But it was not the fact that the ladies no longer sprang to attention at her command which annoyed Mrs Belper; it was the condescending and superior behaviour of Louisa Morton, who had declined to accompany them.
‘My dear, I regard Stavely as my second home,’ she had said snootily. ‘It is hardly necessary for me to go there in a charabanc.’
The remark was quite untrue, of course. Harriet was polite and friendly to her aunt, as she was to her father, but Romain Brandon — who mercifully had come through the war with only an arm wound and a string of medals — always seemed to be absent or unavailable when the Mortons visited. What was true was that Louisa was compelled to spend more and more time looking after her brother, for since that extraordinary episode when his entire class had thrown him in the fountain and gone virtually unpunished, the Professor had become something of a recluse and now took almost no part in the life of the University.
The bus arrived. Mrs Transom’s daughter had died of Spanish influenza in the last year of the war, as had Mr Belper, the president’s undersized husband; but Mrs Transom (now in her ninety-eighth year) seemed to grow younger every day and was easily hauled aboard by her attendant.
‘This will be no ordinary outing, Cynthia,’ explained Mrs Belper to her god-daughter, who was paying her a visit. ‘As I have told you, I have known Mrs Brandon since childhood. I understand we are to be shown round by a member of the family and that there is to be a sit-down tea!’
As they drove in between the tall gates, the ladies were amazed by the change in Stavely. The Hall had been a military hospital during the war but now, three years after the Armistice, all signs of the army’s occupation were gone. Making their way to the front door, the visitors passed through one of creation’s undoubted masterpieces: a lovingly tended English garden on a fine day in June.
And sure enough, a member of the family was waiting to show them round! Not Harriet Brandon, shortly expecting her third child, but a tall good-looking young man with russet hair — the owner’s nephew, who had grown up at Stavely and was to inherit Paradise Farm and a substantial parcel of land as soon as he came of age.
‘That’s Henry Brandon, Cynthia!’ hissed Mrs Belper, pushing her god-daughter forward and wishing that the girl’s mother had had the sense to do something about her teeth. ‘Stay close by his side and ask questions. Gentlemen always like to tell you things.’
Henry had shed his fears and his spectacles, and his good nature was proverbial. Nevertheless, his detestation of the ‘Tea Ladies’ who had made Harriet’s childhood a misery was almost as great as his uncle’s. If he had volunteered to show them Stavely, it was by way of a thank-offering — for on the previous day he had won his long-standing battle with the man who had been more than a father to him. Rom had fought harder than the old General, for Henry was an excellent scholar and to let him turn down three years at Oxford seemed madness; but in the end he had conceded defeat.
‘Go back, then, if you must. God knows they’ll welcome you with open arms at Follina. I don’t think the good times will come again, but perhaps one doesn’t want them to — the world’s a different place now and something can be done still, I’m sure. Alvarez’ report actually throws up some interesting angles where the minerals are concerned. And of course Harriet will expect you to have the Opera House open again for Natasha’s debut!’
If his offer to show the ladies round had sprung from gratitude, Henry found himself enjoying the tour, for he never wearied of pointing out the beauties of Stavely or ceased to take pleasure in the contrast of the cold, neglected house of his early childhood and the lovely cared-for place it had become.
‘Goodness, who is that lady?’ asked the buck-toothed Cynthia, who was obeying her godmother’s instructions to the letter. ‘She looks most unusual!’
They had reached the picture gallery on the top floor and that part of the house reserved for recent portraits of the family and friends.
‘That’s Galina Simonova — the ballerina. It was painted in 1913 after her triumph at the Maryinsky. That diamond star she’s wearing was given to her by the Tsar.’
The slight melancholy which attacked the ladies at the mention of the murdered Tsar was dispelled by the next picture — that of an imperious-looking, red-haired woman in a white gown, standing on the steps of a flag-bedecked mansion and flanked by a pair of elephants en grande tenue.
‘“The Lady Isobel de Larne”,’ read Cynthia, giggling coyly. ‘She has exactly the same colour hair as you, Mr Brandon. Is she a relative?’
‘My mother,’ admitted Henry, looking with amused affection at the flamboyant portrait of Isobel, now living in immense style with her diplomat husband in Udaipur.
In front of an enormous Sargent entitled ‘The Brandon Family at Home’, the ladies insisted on staying for a considerable time. Painted three years earlier in the last months of the war, it showed Rom Brandon still in his colonel’s uniform, his arm in a sling and on his face the exact look of boredom at this time-wasting procedure which was to be seen on the portrait of his father on the opposite wall. Beside him, very close to her husband, was Harriet, one slim hand resting on the fawn hair of her daughter, Natasha, in an effort to hold her down long enough to enable the painter to do his work. Henry himself stood beside Harriet and on a low stool — still boasting his baby ringlets and apparently strangling (with loving concentration) the white puppy in his lap — sat Paul Alexander, Stavely’s heir, whose birth Henry had greeted with unconcealed relief. For Henry had never wavered in his determination to return to the Amazon and but for Paul’s birth would have felt obliged to repay his debt to Rom by learning to take over at Stavely.
The furthest part of the gallery had been set aside for photographs and Henry led the way towards these with alacrity, for he had become a keen photographer and many of the pictures were his own.
The ladies exclaimed at the christening pictures of Paul Alexander in the arms of his French godmother, of whom Henry had taken more photographs than were strictly necessary. There was a photo of Madame Simonova, upstaging a French duchess who was declaring open the Simonova École de Dance; a recent one of the eight-year-old Natasha as a butterly at Madame Lavarre’s end-of-term dancing display…
And one at which Cynthia stopped and said, ‘Goodness! What on earth is that?’
‘A goat,’ said Henry. ‘A very special one. It has won innumerable prizes.’
But the picture was not only of a goat. Hanging on to the animal was a man in Lederhosen with embroidered braces and a Loden hat. Also in the picture, but a little out of focus, was a peasant lady in a kerchief holding what appeared to be a basket full of enormous runner beans.
‘Strange!’ said Mrs Belper, peering at the photograph. ‘The face looks familiar.’ And then: ‘Good gracious — it is him! It’s the young man Louisa wanted for Harriet!’
Henry grinned at the picture which he himself had taken last summer and labelled Dr and Mrs Finch-Dutton at Cremmora, for the story of Edward and Olga was one of which the family never tired. The first months had been hard for poor Edward, concealing his young bride in lodgings at the edge of the town and trying to hide his injuries as he crept in and out of college. Nor had the war years been easy, for with Edward away in the Pay Corps Olga had gone to live with the Mater in Goring-on-Thames. Whether or not the experience had shortened the Mater’s life was hard to say; at all events she had succumbed to a heart attack just after Edward’s demobilisation, leaving him a considerable sum of money. Now, in the wooden house which Dubrov had thankfully sold them, the Finch-Duttons lived in harmony rearing prize goats, prize vegetables and children — and if anyone bit Edward these days, it was almost certainly a goat.