Love in a Cold Climate (26 page)

“Really, my dear boy, they are down in the strong room. I don’t think they’ve been cleaned for ages.”

“Oh, don’t say no, don’t shake your head! Ever since I set eyes on you I have been thinking of nothing else, you must look so truly glorious in them. Mrs. Wincham (you are Mrs. I hope, aren’t you? Yes, yes, I can tell that you are not a spinster), when did you last see Aunt Sonia laden with jewels?”

“It was at the ball for …” I stopped awkwardly, jibbing at the name, which was never now mentioned, but Cedric saved me from embarrassment by exclaiming, “A ball! Aunt Sonia, how I would love to see you at a ball. I can so well imagine you at all the great English functions, coronations, Lords, balls, Ascot, Henley. What is Henley? No matter.… And I can see you, above all, in India, riding on your elephant like a goddess. How they must have worshipped you there.”

“Well, you know, they did,” said Lady Montdore, delighted. “They really worshipped us. It was quite touching. And, of course, we deserved it. We did a very great deal for them. I think I may say we put India on the map. Hardly any of one’s friends in England had ever even heard of India before we went there, you know.”

“I’m sure. What a wonderful and fascinating life you lead, Aunt Sonia. Did you keep a journal when you were in the East? Oh! please say yes, I would so love to read it.”

This was a very lucky shot. They had indeed filled a huge folio, whose morocco label, surmounted by an earl’s coronet, announced “Pages from Our Indian Diary. M. and S. M.”

“It’s really a sort of scrapbook,” Lord Montdore said. “Accounts of our journeys up-country, photographs, sketches by Sonia and our brother-in … That is to say, a brother-in-law we had then, letters of appreciation from rajahs.…”

“And Indian poytry translated by Montdore … ‘Prayer of a Widow before Suttee,’ ‘Death of an Old Mahout,’ and so on, touching, it makes you cry.”

“Oh, I must read it all, every word, I can hardly wait.”

Lady Montdore was radiant. How many and many a time had she led her guests to “Pages from Our Indian Diary,” like horses to water, and watched them straying off after one half-hearted sip. Never before, I guess, had anybody so eagerly demanded to read it.

“Now, you must tell us about your life, my dear boy,” said Lady Montdore. “When did you leave Canada? Your home is in Nova Scotia, is it not?”

“I lived there until I was eighteen.”

“Montdore and I have never been in Canada. The States, of course—we spent a month once in New York and Washington and we saw Niagara Falls, but then we were obliged to come home. I only wish we could have gone on, they were quite touchingly anxious to have us, but Montdore and I cannot always do as we should like. We have our duties. Of course that was a long time ago, twenty-five years, I should think, but I daresay Nova Scotia doesn’t alter much?”

“I am very very happy to say that kindly Nature has allowed a great sea-fog of oblivion to rise between me and Nova Scotia, so that I hardly remember one single thing about it.”

“What a strange boy you are!” she said indulgently, but she was very well suited by the fact of the sea-fog, since the last thing she wanted would have been long-winded reminiscences of Cedric’s family life in Canada. It was all, no doubt, much better forgotten, and especially the fact that Cedric had a mother. “So you came to Europe when you were eighteen?”

“Paris. Yes, I was sent to Paris by my guardian, a banker, to learn
some horrid sort of job, I quite forget what, as I never had to go near it. It is not necessary to have jobs, in Paris. One’s friends are so very, very kind.”

“Really, how funny. I always thought the French were so mean.”

“Certainly not to
one
. My needs are simple, admittedly, but such as they are they have all been satisfied over and over again.”

“What are your needs?”

“I need a very great deal of beauty round me, beautiful objects wherever I look, and beautiful people who see the point of
one
. And speaking of beautiful people, Aunt Sonia, after dinner, the jewels? Don’t, don’t, please, say no!”

“Very well then,” she said. “But now, Cedric, won’t you take off your glasses?”

“Perhaps I could. Yes, I really think the last vestige of my shyness has gone.”

He took them off, and the eyes which were now disclosed, blinking a little in the light, were the eyes of Polly, large, blue, and rather blank. They quite startled me, but I do not think the Montdores were specially struck by the resemblance, though Lady Montdore said, “Anybody can tell that you are a Hampton, Cedric. Please never let’s see those horrid spectacles again.”

“My goggles? Specially designed by Van Cleef for
one?”

“I hate spectacles,” said Lady Montdore firmly.

Lady Montdore’s maid was now sent for, given the key of the safe from Lord Montdore’s key ring and told to bring up all the jewel cases. When dinner was over and we got back to the Long Gallery, leaving Lord Montdore to his port, but accompanied by Cedric, who was evidently unaware of the English custom which keeps the men in the dining room after dinner, and who followed Lady Montdore like a dog, we found the map table covered with blue velvet trays, each of which contained a parure of large and beautiful jewels. Cedric gave a cry of happiness and got down to work at once.

“In the first place, dear Aunt Sonia,” he said, “this dress won’t do.
Let me see … ah, yes …” He took a piece of red brocade off the piano and draped her in it very cleverly, pinning it in place on one shoulder with a huge diamond brooch. “Have you some maquillage in this bag, dear? And a comb?”

Lady Montdore rummaged about and produced a cheap lipstick and a small green comb with a tooth out.

“Naughty, naughty you,” he said, carefully painting her face. “It cakes! Never mind, that will do for now. Not pulling your hair, am I? We’ve got to show the bone structure, so beautiful on you. I think you’ll have to find a new coiffeur, Aunt Sonia. We’ll see about that.… Anyway it must go up—up—like this. Do you realize what a difference that makes? Now, Mrs. Wincham, will you please put out the top lights for me, and bring the lamp from that bureau over here. Thank you.”

He placed the lamp on the floor at Lady Montdore’s feet and began to hang her with diamonds, so that the brocade was covered with them to her waist, finally poising the crown of pink diamonds on the top of her head.

“Now,” he said. “Look!” and he led her to a looking glass on the wall. She was entranced by the effect, which was indeed very splendid.

“My turn,” he said.

Although Lady Montdore seemed to be almost solid with diamonds, the cases on the table still held many huge jewels. He took off his coat, his collar and tie, pulled open his shirt and clasped a great necklace of diamonds and sapphires round his neck, wound up another piece of silk into a turban, stuck a diamond feather in it and put it on his head. He went on talking all the time.

“You really must pat your face more, Aunt Sonia.”

“Pat?”

“With nourishing creams. I’ll show you. Such a wonderful face, but uncultivated, neglected and starved. We must feed it up, exercise it and look after it better from now on. You’ll soon see what a lot can be done. Twice a week you must sleep in a mask.”

“A mask?”

“Yes, back to masks, but this time I mean the sort you paint on at night. It goes quite hard, so that you look like Commandeur in Don Juan, and in the morning you can’t smile, not a glimmer, so you mustn’t telephone until you’ve removed it with the remover, because you know how if you telephone smilelessly you sound cross, and if it happened to be
one
at the other end,
one
couldn’t bear that.”

“Oh, my dear boy, I don’t know about this mask. What would Griffith say?”

“If Griffith is your maid, she won’t notice a thing, they never do. We shall notice, though, your great new beauty. Those cruel lines!”

They were absorbed in each other and themselves, and when Lord Montdore came in from the dining room they did not even notice. He sat for a while in his usual attitude, the fingers of both hands pressed together, looking into the fire, and very soon crept off to bed. In the months which had passed since Polly’s marriage he had turned into an old man. He was smaller, his clothes hung sadly on him, his voice quavered and complained. Before he went, he gave the little book of poems to Cedric, who took it with a charming show of appreciation and looked at it until Lord Montdore was out of sight, when he quickly turned back to the jewels.

I was pregnant at this time and began to feel sleepy very soon after dinner. I had a look at the picture papers, and then followed Lord Montdore’s example.

“Good night,” I said, making for the door. They hardly bothered to answer. They were now standing each in front of a looking glass, a lamp at their feet, happily gazing at their own images.

“Do you think it is better like that?” one would say.

“Much better,” the other would reply, without looking.

From time to time they exchanged a jewel (“Give me the rubies, dear boy.” “May I have the emeralds, if you’ve finished with them?”), and he was now wearing the pink tiara, jewels lay all around them, tumbled onto the chairs and tables, even on the floor.

“I have a confession to make to you, Cedric,” she said, as I was leaving the room. “I really rather like amethysts.”

“Oh, but I love amethysts,” he replied, “so long as they are nice, large, dark stones, set in diamonds. They suit
one
so well.”

THE NEXT MORNING
when I went to Lady Montdore’s room to say good-bye, I found Cedric, in a pale mauve silk dressing gown, sitting on her bed. They were both rubbing cream into their faces out of a large pink pot. It smelt delicious, and certainly belonged to him.

“And after that,” he was saying, “until the end of her life she wore a thick black veil.”

“And what did he do?”

“He left cards on all Paris, on which he had written
‘mille regrets.’
”

F
ROM THE MOMENT
that the Montdores first set eyes on Cedric, there was no more question of his having come to Hampton for a fortnight. He was obviously there for good and all. They both took him to their hearts and loved him, almost at once, better than they had loved Polly for years, ever since she was a small child. The tremendous vacuum created by her departure was happily filled again, and filled by somebody who was able to give more than Polly had ever given in the way of companionship. Cedric could talk intelligently to Lord Montdore about the objects of art at Hampton. He knew an enormous amount about such things, though in the ordinary sense of the word he was uneducated, ill-read, incapable of the simplest calculation, and curiously ignorant of many quite elementary subjects. He was one of those people who take in the world through eye and ear, his intellect was probably worth very little, but his love of beauty was genuine. The librarian at Hampton was astounded at his bibliographical knowledge. It seemed, for instance, that he could tell at a glance whom a book had been bound for and by whom, and he said that Cedric knew much more than he did himself about eighteenth-century French editions. Lord Montdore had seldom seen his own cherished
belongings so intelligently appreciated, and it was a great pleasure to him to spend hours with Cedric going over them. He had doted on Polly, she had been the apple of his eye, in theory, but in practice she had never been in any respect a companion to him.

As for Lady Montdore, she became transformed with happiness during the months that followed, transformed, too, in other ways, Cedric taking her appearance in hand with extraordinary results. Just as Boy (it was the hold he had over her) had filled her days with society and painting, Cedric filled them with the pursuit of her own beauty, and to such an egotist this was a more satisfactory hobby. Facial operations, slimming cures, exercises, massage, diet, make-up, new clothes, jewels reset, a blue rinse for her grey hair, pink bows and diamond daisies in the blue curls; it kept her very busy. I saw her less and less, but each time I did she looked more unnaturally modish. Her movements, formerly so ponderous, became smart, spry and birdlike. She never sat now with her two legs planted on the ground, but threw one over the other, legs which, daily massaged and steamed, gradually lost their flesh and became little more than bone. Her face was lifted, plucked and trimmed, and looked as tidy as Mrs. Chaddesley Corbett’s, and she learnt to flash a smile brilliant as Cedric’s own.

“I make her say ‘brush’ before she comes into a room,” he told me. “It’s a thing I got out of an old book on deportment and it fixes at once this very gay smile on one’s face. Somebody ought to tell Lord Alconleigh about it.”

Since she had never hitherto made the smallest effort to appear younger than she was, but had remained fundamentally Edwardian-looking, as though conscious of her own superiority to the little smart ephemeral types, the Chaddesley Corbetts and so on, Cedric’s production of her was revolutionary. In my opinion it was not successful, for she made the sacrifice of a grand and characteristic appearance without really gaining in prettiness, but no doubt the effort which it involved made her perfectly happy.