house parties that he felt professionally compelled to give, despite Joan’s incapacity. Evangeline soon forgot last week’s regrettable occurrence when the maid had walked into her bedroom just when she was hiding the shards of an eighteenth-century French vase beneath the chocolate wrappers in her wastepaper basket. That day Wallis had cancelled an invitation to a formal dinner at Bryanston Court and Evangeline had demonstrated her disappointment by throwing the pretty object at the fireplace.
Now at last she had the chance to host dinner parties of her own. Last Saturday Evangeline had taken Joan’s place at one end of the dining room table as proxy hostess for her godmother, and afterwards Philip had gone so far as to say that he did not know quite how he would manage without Evangeline’s help.
“Thank you, Philip,” she said, risking a small kiss of gratitude on Philip’s cheek. “That means a great deal to me.”
As a result of her unexpected promotion, Evangeline was enjoying a new social confidence. She felt needed. When arranging the dinnerparty placement by pinning miniature handwritten name flags onto a leather-covered corkboard imprinted with the outline of a table, she positioned herself between the guest of honour—the director-general of the BBC, Sir John Reith—and the mayor of Eastbourne.
Ever since Evangeline’s arrival in England, she had found dinner parties something of an ordeal. The British adhered fiercely to the etiquette of having equal numbers of each gender around a dining table although the rule was treated with laxity by the Blunts. Even so, women guests entering the dining room either at Hamilton Terrace or Cuckmere Park would raise an eyebrow when they saw that their name card had been put next to that of Evangeline; her single status invariably threw the numbers out of kilter. In London the search for a spare, single man was less of a challenge. Several distinguished individuals, mostly confirmed bachelors, were happy to fill the role. The choice in the country was more limited and had become an even greater problem for the Blunts since the Cuckmere vicar’s announcement that he would no longer be available for that purpose. His wife was so fed up at being left at home that she had threatened to stop doing the church flowers.
The day before the dinner, Sir John’s secretary had telephoned to say he would be coming alone, and even though Bettina had already been persuaded to come down to Cuckmere on one of her rare visits, Evangeline and Philip found themselves a woman short. At the last minute the headmistress of the village school had been asked to occupy the spare chair between Rupert and the senior librarian from the London Library, who was in residence cataloguing Sir Philip’s books.
“Do you think Miss Dobbs will have the right clothes?” Philip asked Evangeline at teatime. He was uncharacteristically nervous, his uncertainties about such matters no longer eased by his wife’s reassurances. “I hope she wears something other than those moth-eaten trousers, and remembers to brush that chewed hair. Honestly, sometimes she looks more like a Mr. than a Miss.”
Evangeline was too preoccupied with thoughts about her own gown to be much interested in Miss Dobbs’s dress sense.
“Between us,” Philip continued, “I have instructed Mrs. Cage that Miss Dobbs is not to be given too much wine. You never know when tongues unaccustomed to alcohol may run away with themselves, do you?”
Evangeline finally gave Philip her attention.
“I think you have nothing to worry about, my dear. I am certain the evening will go with a swing. And Miss Dobbs may surprise us as a marvellous addition to the table. Don’t they say teachers and librarians go together like …” Evangeline sought for a comparison, “… like a spoon and fork, or toast and marmalade? And now, if you will excuse me?”
And after giving him what was threatening to become a habitual peck on the cheek, Evangeline headed upstairs to begin the preparations for her evening toilette. Philip made sure she was out of sight before looking in the mirror and touching the spot where Evangeline’s lipstick had left an imprint the colour of a holly berry. As he wiped his cheek with his handkerchief he resolved to treat her with more kindness.
By the time the quails’ eggs had been cleared away, Evangeline was doing her best to fulfil her duties as a hostess. She had succeeded in feigning a rapt interest in the mayor of Eastbourne’s plans for new town housing. It had not been easy. Every time