A Hopeless Romantic Part 39

"Now, hurry and get ready, and I'll be waiting for you downstairs by the door. Hurry up!" He shut the door behind him.

Laura stood up straight. Right, she thought. Right, then. If this is as bad as it gets-bring it on. I'm going to do it. It's going to be okay.

Twenty minutes later (it would never have been ten minutes, never), Laura nervously clutched the huge newel post at the top of the Grinling Gibbons staircase and began her descent. It had taken her a good few minutes to find the grand staircase in the first place. She had got lost, gone down and up various corridors and into various alcoves, feeling totally insignificant and lost, like a dormouse. She peered down into the great hall at the bottom, where the guests were all congregated, drinking champagne. Laura clambered down the stairs as quietly as she could, trying not to draw attention to herself. It was a hard staircase to navigate in high heels-the railing had clumps of terribly intricate grapes and apricots and what looked alarmingly like a real-life rat but she thought must be a squirrel, and she didn't know what to hold on to and what might fall off. Halfway down, she looked across at the wall and saw a normal, everyday railing attached to it. She clicked her tongue, but it was too late to stagger across the wide steps and use that instead. Typical. So she carried on, negotiating the steps and the carved fruits of the world with the utmost care, taking in the scene below her as best she might.

It was as if the stage were set for something. There was a sense of expectation in the air. A long night was ahead of them; all those present clearly knew that. It wasn't the terrifying set of people Laura had thought it might be-posh, ghastly, noisy, superior-certainly nothing like last time. That was something. There were a few Colonel Mustard types, but there were also lots of quite nice, ordinary-looking people. Everyone was in suits and smart dresses, Laura was relieved to see. She hadn't been sure of the dress code when she bought the dress; looking down, she knew she wasn't going to look out of place, sartorially at least.

A little farther down, the vast staircase curved gently and revealed the full ma.s.s of guests. There he was. In the corner of the room by the fireplace, talking quietly to someone, smiling and looking amused, as Cecilia Thorson, decked out in what looked like a peach chiffon tutu, complete with matching bag and shoes and-good G.o.d, thought Laura, is that a silk parasol?-stood attentively by his side. Laura looked at him, then at the view around her, the old sensation of her last night in Norfolk a.s.sailing her again. She thought of what Charles had been saying in the car that afternoon about Nick. All of this was his. This vast, airy hall, its great tapestry hanging along the north wall, the rest of the room lit with paintings and armor hanging on the walls. Out across the floodlit, smooth terrace, all the way to the folly at the top of the distant hill, and far beyond that. And these people in this room-most of them owed their living to him. To that one man.

As if she had called his name, Nick turned abruptly and looked up as she came down the stairs. He looked at her briefly, as if to say, "Are you okay?" and when Laura nodded, he raised his gla.s.s, still unsmiling, gave her one more look, a strange cold look, then turned away. Laura stood still, not knowing how to move. She could see Charles waiting by the stairs for her, so she made her way down, slowly, as he pushed through the crowd to greet her. He ran up the last few steps.

"Laura," said Charles. He kissed her hand. "My dear girl. You look sensational."

"Pff," said Laura articulately.

"Oh," said Charles. He came up so he was level with her, and they were both standing on the same step. "One more thing, Laura. I thought you'd want to know. I nearly forgot. There is someone else here you know." He a.s.sumed an innocent expression. "That's nice, isn't it?"

"Me? Who?" said Laura suspiciously, her eyes scanning the crowd.

"Your aunt. Annabel, is it?"

"What?" said Laura blankly.

"Annabel Sanderson. She's your aunt, isn't she?"

"Yes," said Laura slowly. "Of course. Oh, G.o.d."

Lady Rose's cronies. Charles had said they were coming. Aunt Annabel was one of them, she knew it. They were on some committee together; she'd said so in the summer. Several times. Mary had known as much this evening, Laura knew it, but she hadn't wanted to say anything. Oh, dear, oh, dear. This evening was presumably the zenith of Annabel's social-climbing aspirations-being invited to a private dinner and dance at Chartley Hall. With the Marquis of Ranelagh-and her own niece, who Annabel was convinced was his One True Love....

Laura looked wildly around her. Aunt Annabel was in the crowd somewhere. She was there. It made complete sense-but why, Laura thought, clenching her fists and casting a baleful look heavenward. Why, Lord?

Charles adjusted his tie. "Anyway..."

"Good G.o.d." Laura realized she had to say something. "She's a-" She was about to say "dreadful social climber," in unconscious echo of her grandmother. She smiled to herself. "h.e.l.l. She's quite something. Have you met her?"

"Oh, yes," said Charles politely. "She's charming. Very pleased you're here. Look-she's waving at you." He pointed into the crowd.

Laura didn't look. "She knows I'm here?" she said in some alarm.

"I was introduced to her, and she saw me adding your name on the seating plan for the dinner. She was-very excited." Charles coughed. "As well she might be. I told her you were my date for the evening, by the way. Just so she knows."

"Thank you," said Laura. She knew what he was getting at.

"Anyway. Come and say h.e.l.lo."

He took her by the hand and led her through the heaving crowd to the center of the room; and there, a determined expression on her face, was Aunt Annabel, wearing what Laura immediately categorized as Posh Lady's Formal Attire # 1-a black velvet c.o.c.ktail dress, with a jaunty red silk bolero jacket. There was a lot of corseting going on; Laura could tell from the rather stiff way the usually rather stout Aunt Annabel was standing.

Lady Rose was a little way away, immaculately attired in a beautifully tailored raw silk suit, talking expressively to Lady Lavinia, who was decked out in a kind of long, flowing tepee of a dress. Next to her stood a nervous-looking youth. Sean, Laura remembered with clarity. Sean from the village. Laura was surprised to feel a strange stab of familial relief to see her aunt, waiting for her alone in a strange sea of faces, someone wholly familiar.

"h.e.l.lo, Aunt Annabel," she said, putting her hand on her aunt's starchy silk arm. The whole situation was suddenly too much for her; Laura felt as if she were in a scene from one of her old romance novels, and was overcome with the urge to snort most unedifyingly with laughter. She wished she had a fan she could hide behind and say, "La! Sir, you are too kind!"

"Laura, well!" said Aunt Annabel, grasping her shoulders and looking at her appraisingly with a fond, almost girlish glint in her eyes. She kissed her. "What a lovely surprise to see you here. Charles was just explaining how kind it was of you to accompany him tonight." There was a faint but audible tone of surprise in her voice; Laura knew it for what it was, a cla.s.sic Aunt Annabel maneuver. Translation: "What's going on? I thought you were with the marquis, dear? I hope I haven't misrepresented the situation to all and sundry? Well. I say."

"Well, dear, it's lovely to see you," Annabel went on. "We are so lucky, aren't we?"

She gave the word "aren't" about five syllables; Laura gave Charles a look, but he smiled back impa.s.sively.

"Lady Rose," said Aunt Annabel, practically bowing her head at the name, "was delighted to hear you were coming tonight, Laura dear. I must take you over to say h.e.l.lo to her."

"No," said Laura, panic rising within her. "It's really-it's okay. I've met her."

"Nonsense," said Aunt Annabel. She waved over toward Lady Rose, who turned with a fixed smile on her face and saw Annabel and Laura together. Her smile grew cold; she touched her palm with the pads of her fingers in the most cursory wave, and turned back to her conversation.

"Oh," said Annabel slowly. "She must be busy." Laura almost felt sorry for her aunt, though not quite. Annabel smiled brightly at her. "Isn't this lovely?"

It was strange, but Laura suddenly found herself thinking Annabel sounded almost like Laura's own mother, who was constantly trying to smooth things over, make everything socially acceptable. Angela was often fl.u.s.tered, nervous about things. Laura had never seen her aunt behave the same way. It was funny how people were all the same in different contexts. Annabel looked brave, and shrugged her shoulders. Laura said, in an effort to be sociable, "So, Aunt Annabel-who else is here from your committee?"

"Oh," said Aunt Annabel, looking around, "not that many people. She mentioned that we were all invited at the last committee meeting, a few weeks ago. We're on the same pro-hunting lobby group, you know," she said to Charles. "The Backb.o.n.e.rs, we're called."

"Ah," said Charles. "Right."

"You're a total fraud! You don't go hunting!" Laura wanted to yell at her. "The nearest you've ever got to tweed is the Austin Reed sample sale!" Instead, she nodded politely at her aunt, who said blithely, "Well, yes. But the invitation was all rather vague, Lady Rose is so busy. I had to really track her down, call her secretary a couple of times to be sure of the details. And most couldn't make it. Such a shame. So wonderful, though. To be here."

"Hm," said Laura.

"Yes," said Charles politely. "Well, wonderful that you could be with us, Mrs. Sanderson. Ah, here's some more champagne. Would you like a new gla.s.s?"

"Thank you," said Aunt Annabel, smiling at him with what Laura could only a.s.sume was an attempt at a coquettish flutter of the eyelashes, which she found most off-putting.

Charles handed Annabel another gla.s.s from the tray and, as the waiter had already vanished, put the old gla.s.s down on a sideboard.

"I do hope it's all right to leave gla.s.ses on the side here!" said Aunt Annabel, regaining her composure. "Can you imagine the havoc a ring mark would cause! Wonderful. Oh, look. There's the marquis." She flicked a glance at Laura. Laura followed her stare across the room, and saw Nick watching them across the crowd. She stared back at him, not knowing what to say.

"Oh, Charles," said Annabel, who had obviously performed a formal ceremony in her room of throwing caution to the winds and was now being as embarra.s.sing as possible, "who's that girl standing next to him?"

Laura watched as Lady Rose appeared beside Cecilia Thorson, took her elbow, and smiled charmingly at her. She said something to Cecilia, who laughed loudly. Nick said nothing. He carried on looking at Laura.

"That's Cecilia Thorson," said Charles. "Um. She's a friend of Nick's."

"Right," said Aunt Annabel. "Well." She looked at Laura, obviously rather confused. Cecilia put her hand on Nick's arm; Laura stared at them, and he stared back at her, his eyes eventually flicking to Annabel and Charles, too. Then he smiled across the room, just at her, and she didn't know what to do.

Annabel saw this. She said nothing for a moment; then she looked at her niece. "So, Charles," she persevered, "you know Laura, too, then?"

"Yes," Charles said, intervening gracefully. "She knows us both. Very lucky we are." He patted his stomach. "Ah, here's a tray of delicious canapes. Mrs. Sanderson, may I tempt you?"

"Yes, please," said Annabel, plucking a tiny vegetable roll off a tray. "So, can you tell me what that idiotic young man is doing with her, then, when he should be over here with my niece?"

"Oh, G.o.d," said Laura, trying to hide behind her champagne gla.s.s.

"No, I can't tell you that," said Charles, trying not to smile. "Can't tell you that at all."

"Harrumph," said Annabel almost grumpily, and Laura stole at glance at her aunt, trying not to want to...like her.

chapter forty-seven.

A part from the twin social demons of Annabel and Lady Rose Balmore, and apart from the constant jabbing pain in the side she got every time she saw Nick with Cecilia Thorson, Laura had to admit the Harvest Festival looked like a good party, if only she'd been able to throw herself into it. By eight o'clock the great hall was crammed with people, all sorts of people, mostly from the village and the estate; there were children running around, hiding under tables, playing catch in the entrance hall. Charles pointed out to Laura the London housing committee who were so impressed with Nick's innovative scheme, four or five of them all huddled together in black, looking worried, nervous, and highly out of place. They clearly felt out of their depth. Laura wished they wouldn't; even she could see, after a couple of gla.s.ses of champagne, that it just wasn't that kind of party. It wasn't, funnily enough, an Annabel/Rose party, rather stiff and formal and posh. It was nice. Relaxed. When someone stood on the table, a short, fat man with a florid face, and shouted that everyone should go through, she found herself smiling and laughing with people, total strangers, as she filed into the ballroom, where two hundred people were sitting down to dinner.

The atmosphere couldn't have been more different from her last dinner at Chartley; even the ballroom looked different. Suspended high above them, two huge chandeliers sparkled gently, giving out a soft light. The crystals reflected the light from the hundreds of candles on the tables, in sconces on the walls. The huge polished wooden floor gleamed warmly; at one end of the vast room, a great fire leaped in the hearth. There were four long tables, each banked high with sparkling crystal gla.s.sware, some of which also caught the light and twinkled. The scent of lilies and roses filled the room; flowers were everywhere, on the table, on the windowsills. Laura stood in the doorway and looked up and down the room, giving a small gasp as she took it all in. It was beautiful.

To her pleasure, she was next to Charles on one side. He was opposite Lady Lavinia and Sean-and this seemed to flummox him somewhat. Especially since Sean seemed to be suffering from some kind of physical complaint throughout dinner; he kept jerking unexpectedly, and Lavinia would look up and around her demurely. Laura watched her. She didn't know if Nick's sister was really manipulative or just in a world of her own. On Laura's other side was a nice man from the village, Freddie, who owned the butcher's and had just started using only locally sourced and produced meat. He had supplied the sausages that evening. They were having bangers and mash, piles and piles of it.

The food was delicious; Laura realized she was absolutely starving. The sausages were incredible, properly meaty, seasoned, tasting of real, good things. The potatoes came from the estate, earthy, velvety, creamy. The tables were groaning with food; the waiters never stopped going round with wine. The noise in the ballroom grew and grew with the sound of people chatting, drinking, laughing-having a good time. Laura couldn't see where Nick was, and after looking for a few minutes, she gave up. She turned to Freddie.

"Who drew the short straws and had to work tonight?" Laura said, indicating one of the waiters as he pa.s.sed. "Bit unfair that they're on and they have to wait on their colleagues."

"No," said Freddie, putting a huge dollop of mustard on his plate. "Waiters are all hired for the evening. No one at Chartley works the night of the Harvest Festival."

"Really?" said Laura. "Blimey."

"Oh, yes," said Freddie. "His lords.h.i.+p's most particular about it, you know. Won't hear of it. He says, if you're having a party for the estate, it's a party for everyone. So everyone comes. But you know, that's the marquis for you. He really is-"

Laura couldn't really bear another long exposition from yet another person about why Nick was just the greatest person in the world ever, since landlords, lords, and even land were invented. So she said, because she was genuinely interested, apart from anything else, "Can you tell me something then? What's the difference between a proper sausage and-you know, a horrible one, that looks like whipped pink cream?"

"Well," Freddie began.

Opposite her, Sean jerked suddenly again, and said urgently, "Lav-oi, don't do that, okay?"

Lavinia looked at him innocently. "What do you mean?" she said primly. Her eyes danced. Laura looked at her. She really was beautiful, not at all like her sister. She looked very like the photo of her mother that had been in that newspaper article about them all. Very 1960s, ethereal and pale, with lots of eyeliner and piled-up auburn hair-and the unconvincingly ethnic outfit, which annoyed Laura. She wanted to take it off her and pop her into a nice, simple Audrey Hepburnstyle gown. Then she realized she was sounding awfully like her mother, and smiled.

As Freddie described cuts and prime hunks of pork and seasonings, Laura turned to smile at Charles, to find him staring helplessly at Lavinia. Like a card file in her brain, various nuggets of information started racing through her head, collating themselves. She didn't need the confirmation-the look on poor Charles's face said it all.

Lavinia looked across the table at Charles, a mischievous expression on her face. "Freddie!" Freddie ground to a halt. "Charles, darling. Sean says I'm being naughty. I'm not, am I?"

"Yes, you are, Lavinia," said Charles, and he sounded rather stern. "Stop it. It's not right. Leave him alone."

"Thanks, mate," said Sean, looking wildly around him, then back to Lavinia, who looked solemn for a second and then slid her hand into his lap again.

"Lavinia!" Charles said sharply. "I won't tell you again. You will not behave like this. Not tonight. Okay?"

He grasped her wrist, clutched it for a second, then released it. Lavinia looked up at him, rather surprised.

"Charles!" she said. Charles met her gaze impa.s.sively. "Oh, right," Lavinia said, and she leaned back in her chair, accepting defeat. She yawned. "I'm so bored, so bored...."

Laura found herself wanting to reach across the table and slap her face repeatedly, and also to tell her to wake up and smell the coffee in the shape of lovely, kind Charles, so obviously head over heels in love with her. She didn't think Lavinia deserved for anyone to point things out to her, though. She was too self-centered. Yes, thought Laura. She gave her a brief glare, and said brightly to Charles, "It all seems to be going really well, doesn't it?"

Charles was gazing again. She kicked him. "Charles!"

He turned to her and widened his eyes, as if trying to bring himself back to reality.

"My G.o.d," said Laura. "You really have got it bad, haven't you?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Charles, clearing his throat and delicately arranging the cutlery. The noise in the ballroom seemed to grow a little louder.

"Lavinia," Laura whispered. "You're in love with her!"

"I am not," said Charles indignantly.

"Yes, you are," said Laura firmly. She smiled, and clapped her hands softly under the table. "Oh, this is wonderful! It's like something out of a Victorian novel."

Charles looked down and cleared his throat again. He said stiffly, "Do be quiet."

"No," said Laura. "I'm your date for the evening, remember? So you have to put up with me. And my ghastly relations. No, Charles, I know exactly what it's about. You're in love with Lavinia."

"I'm not enjoying this," said Charles, looking briefly across at Lavinia, who was nibbling Sean's ear. His face was puce.

"Sorry," said Laura, feeling momentarily contrite. "Golly, you must really regret having asked me tonight."

"Pretty much, yes," said Charles frankly. "Now, be quiet."

Laura stole a glance at him. "I think you should do something about it," she said after a pause. "I'm telling you, she needs someone like you. To bring her into line. And you need to look after someone."

"I a.s.sure you-" Charles said, trying to keep his voice low.

"Shh," said Laura, paying no attention. "You love Lavinia. You have a complex about being in love with your best friend's sister."

The tips of Charles's ears grew pink and he sank farther down in his chair.

"You also have an even bigger complex about not being good enough for her, because you're only a simple maiden from the village. And all that."

"I'm not a maiden, Laura, that's not-well, I suppose-"

"And just when, after years of building up to it, you've finally plucked up the courage to ask her out, probably, she starts s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g some teenager who can't say 'please' and 'h.e.l.lo' without getting confused. Oh, Charles."

"Look who's talking," said Charles, sitting up crossly.

"What?"

"You're a fine one to start lecturing me about having a complex about being the simple maiden from the village," said Charles. "Do you not listen to yourself?"

Laura had been so caught up in the romance of Charles's situation that she wasn't really paying attention. "Oh," she said.

"Exactly," said Charles. "It's not that simple." He looked across at Lavinia and Sean, who were whispering to each other, and blinked, very slowly. "Now," he said, opening his eyes, "tell me. The Chartley satellite dish is on the blink. Have you seen the new series of Curb Your Enthusiasm?"