Eline remained somewhat aloof, hovering at the elbows of her uncle and aunt, and was glad to catch sight of St Clare and Vincent as they entered the room. Both were in evening dress, and she found them a markedly distinguished-looking pair.
Once they had presented themselves to their hosts, however, they did not seem to notice Eline in the crush, and she felt rather lost. She was at the mercy of a diminutive, elderly lady with little red plumes in her hair and a face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, who was talking incessantly of all the deserving painters and sculptors of her acquaintance, and of how she, as a patron of the arts, championed their cause.
‘It is to be an artistic soirée tonight, is it not?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes.
‘Yes I believe it is,’ replied Eline, with mounting discomfiture.
‘You sing, do you not?’
‘Oh no, not any more; my doctor has forbidden it.’
‘I suppose you would have gone on the stage otherwise?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. .’
Several gentlemen came forward and bowed to the elderly lady, after which she introduced them all to Eline: composers, musicians, actors, painters, gifted yet misunderstood artists to a man, whose names would doubtless be on everyone’s lips before long.
Being thus encircled by misunderstood geniuses made Eline feel quite dizzy, and she was greatly relieved when she saw St Clare making his way towards her.
‘What a siege!’ he laughed softly. ‘I could hardly get through the crowd.’
Eline pouted.
‘Let’s move to the side a little, there is more room there!’ she lisped, deftly making her escape from the geniuses. With a sigh she subsided on to a pouffe, nervously patting the burnished gold beadwork along her low-cut bodice of black satin.
‘Oh dear, I was already getting quite bored,’ she said with light distaste. ‘But do tell me, how did you fare in Ghent and Bruges?’
He remained standing beside her and told her a little of his excursion, while the throng eddied all around them and footmen went round offering wine, sorbets and cakes.
‘By the way,’ said St Clare, breaking off his account, ‘do you know what the entertainments are to be this evening?’ All eyes were turned on Eliza, who was bobbing and weaving before the Count in apparent supplication.
The Count responded with a show of modest reluctance.
‘Oh, but you can’t let me down! I beseech you!’ wheedled Eliza.
‘I expect she asked him to declaim some poetry, and he’s too shy!’ laughed Eline.
She was right. Eliza darted a look of triumph at the ladies in her vicinity when the Count finally relented. He struck a declamatory pose and cleared his throat. He would recite an epic poem that told of Pizarro’s conquest of Mexico, of Montezuma and the Aztecs.
Voices sank to low whispers, and in the ensuing hush the Count launched into wave upon wave of thunderous Alexandrine verse, with plenty of burring rs. From the far side of the room Vincent sent Eline a mischievous nod. The Count’s voice rose to a shout.
‘Sublime, don’t you agree?’ ventured the elderly lady with the red plumes, who had reappeared at Eline’s side.
Eline gave a confirming nod.
The audience, however, was not unanimous in its appreciation; here and there despairing looks and sighs were exchanged, and the whispering grew louder.
‘Patience and resignation!’ murmured Eline, smiling at St Clare.
He returned her smile. With him standing so close to her, she thought, the long poem didn’t seem half as boring.
When the Count’s final stanza died away at last, the audience was galvanised into motion. There was laughing and jostling once more, and several ladies made a bee-line for the Count to congratulate him on his performance.
‘Couldn’t we seek refuge before the next entertainment begins?’ asked St Clare with a light laugh.
‘We will be more at liberty in the conservatory,’ said Eline.
With some difficulty they threaded their way through the crowd to the small winter garden. It was empty save for a pair of elderly gentlemen seated at a table bearing an assortment of empty wine glasses, and a young man in active conversation with a young lady who kept tapping her knee with her fan. A sultry perfume like a breath of the tropics floated beneath the potted palms, vanilla bushes and orchids. Through the windows they saw a snowstorm of white down whirling in the night.
No sooner had they seated themselves than they heard chords being struck on the piano in the reception room. The actor, a frequent visitor, was in possession of a bass voice, and was to sing some duets with the jeweller’s blonde lady friend, who had garbed herself in blue plush for the occasion. St Clare and Eline could see them reflected in one of the mirrors adorning the winter garden; they were taking up their positions by the piano while their accompanist — one of the misunderstood composers — seated himself to play.
‘I had no idea that she sang!’ Eline burst out. ‘La bonne surprise! But do go on with what you were saying.’
A blush began to tingle on her cheeks, and she regained a shade of her former beauty and charm. She listened to him with keen interest, raising her glass of champagne to her lips from time to time to take a sip. From the reception room proceeded the high shrieks of the soprano vying with the low growl of the bass in a cacophony of song.
Gradually, the winter garden filled up with the bustle of guests, laughing and chatting with relief at escaping from the duets. Vincent, too, sauntered in, and catching sight of St Clare and Eline made his way towards them.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asked in French.
‘By all means!’ said Eline.
They felt rather removed from the rest of the crowd, as though they were attending some kind of public fête; they knew hardly anyone, and watched the scene unfolding around them with quiet derision. The two elderly gentlemen’s collection of empty wine glasses had expanded considerably, and beneath an overhanging banana frond the young man could be seen slipping his arm about his companion’s waist. From another corner came the sound of broken glass, whereupon a rowdy guest, identified by Vincent as a self-proclaimed Russian prince, began to disport himself with two female circus riders. Vincent could not imagine how they had managed to be introduced to Uncle Daniel.
‘Oh, they must have slipped in through the back door! I’m sure Eliza doesn’t know they are here!’ laughed Eline.
. .
The entertainments took their course in the reception suite with more songs, serious poetry and comic monologues. The audience’s attention to the performers, however, flagged as the evening wore on, and the hubbub grew louder. The Russian prince began to chase the circus-riders round the winter garden, trying to kiss them, and the two elderly gentlemen, rather the worse for drink, broke into a violent argument.
The young paramours had slipped away.
‘I believe I should advise you to remain a little closer to your uncle and aunt; the company here seems to be getting rather mixed,’ St Clare said to Eline. Vincent had left them. Eline stood up in some alarm; St Clare followed suit. But in the salon they found Eliza at the centre of a very noisy gathering; champagne was being spilt, and several ladies were smoking cigarettes.
St Clare led Eline to the balcony. A stern look came into his proud eyes and his lips quivered an instant as he observed Eliza and her friends.
‘How do you come to be here?’ he asked abruptly, in a tone of ill-concealed censure. ‘How is it possible that I should have met you here?’
She looked at him in surprise.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied coldly.
‘I’m asking you what brought you here in the first place. I wouldn’t have thought this sort of company to be congenial to you. Is it?’