did he marry somebody else?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, my dear, I’m sorry.’
‘Not at all. I’m glad of it. She’s a far better wife for him than I’d ever have been.’
She put down her fork and touched the inside of my wrist.
‘My dear, I admire you for putting a brave face on things. So it’s up and on with the hunt.’
‘Celia, it isn’t a hunt. You don’t bring a husband home over your shoulder like a haunch of venison.’
Her laugh brought people looking towards us again.
‘Oh, how convenient if one could.’
‘Celia, you married for love. My mother and father married for love. If I can’t do the same, then I shan’t marry at all.’
‘Nonsense. You’re far too pretty and agreeable to be an old maid. But one really can’t be too fussy.’
I finished my salmon, remembering that with Celia the impulses to hug her and hit her with a heavy object were never far apart. What I couldn’t explain to her, because there was nothing in her life that would help her understand, was the delight that I was beginning to take in my independence. I’d fallen into it by accident, and the shock had been like a plunge into cold water, but now I’d learned to swim in it and the water didn’t seem so cold after all. It would take a more remarkable man than any I was likely to meet on the social circuit to understand that.
Luckily, something had happened to change the subject. Two women had arrived late and, instead of being annoyed because they’d missed her performance, our hostess was fawning over them like royalty. The older one was tall and middle-aged, the younger one in her early twenties. Celia caught her breath.
‘Look, it’s Rosa Fitzwilliam.’
She was staring at the younger woman like an astronomer seeing a comet. Rosa Fitzwilliam was a little above average height, slimly built but with a good bust and beautiful sloping shoulders. Her face was a perfect oval, complexion like alabaster with moonlight on it. Her chestnut brown hair, swept up into elaborate spirals, was pinned with a diamond aigrette that caught the light from the chandeliers as she graciously nodded at her hostess’s words. Celia wasn’t the only one looking at her. A hush had fallen on the room. Some people were staring at her openly, others trying to carry on their conversations while looking at her sidelong.
‘Who is she?’ I said.
‘Oh, my dear, where have you been? She’s positively the Beauty of the season. Just come over from Dublin, or everyone would have known about her long before. Just look at those eyebrows. Do you suppose she plucks them?’
They were two flawless arches; her lips, equally flawless, could have come from a classical statue. I looked and puzzled about this question of beauty. In my opinion, Celia was at least equally beautiful, and there were several other women in the room of whom you could say the same. And yet they were staring at Rosa Fitzwilliam without envy, as if she came from another planet and they could not be expected to compete. For some reason, every now and then, society chooses to pick out a lovely woman and raise her to the status of the Beauty. There was no arguing with it.
Rosa Fitzwilliam graciously accepted a glass of champagne and moved across the room to talk to a group of people she obviously knew. Conversation swelled again, but there was an excitement in the room that hadn’t been there before she arrived, the way the air quivers after lightning strikes.
‘I suppose they’ll have to put off the marriage if his father dies,’ Celia said.
‘Whose father?’
‘The whole thing is terribly hard for her, although you’d never guess it to look at her. After all, she couldn’t possibly have known when she accepted him at Christmas time. Nobody had the least idea then.’
‘Least idea about what?’
‘If it came to it, I suppose he’d have to release her from the engagement. It would be the only honourable thing to do, don’t you think?’
‘Celia, I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re talking about.’
She stared at me.
‘Surely you’ve heard about the Brinkburns? Everybody’s known for weeks.’
I bit my tongue. Even if everybody had known for weeks, my promise to Disraeli of secrecy still held.
‘Known what?’
She handed her empty plate to a passing servant and brought her head closer to mine.
‘Rosa’s engaged to Stephen Brinkburn. His father’s madder than poor old King George was, and he’s going to die any day now. Only there’s some doubt about Stephen’s right to inherit…apparently his father wasn’t…well, you know.’
If I hadn’t heard the story already from a more coherent source, no, I shouldn’t have known. But one thing was clear. However hard Disraeli and his friends were trying to keep the scandal within a small circle, it was already the talk of the London drawing rooms.
‘But she’s still engaged to him whatever happens, isn’t she?’ I said. ‘She can’t just send him back like a pair of gloves that aren’t the right colour.’
‘My dear, what pictures you’re painting. It seems quite clear to me. If it turns out that he isn’t and the younger brother is, then strictly speaking it’s the younger brother she should be engaged to, and since he’s supposed to be in love with her too, like all the other young men, it wouldn’t make a lot of difference. Except to poor Stephen, of course, but then…’
She stopped talking because another of those sudden silences had just fallen on the assembly. Celia turned towards the door.
‘Oh look, it’s him.’
A young man was standing just inside the doorway, his posture stiff and his face serious. He was in correct gentleman’s evening wear of black and white. The last time I’d seen him he’d just rolled down a flight of steps in full armour and was trying to do serious harm to his brother. From the silence, and the set expression on his face, many of the people in the room had heard about it already and he was all too aware of that.
Everybody seemed to have noticed his entrance except Rosa Fitzwilliam. She had her back to the door and was talking to one of her group. Stephen started walking towards her, like a man who expected to come under fire. One of her companions must have said something, because she turned and smiled at him. To me, there seemed a hint of strain in her smile, but it must have been good enough for him because he smiled back and relaxed a little, as if the other people didn’t matter so much after all. He walked up to her, took her hand and raised it to his lips. Celia caught my eye and gave an upward jerk of her chin.
‘Still on, then,’ she murmured to me.
It was safe to say it now, because people were talking again and pretending to disregard the couple. From Rosa’s gestures, it looked as if she was rebuking Stephen playfully for being late, tapping his coat sleeve with her fan. The gesture was charming, vivacious, just a little too stagey, as if she knew very well that everybody’s attention
