butlering, and estate work. We’ll train them for service jobs around the estates and have a ready pool of labor. Can you see it?” He straightened a tree by the village green. “We’ll get the kind of shops we really want in the village, and we’ll set up an architectural committee to oversee all the exteriors. Get rid of that dreadful mini-mart-style shop frontage and add a proper chef at the pub—maybe get a Michelin star eventually.”
“What about the people who already live in the village?” asked the Major.
“We’ll keep them all, of course,” said Dagenham. “We want the authenticity.”
“What about Mrs. Ali at the shop?” asked the Major. His face felt hot as he asked; he looked very hard at the model to disguise his feelings. Dagenham gave him a considering stare. The Major struggled to remain neutral but feared his eyes were crossed with the effort.
“You see, this is just where you might advise me, Major. You are closer to the people than I am and you could help me work out such nuances,” said Dagenham. “We were looking for the right multicultural element, anyway, and I’m sure we could be flexible wherever you have—shall we say—an interest?” The Major recognized, with a lurch of disappointment, the universal suggestion of a quid pro quo. It was more subtle than some bribes he had refused in a career of overseas postings to places where such things were considered normal business, but there it lay nonetheless, like a pale viper. He wondered how much influence he might barter for his support and he could not help looking long and hard at the house squatting in the field behind Rose Lodge. “I assure you none of this is set in stone yet,” continued Dagenham. He laughed and flipped one of the model houses onto its roof with a fingertip. “Though when it is, it’ll be the best white limestone from Lincolnshire.”
A clatter outside drew their attention to the doorway. A figure in green was just disappearing around the corner of the house. “Who the devil was that, I wonder?” said Dagenham.
“Maybe one of Morris’s farm lads cleaning up,” suggested the Major, who was fairly sure it had been Alice Pierce, minus the loud poncho. He had to control a chuckle at the thought that Alice’s louder than usual getup had been a deliberate distraction and that underneath it she had worn drab green clothes suitable for slinking about like a commando in a foreign jungle.
“Damn hard trying to keep this huge model to ourselves.” Dagenham picked up the cover from the floor. “Ferguson doesn’t want to reveal anything before we have to.” The Major helped him and was grateful to watch the ruined village being swallowed in the tide of gray fabric.
“Is there really no other way?” asked the Major. Dagenham sighed.
“Maybe if Gertrude weren’t so stubbornly plain, we might have tempted our American friend to the more old- fashioned solution.”
“You mean marriage?” asked the Major.
“Her mother was such a great beauty, you know,” he said. “But she’s happiest in the stables shoveling manure. In my day that would have sufficed, but these days, men expect their wives to be as dazzling as their mistresses.”
“That’s shocking,” said the Major. “How on earth will they tell them apart?”
“My point exactly,” said Dagenham, missing the Major’s hint of irony. “Shall we march on over to the house and see if Ferguson has nailed down any offers of financing?”
“They’re probably securing houses for themselves,” said the Major as they left. He felt gloomy at the prospect.
“Oh, good God, no banker is going to be approved to live here,” said Dagenham. “Though I’m afraid we will have to swallow Ferguson.” He laughed and put an arm around the Major’s shoulder. “If you support me in this, Major, I’ll make sure Ferguson doesn’t end up in the house behind yours!”
As they crossed the courtyard toward the house, Roger came out looking for Dagenham. The bankers were apparently impatient to talk to him. After shaking hands, Dagenham hurried in and the Major was left alone with his son.
“This project is going to make my career, Dad,” said Roger. He clutched a navy blue cardboard folder emblazoned with a Dagenham crest and the words “Edgecombe St. Mary, England’s Enclave.”
“Ferguson’s being so attentive to me, my boss is going to have to put me in charge of our team on this.”
“This project is going to destroy your home,” said the Major.
“Oh, come on, we’ll be able to sell Rose Lodge for a fortune once it’s built,” said Roger. “Think of all that money.”
“There is nothing more corrosive to character than money,” said the Major, incensed. “And remember, Ferguson is only being nice because he wants to buy my guns.”
“That’s quite true,” said Roger. From the frown over his eyebrows, he seemed to be thinking hard. “Look, he mentioned inviting us both to Scotland in January to shoot pheasant. You must absolutely promise me not to sell your guns to him before then.”
“I thought you were anxious to sell,” said the Major.
“Oh, I am,” said Roger, already turning on his heel to go. “But as soon as you sell them, Ferguson will drop us like a hot potato. We must hold him off as long as we can.”
“And what about Marjorie and Jemima?” asked the Major as his son trotted away from him toward the house.
“If necessary, we’ll file a complaint in probate court just to hold things up,” called Roger, waving a hand. “After all, Father, everyone knows Uncle Bertie’s gun was supposed to be yours.” With this extraordinary remark, Roger disappeared and the Major, feeling quite dizzy with surprise, thought it best to collect his guns and retreat to home.
Chapter 16
He had planned to bring Mrs. Ali a dozen long-stemmed roses, swathed in tissue and a satin bow and carried casually in the crook of his arm. But now that he was to pick her up with Grace, at Grace’s cottage, the roses seemed inappropriate. He settled for bringing each of them a single rose of an apricot color on a long spidery brown stem.
He had dashed for his car in order to avoid being seen by Alice Pierce, whose protest at the shoot had been followed by a door-to-door petition drive against St. James Homes, and rallies of protest at every public appearance by either Lord Dagenham or Ferguson. The effort was not going well. The Vicar, who had been seen suddenly consulting an architect on the long overdue restoration of the steeple, had declined to speak from the pulpit, citing the church’s need to provide love and spiritual comfort to all sides in the dispute. Many people, including the Major, had been glad to accept posters that urged “Save Our Village,” but only about half thought it polite to display them. The Major put his in the side window, where it screamed its message at the garage and not at the street. Alice continued to rush about the village with her band of followers, mostly strangers who seemed to favor hand- crocheted coats. She seemed unaware that even where she was supported locally, she was also studiously avoided by anyone who was planning on attending the Golf Club dance.
Straightening his bow tie and giving a final tug to his dinner jacket, the Major knocked on the insubstantial plywood of Grace’s mock Georgian front door. It was Mrs. Ali who opened it, the light spilling out onto the step around her and her face in partial shadow. She smiled and he thought he detected the shine of lipstick.
“Major, won’t you come in,” she said and turned away in a breathless, hurried manner. Her back, receding toward the front room, was partly revealed against the deep swoop of an evening dress. Under a loosely tied chiffon wrap, her shoulder blades were sharply delineated and her bronze skin glowed between the dark stuff of the dress and the low bun at the nape of her neck. In the front room, she half pirouetted on the hearth rug and the folds of the dress billowed around her ankles and came to rest on the tips of her shoes. It was a dark blue dress of silk velvet. The deeply cut decolletage was partially hidden by the sweep of the chiffon wrap, but Mrs. Ali’s collarbones were exquisitely visible several inches above the neckline. The material fell over a swell of bosom to a loosely gathered midriff where an antique diamond brooch sparkled.
“Is Grace still getting ready, then?” he asked, unable to trust himself to comment on her dress and yet unwilling to look away.
“No, Grace had to go early and help with the setup. Mrs. Green picked her up a short while ago. I’m afraid it’s
