‘Yes. But she won’t let me help her. God knows what will become of her. Unless—’ But the word ‘unless’ was more than he could bear. He turned away, then swung round once more to look intently into David’s eyes. ‘I never thought of that,’ he said slowly. ‘Would you have… David?’

David flushed. But when he answered it was without prevarication, his head held high.

‘No, sir. I wouldn’t even have asked her. She never had eyes for anyone but you.’

18

Guy arrived at Pfaffenstein the following evening and setting aside the servants’ efforts to announce him, found Nerine and her relatives at dinner in the Spanish dining-room.

Though a small party, they were dining in style. Light from two rows of candlesticks glowed on the walls of Morocco leather, the Goya portraits. An enormous silver epergne of writhing horsemen, which it took two footmen to lift, adorned the centre of the elaborately set table.

‘Guy, dear! We weren’t expecting you!’ Nerine was in white, diamond combs in her hair, one curl dancing on her throat in the way that had always enchanted him.

‘Let me introduce my family. This —’ Nerine’s voice took on an awed tone — ‘is my Aunt Dorothy. Mother you know, of course, but this is my Uncle Victor, my Uncle Edgar, my Cousin Clarence…’

The men half-rose, the women inclined their heads. Guy bowed punctiliously and shook hands.

His future in-laws at meat were an awesome sight and a disquieting one, for here and there on the dull and staring faces he could make out a curve of the lips, a line of the eyebrows which proclaimed unmistakably their kinship to Nerine. In sudden need of solace, he looked round and said, ‘Where’s Martha?’

Silence. Nerine’s eyes slid away from his and she began to fiddle with her napkin ring.

‘Is she ill?’ Guy’s voice had sharpened. ‘Has something happened? Has there been an accident?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. Guy, you must be starving.’ She motioned to a footman. ‘Hans, another set of covers, please.’

The digression was unsuccessful. ‘I asked you a question, Nerine. Be so kind as to answer it. Where is Martha?’

It was Aunt Dorothy, throwing a glance of reproach at her dithering niece, who now replied.

‘Mrs Hodge is dining elsewhere. It was felt that she would prefer it.’

‘Where?’

The question was put quietly. Guy had not moved and his hand did not even tighten on the chair-back where it lay. Yet both footmen drew back, seeking the shelter of the sideboard, and Uncle Victor looked over his shoulder at the door.

‘In the place to which her station in society naturally calls her,’ said Aunt Dorothy. ‘And where she herself is most at home.’

‘And where is that?’ Guy’s voice was still gentle, reasonable, quiet.

‘In the kitchen, Guy.’ Nerine was holding his eyes, appealing to him. ‘She has made such friends with the servants and — Guy! Guy! What are you doing? Don’t, don’t—’

Moving softly and seemingly quite relaxed, Guy had bent over and gripped the handles of the great silver epergne with its rearing horsemen. Then he slowly and steadily lifted it up and held it — to the incredulous gasps of the footmen — for a long moment above his head, before hurling it with demonic force against the window.

‘I thought you would prefer me not to hit you,’ he said pleasantly to Nerine.

And without a backwards glance at the screaming women and the shattered glass, he left the room.

A few minutes later he entered the castle kitchens.

The spectacle which greeted him was not a particularly pitiful one. A long, scrubbed table ran the length of the room. Hams and salamis hung from the rafters; bright copper pans gleamed in the light of the roaring fire; the smell of onions, fresh bread and schweinebraten floated deliciously in the air. Rows of cheerful-looking men in white caps and apple-cheeked girls in snowy aprons were busy eating and cracking jokes. And in what was clearly the place of honour between the chef, Rudi, and old Otto who kept the wine cellar, sat Martha Hodge.

‘Aufstehen!’

Guy’s barked order was superfluous. One glimpse of the Englishman as he stood in the doorway, and every person present had risen to their feet.

‘Not you, Martha,’ said Guy softly. ‘It is not necessary for you to rise.’

But she was already standing and as she faced him he saw, unmistakably, the hurt and distress clouding her gentle eyes.

‘Fetch the head steward.’

‘Jawohl, gnädiger Herr!’ Rudi almost ran out through the vaulted doors and reappeared seconds later with the castle’s most senior domestic servant.

‘I am at your disposal, Herr Farne,’ said the old man, bowing his head.

‘Who gave the order that Frau Hodge was to eat with the servants?’ And as the man hesitated, ‘I asked you a simple question. Answer it!’

‘The order was given by Frau Hurlingham, gnädiger Herr. She came with the other lady, the one who is her aunt, but the order came from her.’

‘Thank you. You may go.’

In goggle-eyed silence, the servants waited for further explosions. But Guy now smiled charmingly and addressing the chef said, ‘You will have to move over, Rudi, and lay another place. I shall be dining here today.’ He wandered over, lifted the lid of the soup tureen and sniffed. ‘Erbsen suppe!’ he said appreciatively — and settling himself comfortably beside Martha, took the bowl and spoon proffered by an awed kitchen-maid, ladled out an enormous helping and began to eat.

That night, Guy slept little. It had become necessary to take certain decisions. Hitherto, his chivalry had been directed towards Nerine, whom it was necessary to protect from the consequences of his own disillusionment. Now it turned to the protection of Martha Hodge.

That Martha’s own humility was such as to make it impossible for Nerine to wound her, that she regarded her banishment to the kitchens as not of the slightest consequence was something Guy was temperamentally incapable of perceiving. He had seen her hurt. Unaware that her pain was entirely for him and his unhappiness, he decided to act.

But how? Outside an owl hooted, a clock struck two, and still he sat sprawled in a carved chair, frowning in thought. Every so often, he irritably flicked away, like the ash from his cigar, an image which nevertheless continued to recur: that of Witzler’s little brat emerging from under his father’s desk to lift a tear-stained face to Guy.

‘What the devil?’ thought Guy, who less than most men concerned himself with the tantrums of young children.

Then suddenly he sat up. Of course! He reached for a notebook and pencil, jotted down a few instructions and, ten minutes later, was asleep.

At six-thirty he woke David.

‘Go to Vienna,’ he ordered. ‘Contact Witzler. Tell him I want to see him at the Klostern Theatre tomorrow at three o’clock, with all the stage-hands and technical staff. Not the singers. Say nothing to anyone. And wait for me there.’

Nerine had dreaded meeting Guy at breakfast, but he was friendly and courteous and made no reference to the events of the previous night. Curiously, his loss of temper had made her more determined than ever to go on with the marriage, for the caveman streak he had shown was not entirely displeasing. It had always struck her as odd that men, having admired her beauty, then wished to destroy it by ‘The Act’ which alas inevitably followed marriage and which left her, however calmly she tried to take it, dishevelled and not at her best. But if the thing had to happen — and she had lived long enough to have no doubt of this — then better by far that it should be with someone like Guy, with his saturnine looks and power, than poor Frith whose freckled knees and sandy, thinning hair, made the thought of ‘All That’ particularly uninviting.

So she apologized and promised to reinstate Martha in the dining-room, an action made easier by the fact that Guy’s foster-mother had made clear her determination to return to Newcastle as soon as the wedding was over and to stay there.

‘That’s all right, Nerine.’ Guy, though obviously ready to forgive, looked absent-minded, even anxious. ‘Look, my dear, I’ve had some bad news this morning. It seems as though there are problems with some of my investments.’

Nerine paled. ‘Guy! Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘No, no. Absolutely nothing to worry about. Only I’m afraid I have to be away for a few days to see to things. You just go on preparing for the wedding. And don’t listen to rumours — have faith, won’t you?’

With these disquieting words, he left her. What he told Martha before he left, Nerine did not discover. It was certainly not to have faith, for that Martha would have faith in him was something Guy had known since he was six years old.

By lunch-time he had left, with Morgan, leaving Thisbe in charge — and no word came for several days.

‘What,’ said Tante Tilda faintly, ‘is that?’

Tessa looked hurt. ‘It’s my wedding dress,’ she said.

The aunts exchanged glances of anguish.

‘Theresa, you are getting married, not buried,’ said Tante Augustine, standing with her back to the streaming window of Spittau’s state bedroom with its view of the vast and heaving lake. ‘Where did you get such a dress?’

‘From wardrobe.’ Tessa’s small head, with its wisp of veiling, emerged from the folds of the gargantuan and slightly dusty garment like a snowdrop surmounting an igloo. ‘Herr Witzler said I could take anything I liked. It’s from Lucia di Lammermoor, but it’s not bloodstained. It’s the nightdress that’s bloodstained. She goes off after the wedding feast, you see, and it is then that she murders Arturo.’