So that when Aunt Emmy, in the days that followed, was going about the house, wondering what should be done about Rose, her niece did not know.
‘You are no help at all, Laura,’ Mrs Bonner complained, ‘when you are usually so bright, and full of clever ideas. Nor can I expect help from Mr Bonner, who is too upset by that German. If it is not one thing, it is another. I must admit I am quite distracted.’
‘We shall think, Aunt,’ said Laura, who was rather pale.
But thought, which should be an inspiration, was clogging her.
Laura is becoming heavy, Aunt Emmy said, and would add this worry to her collection.
Then, she hit upon a cure, so simple, but infallible, at least to Mrs Bonner, for to cure herself was to cure her patients. She would give a party. It would revive all spirits, soothe all nerves, even the frayed German ones. For Mrs Bonner loved conviviality. She loved the way the mood would convey itself even to the candle-flames. She loved all pretty, coloured things; even the melancholy rinds of fruit, the slops of wine, the fragments of a party, recalled some past magic. Whether as a prospect or a memory, a party made her quite tipsy — figuratively speaking, that is — for Mrs Bonner did not touch strong drink, unless on a very special occasion, a sip of champagne, or on hot evenings, a glass of delicious brandy punch, or sometimes of a morning, for the visitor’s sake a really good madeira, or thimbleful of dandelion wine.
‘Mr Bonner,’ she now said, seriously, though holding her head upon one side in case she might not be taken so, ‘it is but a week, do you realize, to the departure of Mr Voss and his friends. It is only right that you, in your position, and we, naturally, as your family, should celebrate in some way. I have been thinking,’ she said.
‘Eh?’ said her husband. ‘I am not interested in that German except in so far as I am already committed. Let the relationship remain plain; it is so distasteful to me. It would be hypocritical to add trimmings, not to mention the expense.’
‘I understand,’ said Mrs Bonner, ‘that he is something of a disappointment. But let us leave aside the character of Mr Voss. I would like to see you do justice to yourself, and to this — I cannot very well refer to it as anything but an event of national significance.’
She did not know she had achieved that, until she had, and then was very pleased.
Her husband was surprised. He shifted.
After coughing a confident though genteel cough, Mrs Bonner produced the flag she intended to plant upon the summit of her argument.
‘An historical occasion,’ she pursued, ‘made possible by the generosity of several, but which you, originally — do not deny it, my dear — which you, and only you, inspired!’
‘It remains to be seen,’ said Mr Bonner, more kindly because it concerned himself, ‘whether it was an inspiration or calamity.’
‘I thought now,’ said his judicious wife, ‘that we might give a little party, or not a party, something simple, a pair of birds and a round of beef, with a few nice side dishes. And a good wine. Or two. And as for the friends of Mr Voss, I do not intend to invite all and sundry, for some, I understand, are just common men, but one or two who are comme il foh, and used to mix with ladies and young girls. Belle has a new dress that nobody has seen, and Laura, of course, can look charming in anything.’
So Mr Bonner was gently pressed, and finally kissed upon the forehead.
Mrs Bonner conceived her plan upon the Friday, exactly one week before the projected departure of the expedition by sea to Newcastle. On Friday afternoon, Jim Prentice, after saddling Hamlet, took the cards, that were in Miss Trevelyan’s fine Italian hand, to drop at the lodgings of Mr Voss and Mr Topp, and those of Mr Palfreyman, who, it had been decided, might be considered comme il foh. And there was a Miss Hollier, whom people invited when they were in a scrape for an extra lady. Miss Hollier was a person of modest income and middle age, but of really excellent spirits. Well trained in listening to others, she would sometimes pop such good ideas into their heads they would immediately adopt her suggestions as their own. Moreover, and appropriate to the occasion, the lady was a distant connexion of Mr Sanderson of Rhine Towers, one of the patrons of the expedition. Lastly, there was Tom Radclyffe. If the Lieutenant had been omitted from Mrs Bonner’s list of those who were to receive cards, it was because he remained in a state of almost constant communication with a certain person. It was taken for granted Tom would come.
These, then, were the guests who were bidden for the following Wednesday.
It proved to be a night of drifting airs. Belle Bonner had come, or floated into her cousin’s room to show her dress of light. It was a dress of pure, whitest light, streaming and flashing from her. Her hands and arms would pass through those shafts of light to smooth out any encroaching shadow. Her hair, too, shone — her rather streaky, but touching hair, still drenched with sunlight, and smelling of it.
‘Oh, Belle!’ said Laura, when she saw.
The girls kissed with some tenderness, though not enough to disarrange.
‘But it does not fit,’ said Belle, becoming desperately herself. ‘I shall split open. You will see.’
‘And ruin us!’ Laura cried.
They were both laughing, unreasonably, dreadfully, deliriously. They could well die of it.
‘At least Miss Hollier will not see,’ Laura burst out, too loud, through her laughter; ‘not if you were standing in your worst chemise and petticoat. She is far too well brought up.’
‘Stop, Laura!’ Belle begged.
She was mopping herself.
‘I insist, Laura. You really must. Perhaps not Miss Hollier, but somebody else. I do believe Mr Voss notices everything.’
Almost immediately it was felt they must remember their age, and they set to work, sighingly, to repair themselves.
If Laura would be noticed less than Belle, it was because she was beautiful on that night. This became slowly clear. Belle ravished, like any sudden spring flower, but Laura would require her own climate in which to open. She wore a dress of peacock colours that did not take to full light, but brooded and smouldered in subtle retirement, which did, in fact, invite her arms and shoulders to emerge more mysteriously. Her head was a jewel, but of some dark colour, and of a variety such as people overlook because they have not been taught to admire.
‘Let us go down,’ Belle suggested, ‘before Mamma is there, and have a quiet sip of something to give us courage.’
So the two girls, smelling of French chalk and lavender water, were winding down. It was a heady staircase. They had pinned clusters of camellias at their breasts, and were holding themselves rather erect, lest some too sudden gesture or burst of emotion should turn the petals brown.
That night anything could happen. Two big lamps had transformed the drawing-room into a perfect, luminous egg, which soon contained all the guests. These were waiting to be hatched by some communication with one another. Or would it not occur? The eyes appeared hopeful, if the lids were more experienced, themselves enclosed egg-shapes with uncommunicative veins. All the while the white threads of voices tangled and caught. Men’s voices that had come in, toughened the fibre. But nobody said what they intended to say. This was sidetracked, while the speakers stood smiling at what had happened, and adopted, even with traces of sincerity, the words which had been put into their mouths. It was still rather a merciless dream at that early hour.
Until Tom Radclyffe, who was blazing with scarlet, and whose substantial good-fortune was the best reason for self-confidence, burst out of the awkward dream and took reality by the hand. The stuff of her surprising dress caused him little shivers of devotion as it brushed along his skin. Everyone else, sharing his devotion, was agreed that Belle was the belle.