“Come here,” Hilary said. He took Cressida and Troy by their arms and piloted them into the hall, shutting the doors behind them. The children’s supper was laid out in great splendour on a long trestle table. Kittiwee, the Boy and some extra female helps were putting final touches.
“That’s better,” Hilary said. “I must go and see Uncle Flea. He’ll be cut to the quick over this. But first tell me, Cressida darling, what exactly happened?”
“Well, I went to the cloakroom as arranged, to do his makeup. Moult was there already, all dressed up for the part. It seems he went to their rooms to help Uncle Fred and found him having a turn. Moult gave him whatever he has, but it was as clear as clear he couldn’t go on for the show. He was in a great taking on. You know? So they cooked it up that Moult would do it. He’d heard all about it over and over again, of course, he’d seen the rehearsals and knew the business. So when Uncle Fred had simmered down and had put his boots up and all that (he wouldn’t let Moult get Aunt B), Moult put on the robe and wig and came down. And I slapped on his whiskers and crown and out he went into the courtyard to liaise with Vincent.”
“Splendid fellow.”
“He really did manage all right, didn’t he? I came in for his entrance. I couldn’t see him awfully well because of being at the back but he seemed to do all the things. And then when he eggzitted I returned to the cloakroom and helped him clean up. He was in a fuss to get back to Uncle Fred and I said I’d tell Aunt B. Which I did.”
“Darling, too wonderful of you. Everybody has clearly behaved with the greatest expedition and aplomb. Now, I must fly to poorest Flea and comfort him.”
He turned to Troy. “What a thing!” he exclaimed. “Look! Both you darlings, continue in your angelic ways like loves and herd the children in here to their supper. Get Blore to bellow at them. As soon as they’re settled under the eyes of these splendid ladies, Blore and the staff will be ready for us in the dining-room. He’ll sound the gong. If I’m late don’t wait for me. Get the grown-ups into the dining-room. There are place cards but it’s all very informal, really. And ask Blore to start the champagne at once. Au revoir, au ’voir, ’voir,” cried Hilary, running upstairs and wagging his hand above his head as he went.
“All jolly fine,” Cressida grumbled. “I’m worn to a frazzle. But still. Come on.”
She and Troy carried out Hilary’s instructions and presently the adult party was seated round the dinner table. Troy found herself next to her acquaintance of the moors, Major Marchbanks, who said politely that this was a piece of luck for him.
“I was too shy to say so when we met the other afternoon,” he said, “but I’m a great admirer of your work. I’ve actually got one of your pictures, and who do you suppose gave it to me?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Can’t you? Your husband.”
“Rory!”
“We are old friends. And associates. He gave it to me on the occasion of my marriage. And long before yours, I expect. He may not have even met you then.”
“I don’t paint in the same way now.”
“But it’s been a development, I venture? Not an abandonment?”
“Well,” said Troy, liking him, “I choose to think so.”
Mr. Smith was on her other side. He had heard about Moult’s gallant effort and was greatly intrigued. Troy could feel him there at her left elbow, waiting to pounce. Several times he made a rather sly ejaculation of “Oi,” but as Major Marchbanks was talking she disregarded it. When she was free she turned and found Mr. Smith with his thumbs in his armholes and his head on one side, contemplating her. He gave her a sideways chuck of his head and a click of his tongue. “Oi,” he repeated. Troy had taken a certain amount of champagne. “Oi, yourself,” she replied.
“Turn up for the books, Alf Moult making like he was Nebuchadnezzar in a bathrobe.”
Troy stared at him. “You know, you’re right,” she said. “There was something distinctly Blakean. Disallowing the bathrobe.”
“Where’s he got to?”
“He’s up with the Colonel, I think.”
“ ’E’s meant to be doling out mince pies to the little angels.”
“That’s as it may be,” Troy said darkly and drank some more champagne.
Hilary had arrived and had sat down beside a lady on Major Marchbanks’ left. He looked slightly put out. Mr. Smith called up the table to him. “ ’Ow’s the Colonel?” and he said, “Better, thank you,” rather shortly.
“The old lady’s keeping him company, then?”
“Yes.” Hilary added some appropriate general remarks about his uncle’s disappointment and signalled to Blore, who bent over him with a majordomo’s air. None of the servants, Troy thought, seemed to be at all put out by the presence of so many of Her Majesty’s penal servants. Perhaps they enjoyed displaying for them in their new roles.
Hilary spoke quietly to Blore but Blore, who seemed incapable of quiet utterance, boomingly replied, “He’s not there, sir,” and after a further question: “I couldn’t say, sir. Shall I enquire?”
“Do,” said Hilary.
Blore made a slight, majestic signal to Mervyn, who left the room.
“That’s peculiar,” said Mr. Smith. “Where’s Alf gone to hide ’is blushes?”
“How do you know it’s Moult they’re talking about?”
“They said so, di’n they?”
“I didn’t hear them.”
“It’s peculiar,” Mr. Smith repeated. He leant back in his chair and fixed his beady regard upon Hilary. He did not pick his teeth. Troy felt that this was due to some accidental neglect in his interpretation of the role for which he so inscrutably cast himself.
She drank some more champagne. “Tell me,” she began recklessly, “Mr. Smith. Why do you — or do you —”
But Mr. Smith was paying no attention to Troy. His attention was fixed upon Mervyn, who had returned and was speaking to Blore. Blore again bent over his employer.
“Moult, sir,” he intoned, “is not on duty in the hall.”
“Why the devil not!” Hilary snapped quite loudly.
“I’m sure I can’t say, sir. He received instructions, sir. Very clear.”
“All right, well find him, Blore. He’s wanted with the Colonel. Mrs. Forrester won’t leave the Colonel by himself. Go on, Blore. Find him. Go yourself.”
Blore’s eyebrows mounted his forehead. He inclined, returned to Mervyn, and raised a finger at Nigel, with whom he finally left the dining-room. Mervyn remained in sole command.
Hilary looked round his table and said, laughingly, and in French, something about the tyranny of one’s dependents which, Troy imagined, was incomprehensible to all but a fraction of his guests.
She turned to Major Marchbanks. She was now fairly certain within herself that she would be showing great strength of character if she were to refuse any more champagne. She looked severely at her glass and found it was full. This struck her as being exquisitely funny but she decided not to interfere with it.
“Who,” asked Major Marchbanks, “is Moult?”
Troy was glad to find that she was able to give him a coherent answer. “Do you,” she asked, “find this party very extraordinary?”
“Oh, but completely fantastic,” he said, “when one looks at it objectively. I mean four hours ago I was doing the honours at the Vale Christmas feast and here I am with three of my warders, drinking Bill-Tasman’s champagne and waited upon by a company of you know what.”
“One of them — Blore, I think — was actually at the Vale, wasn’t he?”
“Oh yes. He’s an Old Boy. I recommended him. With appropriate warnings, you know. I really think he rather likes displaying his waiter’s expertise for us Vale persons. He was at the top of his profession, was Blore.”