“Written by another Irishman,” said Turner, “whose name should not be mentioned in respectable society. Don’t you agree with me, Mallory?” he asked as the first course was removed. George’s untouched salmon looked as if it was still capable of swimming.
“If respectable society is unable to discuss the two most gifted playwrights of their generation, then yes, sir, I agree with you.”
Mildred, who had not spoken until that moment, leaned across and whispered, “I do so agree with you, Mr. Mallory.”
“What about you, O’Sullivan?” asked Turner. “Are you of the same opinion as Mallory?”
“I rarely agree with anything George says,” replied Andrew, “which is why we remain on such good terms.” Everyone burst out laughing as the butler placed a baron of beef on the sideboard and, having presented it to his master for approval, began to carve.
George took advantage of the distraction to glance once again toward the other end of the table, only to find that Ruth was smiling at Andrew.
“I must confess,” Andrew said, “that I have never attended a play by either gentleman.”
“I can assure you, O’Sullivan,” said Turner after sampling a glass of red wine, “that neither of them is a gentleman.”
George was about to respond when Mildred jumped in, “Ignore him, Mr. Mallory. It’s the one thing our father can’t abide.”
George smiled, and indulged himself in a more genteel conversation with Marjorie about basket weaving until the plates had been cleared away, although he did steal a glance toward the other end of the table from time to time. Ruth didn’t appear to notice.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Turner as he folded his napkin, “let us hope that you’ve learned one lesson from this evening.”
“And what might that be, sir?” asked Andrew.
“To make sure that you don’t end up with three daughters. Not least because Mallory won’t rest until they’ve all gone to university and been awarded degrees.”
“A capital suggestion, Mr. Mallory,” said Mildred. “Had I been given the opportunity to follow my father’s example and become an architect, I would have happily done so.”
For the first time that evening, Mr. Turner was struck dumb. It was some time before he recovered sufficiently to suggest, “Perhaps we should all go through to the drawing room for coffee?”
This time it was the girls who were unable to hide their surprise at Papa’s break with his traditional routine. Usually he enjoyed a brandy and cigar with his male guests before he even considered joining the ladies.
“A memorable victory, Mr. Mallory,” whispered Marjorie as George held back her chair. George waited until all three sisters had left the dining room before he made his move. He was pleased to see that Andrew was deep in conversation with the old man.
Once Ruth had taken her place on the sofa in the drawing room, George casually strolled across and sat down beside her. Ruth said nothing, and appeared to be looking across at Andrew, who had joined Marjorie on the chaise-longue. Having achieved his objective, George was suddenly lost for words. It was some time before Ruth came to his rescue.
“Did you defeat my father at billiards, by any chance, Mr. Mallory?” she eventually offered.
“Yes, I did, Miss Turner,” said George as Atkins placed a cup of coffee by her side.
“That would explain why he was so argumentative during dinner.” She took a sip of her coffee before adding, “Should he invite you again, Mr. Mallory, perhaps it might be more diplomatic to let him win.”
“I’m afraid I could never agree to that, Miss Turner.”
“But why not, Mr. Mallory?”
“Because it would reveal a weakness in my character that she might find out about.”
“She?” repeated Ruth, genuinely puzzled.
“Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.”
“But my father told me that it was Everest that you were hoping to conquer.”
“‘Everest’ is the name the English have labeled her with, but it’s not the one she answers to.”
“Your coffee will be getting cold, Mr. Mallory,” said Ruth as she glanced across the room.
“Thank you, Miss Turner,” he said, taking a sip.
“And are you hoping to become better acquainted with this goddess?” she inquired.
“In time, perhaps, Miss Turner. But not before one or two other ladies have fallen under my spell.”
She looked at him more quizzically. “Anyone in particular?”
“Madame Matterhorn,” he replied. “It’s my intention to leave a calling card during the Easter vacation.” He took another sip of his cold coffee before asking, “And where will you be spending Easter, Miss Turner?”
“Father is taking us to Venice in April. A city that I suspect would not meet with your approval, Mr. Mallory, as it languishes only a few feet above sea level.”
“It’s not only elevation that matters, Miss Turner. ‘Underneath day’s azure eyes, ocean’s nursling, Venice lies, a peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite’s destined halls.’”
“So you admire Shelley,” said Ruth as she placed her empty cup back on a side table.
George was about to reply when the clock on the mantelpiece struck once to indicate that it was half past the hour. Andrew rose from his place and, turning to his host, said, “It’s been a delightful evening, sir, but perhaps the time has come for us to take our leave.”
George glanced at his watch: 10:30. The last thing he wanted to do was take his leave, but Turner was already on his feet, and Marjorie was heading toward him. She gave him a warm smile. “I do hope that you’ll come and see us again soon, Mr. Mallory.”
“I hope so too,” said George, while still looking in Ruth’s direction.
Mr. Turner smiled. He might not have defeated Mallory, but one of his daughters certainly had the measure of him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GEORGE DIDN’T WANT Andrew to discover what he was up to.
He couldn’t get Ruth out of his mind. He had never come across such serene beauty, such delightful company, and all he had managed to do, when left alone with her, was stare into those blue eyes and make a complete fool of himself. And the more she smiled at Andrew, the more desperate he had become, quite unable to come up with a witty comment, or even to manage polite conversation.
How much he had wanted to hold her hand, but Mildred had kept distracting him, allowing Andrew to retain Ruth’s attention. Did she have any interest in him at all or had Andrew already spoken to her father? During dinner he had watched the two of them deep in conversation. He had to find out what they had talked about. He had never felt so pathetic in his life.
George had observed smitten men in the past, and had simply dismissed them as deluded fools. But now he had joined their number and, even worse, his goddess appeared to favor another creature. Andrew isn’t worthy of her, George said out loud before he fell asleep. But then he realized that neither was he.
When he woke the following morning-if he had ever slept-he tried to dismiss her from his thoughts and prepare for the day’s lessons. He dreaded the thought of forty minutes with the lower fifth, having to listen to their opinions of Walter Raleigh and the significance of his importing tobacco from Virginia. If only Guy wasn’t serving as a diplomat on the other side of the world, he could ask his advice about what to do next.
To George, the first lesson that morning felt like the longest forty minutes in history. Wainwright almost made him lose his temper, and for the first time Carter minor got the better of him, but then thankfully the bell tolled. But for whom, he wondered? Not that any of them would have heard of Donne-except perhaps Robert Graves.
As George made his way slowly across the quad to the common room, he rehearsed the lines he’d gone over again and again during the night. He must stick to the script until every one of his questions had been answered,
