“Trust Sarah to nail it on the head. No, my dear, I do not mean ‘future.’ I mean ‘wife.’ Violet and I were married in Scotland last week, in a small private ceremony at Gretna Green.”
There was a silence in which, suddenly, no glass clinked, no spoon rattled against saucer, no foot shuffled. Even Paulo stood stock still, except for his ears, which Sarah imagined she could see flapping. They all-with the exception of Violet, who looked down at her plate-stared back at him, their mouths rounded into small circles. It was Ruthven who spoke first.
“You don’t mean it,” he said flatly.
“Oh, but I do. We are lawfully man and wife. Violet is your stepmother. It is what I believe Jeff would call a ‘done deal.’”
“Yes, all right, fine, but-Why? Why not tell us?”
“Why not tell you before?” Sir Adrian looked at him. There was a cold glint in her father’s eyes which Sarah, usually perfectly attuned, could not read. “Oh, my dear boy, I think you know perfectly well why not. You would have tried to talk me out of it. Tried to talk me out of marrying the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met in my life. Not that it would have done a bit of good. But I simply did not want to listen to you on this subject.” The “you” was perhaps just that bit too nicely shaded to be polite.
“I did want to tell you all,” said Violet, looking beseechingly around the table. “It’s quite awkward, I realize-”
“And I forbade it,” said Sir Adrian. “Much better this way, I said. And I was right.”
Lillian, meanwhile, whispered furiously to Albert.
“It’s just a stunt, I tell you. He’s pulling a stunt. Like Agatha Christie, when she disappeared.”
“Except that people could actually be bothered to look for Agatha.”
“No, my dear, it’s no stunt,” said Sir Adrian, whose hearing, as Lillian unfortunately had forgotten, was excellent, particularly for the higher ranges at which Lillian excelled.
Sarah and Albert, meanwhile, were telegraphing frenetic glances across the table. Only George looked unperturbed. He’s planning something of his own, thought Ruthven, who caught and accurately read the cat-in-cream expression on his brother’s face.
“I say, Father,” said George. “This is excellent news. Congratulations. Congratulations are due all around. Paulo-” and here he waggled his fingers as if to signal a maitre d’-“more champagne. For Natasha and I have news of our own.”
Ignoring the frantic appeal in Natasha’s eyes, he stood.
“It gives me great pleasure to announce that Natasha and I are expecting the first addition to the next generation of the Beau-clerk-Fisk line. Sometime in July. A boy.” He lifted his glass to his father. “A boy who shall naturally be named Adrian, in honor of his grandsire.”
He looked around his audience to gauge the reaction, and was not disappointed by the pole-axed stares of his siblings. Violet seemed uncertain what to do with her expression, then, remembering perhaps that babies were supposed to be good news, she beamed a smile down the table at Sir Adrian.
“I say,” George continued. “Isn’t this truly the family occasion we’ve all so longed for? Paulo, I said to fetch some champagne. What’s the matter with you, man?”
Paulo turned to Sir Adrian for direction in this unprecedented situation. There was a silence now that went deeper, if possible, than before.
But Sir Adrian, having like Violet tried on several poses, seemed finally to settle on that of avuncular squire. At least, he pulled back his lips in a fearsome smile and said, “Well, well-well! Another wedding in the works. I must say, George, I am pleased. Well done.”
It may have been the first time George had ever done anything right in his father’s eyes. As he was basking in the unaccustomed glow, a voice shot coolly across the table.
“Oh, no,” said Natasha. “I don’t think so.” She tucked her silken dark hair behind her ears, the better to hear any objections.
Sir Adrian, giving the waiting Paulo the high sign for champagne, said, “You don’t think so what?”
“A wedding is not in the offing. Baby, yes. Wedding, no.”
George, to whom this clearly was news, and whose thoughts had been miles from the altar in any event, flushed an ever-deepening red. He was not used to being rejected before he had even thought of proposing. He especially didn’t like the public style of her rebuff. What woman in her right mind would turn down marriage with George Beauclerk-Fisk?
“Nonsense,” said Sir Adrian gruffly. “A child needs a name. A quiet ceremony is in order to be sure. Perhaps right here, in the conservatory? I’ll have to ask Mrs. Romano. Now, the invitations-”
“I really don’t think-”
“I’ve told you my views. The subject is closed. Now, you could take a leaf from my book, but as Violet can tell you, Scotland doesn’t have a lot to offer this time of year.”
“Far too cold,” agreed Violet.
“Perhaps the Round Church in Cambridge. Quite romantic, but intimate. Do you have a large family, m’dear? I do think a small-”
For his part, Albert could only seem to take in one bad piece of news at a time, and decided to tackle the bad pieces in order of appearance.
“You got us up here on a wild goose chase over this wedding of yours,” he began. “Even for this family, it’s a new low.”
“A wild goose chase?” Sir Adrian’s jowls quivered in mock, hurt outrage. “Surely your joy must be twice as much, to hear the happy event has already transpired. This way you don’t have to come up with a suitable present.”
Albert managed to focus his eyes into a glower. Only by firmly clenching his jaws together could he still the trembling that had set in around his features. Unfortunately, this pressure started off a tic in his right eye. Decades of his father’s indifference had not made betrayal, as he saw this, any less painful.
“I gave up an important meeting for this weekend. With-” (and here he invented wildly)-“with Agnus McGee, the producer.
Just to be here for this momentous non-event. This non-wedding.
At the very least you might not have wasted all our time.”
“Agnus McGee? Really?”
“Yes. It’s about his new play. That he wants me to be in.”
“Spear-carriers being thin on the ground in the West End?” said Sir Adrian.
“Not as a spear-carrier, goddammit.” His fist hit the table and a fork careened into a glass. Red wine spread slowly across the immaculate white tablecloth. Already, he hated himself, but he could not seem to stop. “I was never a spear-carrier.”
“Agnus owes me a favor. I could put in a word.” This from Ruthven.
Albert swung on him, unleashing the hounds of fury he could not quite bring himself to set loose upon his father.
“Shut. Up. I don’t need any favors from you.”
Anger pushed him further, desperately, to extremes. As he turned again to his father, he said, with elaborate insouciance:
“As it happens, Agnus wants me for the role of Clarence in his new play. A pivotal part, he says. He came to me”-and at this point, Albert stepped into role, completely forgetting he was invent-ing-“ to my flat. Last Monday night.” He nodded and set down his drink, as if having just settled a difficult point about the earth’s being round. “For a meal, he came. We had an Alsatian stew he’d told me was his favorite.”
“Oh!” cut in Sarah, knowing he was making it all up, and trying to shovel him out before he got in too deeply. “Bacheofe. Is that difficult to make?”
“Not at all. You know me, not much of a cook, but I just managed.”
Lillian and Ruthven exchanged glances.
“How very odd,” said Ruthven. “Lillian and I dined with Agnus Monday night.” Ruthven, busy dissecting the Stilton as he punched a new hole in his brother’s ego, did not even bother to look up.
“Then it must have been Tuesday night,” Albert snapped.