The Uninvited Guests by Sadie Jones

Author:Sadie Jones
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins US
Published: 2012-10-03T03:36:44.257000+00:00

4

A MOST UNPLEASANT GAME

Arrested in their jollity, faces falling, the group looked at Traversham-Beechers wanly for a moment, and then returned to their suppers.

He went immediately to the sideboard and took a deep ruby claret from amongst the decanters and fresh glasses from the sideboard. They tinkled together onto the muffling cloth as he poured, hurriedly, so that little spots and red splashes flew about their edges, and ran pinkly down to stain the damask.

‘Here, be merry and all that,’ he encouraged, handing around the drinks and keeping the decanter on the table. As he placed the glasses in front of each of them, their camaraderie dissolved into the air. What had been a friendly group became a tableful of single, separated souls. He sat next to Emerald and drank deeply.

‘Well, isn’t this cosy? Fancy getting blotto?’ he said.

A shocked silence met this suggestion.

‘I believe I can return a “nay” to that,’ said John, ‘but I wouldn’t mind a glass.’

‘A glass or two! That’s the spirit,’ said Traversham-Beechers, and topped up all the glasses to brimming. ‘A toast to your mother – the beautiful Miss – I do beg your pardon, Mrs Torring—I’m so sorry, Mrs Swift: Mrs Swift!’ and he raised his glass, drank, and then asked mildly, ‘Where is she?’

‘She’s – she went off some time ago,’ said Clovis, adding to Emerald, ‘Don’t you think we ought to offer our sainted parent the last of the scraps?’

‘Go and seek her out, would you, Clo?’ said Emerald, who did not much fancy an encounter with her mother just then.

Clovis left the disturbed and gaudy dining room, the guests, seated anyhow, in grubby clothes and scattered scraps about the table, and went into the chilly emptiness of the corridors and hall.

The cat Lloyd was perched sternly on the newel post and watched him as he passed.

Clovis crept to the study and listened to the muted burble within before continuing. Although he knew the passengers were all satisfied for the moment, he did not quite trust the apparent emptiness of the house and seemed to see them still, from the corner of his eye, as he walked.

Upstairs everything was lit and welcoming as before. He knocked on the door of his mother’s room, the biggest, in the centre of the house.

‘Who is it?’

The voice was fearful; he had startled her. He went in.

‘Just me,’ he said.

Charlotte had raised herself up on her elbow. The huge bay window was behind her, its silk curtains half drawn, swagged and tasselled, like the curtains for the boudoir scenes of La Bohème at Covent Garden, where Clovis, Emerald, Charlotte and Horace had once sat in the stalls one unforgettable evening, and been bathed and saturated by beauty.

‘Are you all right, Mother?’ he asked.

She had sunk back onto the bed and sighed, and the question came from his heart.

‘Sit here, boy,’ she said, and when he did she took his hand.

‘The guests are all fed – the accident people, I mean – and the rest of us are having a bite in the dining room.

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