Odette schools herself into pleasantries. ‘It is our pleasure, Mr King.’
‘I hoped I might be bold enough to ask for a private viewing of your work, Mrs Fairfax-Waugh, as an ardent admirer – but I can come back later.’
Lydia rises from the long cane chair, fingers worrying at the trailing edge of her shawl. ‘Mr King. It is good to see you again.’
‘Please, call me Charles.’ His eyes alight on theElainecanvas. He gives it his careful attention, with true admiration as much as dealer’s eyes. ‘Most magnificent. Eddie says you have not done a show for a number of years?’
‘No, I have been working in private.’
‘I am sure the public would be greatly interested to see what marvels you have been conjuring. Miss Hutton mentioned you had been considering it, before your recent illness.’ Mr King pauses, looks around at the other works, assessing. ‘I hear you are interested in selling as well as showing?’
Lydia’s eyes dart towards Odette, a certain trembling of her top lip. In this precise moment, Odette feels attuned to her, like a delicately calibrated scientific instrument. Lydia is balanced like a spinning coin, poised just so on a fine edge: now it slows,lurching to each side; now it begins to fall.
It is selfish of her. Odette looks away.
‘Yes, why not?’ Lydia’s tone is artificially breezy, and Odette wonders if Mr King can tell. ‘There are so many canvases cluttering the place up that I would far rather they go to better homes.’
It is childish and simple, but all Odette can think is: her motherdoeslove her.
‘The Jermyn Street Gallery would be delighted to accommodate you – if I don’t presume too much?’
There is no knock this time when the door opens; Claudine enters with the medication the doctor has prescribed to dose Lydia. There is a downturn to her mouth, a brusqueness to her movements that reveals her irritation with her task. She wears an expensive lavender house dress and silk slippers, her hair pinned up with careless elegance. It is still strange to see her in the house, so much her sister’s overexposed copy, too tall, too prepossessed, toohealthy. Odette has always been taller, stronger than her mother, and she wonders, with a jolt, if she more resembles Claudine than Lydia.
‘Oh, Mr King. I see you have found our patient.’
Odette tries to slide into the background. It is a delicate moment, and she does not wish to unbalance things – or to draw Claudine’s attention. Odette finds herself cringing away each time her aunt rounds a corner, a spike of panic catching her in the throat. She is ashamed of herself – and confused. She must try harder to anticipate Claudine’s moods. Odette has had enough practice moulding herself around her own mother; it should not be beyond her to distil whatever it is Claudine wants of her and provide it.
‘Odette, have some tea sent in for our guest.’
She does as she is told, and Claudine follows her out.
‘You are overtiring your mother,’ she says. ‘It is selfish of youto demand so much of her time.’
At once, Odette’s cheeks flush. ‘I’m not – that is to say, I only wanted to keep her company.’
‘She is always tired after lunch – something you would know if you tried a little harder to be a member of this household.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, because she does not know what else to say. She does not know if what Claudine says is true. Is her mother more tired after lunch? Does Claudine know more about Lydia than she does?
‘We would all appreciate it if you gave others a little more consideration. You may gad about with Cecilia, or you may take your mother’s care seriously – you cannot expect to do both.’
Claudine goes back into the studio, leaving Odette hot with outrage. How has her aunt so swiftly touched upon something so utterly untrue? What does Claudine know ofdutyto Lydia? How dare she accuse her of abandoning her mother?
Odette cannot bear to stay trapped with Lydia – but if she goes, she does not know what will become of her.
2
Cecilia
‘WHAT HO, MOTHER – YOUlook like half of Kew Gardens,’ says Leo as he saunters into Cecilia’s room. The whole household has been in gloom since Lydia’s abrupt illness, but Leo alone seems immune.
Penelope laughs and swats Leo on the arm, scoldingly.
‘You honour us with your presence,’ she says. ‘Can the partners spare you for so long?’ She has come to rifle through Cecilia’s jewellery for something that suits the pale ivory evening dress she has chosen. A series of necklaces are laid out for her inspection.
‘Oh, I should think so. Half of them have taken off to Mont Blanc to attempt a climb and the other half have gone to Monte Carlo to take the waters – or rather to have half their wallets taken fromthem, so I shan’t be missed at all.’
Penelope fixes a bracelet around her wrist and looks Leo up and down. ‘You are looking quite fine, I must say. They keep you sharp on the London fashions?’
