The dinner was excellent, artichokes followed by poussin and spinach au gratin. The south-facing room still held the warmth of the day and the wood fire had been lit more for its sweet-smelling and comforting glow than because it was needed. The three tall candlesticks threw a steady light on the epergne of coloured glass and Parian, the rich gold, green and rose of the Davenport dinner-service and the engraved table-glasses. Above the fireplace was an oil painting of the two daughters of Herbert Gorringe. Their poses were awkward, almost angular, and the faces with their bright, exophthalmic eyes under the strong Gorringe brows and the moist, half-open mouths looked flushed and feverish while the reds and deep blues of the evening dresses shone as brightly as if the paint had recently dried. Cordelia found it difficult to keep her eyes from the picture which so far from being tranquil or domestic seemed to her charged with a hectic sexual energy. Watching her gaze, Ambrose said:
'It's by Millais, one of the comparatively few social portraits which he did. The dinner-service we're using was a wedding gift to the elder daughter from the Prince and Princess of Wales. Clarissa insisted that I bring it out for tonight.'
It seemed to Cordelia that there was a great deal which Clarissa insisted on at Courcy Castle. She wondered if she also proposed to supervise the washing-up.
It should have been a festive meal but the pleasure didn't match the food or the excellence of the wines. Beneath the glittering surface and the easy social chat flowed a current of unease, which from time to time spurted into antagonism. No one but Simon and herself with their youthful appetites did justice to the food, and he shoved it in furtively, watching Clarissa from the corner of bis eye like a child allowed up for his first dining-room meal and expecting any minute to be banished to the nursery. Clarissa, elegant in her high-necked dress of blue-green chiffon, began by teasing her cousin about the absence of her partner who had apparently been expected for the weekend, a topic which she seemed reluctant to let go.
'But it's so odd of him, darling. Surely we didn't frighten him away? I thought you wanted to show him off? Isn't that why you schemed for an invitation? Who are you ashamed of, us or him?'
Roma's face was an unbecoming pink above the harsh blue of her taffeta dress.
'We're expecting an American customer to drop into the shop this Saturday. And Colin has got behind with the accounts. He's hoping to get them finished before Monday.'
'On a weekend? How conscientious of him. But I'm relieved to hear that you have some accounts worth doing. Congratulations.'
Cordelia, finding that she could make little headway with Simon, who seemed afraid to speak, withdrew her interest from her fellow guests and concentrated on her meal. When she next took notice it was to hear Roma's belligerent voice. She was addressing Ambrose across the table, clutching her fork as if it were a weapon.
'But you can't opt out of all responsibility for what's happening in your own country! You can't just say that you're not concerned, not even interested!'
'But I can. I didn't collude in the depreciation of its currency, the spoliation of its countryside, the desecration of its towns, the destruction of its grammar schools or even the mutilation of the liturgy of its Church. For what am I personally expected to feel a responsibility?'
'I was thinking of aspects which some of us see as more important. The growth of Fascism, the fact that our society is more violent, less compassionate and more unequal than it has been since the nineteenth century. And then there's the National Front. You can't ignore the Front!'
'Indeed I can, together with Militant Tendency, the Trots and the rest of the rabble. You'd be surprised at my capacity for ignoring the ignorable.'
'But you can't just decide to live in another age!'
'But I can. I can live in any century I wish. I don't have to choose the dark ages, old or new.'
Ivo said quietly:
'I'm grateful that you don't reject modern amenities or modern technology. If I should enter into the final process of dying during the next few days and need a little medical help to ease the way, I take it you won't object to using the telephone.'
Ambrose smiled round at them and raised his glass:
'If any of you decide to die in the next few days, all necessary measures will be taken to ease you on your way.'
There was a short, slightly embarrassed silence. Cordelia looked across at Clarissa, but the actress's eyes were on her plate. For a second, the long fingers trembled and were still.
Roma said:
'And what happens to Eden when Adam, solaced with no Eve, finally returns to the dust?'
'It would be pleasant to have a son to follow one here, I admit, almost worth marrying and breeding for. But sons, even supposing they came to order and if the process of getting them, deceptively simply physiologically, wasn't so fraught with practical and emotional complications, are notoriously unreliable. Ivo, you're the only one here with experience of children.'
Ivo said:
'It's unwise, certainly, to look to them for vicarious immortality.'
'Or anything else, wouldn't you say? A son might easily convert the castle to a casino, lay down a nine-hole golf course, make the air hideous with speedboats and water skiing and hold pretentious Saturday hops for the locals, eight-fifty a head, three-course dinner included, evening dress obligatory, no extras guaranteed.'
Clarissa looked across at Ivo:
'Talking of children, what's the news of your two, Ivo? Is Matthew still living in that Kensington squat?'
Cordelia saw that Ivo's chicken had been pushed almost untouched to the side of his plate and that although he was forking his spinach into shreds, little of it was reaching his mouth. But he had been drinking steadily. The claret decanter was on his right hand and he reached for it again, adding to a glass which he seemed not to realize was already three-quarters full. He looked across at Clarissa, eyes bright in the candlelight.
'Matthew? I suppose he's still with the Children of the Sun or whatever they call themselves. As we don't communicate I'm not in a position to say. Angela, on the other hand, writes a filial letter at boring length every month. I have two granddaughters now, she informs me. Since Angela and her husband refuse to visit a country where they might find themselves sharing a dining-table with a black and I have a distaste for sharing a table with my son-in-law, I am unlikely to make their acquaintance. My ex-wife, in case you meant to inquire, is with them in Johannesburg, which she calls Jo'burg, and is said to be enchanted with the country, the climate, the company and the kidney-shaped swimming pool.'