‘I am at your disposal, Herr Farne,’ said the old man, bowing his head.
‘Who gave the order that Frau Hodge was to eat with the servants?’ And as the man hesitated, ‘I asked you a simple question. Answer it!’
‘The order was given by Frau Hurlingham, gnädiger Herr. She came with the other lady, the one who is her aunt, but the order came from her.’
‘Thank you. You may go.’
In goggle-eyed silence, the servants waited for further explosions. But Guy now smiled charmingly and addressing the chef said, ‘You will have to move over, Rudi, and lay another place. I shall be dining here today.’ He wandered over, lifted the lid of the soup tureen and sniffed. ‘Erbsen suppe!’ he said appreciatively — and settling himself comfortably beside Martha, took the bowl and spoon proffered by an awed kitchen-maid, ladled out an enormous helping and began to eat.
That night, Guy slept little. It had become necessary to take certain decisions. Hitherto, his chivalry had been directed towards Nerine, whom it was necessary to protect from the consequences of his own disillusionment. Now it turned to the protection of Martha Hodge.
That Martha’s own humility was such as to make it impossible for Nerine to wound her, that she regarded her banishment to the kitchens as not of the slightest consequence was something Guy was temperamentally incapable of perceiving. He had seen her hurt. Unaware that her pain was entirely for him and his unhappiness, he decided to act.
But how? Outside an owl hooted, a clock struck two, and still he sat sprawled in a carved chair, frowning in thought. Every so often, he irritably flicked away, like the ash from his cigar, an image which nevertheless continued to recur: that of Witzler’s little brat emerging from under his father’s desk to lift a tear-stained face to Guy.
‘What the devil?’ thought Guy, who less than most men concerned himself with the tantrums of young children.
Then suddenly he sat up. Of course! He reached for a notebook and pencil, jotted down a few instructions and, ten minutes later, was asleep.
At six-thirty he woke David.
‘Go to Vienna,’ he ordered. ‘Contact Witzler. Tell him I want to see him at the Klostern Theatre tomorrow at three o’clock, with all the stage-hands and technical staff. Not the singers. Say nothing to anyone. And wait for me there.’
Nerine had dreaded meeting Guy at breakfast, but he was friendly and courteous and made no reference to the events of the previous night. Curiously, his loss of temper had made her more determined than ever to go on with the marriage, for the caveman streak he had shown was not entirely displeasing. It had always struck her as odd that men, having admired her beauty, then wished to destroy it by ‘The Act’ which alas inevitably followed marriage and which left her, however calmly she tried to take it, dishevelled and not at her best. But if the thing had to happen — and she had lived long enough to have no doubt of this — then better by far that it should be with someone like Guy, with his saturnine looks and power, than poor Frith whose freckled knees and sandy, thinning hair, made the thought of ‘All That’ particularly uninviting.
So she apologized and promised to reinstate Martha in the dining-room, an action made easier by the fact that Guy’s foster-mother had made clear her determination to return to Newcastle as soon as the wedding was over and to stay there.
‘That’s all right, Nerine.’ Guy, though obviously ready to forgive, looked absent-minded, even anxious. ‘Look, my dear, I’ve had some bad news this morning. It seems as though there are problems with some of my investments.’
Nerine paled. ‘Guy! Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘No, no. Absolutely nothing to worry about. Only I’m afraid I have to be away for a few days to see to things. You just go on preparing for the wedding. And don’t listen to rumours — have faith, won’t you?’
With these disquieting words, he left her. What he told Martha before he left, Nerine did not discover. It was certainly not to have faith, for that Martha would have faith in him was something Guy had known since he was six years old.
By lunch-time he had left, with Morgan, leaving Thisbe in charge — and no word came for several days.
‘What,’ said Tante Tilda faintly, ‘is that?’
Tessa looked hurt. ‘It’s my wedding dress,’ she said.
The aunts exchanged glances of anguish.
‘Theresa, you are getting married, not buried,’ said Tante Augustine, standing with her back to the streaming window of Spittau’s state bedroom with its view of the vast and heaving lake. ‘Where did you get such a dress?’
‘From wardrobe.’ Tessa’s small head, with its wisp of veiling, emerged from the folds of the gargantuan and slightly dusty garment like a snowdrop surmounting an igloo. ‘Herr Witzler said I could take anything I liked. It’s from Lucia di Lammermoor, but it’s not bloodstained. It’s the nightdress that’s bloodstained. She goes off after the wedding feast, you see, and it is then that she murders Arturo.’
Though presumably grateful for the information, the faces of the aunts continued to reflect complete despair, and another drop of water seeped through the leak in the ceiling and plopped into the Meissen soup tureen beneath. Maxi’s compensation had been agreed but not yet paid, and though Spittau would soon be warm and dry, the autumn rains were making things a little trying.
‘It’s not the bloodstains I was worrying about,’ said Tante Augustine, returning to the attack. ‘It’s the size.’
‘I’m going to take it up,’ said Tessa soothingly.
‘And in. Like, perhaps, three metres,’ said Tante Tilda, unaccustomedly caustic.
‘Yes.’ Tessa was gazing at her reflection in the mildewed mirror with every appearance of satisfaction.
‘Tessa, please let us buy you a proper dress. There is still time.’
But the economy game played by the aunts was being turned against them with a vengeance.
‘No. It’s bad enough coming to Maxi without a dowry but I don’t want to waste any more money. You’ll see, it will look very nice. She picked up a flounce of the massive garment and as she did so the Spittau ruby, plucked from the crown of Horsa the Red in 1343, rolled from her engagement finger on to the floor.
Without stooping, Tante Augustine fielded it with the tip of her cane. It was an accomplishment which she had perfected having had, in the eight days of Tessa’s engagement, a great deal of practice.
‘And anyway, Heidi will look lovely — her mother’s made her the prettiest bridesmaid’s dress ever! She’s coming in a minute to pin me; I’ll get her to show it to you.’
The information that Maxi was to become the happiest of men had reached him by letter, during the last week of October. Tessa’s instructions had been clear and businesslike. If he still wished it, she was ready to be married. She would like the wedding to be quick — if possible before the middle of November — and quiet, with as few relatives as possible. If he had meant what he said about asking Father Rinaldo to officiate she would be very grateful, he was so understanding and unfussy. And she was bringing Heidi Schlumberger along to be bridesmaid.
‘A common dancing girl as bridesmaid!’ shrieked the Swan Princess when the contents of the letter had been read aloud to her.
‘Yes, I must say it’s a bit much,’ said Maxi, for once in agreement with his mother.
But Tessa, when he telephoned her, was unrelenting. If he and his mother were too snobbish to welcome Heidi, the marriage was off.
The dismay of Maxi and his mother was nothing to that of Heidi herself when she heard of the honour that was to befall her.
‘No, please, Tessa — please not me! I don’t know how to behave with all those grand people. There must be someone of your own kind to ask.’