Cedric and I became great friends and he visited me constantly in Oxford, just as Lady Montdore used to before she became so busy, and I must say that I greatly preferred his company to hers. During the later stages of my pregnancy, and after the baby was born, he would come and sit with me for hours on end, and I felt completely at ease with him; I could go on with my sewing, or mending, without bothering about what I looked like, exactly as if he were one of my Radlett cousins. He was kind and thoughtful and affectionate, like a charming woman friend; better, because our friendship was marred by no tinge of jealousy.
Later on, when I had got my figure back after the baby, I began to dress and make myself up with a view to gaining Cedric’s approbation, but I soon found that, with the means at my disposal, it was not much use. He knew too much about women and their accessories to be impressed by anything I could manage. For instance, if with a great effort I changed into silk stockings when I expected him, he could see at once that they were Elliston, 5s. 11d., all I could afford, and it really seemed more sensible to stick to lisle. Indeed, he once said to me,
‘You know, Fanny, it doesn’t matter a bit that you’re not able to dress up in expensive clothes, there’d be no point in it anyway. You are like the Royal Family, my darling. Whatever you wear you look exactly the same, just as they do.’
I was not very much pleased, but I knew that he was right. I could never look fashionable, even if I tried as hard as Lady Montdore, with my heather-hair and round salubrious face.
I remember that my mother, during one of her rare visits to England, brought me a little jacket in scarlet cloth from Schiaparelli. It seemed to me quite plain and uninteresting except for the label in its lining, and I longed to put this on the outside so that people would know where it came from. I was wearing it, instead of a cardigan, in my house when Cedric happened to call, and the first thing he said was,
‘Aha! So now we dress at Schiaparelli, I see! Whatever next?’
‘Cedric! How can you tell?’
‘My dear, one can always tell. Things have a signature, if you use your eyes, and mine seem to be trained over a greater range of objects than yours, Schiaparelli – Reboux – Fabergé – Viollet-le-Duc – I can tell at a glance, literally a glance. So your wicked mother the Bolter has been here since last I saw you?’
‘Might I not have bought it for myself?’
‘No, no my love, you are saving up to educate your twelve brilliant sons, how could you possibly afford twenty-five pounds for a little jacket?’
‘Don’t tell me!’ I said. ‘Twenty-five pounds for this?’
‘Quite that, I should guess.’
‘Simply silly. Why, I could have made it myself.’
‘But could you? And if you had would I have come into the room and said Schiaparelli?’
‘There’s only a yard of stuff in it, worth a pound, if that,’ I went on, horrified by the waste of money.
‘And how many yards of canvas in a Fragonard? And how much do planks of wood cost, or the skin of a darling goat before they are turned into commodes and morocco? Art is more than yards, just as One is more than flesh and bones. By the way, I must warn you that Sonia will be here in a minute, in search of strong tea. I took the liberty of having a word with Mrs Heathery, the love of whose life I am, on my way up, and I also brought some scones from the Cadena which I deposited with her.’
‘What is Lady Montdore doing now?’ I said, beginning to tidy up the room.
‘Now, this very minute? She is at Parker’s buying a birthday present for me. It is to be a great surprise, but I went to Parker’s and prepared the ground and I shall be greatly surprised if the great surprise is not Ackerman’s Repository.’
‘I thought you turned up your nose at English furniture?’ I said.
‘Less and less. Provincial but charming is now my attitude and Ackerman’s Repository is such an amusing book, I saw a copy the other day when Sonia and I went over to Lord Merlin’s, and I long to possess it. I expect it will be all right. Sonia loves to give me these large presents, impossible to carry about; she thinks they anchor me to Hampton. I don’t blame her, her life there must have been too dull for words, without me.’
‘But are you anchored?’ I said. ‘It always seems to me that the place where you really belong is Paris – I can’t imagine you staying here for ever.’
‘I can’t imagine it either, but the fact is, my darling, that the news from Paris is not too good. I told you, didn’t I, that I left my German friend Klugg to look after my apartment and keep it warm for me? Now what do I hear? The baron came last week with a camion and took all the furniture, every stick, leaving poor Klugg to sleep on bare boards. I dare say he doesn’t notice, he is always quite drunk by bedtime, but for waking up it can’t be very nice, and meanwhile I am mourning my commodes. Louis XV – a pair – such marqueterie, such bronzes, really important pieces, objets de musée – well, often have I told you about them. Gone! The baron, during one fatal afternoon, took everything. Bitter work!’
‘What baron?’ I
