Dorcas lingered behind, picking up discarded napkins and replacing used cutlery neatly on the dishes as she’d been taught. She directed an earnest stare in Joe’s direction.
‘Ovens?’ Joe asked, intrigued.
‘In the dungeons down below, where the children go to play hide and seek,’ Estelle explained, ‘there’s a series of perfectly hideous hidey-holes with doors.’ She shuddered. ‘The kids will tell you that they’re ovens where prisoners used to be shut in alive to cook to death. I think they’re really called oubliettes. You know—tiny cells where prisoners could be put out of the way and forgotten.’
She caught Dorcas’s eye over the table and spoke in a voice meant to be heard by all. ‘So glad you’ve arrived at last, dear! It used to be my job to gather in the brood at the end of the day and do the roll-call. Never was dorm-prefect material, I’m afraid. Not the mother hen type, either! I’m delighted to see I can now hand it over to a competent youngster who will keep a closer eye on them.’
Dorcas gargled a gypsy oath and flung a knife down on to a dish with a clatter. Joe winced.
Everyone looked up and stared, sensing a drama. Even two very young girls with abundant dark hair who’d been fluting like finches in a mixture of Russian and French fell silent. The strikingly handsome gentleman sitting between the two beauties Joe had already marked down as possibly Russian, of intimidating aspect and out of place at that table. He was somewhat older than the rest of the company and more formally dressed. His linen jacket was uncrumpled and his silk cravat impeccably draped. Joe looked for a flaw in this ageing Adonis and decided that the hair, slicked back over a well-shaped skull, was suspiciously dark over the ears and, in a year or two’s time, the jowls would have grown heavy.
The Russian broke off an intense conversation in accented French with Guy de Pacy to glower at Dorcas. He took a monocle from his shirt pocket, fixed it into his right eye-socket, and with all the menace of Beerbohm Tree playing Svengali at the Haymarket, he affected to seek out the source of the interruption. Not much liking what he saw, he glowered again.
Joe leaned behind Estelle and touched Orlando lightly on the shoulder. Orlando caught and responded to his enquiring look. ‘Monsieur Petrovsky. Ballet-meister. Or so he bills himself,’ he hissed.
Oblivious of the Russian disapproval, Dorcas began to speak. In a voice whose chilling hauteur brought back memories of the girl’s formidable grandmother, she addressed her father. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Orlando, I won’t take up any child-herding duties on a formal basis … I may not be staying long. The Commander and I are working on a project. We may have to come and go … leave early … get back late … Our schedule must remain elastic. And, anyway, it’s a long time since I saw it as my job to go about extracting half-baked children from ovens at the end of the day.’
Someone exclaimed, all turned wondering eyes on Orlando, waiting for his reaction to this statement of rebellion. Waiting for him to discharge the musket of paternal authority over her head.
But the shot came from another quarter. Petrovsky’s voice boomed out: ‘Tell me, child, how old are you?’
Grudgingly Dorcas replied: ‘I’m fourteen.’
‘Fourteen? Indeed? May I recommend a few more years in bottle before you uncork your wisdom for the world?’
The monocled eye swept the audience, gathering approval. The finches tittered dutifully. Joe had the impression that it wasn’t the first time he’d delivered the line. Or the first time they’d heard it.
Orlando rose to his feet, distinguished and urbane. ‘I take your point, Dorcas old thing,’ he said calmly. ‘But, I say, darling daughter of mine, may I ask you not to speak to your father in your grandmama’s voice?’ He gave a histrionic shudder. ‘It gave me quite a turn! One termagant in a family is quite enough, thank you! Now, why don’t you come on over to the grown-ups’ table—where you ought to be—and we’ll discuss our domestic arrangements more discreetly? We don’t want to risk wearying the elderly with the frivolous concerns of youth.’
Dorcas grinned. She came stalking over to Joe’s side and tapped Estelle on the shoulder. ‘Dorcas Joliffe. How do you do? May I ask you to move along a little, madam? There are things I have to discuss with my uncle Joe.’
After a brief flare of surprise, Estelle shuffled peaceably along the bench and, as Dorcas inserted her skinny frame between them, Joe caught the model’s brown eyes crinkling in amusement over the top of the girl’s head. ‘Understood!’ said Estelle. ‘Look—do you think we could do a deal, Dorcas Old Thing? One day on, one day off for as long as you stay? I’m sure Nunky JoJo wouldn’t object. And considering half the junior contingent are Joliffes of one sort or another anyway, that’s better than a fair offer. I’m not kidding when I say it’s not my forte … All that “Cleaned your teeth? Washed your hands? Done your duty in the garde-robe?” They take no notice of me and it’s so boring! At least share the boredom with me! Otherwise it won’t get done at all.’
Dorcas extended a hand and took the one being offered her. ‘Done!’ she said with satisfaction. And, surprisingly: ‘I’ll take tonight’s watch if you like? But you’ll have to brief me. What time do they go down? Eight? Not until eight? Estelle, you spoil them!’
They dived into an easy domestic conversation, leaving Joe free to enjoy the apple tart and cheese and the quantities of wine poured from cooling earthenware pitchers. Joe thought he could safely scratch the kitchen from his list of facilities to check on. He learned a few more names and listened carefully to a series of thumbnail sketches of the people around the table from Orlando.
‘They’ll bring coffee in a moment and then we’ll break up into groups,’ Orlando explained, looking at his wristwatch. ‘We aim to be back at work by two—no siestas! But we like to circulate a bit. Exchange views and gossip, make plans for outings into the countryside by charabanc. You’ve no idea how inspiring it is to share and develop ideas. Gives you a certain confidence to know you’re not alone. We usually settle on some of those piles of cushions and furs they keep about the place in lieu of proper furniture. This crowd seems to rather go for the informal approach,’ he added apologetically.
‘Suits me,’ said Joe. ‘I can lounge like a sultan, given the chance. Just don’t expect me to talk art and make any sense.’
There was a lull while the last of the dessert and cheese plates were carried off and one of the company took the opportunity to ask, ‘Have you asked him, Orlando? What’s he say?’
Orlando shook his head. He seemed embarrassed.
‘Oh, come on, man! You said he wouldn’t mind …’
‘Me?’ Joe asked warily, noticing he was the target of all eyes. ‘What won’t I mind?’
‘They have some mad idea that you should be asked, although in transit and on vacation, to offer a little professional advice. I didn’t want to impose but … oh, well, they’re so uneasy about it, someone’s bound to bring it up … Might as well be me. Fact is, Joe, we’ve got a little local difficulty.’
‘Little local difficulty!’ scoffed one of the women. ‘You call an invasion and sacking by a band of Vandals a “difficulty”?’ Her voice began to climb to a shriek. ‘And when they return? What words will you find to inform the police that we women have all been raped in our beds?’
‘Beds, eh? At least we’re to be violated in comfort,’ muttered Estelle to Dorcas who, to Joe’s dismay gave an appreciative giggle.
Estelle leaned across the table and caught the eye of the speaker, a woman whom Joe might have described as a statuesque redhead—if the statue in question were portraying an Amazon queen. The lady now quivering with anticipated terror appeared to be perfectly capable of repelling a squad of eager Vikings single-handed. And, indeed, dressed for repelling. Joe studied her outfit and tried to repress his subversive thoughts. She was wearing a pair of mannish dungarees, paint-splattered, and the top half flattened an over-generous bosom like a breastplate.