Page 5 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #2)

‘Nina, stop,’ Aunt Schofield said sternly.

‘You are not a child any more. You are a grown woman, a married woman. I’ve taken care of you as I promised your father I would do, but you are not my responsibility any more.

I have a life of my own to lead. Find something to do with yourself – and if you can’t, you are not the Nina I brought up.

Above all, do not come complaining to me about your lot.

I have no more advice to give you – and these domestic frictions are as uninteresting to me as Mrs Amberley’s teeth are to you. ’

Nina felt as though she had been slapped.

Tears came to her eyes, but she blinked them back, knowing they would only annoy her aunt, and shut her lips tight.

Aunt Schofield immediately began talking about a lecture she had attended at Senate House, and Nina tried to listen and respond intelligently.

She found it difficult, which made her fear that her mind was already deteriorating; and she was actually quite glad when her aunt cut the visit short, saying that she had a prior engagement to keep.

From Draycott Place Nina went to the Morrises’ house, where the parents of her best friend Lepida hugged and petted her, Lepida took off her hat with her own hands and brought her sherry, and Trump was cooed over, then borne off by a maid to the kitchen to be spoiled.

In the drawing-room the chat flowed freely, interspersed with laughter.

Mawes Morris was a famous cartoonist, and had acquaintances in every field, from sportsmen to actors to financiers to the King himself, so he always had amusing stories to tell.

He talked about a small dinner he had attended two days earlier, given for the King by Sir Ernest Cassel.

‘Hamilton at the Treasury deplores the King’s dining with Cassel,’ he said.

‘He thinks the King should dine only with the upper classes. But the fact is that Tum knows his own interest. Cassel is some sort of genius when it comes to money. The King gave him twenty thousand to invest last November, and by January it was worth thirty thousand, despite the fact that the King had withdrawn ten thousand just before Christmas!’

‘I wish he’d do as much for us,’ said Isabel Morris. ‘You should ask him, Mawes.’

‘Next time I have twenty thousand to spare I certainly shall,’ Mawes laughed.

‘Does Mr Cowling invest with Cassel, Nina?’ Isabel asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Nina. ‘I know they’re acquainted, but Mr Cowling doesn’t talk to me about money.’

‘Quite right,’ said Mawes. ‘There are better subjects to beguile the ladies. And talking finance makes men dull. Cassel is not the most sparkling of company, it must be said, but he’s so important to the King they call him Windsor Cassel!

I’m thinking of doing a cartoon on the subject, by the by, if the right moment comes.

I’d need a story to attach it to. And if Cassel can’t talk, he knows how to surround himself with those who can.

The Keppels were at the dinner, and they’re both amusing and witty.

Mrs George Keppel in particular – she always has something interesting to say, and says it in such an engaging way.

She has great charm – though she’s not really a beauty. ’

Nina asked a question she had often wanted to voice, but could not have done when she was an unmarried girl. ‘Is it true that Mrs Keppel is the King’s mistress?’

‘It’s hard to say,’ Mawes answered. ‘She’s certainly the King’s favourite, and he admires her intensely. Can’t take his eyes off her when she’s present. But I get the impression it’s more a matter of companionship than passion. It must be a lonely business, being king.’

‘Yes, poor king, surrounded by adoring people hanging on his every word,’ Lepida agreed.

‘Toadies and flatterers, looking for preferment,’ said Isabel. ‘Not true friends.’

‘But I’m sure Mrs George genuinely likes him,’ said Mawes. ‘Though the Keppels certainly do all right out of the relationship. You may get to meet her one of these days, Nina. And the King.’

‘Me?’ Nina stared in surprise.

‘Why not? As Hamilton said, most disobligingly, if the King can dine with Cassel he can dine anywhere. Why not with the Cowlings? You may become a woman of influence, a great political hostess.’

‘Mawes, don’t tease the girl,’ Isabel said.

Nina reflected that the first time she had met Mr Cowling, he had been in a party the King had brought to a country-house ball she was attending with Kitty.

Mr Cowling knew the King, gave him advice, lent him money.

It was not beyond the realms of possibility that he should entertain him one day.

But then she thought about Beechcroft House in Northampton, with its Victorian clutter, and Mrs Mitchell, and the plain, serviceable meals that were served there, and imagination failed.

‘Don’t worry, Nina,’ said Mawes solemnly. ‘If you ever have to be hostess to royalty and the great names of the day, I’ll come and give you advice. As long as you let me draw everyone. I’ll conceal myself behind a curtain – they’ll never know I’m there.’

‘If I’m hostess to the great names of the day,’ Nina promised him solemnly, ‘you’ll all be among the guests.’

It was balm to her feelings to be with people who so obviously liked her and enjoyed her company. Her aunt’s rejection had hurt her more than she would admit.

And when Trump was brought back in, he was much rounder, and seemed very satisfied with life.

After leaving the Morrises, Nina took a cab to Piccadilly and wandered through the Burlington Arcade to look at the shops.

She bought herself a pair of good nail scissors, and pondered a pretty silk scarf but could not raise enough enthusiasm to buy it.

Mr Cowling had told her to buy herself things, but there didn’t seem any point, for her life in Northampton.

She didn’t want to go back there – didn’t belong there – but she didn’t belong in London any more, either.

Then she shook herself. No self-pity! Aunt was right, she was a grown woman and had made her decision with a cool head.

Now she must make the best of things. And Mr Cowling was very kind to her.

She decided to go across to Fortnum’s and buy him a jar of the particular relish he was fond of, to show him she cared for him.

Leaving Fortnum’s, she wandered westwards, drifting through the crowd, feeling like a leaf borne along by a stream.

Trump began to drag at the lead, complaining that the pavements were hard, and that he was a very small dog in a world full of boots.

At the corner of St James’s Street she stopped and picked him up, wondering what to do next, and was almost run into by Richard Tallant as he came round the corner.

‘Miss Sanderton! No, what am I thinking? It’s Mrs Cowling now, isn’t it? What are you doing here? Is this your dog? He looks a likely fellow.’ He scratched the top of Trump’s head, and the dog, knowing an expert when he met one, gave the hand a lick.

‘It’s nice to see you, Mr Tallant,’ Nina said, meaning it more than the conventional words could express. In her mind he represented the metropolis, civilised company, the interest and freedom of her come-out year – everything that was not Northampton.

‘You look lost,’ Richard suggested. ‘But no one can be lost on Piccadilly. Simply isn’t possible.’

‘I was just thinking how thirsty I am and wondering how to get a cup of tea.’

‘Nothing could be simpler,’ he declared. ‘There’s Rampling’s, just a few steps away. Will you allow me the pleasure of escorting you?’

This was a new problem. Was it all right to go into a restaurant with a man, without a chaperone? She hesitated. ‘Um . . .’

It was as if he could read her mind. ‘You are a married woman, Mrs Cowling, in case you’ve forgotten.

There is absolutely nothing improper in taking tea with me in a well-lit public place in the middle of the afternoon.

’ He offered his arm. ‘After all, as the brother of the husband of your best friend, I’m practically family,’ he added.

She wished he hadn’t said that. She had been trying not to think about Giles, and there was just enough family resemblance in Richard to taunt her.

She had made a rule for herself, when Kitty married Giles, that she would not think about him, ever, and on the whole she managed pretty well.

She had two people now, Kitty and Mr Cowling, who would be dishonoured by it.

But just for a moment, glancing at Richard’s profile, everything flooded over her with such force that her legs felt weak, and she wanted to sink to the pavement and howl like a lost child.

But she seized control again with a violent effort, and a few moments later she walked into Rampling’s tea room on Richard’s arm with calm dignity, thinking nothing more weighty than that she was glad she had put on her best hat that morning.

‘So, Mr Tallant—’ she began, when they were seated. Trump, tired out from the walk, lay down under her chair and put his nose on his paws.

‘Richard, please,’ he interrupted. ‘Mr Tallant makes me feel old.’

‘Richard, then. Are you living in London now?’

‘No, still down at Ashmore. I came up to do some business for the estate with Vogel, our banker. And, more importantly, to get a haircut in Jermyn Street. Whence I was coming when I bumped into you so delightfully. Do you live in London?’

‘No – Mr Cowling came up for business and thought I might enjoy a pleasure trip. Did your business go well?’

‘Not especially,’ said Richard. ‘Did your pleasure trip go well?’

‘Not especially,’ Nina said. They looked at each other, with similar expressions of discontent.

‘You first,’ said Richard. ‘Please. Think of me as the safe hole in the ground into which you can whisper your secrets.’

‘I don’t think the hole turned out to be very safe, did it? Didn’t King Midas kill the barber afterwards?’