cannot have been pleased.’
‘She was not.’ Auguste hesitated. ‘You must help me keep a watch on the motorcar until next Thursday, watch for
anyone
trying to get into the motor house.’
‘Miss Hart would surely not harm the motorcar.’
‘No, but others might.’
‘Or harm her?’ Pierre asked anxiously. ‘She is a splendid woman.’
Auguste glanced at him curiously. ‘Yes, but she is the prune in a dish of delicate peaches. Too harsh, too dark. She overshadows all around her.’
The last baskets left the kitchen for the motor vans outside. To Auguste, who had reluctantly agreed that motor vans were the most sensible form of transport for a precious buffet, their radiators and lamps seemed to be grinning at him with somesecret knowledge as he emerged into the courtyard where the cavalcade was lined up.
Winter House, whose grounds ran down to the river bank, was a Georgian brick mansion which had belonged to the Francis family ever since it had been built. The present incumbent, Hugh Francis, cousin and lover of Isabel, Countess of Tunstall, was a bachelor who undoubtedly merited the description of a ‘swell’. It said much for his cousinly (or other) devotion that he was prepared to allow over a hundred motorcars to bump over his grass. Such considerations were trivial beside the attractions of Isabel.
Auguste’s nose for trouble, however, was twitching like a diviner’s hazel twig over a waterfall. This waterfall must be underground, however, for looking round he could see nothing to justify his anxiety. The ladies and their passengers had now arrived from the hill trials, and Tatiana’s whispered information that Hester Hart had won the hill trials in the Crossley with times of 1 minute 42 seconds on Petersham Hill and an astounding 1 minute 48 seconds on Test Hill had not so far ruined the day. Nor had the thrilling news that Maud had side-slipped on to the grass behind her, or that poor Phyllis’s benzine tank had been filled with water at an inn by a misguided ostler. Auguste told himself modestly that his buffet, even though he was just supervising this one, could always be counted on to cheer the most aggrieved of spirits.
It had clearly done so this time. He glanced round at the colourful assembly on the lawns, dust coats discarded and parasols sprouting like exotic cabbages. He had been wrong. All would be well.
‘What are you going to do about that woman, Agatha?’ MaudBullinger bit viciously into an éclair. ‘You’re not going to let her drive the Dolly Dobbs, are you?’
‘Are you going to let her drive in the International Women’s Race?’ the Duchess countered.
‘Out of my hands.’ Maud looked at her heavy fingers as though she’d like to strangle the lady.
‘And mine.’ Agatha smiled brightly.
‘You’re up to something, aren’t you?’ Maud suddenly realised.
‘There are more ways to kill a cat, as the old saying goes.’
‘Be careful, Agatha,’ Maud frowned. ‘We don’t want that old story raked up again.’
Both women rearranged their faces as the Duke ambled towards them. ‘My dear,’ his Duchess informed her sister-in-law, ‘I quite forgot I hadn’t dropped the sprog; I almost dropped it when the Horbick started running backwards but then I remembered . . .’
Edward, Duke of Dewbury, put an expression of polite interest on his face and decided to track down old Hugh for the latest cricket score. Women never talked about anything of interest.
Some wasted little time in talk at all. Isabel was in bed with Hugh in an upper room in Winter House. She had long since exhausted her interest in discussing average speeds, times and pneumatic tyres. She had taken part in the hill trials solely for the sake of form; she cared not a whit that Hester Hart had won. She cared rather more that the lady was to take such a prominent part in next Thursday’s run to Canterbury. As mistress of Martyr House, she expected to star in her role; instead, that woman would
‘She was not.’ Auguste hesitated. ‘You must help me keep a watch on the motorcar until next Thursday, watch for
anyone
trying to get into the motor house.’
‘Miss Hart would surely not harm the motorcar.’
‘No, but others might.’
‘Or harm her?’ Pierre asked anxiously. ‘She is a splendid woman.’
Auguste glanced at him curiously. ‘Yes, but she is the prune in a dish of delicate peaches. Too harsh, too dark. She overshadows all around her.’
The last baskets left the kitchen for the motor vans outside. To Auguste, who had reluctantly agreed that motor vans were the most sensible form of transport for a precious buffet, their radiators and lamps seemed to be grinning at him with somesecret knowledge as he emerged into the courtyard where the cavalcade was lined up.
Winter House, whose grounds ran down to the river bank, was a Georgian brick mansion which had belonged to the Francis family ever since it had been built. The present incumbent, Hugh Francis, cousin and lover of Isabel, Countess of Tunstall, was a bachelor who undoubtedly merited the description of a ‘swell’. It said much for his cousinly (or other) devotion that he was prepared to allow over a hundred motorcars to bump over his grass. Such considerations were trivial beside the attractions of Isabel.
Auguste’s nose for trouble, however, was twitching like a diviner’s hazel twig over a waterfall. This waterfall must be underground, however, for looking round he could see nothing to justify his anxiety. The ladies and their passengers had now arrived from the hill trials, and Tatiana’s whispered information that Hester Hart had won the hill trials in the Crossley with times of 1 minute 42 seconds on Petersham Hill and an astounding 1 minute 48 seconds on Test Hill had not so far ruined the day. Nor had the thrilling news that Maud had side-slipped on to the grass behind her, or that poor Phyllis’s benzine tank had been filled with water at an inn by a misguided ostler. Auguste told himself modestly that his buffet, even though he was just supervising this one, could always be counted on to cheer the most aggrieved of spirits.
It had clearly done so this time. He glanced round at the colourful assembly on the lawns, dust coats discarded and parasols sprouting like exotic cabbages. He had been wrong. All would be well.
‘What are you going to do about that woman, Agatha?’ MaudBullinger bit viciously into an éclair. ‘You’re not going to let her drive the Dolly Dobbs, are you?’
‘Are you going to let her drive in the International Women’s Race?’ the Duchess countered.
‘Out of my hands.’ Maud looked at her heavy fingers as though she’d like to strangle the lady.
‘And mine.’ Agatha smiled brightly.
‘You’re up to something, aren’t you?’ Maud suddenly realised.
‘There are more ways to kill a cat, as the old saying goes.’
‘Be careful, Agatha,’ Maud frowned. ‘We don’t want that old story raked up again.’
Both women rearranged their faces as the Duke ambled towards them. ‘My dear,’ his Duchess informed her sister-in-law, ‘I quite forgot I hadn’t dropped the sprog; I almost dropped it when the Horbick started running backwards but then I remembered . . .’
Edward, Duke of Dewbury, put an expression of polite interest on his face and decided to track down old Hugh for the latest cricket score. Women never talked about anything of interest.
Some wasted little time in talk at all. Isabel was in bed with Hugh in an upper room in Winter House. She had long since exhausted her interest in discussing average speeds, times and pneumatic tyres. She had taken part in the hill trials solely for the sake of form; she cared not a whit that Hester Hart had won. She cared rather more that the lady was to take such a prominent part in next Thursday’s run to Canterbury. As mistress of Martyr House, she expected to star in her role; instead, that woman would
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