by Mrs Glass.