Cecilia leans against the armoire, hands caught behind her back. ‘What were Aunt Lydia and Uncle George like back then?’ She bites the tip of her tongue. ‘And Claudine?’
Penelope looks at her sidelong, eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you asking about Claudine?’
Cecilia shrugs. ‘Why not?’
‘Curiosity is not an attractive quality in a girl. And don’t lean like that – stand up properly. I taught you good posture, so don’t pretend you don’t know how.’
Cecilia straightens. ‘When did Claudine go to Germany? It must have been some time ago.’
‘That is not a subject that concerns you.’
‘But—’
Penelope points a hairpin at her. ‘Leave it alone. It is not your business. Lydia may tolerate you bothering her with your nonsense, but I will not, and nor will Claudine, so know your place and behave yourself or I cannot be responsible for—’ Penelope cuts herself off and goes back to arranging the carefully dressed curls of her hair.
It is strange; Cecilia cannot imagine anyone intimidating her mother.
And yet, Claudine has done it.
‘Responsible for what?’
‘What do you mean,for what? Responsible for you, silly girl. That is your problem: too much imagination, not enough sense. Go on now. Get ready. You look a state.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
Penelope shoos her away. ‘Odette can afford to waste her youth on flights of fancy, but you cannot. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘Don’t wear white,’ says Penelope, as Cecilia goes out the door. ‘Or yellow, or orange. Those are my colours today.’
9
Cecilia
‘EDDIE!’ UNCLE GEORGE’S VOICErises up the staircase towards Cecilia. ‘Looking sprightly, old boy. Always good to give into your tailor and allow him to take out your waistbands.’
‘Very funny, Fairfax. So funny your hairline seems to be running away in mirth.’
Cecilia grips the newel post and denies herself the moment to peer over the banisters like a child. She does not want to be seen or heard or thought of, just for a short while. The voices carry easily in this echoing space, with its stone flags and too-high ceilings.
‘Allow me to introduce Mr King,’ says Eddie. ‘Curator of the Jermyn Street Gallery.’
‘How do you do?’ says Mr King. ‘I think we met briefly at the opening of the summer show at the Slade – was it last year?’
Cecilia is alive at once. Mr King – the Jermyn Street Gallery. This is it: Eddie, his friends, the show.
‘Yes, of course. You will remember my wife.’
‘I have admired your work for a long time, Mrs Fairfax-Waugh.’
‘Oh – well – thank you,’ says Lydia.
‘Truly superlative.’
No, that is not the way to do it at all. Cecilia wants to run down the stairs and shake this Mr King and tell him that Lydiais not one for direct praise. She is not Penelope; she wilts in the light, unless it is angled just so.
The voices recede as they move from the entrance hall.
