Page 39 of An Invitation to the Kennedys
The air was so hot it resisted her, and the pool, when she reached it, abandoned.The relief of getting into the water was such that she nearly whooped, stopping herself only because, looking back towards the house, she could see that windows everywhere were open.She imagined the effect of a really loud whoop – figures appearing in each open frame, peering out to see who had done this unseemly thing.Instead she flung herself underwater, kicking right down to the bottom of the pool and touching its smooth tiled floor before rising up again to burst above the surface.Drat, she thought, wiping water from her eyes, now her hair would be a sight.She wondered would Mrs Wilkes, the stern lady who was her mother’s maid, have time to set it to rights.Probably not, but what did it matter.She could simply brush it and tie it back.
Through the thickening evening air she heard the sound of a gong.Time to go in.But she couldn’t bring herself to leave the cool water just yet.She lay on her back, looking up at a sky the colour of spilled ink.At the far end of the pool, swallows were diving, skimming the smooth surface, then rising abruptly, only to circle about and swoop again.They were like the paper aeroplanes her little brothers and sisters made and flew from the windows of Prince’s Gate, light and swift, wings angled to catch the wind.If made well enough, they flew as far as Hyde Park so that sometimes when she was out riding she came across one, stuck in a tree or a bush, and laughed to think of Bobby or Teddy or Eunice, folding the paper this way and that energetically, then flinging it out, borne aloft on eager hope.
The gong went again.Now she would be late.She pulled herself up and out of the pool and, catching a towel, set off barefooted towards the house.
Chapter Twenty
Brigid
Minnie was right, Brigid thought.After the vile drink, the throbbing in her head began to recede and in a while she sat up, pushing the hair out of her eyes, and looked critically at the dress Minnie had laid out.Crisp white linen with a full skirt embroidered with tiny white flowers in silk thread.Would it do?After all, this American had been chosen as Most Important Debutante of the season by theTatler.Not that Brigid cared – she had come out the year before, and anyway, who paid heed to such nonsense?But still, she thought, the girl might be snooty, best not to give her anything to be snooty about.
‘Minnie, is there anything more grown-up?’
‘It’s a country-house dinner, not a London party.White linen is very suitable.’
‘Suitable!’Brigid muttered.‘Still, I suppose one doesn’t want to look like one has tried too hard …’ She knew Minnie wouldn’t give in, no matter what she said.She had strict ideas about what was ‘suitable’.‘What are your rooms like, Minnie?’
‘Room, not rooms, and it’s just as it should be,’ Minnie said.‘Why would you ask such a thing?’
‘I want to know.’Then, ‘What about Kathleen’s maid; has she brought someone?’
‘There’s a maid has come with Mrs Kennedy – I assume she’ll do for both.And a gentleman for the prince.’
‘What’s he like?’Brigid was curious.‘The prince is German but doesn’t sound it.Not that he sounds English either … What about his man?’
‘German, and sounds it, though he speaks good English, I’ll allow.Albert, he’s called.’
‘What kind of a fellow is he?’
‘Young; dark hair.’
‘Handsome?Will he do for you?’Brigid laughed, and caught the sparkle in Minnie’s eyes that said she did too, but all she responded was, ‘That’s enough, Lady Brigid, or I’ll write to your mother and tell her that Elizabeth Ponsonby is here and you’ll be sent for, straight home.’
‘Do you know everything, Minnie?How did you even know she was here when she didn’t know herself until the very last minute?’
‘Molly told me.’
‘Of course.The servants’ chorus, passing news and snippets by your own mysterious means.’
‘By which I suppose you mean that we sit and have our tea and talk, just the same as you do.’
Brigid laughed again.‘Don’t disappoint me.I wish to imagine you have secret ways.’
The dinner bell went as Minnie was putting the finishing touches to Brigid’s hair, and she turned her head this way and that before the glass, finally nodding and saying, ‘Very nice.’Minnie had coiled her hair in a thick roll at the top of her head, allowing strands to fall loose in easy curls on either side.‘I bet the American girl wears lipstick.May I?Just a touch?’
‘No.Not in the country.In London, it might be allowed but not here, not at your age.’
‘Well, it will be your fault if I am quite eclipsed.’
‘No one will eclipse you,’ Minnie said fondly.
The pale blue carpet in Brigid’s room gave way to highly polished floorboards on the corridor and landing, so that her feet in their pointy white shoes made a pleasingly grown-up sound as she walked.She made her way slowly down the stairs and towards the drawing room, hoping she would meet Honor or Maureen along the way and not have to go in alone.It wasn’t just that she disliked Chips speculating about who she might marry – although she did – it was the way that being talked about made her feel breathless and prickly, like she was only half-dressed, had forgotten to put on underclothes or shoes.She hoped there would be others in the drawing room, even the American girl who was new and therefore someone for others to be curious about instead of her.But she was early and only men were gathered.
The drawing room, she saw, was like the concentrated essence of the house.So painted and plastered and upholstered, so set about with things, that there was not an inch of it that did not seem as though it had been dressed.It reminded her of Cook and the way she made a pie: first rolling out pastry, carefully lining a tin, placing the filling, then the top layer; cutting leftover pastry into swirls and curls to decorate the crust, then brushing it all with a beaten egg so it would glaze in the baking.That, she thought, was what Chips had done with this room.The whole house, yes, but this room most of all.
The walls were grey-green, like lichen, and the chairs and sofas set about were piled high with silk cushions in different shades of green.The ceiling was painted with a mural of London city in smoky greys and blues.She could make out St Paul’s, Nelson’s Pillar, a cluster of buildings in between.The effect of so much colour – no white – was to draw the room in on itself, close it over at the top so that they were in a sealed cauldron.She wondered had Chips done it on purpose.And if so, why?
Although the evening was warm, a fire was laid in the wide grate; a pile of burning logs that cast a glow of light as well as heat.Too much heat.She wondered how the men could stand so close to it.
