was glad she had not rejected it. Neither of her two previous lovers, the American novelist Ben Belasco and her political mentor David Griffiths-Jones, had been the sort who would think of giving her presents.
‘I say, Miss Browne, you look perfectly splendid,’ said Roddy, sitting himself down on the sofa beside her. ‘That’s a topping dress. I mean, I know nothing about frocks and that kind of thing but . . .’
‘Be a dear and stop burbling,’ Isolde Swann said, perching her shapely bottom on the arm of the sofa. ‘Miss Browne has no wish to hear your views on fashion, I’m sure.’
‘No, of course. Sorry and all that. I’m afraid I’m a bit of an ass. Can’t think why you put up with me, Izzy old thing.’
‘I love you, that’s why,’ she said, patting the top of his head in a proprietorial way. ‘Don’t you agree, Miss Browne, that love makes you – what’s the phrase? – tout comprendre, tout pardonner ?’
Verity hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I have ever been in love . . .’
‘Oh, I say, I thought you and Lord Edward . . .’
‘I do believe, Roddy, you are determined to put your foot in it. I do apologize for this poor goof, Miss Browne.’
‘No,’ said Verity, flailing about, ‘I do love him but I don’t know . . . it’s all so complicated. You see, I live such an absurd life, my job . . . never in one place for more than a minute. It’s really not fair on any man. Oh dear, please let’s talk about something else.’
She realized that this was the very first time she had acknowledged her relationship with Edward in public though it would be folly to think the announcement would come as a surprise to anyone who knew them. In fact, she had blushed to the roots of her hair, which was under a hairdryer at the time, when riffling through the pages of Tatler she had happened to see a photograph of Edward and herself taken at Brooklands with a coy caption referring to her ‘war wound’ but assuring readers that she was being tended by ‘the most eligible man about town, Lord Edward Corinth, younger brother of the Duke of Mersham’. She prayed Edward would never see it. It was just the sort of gossip he hated.
‘But surely the only important job a woman has is to look after her husband and bring up his children?’ Roddy said.
With a great effort of will Verity did not shower him with abuse but merely replied, ‘I am sure that is true for many women but not for me, I am afraid.’
To her relief he began to talk about the New Year’s Eve dance the Castlewoods always held at Swifts Hill.
‘You will come, Miss Browne?’ He turned to Castlewood. ‘Sorry, old boy, that was rather cheek but . . .’
‘No, Roddy’s right,’ Castlewood broke in. ‘Ginny was going to ask you. We would so like it if you could come. It is so rare for me to make new friends – when I do I hate to be parted from them.’
He started to talk about his house, which was clearly the great love of his life. Taking Verity over to admire the radiogram, he told her, ‘I can put on a record in here and we can listen to it here, in my study or in the dining-room. It’s American. I saw it when I was last in New York and I knew I just had to have it for Swifts Hill.’
He slipped a record, black and shiny, out of its brown sleeve, holding it delicately between his palms at the rim. Placing it on the turntable he said in a low voice, ‘One of my favourites. Shall we dance?’
It was ‘Stormy Weather’, a favourite of Verity’s too, and for a moment she was inclined to accept his invitation if only to see whether he would dance with her. Instead, she laughed to show she knew he was joking and said, ‘Was I very rude?’
‘To Roddy? Not at all. I thought you were very restrained. I was full of admiration. He’s such an idiot but not vicious – at least, so I believe. I can’t understand what Isolde sees in him, though. She could have any man she wanted but she chooses . . .’
‘He’s very
‘I say, Miss Browne, you look perfectly splendid,’ said Roddy, sitting himself down on the sofa beside her. ‘That’s a topping dress. I mean, I know nothing about frocks and that kind of thing but . . .’
‘Be a dear and stop burbling,’ Isolde Swann said, perching her shapely bottom on the arm of the sofa. ‘Miss Browne has no wish to hear your views on fashion, I’m sure.’
‘No, of course. Sorry and all that. I’m afraid I’m a bit of an ass. Can’t think why you put up with me, Izzy old thing.’
‘I love you, that’s why,’ she said, patting the top of his head in a proprietorial way. ‘Don’t you agree, Miss Browne, that love makes you – what’s the phrase? – tout comprendre, tout pardonner ?’
Verity hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I have ever been in love . . .’
‘Oh, I say, I thought you and Lord Edward . . .’
‘I do believe, Roddy, you are determined to put your foot in it. I do apologize for this poor goof, Miss Browne.’
‘No,’ said Verity, flailing about, ‘I do love him but I don’t know . . . it’s all so complicated. You see, I live such an absurd life, my job . . . never in one place for more than a minute. It’s really not fair on any man. Oh dear, please let’s talk about something else.’
She realized that this was the very first time she had acknowledged her relationship with Edward in public though it would be folly to think the announcement would come as a surprise to anyone who knew them. In fact, she had blushed to the roots of her hair, which was under a hairdryer at the time, when riffling through the pages of Tatler she had happened to see a photograph of Edward and herself taken at Brooklands with a coy caption referring to her ‘war wound’ but assuring readers that she was being tended by ‘the most eligible man about town, Lord Edward Corinth, younger brother of the Duke of Mersham’. She prayed Edward would never see it. It was just the sort of gossip he hated.
‘But surely the only important job a woman has is to look after her husband and bring up his children?’ Roddy said.
With a great effort of will Verity did not shower him with abuse but merely replied, ‘I am sure that is true for many women but not for me, I am afraid.’
To her relief he began to talk about the New Year’s Eve dance the Castlewoods always held at Swifts Hill.
‘You will come, Miss Browne?’ He turned to Castlewood. ‘Sorry, old boy, that was rather cheek but . . .’
‘No, Roddy’s right,’ Castlewood broke in. ‘Ginny was going to ask you. We would so like it if you could come. It is so rare for me to make new friends – when I do I hate to be parted from them.’
He started to talk about his house, which was clearly the great love of his life. Taking Verity over to admire the radiogram, he told her, ‘I can put on a record in here and we can listen to it here, in my study or in the dining-room. It’s American. I saw it when I was last in New York and I knew I just had to have it for Swifts Hill.’
He slipped a record, black and shiny, out of its brown sleeve, holding it delicately between his palms at the rim. Placing it on the turntable he said in a low voice, ‘One of my favourites. Shall we dance?’
It was ‘Stormy Weather’, a favourite of Verity’s too, and for a moment she was inclined to accept his invitation if only to see whether he would dance with her. Instead, she laughed to show she knew he was joking and said, ‘Was I very rude?’
‘To Roddy? Not at all. I thought you were very restrained. I was full of admiration. He’s such an idiot but not vicious – at least, so I believe. I can’t understand what Isolde sees in him, though. She could have any man she wanted but she chooses . . .’
‘He’s very
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