Chapter Fifteen The Inquisition
Now the engagement had been announced, Elizabeth insisted on engagement drinks. ‘An opportunity for everyone to get to know each other’, she said, or in reality, another excuse for Elizabeth to show off.
The drinks were to be hosted in the family’s magnificent townhouse in Eaton Square, Elizabeth had just had it decorated again and it was the perfect opportunity to rub this in the noses of some of her closest friends.
James’s stepfather Gerald would naturally be there, though in an ornamental capacity, not that nature has designed him in such a way.
Along with Granny, whose attendance at any family function was both mandatory and terrifying.
The guest list was fairly small, possibly because the art was valued in the millions and the last thing Elizabeth wanted was wine on the new carpets.
I arrived at six o’clock on Saturday evening to find James in the drawing room, pacing.
‘You’re early,’ he said. ‘Good, I need someone to talk to who isn’t going to judge me.’
He was wearing what he called his ‘family occasion’ suit: navy blue, conservatively cut, the kind of thing that suggested respectability without trying too hard. His tie was slightly crooked. I reached over and straightened it.
‘You look fine. Stop panicking.’
‘I’m not panicking. This is controlled concern.’
‘You’ve checked your watch four times since I arrived.’
‘I’m monitoring the time. That’s responsible.’
‘Where’s Anastasia?’
‘Getting ready upstairs. Mother insisted she arrive early so they could ‘have a little chat’ before the drinks. I don’t know what they’re chatting about. It’s been forty-five minutes. I’m trying not to imagine the worst.’
‘What’s the worst?’
‘I think Mother’s shown her the family albums. The ones with the photographs from my unfortunate phase.’
‘Which one?’
‘Take your pick. There were several.’
Before I could respond, the door opened and Elizabeth Ashworth-Pemberton entered.
James’s mother was, at sixty-three, still formidable.
She had the kind of bone structure that aged well and the kind of posture that suggested a lifetime of being told to sit up straight.
Her hair was silver-blonde and immaculately styled.
Her dress was a deep burgundy and you would know the designer’s name if you are interested in couture, personally, I’m not.
At her heels, moving in perfect lockstep, trotted Fortnum and Mason, her King Charles Spaniels, so impeccably trained they appeared almost taxidermied when they sat still. They settled at her feet without being commanded, identical expressions of well-bred disdain on their small faces.
Her expression, as she surveyed the room, was the practised neutrality of a woman who had learned long ago to keep her opinions to herself until she could use them with devastating effect.
‘Henry,’ she said, extending a hand. ‘How lovely. James said you’d be joining us.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it, Elizabeth.’
‘Quite.’ She turned to her son. ‘James, your grandmother has arrived. She’s in the library, complaining about the sherry. You might want to attend to that before she decides to complain about something else.’
‘Is Anastasia...’
‘Anastasia is getting dressed. We had a very pleasant conversation. She’s charming.’ The word ‘charming’ contained multitudes, none of them entirely positive. ‘Now go and see to your grandmother. I need to speak with the caterers.’
She swept out. James looked at me with an expression of barely contained alarm.
‘‘Charming,’’ he repeated. ‘What does that mean? Is that good?’
‘I have no idea. Go deal with Granny. I need a drink.’
???
Granny was, as promised, in the library, holding a glass of sherry with an expression of deep suspicion.
Cordelia Ashworth-Pemberton was eighty-seven years old and looked like she could still command a room, or, rumour had it, an intelligence operation.
She was small, silver-haired and possessed of a gaze that made most people feel like they were being assessed for weaknesses.
She had been doing this for longer than James had been alive and she was very good at it.
‘Grandmother,’ James said, crossing to kiss her cheek. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘I’m looking old. Don’t patronise me.’ She took a sip of the sherry and grimaced. ‘Why am I drinking sherry, this is meant to be a party, you know I prefer Champagne’.
She poured the contents of the glass into a pot plant and passed James the glass, then fixed him with those sharp blue eyes. ‘So. You’re getting married.’
‘I am.’
‘To the Ukrainian.’
‘Her name is Anastasia.’
‘I know what her name is. I know rather more than that, as it happens.’ Granny set down her sherry glass with a decisive click. ‘I’ve been making enquiries.’
James went pale. ‘Enquiries?’
‘Don’t look so alarmed. I haven’t had her followed. I simply asked some old friends to look into her background. Standard procedure. One doesn’t let one’s only grandson marry a complete unknown.’
‘She’s not unknown. I know her very well.’
‘You know what she’s chosen to tell you.
That’s not the same thing.’ Granny’s expression softened slightly, as much as it ever softened, which wasn’t much.
‘I’m not trying to interfere, James. I’m trying to protect you.
There are people in this world who see wealthy young men as opportunities rather than partners. ’
‘Anastasia isn’t like that.’
‘Perhaps not. But her background is... complicated. She arrived in this country two years ago with very little and built something from nothing. That takes a certain kind of determination. The question is whether that determination is directed toward building a life or toward building a position.’
‘She loves me.’
‘I’m sure she does. Love and ambition aren’t mutually exclusive.’ ‘I’ll reserve judgment until I’ve met her properly and found out some more. I suggest you do the same.’
‘I’ve already made my judgment.’
‘Then I hope, for your sake, that it’s the right one and now, you can fetch me a glass of champagne.’
???
Anastasia appeared twenty minutes later and her entrance made the room go quiet.
She was wearing a deep green dress that somehow managed to be both understated and striking, the kind of thing that looked simple until you noticed the cut, the fabric and how it moved when she walked.
Her hair was up, showing the line of her neck.
Her only jewellery was a pair of small diamond earrings that James had given her and a simple gold chain.
She looked, I thought, like she was preparing for battle.
James crossed to her immediately, taking her hand. ‘You look incredible.’
‘Your mother showed me photographs of your teenage years.’
‘Oh God.’
‘The one with the frosted tips was disturbingly memorable.’
‘I was sixteen. Everyone had frosted tips.’
‘Not everyone. Just you and several boy band members.’ But she was smiling and some of the tension went out of her shoulders when James squeezed her hand.
Elizabeth appeared from somewhere, a glass of champagne in each hand. ‘Anastasia, you must meet Cordelia. James’s grandmother. She’s been very eager to meet you.’
This was, I suspected, a warning more than an introduction.
Granny had risen from her chair and was regarding Anastasia with the focused attention of a hawk spotting movement in the grass below. It was not a comfortable kind of attention.
‘Cordelia,’ Anastasia said, extending her hand. ‘James speaks of you often.’
‘Does he.’ Granny took the hand, shook it once and released it. ‘I doubt he’s told you everything.’
‘He’s told me you’re terrifying and brilliant and that I should be on my guard.’
A flicker of something, surprise perhaps or approval, crossed Granny’s face. ‘Well. At least he’s honest. Sit down, child. Let’s have a conversation.’
It was not a request.
???
I watched from across the room as Granny conducted what could only be described as an interrogation.
It was subtle (Granny was always subtle) but the questions came with precision, each one designed to probe a different aspect of Anastasia’s life, her motivations, her plans.
Where she had grown up. What had brought her to England.
How she had built her company. What she thought about marriage, family, the future.
Anastasia answered calmly, directly, without evasion. She didn’t try to be charming or ingratiating. She simply told the truth, or as much of it as she was willing to share and let Granny draw her own conclusions.
‘Your company,’ Granny said, at one point. ‘Cybersecurity. That’s a competitive field.’
‘Very competitive. But there’s room for innovation. Most existing solutions are reactive: they respond to known threats. My system is predictive. It learns what normal looks like and flags anything that deviates.’
‘Like a good intelligence analyst.’
‘Something like that, yes.’
Granny’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You have some experience with intelligence analysis?’
‘I have experience with pattern recognition. And with knowing when something doesn’t fit.’
There was a pause. Something passed between them, a recognition, perhaps, or an assessment revised.
‘Interesting,’ Granny said finally. ‘James tells me you have no family.’
‘My parents died when I was little. I am alone.’
‘That must be difficult. Building a life without family support.’
‘It’s what I know. I’ve learned to rely on myself.’
‘And now you’ll have family again. The Ashworth-Pembertons.’ Granny’s tone was unreadable. ‘We can be rather a lot to manage.’
‘I’ve managed difficult situations before.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Granny took a sip of her champagne. James had upgraded her to a significantly better bottle than everyone else was drinking, he knew his grandmother and now of all times wanted her on his side. Granny regarded Anastasia over the rim. ‘Tell me something, Anastasia. Why James?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Why James? He’s not ambitious. He’s not overly accomplished. He’s pleasant enough, certainly and wealthy, but there are many pleasant wealthy men in the world. Why this one?’