“That’s amazing. Have you drawn anyone interesting?”
“I’ve mostly done self-portraits.”
“Oh. Right.”
“What a shame your wedding has to be inside, Cordy!” Annabel exclaims, before I can pester her any further. “The groundsof Dashwell are so beautiful but a Christmas wedding means all your guests will be holed up inside like sardines! What a pity. A spring wedding would have been delightful on the lawns. I must say, I’m pleased I can have a champagne reception outside and people can enjoy our grounds. How sad you won’t have that yourself.”
“Mmm,” Cordelia says, and downs her entire glass of champagne.
“Goodness!” Annabel laughs, her eyes wide with surprise as Cordelia lowers her glass. “Still into that scene, are you? I would have thought you’d be off it after what happened.”
A strangled sound issues from Cordelia’s throat. Annabel looks at her calmly, no hint of remorse.
“Excuse me,” Cordelia manages, and leaves the room.
Annabel watches her go, taking a delicate sip of her drink, then turning to me to say, “How strange.” She goes to stand next to her sister and join in with her conversation. With no idea as to what just happened, I place my glass on the side and quietly head out of the room under the watchful gaze of Lady Meade.
I hear a door shutting and follow the corridor to one of the smaller, empty drawing rooms, which has a set of doors opening into the garden. Cordelia is standing outside, smoking. “Are you OK?” I ask carefully, coming to join her.
She looks irritated that I’ve disturbed her. “I’m fine. I needed a smoke.”
“I can understand why,” I say. “Annabel’s a bit of an interesting character.”
“You could say that,” she says, taking a long drag.
“She’s jealous.”
“I don’t need you to protect me,” she says, exhaling.
“I know.”
“And I don’t need you to come out here to comfort me.”
“I know.”
We stand in silence together as she takes another drag. In between, she chews her thumbnail. I want to ask her what Annabel meant by saying “after what happened.” It had struck a nerve with Cordelia, whatever she was referring to, and I wonder whether she wants to talk about it. But I can’t get the words out to ask.
Instead, I decide to keep things light and try to cheer her up. “Ugh,” I say. “Can you imagine her and Nicole Percy in a room together? Seriously, imagine the bullshit you’d have to put up with, listening to those two in conversation.”
Cordelia tries her best not to smile, but the corners of her mouth twitch.
“They’d be competing with each other,” I continue. “Who could say the most rubbish in the most pretentious words?”
“I’m genuinely not sure who would win,” Cordelia says, and flourishes the hand holding the cigarette. “They’re both soartistic.”
“Both inspired by the world and soil around them.”
“Inspired by theself.”
“The world is but their canvas.”
“Dedicated to creating a concept of sensational harmony.”
She catches my eye and we share a conspiratorial smile. The door opens behind us and Tom sticks his head round.
“Dinner is served,” he informs us, then lowers his voice. “Shotgun not sitting next to either of them. I’ve done my time while you two have been having fun out here.”
He disappears and Cordelia rolls her eyes, taking one last drag on her cigarette and putting it out beneath her shoe, picking up the butt and sticking it into her pocket. I open the door for her as she goes inside. “Thank you,” she says.
