Page 58 of The Sapphire Child
Stella slipped an arm through her father’s and squinted in the low sun at the far hills with their dusting of snow. She had a familiar tug of longing for Kashmir. It would be months before she was there again. If she ever did get married, she would like it to be at The Raj-in-the-Hills – a quiet affair with the Lomaxes, her close family and the baroness – with Felix laying on a lunch of fish curry and custard tarts.
But, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t imagine Monty as the groom.
Chapter 21
Ebbsmouth, December 31st 1938
‘You’ll have to go without me, darling,’ Lydia said, emerging from under a towel and releasing a waft of scented steam from the bowl she was bending over.
‘Oh, Mamma!’ Andrew said in concern. ‘Are you really feeling that bad?’
‘Terrible,’ Lydia said, pressing a hand dramatically to her forehead.
‘Keep under the towel,’ Minnie fretted. ‘You’re letting out all the infusion.’
Lydia pulled off the towel. ‘It’s making me feel worse,’ she said in irritation. ‘My head is pounding.’
‘Better go to bed, dear,’ Minnie said. ‘I’ll send Lily up with a cup of tea.’
‘Lily’s got the night off,’ Lydia reminded her.
‘Has she?’ Minnie asked in confusion.
‘Yes, Grandmamma,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s Hogmanay, remember?’
His grandmother looked bemused, so he said quickly, ‘I’ll stay in and look after Mamma – and then we can play cards like old times.’
‘Certainly not,’ Lydia said. ‘You must go to the Murrays’ party – you’ve been invited – it would be rude not to— Atchoo!’ She broke off with a loud sneeze.
‘I hardly know them,’ Andrew protested, ‘and I don’t want to leave you when you’re ill. I might pop over to see Auntie Tibby for a dram at midnight if you’re both in bed by then.’
Lydia gave him a glassy-eyed look. ‘That sounds very dull – and you’ve already been to The Anchorage twice this holiday. The Murrays’ house will be full of young things – far more suitable company than Tibby and her unwashed bohemians.’
Andrew wasn’t going to tell her that it was Tibby’s newest resident that he hoped to see tonight. Red-haired Ruth was a furniture-maker and sometimes modelled for Dawan. She wasn’t conventionally pretty but there was something very alluring about her wild unbound hair and plump lips. Besides, Andrew knew it was pointless to argue with his mother.
Since he’d been away at Sandhurst on military training, he suspected Lydia had been turning to the sherry bottle even more than usual. Minnie was becoming more forgetful and so a worry to his mother, and Dickie Mason had gone to stay with relations in the south of England over Christmas and hadn’t yet returned. Andrew wondered if his mother’s sudden ‘fever’ was an excuse to avoid going to a party without Dickie on her arm.
His mother and Dickie had been close companions for over two years now, and Andrew liked the amiable captain but was fairly sure that Dickie had no intention of marrying Lydia. He was obviously quite happy with his casual frequent visits to Templeton Hall, the occasional winter foray to the south of France and periods of absence when he needed a break from Lydia’s smothering attention. His mother had forbidden him to mention Dickie to his father and Andrew still felt a little guilty for doing so in his letter. But he’d been hurt by his father’s scathing rejection of his decision to jointhe army and thought that mentioning Dickie’s support might help his cause.
Andrew stood up. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’
Lydia smiled. ‘You’ll have a marvellous time. Wear your tartan trews, you look so handsome in your mess kit.’
By ten o’clock, Andrew was feeling bilious at the amount of sickly ginger cordial he’d consumed along with the wedges of fruit cake and slightly stale shortbread that had been handed around. The Murrays, a cheery couple who had recently bought a Victorian mansion on the outskirts of Ebbsmouth, were gaining a reputation for throwing lively parties.
The downstairs drawing room and adjacent dining room were packed with guests drinking cocktails and champagne, their glasses being constantly topped up by the ever-present servants. The chatter was loud and the laughter raucous. The Murrays, it would seem, thought a good party was measured by the amount of alcohol served rather than the food. Andrew thought wryly that his mother would have loved it.
He glanced at the clock and wondered if it would be impolite to slip away. His face ached from smiling and his voice was hoarse from having to talk loudly to make himself heard to a series of people he hardly knew. He didn’t much care for parties. Even mess dinners could be boring – it was the side of the army he least enjoyed. Noel thought it amusing that he, a Scot and a Lomax, had no taste for whisky.
Andrew decided to go. He searched around for his hostess but could see no sign of her. He wouldn’t be missed and would write a note of thanks tomorrow. He made for the entrance. As he steppedinto the cold air, a hand on his sleeve stopped him. He turned to see a tall young woman in a tartan silk dress smiling at him.
‘Hello, Andrew.’
There was something familiar about her. She had a slim face framed by wavy fair hair and regarded him with hazel eyes – pretty eyes.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Andrew flushed. ‘Sorry, I don’t,’ he admitted.
