what I’ve found,’ Francesca cried excitedly, her eyes shining. ‘Caviar! Only a small pot, I’m afraid, but it is Beluga. There’s a tin of pâté de foie gras Strasbourg, a crock of aged Stilton cheese with port, and three tins of turtle soup.’ She examined the label. ‘I say, quite a posh brand too. It’s got sherry in it.’ Francesca flipped down the lid of the hamper and patted it possessively. ‘I’m taking this up to the kitchen. It’s certainly part of the dinner. Why don’t you poke around in the wine cellar. I’m sure there are some bottles of champagne left from your twenty-first, and it would be nice to have it with the caviar.’
A few minutes later Kim joined her in the kitchen, a smile of triumph on his face, a bottle of champagne in each hand. ‘You were right. Moët & Chandon.’ He displayed them gleefully and then sat down at the table and eyed the items Francesca had removed from the hamper and arranged in front of her. ‘Is there going to be enough, do you think?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘It’s a beginning at least. I thought we could have the champagne before supper. I can stretch the caviar with chopped eggs and chopped onions, and lots of Melba toast, and serve the pâté as well. The turtle soup will do very well for starters, and I can make a green salad to go with the Stilton. We can finish with the bottled fruit and cream.’
‘And what do we eat after the soup and before the pudding?’ Kim teased. ‘You’ve forgotten the main course. Or is that all you intend to serve?’
‘No, of course it isn’t, silly,’ Francesca said with a smile. ‘I have some minced beef in the refrigerator. I was going to make a cottage pie with it, for my supper tonight. If I buy some more beef I can make a larger pie for all of us. Do you think Victor Mason ever had so lowly a dish as cottage pie?’ She grinned at her brother. ‘I suppose there’s always a first time for everything. He’ll probably think it quaint and very English.’
‘I’m sure Victor Mason will be more impressed with the cottage pie than with the caviar. Isn’t that what movie stars eat for breakfast every day? Tell you what though, I’ll bring up some really good wine later. The Ninth might have been a spendthrift, but he did leave us one of the best cellars in London. What about a Mouton Rothschild?’
‘That will be lovely, Kim. In the meantime, would you mind going to Shepherd Market for me, before the shops close?’
‘Of course not, and I’ll pay for whatever we need. I have a few quid.’ Observing her expression he laughed and shook his head. ‘No, it’s not from the riding boots money.’
Francesca busied herself with a shopping list and Kim’s gaze returned to the items spread on the table, his eyes reflective. He lit a cigarette and smoked in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly he said, ‘Has Father mentioned Doris to you lately?’
‘No, why do you ask?’ Francesca spoke without looking up.
‘She’s been noticeably absent from Langley of late. I wondered if they’d had a row, or even a parting of the ways.’
His sister raised her head, her brows drawing together. ‘Not that I know of; in fact, I spoke to Doris only last week. She’s gone to the South of France.’
‘Good God, in February. Whatever for?’
‘To look for a villa for the summer. She wants to rent a large one, she told me, so that we can all go and stay with her. So I’m quite certain everything is perfectly all right.’
‘I wonder if Father will marry her?’
Francesca did not respond immediately. She herself had ruminated on this possibility from time to time, for it seemed to her that Doris Asternan had become a permanent fixture in her father’s life. Her mind turned to Doris, the nice American widow whom she and Kim liked so much. She wondered if Doris did have expectations, and then smiled to herself at such an old-fashioned word. It was more than likely. Her father was attractive, charming and good natured like Kim, and the title was tempting to most women, but particularly so to an American. He was quite a catch really. And what of her father? He had grieved for their mother for a number of years after her death, and then quite suddenly there had been a steady flow of women, whom he seemed to quickly lose interest in – until Doris. She wondered.
‘What do you think, Frankie? Will the old man make a trip down the aisle with Doris?’ Kim pressed.
Francesca shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know. Daddy hasn’t made me his confidante, and neither has Doris, for that matter.’
‘She’s certainly preferable to some of the others he’s had in tow. And at least Doris has pots and pots of money. Millions of lovely dollars.’
Francesca could not help laughing. ‘As if that would influence our father. He’s too romantic by far. He’s looking for true love.’
‘Christ! At his age! Well, I suppose there’s life in the old dog yet.’
‘Kim, he’s only forty-seven. You make him sound ancient.’ She thrust the shopping list at him. ‘Come on, you lazy old thing. Do the shopping for me, and leave Doris to Daddy. I have better fish to fry than to sit here gossiping with you.’ She glanced at the battered alarm clock on top of the refrigerator. ‘It’s almost five. The butcher will be closed if you don’t hurry. And I’d better prepare the dining room table and start on some chores. Now that you’ve so cleverly managed to manoeuvre me into giving this dinner, I might as well push the boat out for you.’
Kim stuffed the shopping list into his pocket and stood up. ‘Thanks for going to all this trouble for me, Frankie. I really appreciate it.’ He headed for the door. When he reached it he turned around and grinned at her. ‘And you know, with Doris’s goodies and a few bottles of the Ninth’s vintage wine, we’re not going to seem so poverty-stricken after all.’
The house in Chesterfield Street, where Francesca lived most of the year, had been the London residence of the Earls of Langley for some sixty-six years, having been purchased in 1890 by Francesca’s great-grandfather, the Ninth Earl. It was a typical Mayfair town house, situated in a row of almost identical houses, tall and narrow with a relatively simple architectural façade. The exterior appearance belied the interior: graceful charming rooms, considerably larger and more generously proportioned than the narrowness of the house suggested. In particular, the reception rooms on the main floor were singularly elegant, with high ceilings, wide windows and handsome Adam fireplaces of carved oak or marble. The rooms on the second, third and fourth floors grew increasingly smaller the closer they came to the roof, but even these had a special charm of their own.
The spacious drawing room, a handsome book-lined library, and the dining room opened off a small square entrance hall, where a lovely old staircase with a carved oak banister rose to the upper floors. Beyond the dining room there was a large family kitchen, somewhat old-fashioned in design, but relatively efficient since Francesca had partially modernized it with a new Aga stove and a refrigerator. ‘They look a bit incongruous. Out of place, wouldn’t you say,’ her father had ventured cautiously on first viewing the shiny new objects. Francesca had glanced proudly at her innovations, raised an eyebrow and pronounced, ‘But they work, Daddy.’ Recognizing that her tone discouraged further discussion, the Earl had murmured, ‘Quite so, my dear,’ and retreated to the safety of the library. He had fled, the next day, to Yorkshire. The additions to the kitchen were only part of the refurbishing of the house, which Francesca had plunged into, flouting her father’s wishes. He was, for the most part, opposed to her plans, considering them far too elaborate, and far too costly.
For all of his adult life, Francesca’s father, David Cunningham,
