The House at Tyneford Read Online Free Page B

coats we saw that beneath them they sparkled like tropical butterflies. Margot’s dress was shot silk, indigo blue as a summer’s night and studded with silver embroidered stars, which twinkled as she moved. Even fat Frau Finkelstein wore a plum-coloured gown, her white, doughy arms puckered by tight gauze sleeves, her grey hair plaited into a crown and studded with cherry blossoms. Lily Roth conjured a feathered fascinator from her bag like a magician and fastened it in her hair, so she resembled a bird of paradise. Every lady wore her jewels, and all of them at once. If in the past seeming garish or extravagant or petty bourgeois had troubled us, now, as we felt everything sliding away into blackness, we wondered how we could have worried about such things. Tonight was for pleasure. Tomorrow we would have to sell our jewels—Grandmama’s spiderweb diamond brooch, the gold bracelet studded with rubies and sapphires that the children had teethed upon, the platinum cuff links given to Herman when he made partner at the bank—so tonight we would wear them all and shine beneath the moon.
    Julian sipped burgundy and listened to Herr Finkelstein’s stories, smiling easily in all the right places. I’d heard them all—the time he met Baron Rothschild at a concert, and the baron, mistaking him for someone else, had tipped his head and the baroness her sherry glass: “And who on earth would have dreamed there was a smart fellow as bald and round as me? I must find my double and shake his hand.” I rolled my eyes, bored from a distance. Julian saw me and gestured for me to join them; I shook my head and edged away.
    I knew this was my last party as a guest. I studied the manservant in his black tie, and impassive face, and tried to imagine myself as one of them, refreshing glasses and pretending not to hear conversation. Pity I’d never said anything worth eavesdropping upon when I’d had the chance. From my vantage point, I saw Margot and Robert whispering in the corner, hand in hand. I had it on good authority that flirting with one’s spouse in public was the depth of ill manners (with someone else’s husband it was perfectly fine, of course), but once again Anna informed me that within the first year of marriage it was quite acceptable. I hoped Margot had written their first anniversary in her diary along with a note to “stop flirting with Robert.” She would be in America by then, and with something like regret I realised I would not be able to tell her to behave. I must write and remind her. Although, I mused, it was possible Americans had different rules, and I wondered if I ought to point this out to her. At that moment, I was feeling charitable toward my sister. While at most parties I watched as the men swarmed around Margot and Anna, tonight I had caught little Jan Tibor surreptitiously glancing at my bosom, and I felt every bit as sophisticated as the others. In the darkness of the hall I puffed out my chest and fluttered my eyelashes, imagining myself irresistible, a dark-haired Marlene Dietrich.
    “Darling, don’t do that,” said Anna, appearing beside me. “The seams might pop.”
    I sighed and deflated. My pink sheath dress had once belonged to Anna, and although Hildegard had let out the material as much as she could, it still pinched.
    “It looks lovely on you,” said Anna, suddenly conscious that she may have wounded my feelings. “You must take it with you.”
    I snorted. “For washing dishes in? Or for dusting?”
    Anna changed the subject. “Do you want to ring the bell for dinner?”
    The bell was a tiny silver ornament, once belonging to my grandmother, and it tinkled a C sharp, according to Margot, who had perfect pitch. As a child, it had been a great treat to put on my party frock, stay up late and ring the bell for dinner. I would stand beside the dining room door, solemnly allowing myself to be kissed good night by the guests as they filed in for dinner. Tonight as I rang the bell,