Magic Flutes

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.’

Though presumably grateful for the information, the faces of the aunts continued to reflect complete despair, and another drop of water seeped through the leak in the ceiling and plopped into the Meissen soup tureen beneath. Maxi’s compensation had been agreed but not yet paid, and though Spittau would soon be warm and dry, the autumn rains were making things a little trying.

‘It’s not the bloodstains I was worrying about,’ said Tante Augustine, returning to the attack. ‘It’s the size.’

‘I’m going to take it up,’ said Tessa soothingly.

‘And in. Like, perhaps, three metres,’ said Tante Tilda, unaccustomedly caustic.

‘Yes.’ Tessa was gazing at her reflection in the mildewed mirror with every appearance of satisfaction.

‘Tessa, please let us buy you a proper dress. There is still time.’

But the economy game played by the aunts was being turned against them with a vengeance.