“It is a sprat to decide the fate of a basking shark,” said Dame Beatrice solemnly. “Would you suppose, from what you know of him, that Mr Giles Faudrey expects to exercise droit de seigneur over the female population of Brayne?”
“Nothing would surprise me less. I shall never forget Mrs Batty-Faudrey’s face when he planted that awful girl at the tea-table on the day of my pageant. Silly of her to look so horrified, because she surely must be wise to Giles by now. You should have heard the stories of his love-life which were flying all over the place while I was rehearsing the pageant and they knew he was going to take part.”
The morning of the lunch was fair with winter sunshine and sharp with frost, but the rime on the road-surfaces had cleared by the time George had driven Dame Beatrice and Laura to Knightsbridge to pick up Kitty.
“I sent the pub a seating plan which they’ve promised to put up in the ante-room,” said Kitty, “and as soon as we get there I’ll nip in and put the place-cards on the table. The Mayoress and you will be one on either side of me, because, of course, you’ll be the principal guests, and I’ve put Mrs Batty-Faudrey between you and Mrs Collis. I do hope they’ve done what I said and given us a round table. Nine is an awkward number for a table with corners, isn’t it?”
The Hat With Feather had obeyed Kitty’s instructions, as she discovered when she went in to lay out the place-cards. She returned to the ante-room after she had had a word with the head waiter, and settled down with Laura and Dame Beatrice to await the arrival of the guests. These arrived in two parties. Mrs Collis and Mrs Gough, who were obviously enjoying an interval between skirmishes, had brought Signora Brunelli along with them, and the Mayoress and Councillor Skifforth had picked up Mrs Batty-Faudrey in the Mayoral car driven by the Mayoral chauffeur. Introductions and presentations were made where these seemed necessary, and, over the aperitifs, conversation was general, vigorous and cheerful.
Laura had wondered how Dame Beatrice would approach the matter for which the lunch had been planned. Dame Beatrice did it by turning the table talk, via Carey Lestrange and his pig-farm, to the subject of nephews, and gave a witty account of her own. The subject was one with an instant appeal to a gathering of women. Laura, in fact, proved to be the only nephew-less person present. She looked (and was) interested in the conversation, contributed nothing to it beyond polite appreciation, enjoyed her lunch and listened for the information of which Dame Beatrice was in search.
It came, such as it was, with the main course.
“Nephews,” said Mrs Batty-Faudrey, “can be a bigger problem than sons.”
“Do you speak from experience?” asked Laura, perceiving, in the last word, a cue. “My own son is the biggest problem I’ve ever faced in my life. But, of course, I haven’t any nephews, so perhaps I’m not in a position to judge.”
“Well, the same might be said of me, I suppose,” said Mrs Batty-Faudrey. “I have no sons, but, if I had, I doubt very much whether they would present the same problem as Giles does.”
She sipped her wine. A hovering waiter refilled her glass.
“Really?” asked Dame Beatrice, allowing her own glass to be replenished. “How do you mean? I have experience of sons, grandsons, nephews and grandnephews, and I cannot pretend that any have proved to be outstandingly tiresome—certainly not the nephews.”
“Ah, but perhaps you have not been obliged to have them live with you.”
“No, that has never been my experience. I suppose it would make a difference.”
“In the case of sons, one is entitled to assume that one’s husband will at least be fond of them and welcome them as inmates of the home. It appears that nephews…”
“In my family,” said Signora Brunelli, “we are living in a heap—father, mother, sons, daughters, grandparents, brothers, sisters, all children of everybody—the lot!”
“Ah, well, your customs would be different from ours, no doubt,” said Mrs Batty-Faudrey, with kindly condescension, “and, of course, they do say that there is safety in numbers”.
Mrs Gough giggled.
“Oh, dear!” she said. “I thought that only applied to love affairs!”
“Young people need a considerable amount of guidance in those,” said Dame Beatrice solemnly, “but they will seldom accept advice and frequently make what their families and friends are compelled to admit are the most mistaken alliances. A nephew of my own was continually flitting from flower to flower, if I may be allowed to use an expression which comes dangerously close to being a quotation from The Beggar’s Opera, and caused his family some anxiety, I believe.”
Laura caught the half-glance from her employer’s sharp black eyes.
“Yes,” she said, “Macheath was some sipper! How many wives with child a-piece did he finish up with?”
Mrs Batty-Faudrey looked pained; Mrs Gough giggled; Mrs Collis moaned feelingly, but whether because she deplored Laura’s levity or was sorry for Captain Macheath and his plurality of wives and offspring did not transpire; the signora leapt in where even Councillor Skifforth, a noted supporter of all attempts to limit the world’s birthrate, feared to tread.
“In Italy, my country, in our family,” she announced, “we kick out these offenders. They would be—how do you say?—not to be given their share of the riches.”
“Kicked out and disinherited? What, even though they are your own kith and kin?” exclaimed Laura.
“Family life is good, is pure, in my country. The Church does not stand for nonsense. Besides, no-one has time—not in my family—no time!”
“I think that’s the trouble,” said Dame Beatrice. “Some of the young people have too much time, and then the trouble begins. Still, I think your custom of turning offenders out of the family circle is a trifle drastic, Signora.”
“Oh, one couldn’t do it in England,” said Mrs Batty-Faudrey. “It would only draw attention to the scandal. I feel sure—although, of course, I have no experience in the matter—I feel sure that the only solution would be to hush the thing up. As for disinheriting—why, it could do nothing but create a criminal.”
“I agree, if the culprit, whether youth or young girl, is unmarried. But what of marital infidelity? Are you not in favour of divorce, then, Mrs Batty-Faudrey?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“I have never considered the matter,” said Mrs Batty-Faudrey, in slightly-thickened accents. “When a wife holds the purse-strings…” She appeared to think that the remark was an unwise one, and did not finish it, but emptied her glass instead.
“But so few wives do hold the purse-strings,” said Dame Beatrice. Mrs Gough giggled; Mrs Collis sighed; stately Mrs Skifforth said that wives had only themselves to blame if they allowed themselves to become supplicating doormats in the home.
“The only supplicating doormat I’ve ever seen,” said Laura, “is the one with Welcome on it, and, somehow, at those sort of houses, I feel one never is.”
The talk turned to the subject of home decoration, on which Kitty proved to be an expert. It went on to labour-saving devices and the impossibility, in a place like Brayne, of getting a reliable charwoman. The lunch concluded, as it had begun, in an aura of goodwill and goodfellowship. Brandy was served with the coffee, and the guests, well-fed and pleasantly tipsy, departed in a flurry of thanks and the usual vague and mostly meaningless promises of meeting again quite soon.
“Just as well that Collis and Company aren’t driving, and that the Mayoress, the Councillor and Mrs Batty-Faudrey have a chauffeur,” said Laura critically. “How did you think it all went? Am I right in thinking that, at some time before the end, you got what you wanted?”