that moment than the woman who featured, yet again, in The Times.
‘Obituaries?’ said Annemarie, his second eldest.
His eyes warmed at her assumption. ‘No, love. Not obituaries. Lady Emma Hamilton again. Another sale. She can have little more to sell now. You should go, Annemarie.’
‘To an auction? I think not, Papa. All the world will be there.’
‘I could request a private view for you. I can send a note to Parke at Christie’s. He’d allow it. I know you’d like something of hers, wouldn’t you? A memento? As an admirer?’
He’d got it wrong. Words of feeling were not his strong point. ‘Not so much admiration as sympathy,’ she said, ‘for the way she’s been treated since Lord Nelson’s death. All those wealthy friends and greedy relatives, and not one of them willing to help her out of her debts. She must be desperate by now.’
Her younger sister Marguerite’s opinion was only to be expected, particularly on a subject about which she knew little. At sixteen-and-a-half, she had still not learned the art of discretion. ‘I shall not be wasting my sympathy on a woman like that,’ she said, pushing her half-eaten breakfast away. ‘She’s brought it all on herself.’
It took much to make their father angry, but this hit a raw nerve and his hard stare at his youngest daughter would have made a bold man quake. ‘Marguerite,’ he said, softly, ‘I wish you would try to acquire the habit of thinking before you speak before it’s too late to make a lady of you. For one thing, no woman brings it all on herself. And for another thing....tch! Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.’
Even Marguerite knew then that he was thinking of their mother.
Oriel, the eldest sister, glanced at her sideways and pushed the plate back into place with one finger. ‘Unladylike,’ she said. ‘And I think an apology is called for.’
‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ Marguerite whispered. ‘I spoke rashly.’
‘No harm, child,’ he said, nodding. ‘No harm.’ The morning sun caught the top of his silvery hair as he looked again at Christie’s announcement. ‘You go and take a look, Annemarie. I don’t know whether she’ll have saved the best or the rubbish till last, but you may find something to take down to Brighton with you.’ At sixty-eight he was still a handsome man, in spite of the lack of exercise.
‘What are you looking for?’ said Oriel. ‘I wouldn’t have thought anything of Lady Hamilton’s would be to your taste. A little too flashy, perhaps?’
‘I’ve no idea. Something small, I suppose.’
Annemarie saw the flicker of amusement pass across her father’s face at that. There was barely a square inch of space at their Montague Street home that was not occupied by his well-known collection of antiquities, and he knew as well as she that by sending her to Christie’s auction rooms in his stead, his own curiosity would be assuaged without the temptation to buy. Even Lady Hamilton’s last pieces would reveal something of quality, if not rarity, for she and Lord Nelson had been presented with gifts from every corner of the world. Annemarie was due to return to her own house at Brighton the next day, so it seemed like a last chance to find something that would fit. Something small.
* * *
Only one hour later, a note was delivered to Montague Street assuring Lord Benistone that Mr Parke, Christie’s senior valuer, would be delighted to show Lady Annemarie Golding over the most recent acquisitions.
* * *
So it was that, by mid-afternoon, she had chosen not the small thing she’d intended, but one of a pair of matching bureau dressing-tables made by the elder Chippendale, no longer in the height of Regency fashion but exactly what she needed for her bedroom. She would have bought its twin also, but did not need two of them as Lady Hamilton and Lord Nelson apparently had. Widows such as herself only needed one of anything. The generous price of it, however, was certain to relieve the poor lady’s acute embarrassment more than all the other clutter she was selling, except for its twin which Mr Parke assured Lady Golding he would sell for at least as much. Even so, he pointed out that he knew of no one who would want to purchase the pair and was relieved to have got one of them out of the way so quickly.
* * *
It was delivered to Montague Street that very same day and, smoothing a gnarled hand over the rosewood surface, Lord Benistone bent to examine the delicate inlay, the pretty brass handles, the honeyed tones of the veneer, his fingertips reading the patterned woods as if they were words. ‘I’ll have it packed straight away for you,’ he said, ‘and ready for the wagon first thing in the morning. Will that do?’
‘Thank you, Papa,’ Annemarie said, glancing round the great hall where the brown bureau looked so ill at ease amongst the white carved reliefs and contorted stone figures, the smooth busts of Roman matrons, the urns and plaques. There was no point in repeating the countless invitations to go with her to Brighton. He would never leave his beloved collection, not even for a few days of bracing sea air, especially now when the whole of Europe was flocking to London for the end-of-war celebrations. The possibility of meeting other antiquarians was too good to miss. She could hardly blame him when she was using the same reason to escape to deserted Brighton where she was unlikely to meet anyone who knew her.
The other reason, she had to admit, was that the beautiful house on Montague Street had become more like a museum than a home and she longed for the white-and-pastel space of her own elegant rooms where she was not swamped by sculpted pieces of enormous proportions or paintings covering every vertical surface. They were even stacked against the furniture now, finding their way into the bedrooms, preventing the housemaids from cleaning and the housekeeper from keeping order. Entertaining had been out of the question for years unless the guests were fellow-collectors, making for some very one-sided conversations. It was not difficult for any of them to understand why their mother had left last year, although the manner of her leaving was another thing entirely. That would be even harder to understand and not a day passed when Annemarie did not feel the wound it had left.
They never spoke of it, papa and his daughters, but now it seemed as if something had tweaked at that raw nerve again as the day of Annemarie’s departure drew nearer and his usually clear voice faltered as his hands ceased their caress of the rosewood. ‘This thing will be all right,’ he whispered, ‘but it’s you I’m concerned about, lass. You’ve been more affected by what happened than your sisters and, at twenty-four years old, it’s time you found somebody else to take care of you properly. Holing yourself up by the sea is hardly the right way to go about it, is it? And when I’m no longer...’ His voice trembled on a sob as the thought took over. ‘I ought to have seen it coming, oughtn’t I?’
Annemarie had not seen him like this before. Taking him into her arms, she hushed him with mothering sounds and felt him tremble as if a cool breeze had ruffled him. Then he was still again, composed and dignified, determined not to be seen caring too deeply for his loss. It was affairs of the heart that had been his undoing. That, and a disastrous misdirection of his attention. Perhaps there was more of him in young Marguerite than he cared to admit.
Withdrawing from her comfort, he sniffed and pushed a tear away with a knuckle, smiling thinly at the unusual lapse. ‘You’re so like her,’ he said, touching her cheek. ‘Oh, I don’t mean like that. I mean in looks. The way she was when I first saw her: same glossy black hair, velvet skin, amethyst eyes. A beautiful creature.’
She smiled. What loving father did not think his daughters beautiful?
*
