Chapter Four
FOUR
Alone, Daisy might have succumbed to temptation, against every precept of ladylike behaviour drummed into her at an early age. With someone else already present, eavesdropping was out of the question, alas, especially as that person was turning towards her.
She backed out, with a word of apology. Jemima followed, into the room’s brightness. She looked upset.
Daisy wasn’t surprised. Though she hadn’t heard what they were shouting, she had recognized the disputants’ voices. With Godfrey Norville’s she was by now familiar, and the stentorian second could only be his brother’s. The amity of the captain’s return had not lasted long.
“Are you all right, Jemima?” she asked. “I heard your father and uncle arguing, but I don’t suppose for a minute it had anything to do with you, did it?”
Jemima gave her a sullen glare. “I don’t know. I didn’t hear what they said.” She ran from the room.
Daisy was pretty sure the girl was lying, but after all, it was none of her business.
With a shrug, she decided to take a proper look at the Hall squint later.
She turned to consideration of the South Room’s furnishings, including a walnut escritoire with—according to Godfrey—secret drawers, like the one in the Drawing Room.
Frustratingly, she failed to find a single one.
By the time she finished, the light was fading fast and she was in need of a cup of tea. She returned to her bedroom for a wash and brush up. Then she went along to old Mrs. Norville’s sitting room to find out whether the tea ceremony had returned to its accustomed place.
Mrs. Norville was just setting the final stitches in her piece of embroidery. “Tea in the library again,” she said in answer to Daisy’s enquiry.
“I hope buzzing up and down those stairs isn’t too much for you.”
“Not at all, my dear.” The old lady gave her the sweetest smile. “On the contrary, I’m sure it’s good for me. Godfrey and Dora do tend to keep me wrapped in cotton wool, however often the doctor swears there’s nothing wrong with me bar a few aches and pains, the tribute one pays to old age.”
“Mother?” Captain Norville blew into the room like a fresh sea breeze. “Hello, Mrs. Fletcher! What, no tea? Has the custom of the house changed since I was last at home?”
“Tea in the library today, Victor dearest, in honour of our guests. Come in, come in, Mr. Calloway,” she invited the clergyman, who had come with the captain but paused on the threshold.
“I shall be with you in just a minute.” She tied a last knot, folded the cloth, and started to put away her needle and silks.
But the Reverend Calloway was staring in horror at the colourful images scattered about the room.
“Pagan idols!” he exclaimed. “My life has been spent in fighting these demons. I did not expect to find them worshipped in my own country. Madam, better you had remained a heathen all your days than to accept our Lord and then renounce Him!”
“Poppycock!” cried the captain. “My dear sir, my mother is as Christian as you or I, or Mrs. Fletcher there. I gave her these gewgaws myself, just as mementos of her homeland. Ornaments they are, nothing but ornaments, I assure you.”
“Indeed.” Calloway gave him a hard, suspicious look. “I trust you are right, Captain. But this is most disturbing.”
Mrs. Norville looked quite frightened. Daisy decided it was time to stick her oar in.
“I find the chap with the blue face particularly jolly,” she said brightly. “It rather reminds me of Picasso’s blue period.”
“Picasso?” Calloway asked, frowning.
“Pablo Picasso, the French painter. Or is he Spanish? Too, too fearfully modern, anyway. Gosh, do let’s go down to tea. I’m simply parched.”
She practically forced the clergyman to accompany her, leaving the Norvilles to come together.
While she went on chattering inanely about modern art—a subject with which she was not widely acquainted but hoped Calloway was less—she wondered what on earth had possessed Captain Norville to bring the grim missionary home with him.
From what she had seen of the captain, Daisy was sure he had been motivated by a kindly impulse.
Perhaps he had thought Mrs. Norville would like to talk to someone who had spent his life in India.
More likely Calloway had nowhere to go for Christmas, and Victor Norville had not considered that he might throw a blight over the festivities.
Maybe that was what Victor and Godfrey had quarrelled about.
As on the previous day, Godfrey Norville didn’t come in for tea.
With no interaction between the brothers to observe, Daisy was foiled in her hope of finding out more about their squabble.
She wondered whether it was responsible for the tension, almost excitement, she sensed in the rest of the family.
It was nothing she could put her finger on.
They just seemed more vivid, more like oils than the pastel water-colours they had been yesterday.
Perhaps the enlivening presence of Captain Norville was enough to explain the change.
And, of course, Christmas was nearly upon them, with more unknown and therefore interesting guests arriving tomorrow.
Daisy hadn’t yet informed either Mrs. Norville or her daughter-in-law about the reduction in numbers, so she went ahead and told them now.
They were expressing their regrets when Calloway burst out, “Travelling on Sunday! When I left England, decent people did not travel on Sunday for pleasure, only if forced by circumstances. Things are sadly changed!”
Daisy suspected his memory was at fault, but she said politely, “When did you go abroad, Mr. Calloway?”
“As soon as I had taken orders. I was called to minister to the heathen, and in that field I have laboured for over fifty years.”
He must be over seventy then, Daisy reckoned, though he didn’t look it. The tropical climate must have suited him. “Always in India?” she asked.
“Always in India,” he confirmed, throwing a significant glance at old Mrs. Norville. “Naturally I came home on leave several times, though not in recent years. I see that England has not changed for the better.”
“The War altered many things,” Daisy said, and used the excuse of refilling her teacup to exchange the Jeremiah for Miles’s more cheerful company.
“Sorry about the old grouch,” he said, as she sat down beside him. “He’s a bit of a blister, isn’t he?”
“Oh dear, did my face give me away?”
“No, no! Or only because I was looking. I’m afraid the Rev is here for a purpose, and he’s going to be staying for Christmas.
Uncle Victor told me what happened upstairs in Gran’s room.
He’s a good egg, Uncle Vic, behind all the hail-fellow-well-met.
By the way, he’s hoping you won’t mention that business to the rest of the family. ”
“Of course not.”
“I want to thank you,” Miles said awkwardly, “for jumping to Gran’s defence.”
“The chap with the blue face…”
“Krishna.”
“Krishna really did remind me of Picasso. On the whole, I prefer Krishna.”
Miles laughed, and they dropped the subject.
For the rest of the day and the following morning, Daisy saw the Norvilles and their clerical guest only at meals.
She was madly trying to get her article, if not written, at least planned before her own family arrived.
She had a wealth of material to sort out, much of it the kind of stuff which would make for a marvellously lively piece.
By an hour after lunch on Sunday, she had her outline prepared and was ready to call it a day.
The afternoon was overcast, but still mild, with no sign of impending rain.
She decided to walk down to the Quay to meet Alec, Belinda, and the Dowager Lady Dalrymple.
She couldn’t tell exactly when the boat would arrive, but she knew the early Paddington-Plymouth express ran an hour later on Sundays.
In the entrance hall, she met Felicity and Miles, bound on the same errand to welcome the newcomers, and they found themselves following the pony-trap down the drive.
“We didn’t like to tell you at lunch,” said Felicity, “because the Rev was there, but you missed his service this morning. Gran invited him to preside in the Chapel, and Uncle Vic herded us all in willy-nilly, servants too.”
“How very remiss of me,” Daisy said, “though I plead that I didn’t know about it. No one herded me. But perhaps my lack of piety will make Mr. Calloway look more kindly on the rest of you.”
“Not a hope,” Miles scoffed. “He took one look at Flick’s lip rouge and gave us a sermon on vanity.”
“You’ve got the wrong kind of vanity,” his sister argued. “‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,’ that’s about the unimportance of worldly things.”
“My word, you must have been listening!”
“And you weren’t,” Felicity retorted.
They went on teasing in a brotherly-sisterly way.
Daisy thought how much she missed Gervaise, who had not returned from the trenches of Flanders, where she assumed Miles had left his arm.
The loss of her brother still hurt, though she had to admit she didn’t think of him as often these days, nor of her dead fiancé.
Michael held a corner of her heart forever, but Alec filled the rest, Alec and Belinda, and she was going to see them any minute. She hastened her steps.
When they came in sight of the Quay, a motor launch was already moored at one of the wharves.
The trap and a farm wagon stood nearby, with pony and cart-horse waiting patiently.
On the Quay, a pile of luggage was growing, handed up from the launch by the boatman to the hands of two farm labourers.
Alec was already ashore, directing the operation.
The heap of bags concealed the passengers still aboard.
Looking down into the boat, Alec said in his firmest voice, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, old fellow. If you don’t both land in the water, you’ll land in the mud.”