“Three pounds ten, and I get a pound refund if I bring them back undamaged. I got the rings because we have to be careful, Catty. It’s the little details that will give us away.”
“So this means I am now to be called Lady Neville-Percy?”
“No, you would be addressed as Lady Caitrin.”
“That calms my socialist soul, just a little.”
“Are you ready to test our marriage out on Charles and Elizabeth Ashtonthorpe, the ancient family of Cockleford Manor?”
“How ancient a family?”
“Charles’s great-grandfather was a certain Claude Thorpe, a Liverpool laborer and self-made man in the 1830s who owned lead mines. Couldn’t read or write but made a fortune supplying bullets to the British army. He bought Cockleford Manor when it was in ruins and the owners bankrupt; I believe the usual fast women and reckless gambling were involved in the downfall. Claude rebuilt it, and also rebuilt his name into Ashtonthorpe. They’re that ancient.”
“Gawd, they’re mere parvenus compared to us ancient Neville-Percys.” She flashed the rings and tapped the dashboard. “Onwards, Victoria, onwards.”
* * *
Cockleford Manor was imposing. Its honey-colored Italianate exterior stretched across a rise above a lake. Massive yew trees edged it and towered over a walled garden. Charles and Elizabeth Ashtonthorpe were standing at the porte-cochère as they drove up.
“Here we go, heads up, so just you behave,” Hector said as he switched off the engine.
“I promise not to pick my nose or drop a single aitch.”
“Just don’t swipe the silver.”
The Ashtonthorpes were effusive in their greeting: Charles, a middle-aged man made of straight lines, except for a prominent, catenary curve of a stomach; and his wife Elizabeth, small, tilted off-center, and with a nervous habit of clasping and unclasping her hands to harmonize with a fluttering smile. She wore an old-fashioned blue dress decorated with a brooch shaped like a swan. The sole servant was named Wendy, an inscrutable girl with a myopic stare, who showed them to their room and left without saying a word. Caitrin collapsed onto the bed, arms outstretched.
“I’m tired. How big is this place?” she asked.
“Thirty bedrooms, maybe more, and the same number of rooms on the ground floor.”
“Poor Wendy must spend all day making beds. No wonder she looks so sad.”
“They are almost all empty and decaying, though,” Hector said. “Roland and I used to play hide and seek in them. So many, we never could find each other. We have to dress for dinner. Elizabeth wants to impress you.”
“Roast beef and Yorkshire pud would impress me, and I packed only one dress.”
“I’m sure you’ll look marvelous in it.”
She did, too, wearing a sea-foam green rayon cocktail dress with a simple row of pearls, although she also looked lost, as did the others, in the cavernous oak-paneled dining room. The table was dressed with glittering ranks of cutlery and a centerpiece of flowers that Charles had Wendy remove because they made him sneeze. Hector sat opposite Caitrin in the middle with Charles and Elizabeth marooned at either end of the table. Caitrin noticed Charles had stopped blinking, and his face was flushed. He had apparently been drinking for a while and looked as though he intended to continue.
“What a pity Roland isn’t here. He’ll be so disappointed to have missed you,” Elizabeth said, and Caitrin thought she detected a thickness of tongue. Perhaps both Ashtonthorpes had tanked up well before dinner.
“Where is Roland?” Hector asked.
“He’s in Catterick. Knocking new recruits into shape. It’s a miserable place, so I’m told. Then, it is in Yorkshire, so what can one expect?” Charles said.
“We were so surprised to hear you were married,” Elizabeth said. “There was no official notice. Not even a word about it in Tatler.”
Hector shrugged. “It’s the war, I’m afraid. It’s not really the best time for a grand affair. We decided to make it simple.”
“Registry office?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Chelsea,” Hector said.
“Kensington,” Caitrin said at the same time and recovered. “I wanted Kensington, but Chelsea was easier.”
Wendy appeared, served, and left looking as though she was about to burst into tears or stab Charles in the neck. Charles drank his wine and poured another glass.
“Your family is in Wales?” Elizabeth asked, and Caitrin knew it was the first question in a series of probes to find out precisely where she would fit in the rigid hierarchy of their world.
“Yes.”
“Hector tells me your maiden name is Colline. Are you by any chance related to the Harlech Collyns?”
“No, the County Cork Collines.”
“Oh, Irish.” There was an uncharted and tragic disappointment in just those two words. Charles intruded.
“You’re not enlisting, Hector? I should have imagined a strong chap like you would be out there leading the charge. Follow me, chaps, over the top and all that,” Charles said in a louder voice than he intended.
“I tried to enlist in the Guards,” Hector said and patted his chest. “But during my physical they discovered a weakness in my heart. It seems there’s a faulty valve somewhere. Rather an unpleasant surprise, really, and so disappointing.”
Wendy silently appeared again, removed their plates, and served a second course. Caitrin attempted to send her an empathetic smile, but the maid was unreceptive. Caitrin had visions of the girl going downstairs, closing the door, and doing unkind things to the family dog. Charles swallowed another glass of wine.
