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Authors: Frances Osborne
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reign.
Bea speaks to the back of her sister’s head. ‘I’m sorry about Sunday.’
‘It’s all right, but don’t blame me if you’re still living here at fifty.’
‘It won’t be here, Clem.’
‘Then where would it be?’
‘Oh, New York.’
‘Do you still miss it, Bea, America? Even after living there only a year?’
‘It was rather exciting leaving so suddenly, on some whim of Mother’s.’
Clemmie hesitates. ‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘On some whim of Mother’s.’
‘Once we were there, it felt as though we could do what we liked, rather than being locked in by all these silly rules. We just ran wild on the banks of that river. Life’s different there, Clem. There’s more, more’ – Bea searches for the word – ‘possibility.’
‘You talk about it as if it is some sort of Promised Land.’
Bea pauses.
‘In a way, Clem, I think it is.’
Clemmie turns around to face her. ‘Why don’t you go over? You could have a glorious dance.’
‘On the Hudson? Only our neighbours would make it that far. It’s in the sticks, Clem. That was the heaven of it.’
‘Not bad neighbours, Bea. But I meant in Manhattan, silly.’
‘Yes,’ says Bea, ‘in Manhattan.’
John is there, she is thinking. Maybe she could so dazzle him with a dance in her mother’s family house on Madison Avenue that he would come running back to her. She imagines herself dressed up, flowers all over the hall, her standing at the foot of the wide wooden staircase, John approaching her with a pleading expression on his face.
However, that is exactly why she cannot go. You can’t chase a man across the Atlantic. In fact Bea can’t go there until he is back. Damn you, John Vinnicks, why couldn’t you have gone to Africa instead of heiress-hunting … and as this last thought comes into her head, Bea feels slightly sick.
Clemmie’s voice is back in Bea’s ears. ‘Now, Bea-Bea, help me choose what to wear tonight.’
Beside her on the bed are two dresses: one black and white satin, with a jacket designed to tie around the waist. The other, a pale grey net tunic embroidered with a vast beaded butterfly that must be nearly a foot across.
‘You’ll take off with those wings. Are you dancing?’
‘Just dinner.’ Clemmie twists to look at Bea. ‘It is being given for me. And Tom. He’s coming up this afternoon.’ She quickly turns back to her dressing table, her eyes away from Bea as she clips out, ‘Sorry, don’t mean to brag.’
Brag, thinks Bea, brag? She rolls on her back and studies the pale lace canopy strung over Clemmie’s bed. Brag about the dinner, or the husband? She envies neither. She can think of little she would like less to do this evening. Was that what her life was to be, dinners, shows and gramophones, and then, then what? A ruddy-faced sportsman with a decaying house in the country?
‘Wear either.’
‘But I’ve hardly been in town since Freddy was born. Rural hibernation really, and one is so examined when one reappears. Is she still attractive, did she hook above her weight, et cetera? Whether it was just for the money.’
Bea sits up and swivels around.
‘Clemmie, you don’t think that?’
‘Not on the dresses …’
‘Clemmie, please. Do you think that Tom married you for your money?’
‘No, no, of course not. He’s mad about me.’ Clemmie pauses. ‘But, you know, it could happen to any of us.’
‘There’s not much money. Not for us girls.’
‘That’s not what people think, unless they dig around.’
‘Because of the railways?’
‘And because of Mother’s mother being American. Countless pots of gold, people reckon. I mean look at …’ Bea feels as thougha vice is tightening around her stomach, and decides that she will not spend this evening with the people who must have been examining her.
Celeste responds to Bea’s note, her maid addressing the envelope, as ever, to disguise it from Mother. She says that she will come by in a taxi, and be
Bea speaks to the back of her sister’s head. ‘I’m sorry about Sunday.’
‘It’s all right, but don’t blame me if you’re still living here at fifty.’
‘It won’t be here, Clem.’
‘Then where would it be?’
‘Oh, New York.’
‘Do you still miss it, Bea, America? Even after living there only a year?’
‘It was rather exciting leaving so suddenly, on some whim of Mother’s.’
Clemmie hesitates. ‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘On some whim of Mother’s.’
‘Once we were there, it felt as though we could do what we liked, rather than being locked in by all these silly rules. We just ran wild on the banks of that river. Life’s different there, Clem. There’s more, more’ – Bea searches for the word – ‘possibility.’
‘You talk about it as if it is some sort of Promised Land.’
Bea pauses.
‘In a way, Clem, I think it is.’
Clemmie turns around to face her. ‘Why don’t you go over? You could have a glorious dance.’
‘On the Hudson? Only our neighbours would make it that far. It’s in the sticks, Clem. That was the heaven of it.’
‘Not bad neighbours, Bea. But I meant in Manhattan, silly.’
‘Yes,’ says Bea, ‘in Manhattan.’
John is there, she is thinking. Maybe she could so dazzle him with a dance in her mother’s family house on Madison Avenue that he would come running back to her. She imagines herself dressed up, flowers all over the hall, her standing at the foot of the wide wooden staircase, John approaching her with a pleading expression on his face.
However, that is exactly why she cannot go. You can’t chase a man across the Atlantic. In fact Bea can’t go there until he is back. Damn you, John Vinnicks, why couldn’t you have gone to Africa instead of heiress-hunting … and as this last thought comes into her head, Bea feels slightly sick.
Clemmie’s voice is back in Bea’s ears. ‘Now, Bea-Bea, help me choose what to wear tonight.’
Beside her on the bed are two dresses: one black and white satin, with a jacket designed to tie around the waist. The other, a pale grey net tunic embroidered with a vast beaded butterfly that must be nearly a foot across.
‘You’ll take off with those wings. Are you dancing?’
‘Just dinner.’ Clemmie twists to look at Bea. ‘It is being given for me. And Tom. He’s coming up this afternoon.’ She quickly turns back to her dressing table, her eyes away from Bea as she clips out, ‘Sorry, don’t mean to brag.’
Brag, thinks Bea, brag? She rolls on her back and studies the pale lace canopy strung over Clemmie’s bed. Brag about the dinner, or the husband? She envies neither. She can think of little she would like less to do this evening. Was that what her life was to be, dinners, shows and gramophones, and then, then what? A ruddy-faced sportsman with a decaying house in the country?
‘Wear either.’
‘But I’ve hardly been in town since Freddy was born. Rural hibernation really, and one is so examined when one reappears. Is she still attractive, did she hook above her weight, et cetera? Whether it was just for the money.’
Bea sits up and swivels around.
‘Clemmie, you don’t think that?’
‘Not on the dresses …’
‘Clemmie, please. Do you think that Tom married you for your money?’
‘No, no, of course not. He’s mad about me.’ Clemmie pauses. ‘But, you know, it could happen to any of us.’
‘There’s not much money. Not for us girls.’
‘That’s not what people think, unless they dig around.’
‘Because of the railways?’
‘And because of Mother’s mother being American. Countless pots of gold, people reckon. I mean look at …’ Bea feels as thougha vice is tightening around her stomach, and decides that she will not spend this evening with the people who must have been examining her.
Celeste responds to Bea’s note, her maid addressing the envelope, as ever, to disguise it from Mother. She says that she will come by in a taxi, and be
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