Susan agreed heartily.
‘In his forties. I always liked older men myself. Anyway they’re married, so there it is.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Yesterday, actually.’
‘No warning?’
‘You can imagine what it was like to be told this, with Sebastian’s wedding taking place the following day.’
‘They just turned up man and wife?’
‘Fiona brought Mr Gwinnett — I suppose I should call him Russell now — along to see us the same afternoon. She seems very pleased about it. That’s the great thing. They both do. He doesn’t talk much, but I never mind that with people.’
‘Have they gone off on a honeymoon?’
‘They’re just going to do a short drive round England, then Russell has to go back to America. He’s got a little car he dashes about in all over the country, doing his research. He’s a don at an American university, as you probably know. They’re coming to the reception. Fiona suggested they should do that herself. Wasn’t it sweet of her? They haven’t arrived yet. At least I haven’t seen them.’
Susan, in spite of determined cheerfulness, was showing signs of nervous strain. That was not to be wondered at. I mentioned — less from snobbish reasons than avoidance of cross-questioning about Gwinnett in other directions — that he was collaterally descended from one of the Signers of the Declaration of Independence. Roddy showed interest. At least he was deflected from closer enquiry into the subject of what exactly had happened to connect his new son-in-law with Widmerpool.
‘Is he indeed? I must say I took to Russell at first sight I’d like to have a talk with him about the coming Presidential election, and a lot of other American matters too.’
‘I wish Evangeline were still here,’ said Susan. ‘She might know something about the Gwinnetts. We’ll talk about it all later. I’ll have to go back and do my stuff now. There are some more people arriving… darling, how sweet of you to come … lovely to see you both …’
There was no time to contemplate further Fiona’s marriage to Gwinnett, beyond making the reflection that, if he had done some dubious things in his time, so too had she. Leaving the threshold of the reception, we moved in among the crowd that filled the Great Hall. Most of the guests had chosen to wear conventional wedding garments, some of the younger ones letting themselves go, either with variations on these, or trappings that approximated to fancy dress. The children, of whom there was quite a large collection, scuffled about gaily, the whole assemblage making a lively foreground to the mediaeval setting. Hugo, Norah, and Blanche Tolland had all turned up, Norah grumbling about the superabundance of Alford relations present.
‘Susie was always very thick with the Alford cousins. I hardly knew any of them. They look a seedy lot, large red faces and snub noses.’
‘I find them charming,’ said Hugo. ‘Look here, what’s all this about Fiona marrying an American? The last thing I heard was that she had given up all those odd friends of hers Norah was once so keen on, and was working hard at something or other in Islington.’
Norah was not prepared to be saddled with an admiration for Murtlock.
‘I wasn’t keen on Fiona’s last lot of friends. I’ve been saying for ages she’s hung about much too long doing that sort of thing. If she wants to get married, I’m glad it’s an American. It will give her the chance of a new kind of life, if she goes to live there. Somebody said you knew him, Nick?’
‘Yes, I know him.’
There was no point in trying to explain Gwinnett to Norah. In any case, given the most favourable circumstances, I was not sure I could explain him to anyone, including myself. The attempt was not demanded, because we were joined by Umfraville, carrying his rubber-tipped stick in one hand, a very full glass of champagne in the other. As prelude to an impersonation of some sort, he raised the glass.
‘Here’s to the wings of love,
May they never lose a feather,
Till your little shoes, and my big boots,
Stand outside the door together.’
Hugo held up a hand.
‘We don’t want a scandal, Dicky, after all these years as brothers-in-law.’
Before Umfraville could further elaborate whatever form of comic turn contemplated, his own attention was taken up by a grey-haired lady touching his arm.
‘Hullo, Dicky.’
Umfraville clearly possessed not the least idea who was accosting him. The lady, smartly dressed, though by no means young, might at the same time have been ten years short of Umfraville’s age. She was tall, pale, distinguished in appearance, very sad.
‘I’m Flavia.’
‘Flavia.’
Carefully balancing his stick and champagne, Umfraville embraced her.
‘How horrid of you not to recognize me.’
Umfraville swept that aside.
‘Flavia, this is an altogether unexpected delight. Does your presence at our nephew’s wedding mean that you and I are now related — in consequence of the marriage of these young people? How much I hope that, Flavia.’
The grey-haired lady — Stringham’s sister — laughed a rather tinkly laugh.
‘Dicky, you haven’t changed at all.’
Flavia Wisebite — it was to be assumed she still bore the name of her American second husband, Harrison Wisebite (like Veronica Tolland’s first, alcoholic, long departed) — laughed again tremulously. Her own affiliations with Umfraville dated back to infinitely distant days; Kenya, the Happy Valley, surroundings where, according to Umfraville himself — he had emphasized with a certain complacency his own caddishness in revealing the information — he had been the first to seduce her. That possibility was more credible than Umfraville’s follow-up, that he (rather than the reprehensible Cosmo Flitton, married to Flavia not long after) could be true father of Flavia’s daughter, Pamela. Pamela Flitton, it might be thought, carried all the marks of being Cosmo Flitton’s daughter. Age had done little or nothing to impair Umfraville’s capacities for routine banter, if he happened to be in the right mood. He continued to press the possibility of a remote family tie emerging from the Cutts/Akworth union that would connect Flavia Wisebite with himself.
‘Bride or bridegroom? Come on, Flavia. I want to be able to introduce you as my little cousin.’
‘No good, Dicky. I’m not a blood relation. I’m Clare Akworth’s godmother. Her mother’s a dear friend of mine. We live in cottages almost next door to each other, practically in walking distance of Stourwater.’
Flavia Wisebite began to narrate her past history to Umfraville in her rapid trembling voice; how nervous diseases had prostrated her, she had been in and out of hospital, was now cured. In spite of that assurance she still seemed in a highly nervous state. Umfraville, less tough in certain respects than in his younger days, was beginning to look rather upset himself at all this. No doubt he felt sorry for Flavia, but had reached a time of life when, if he came to a wedding, he hoped not to be harassed by having poured into his ears the troubles of a former mistress. His face became quite drawn as he listened. I should have been willing to escape myself, scarcely knowing her, and feeling in no way responsible. Before withdrawal were possible, Umfraville manoeuvred me into the conversation. Flavia Wisebite at once recalled the sole occasion when we had met in the past.
‘It was when Dicky was first engaged to your sister-in-law, Frederica. You drove over from Aldershot to Frederica’s house during the war. I was there with poor Robert, just before he was killed. I’m a contemporary of Frederica’s, you know. We came out at the same time. I remember you talking about my brother, Charles.’