Page 24 of Broken Country

Nina rolls her eyes.

“Thing about you, Jimmy Johnson, is you have no idea what a catch you are. You’re the best man I know. And not so bad to look at either.”

And then we are all embracing and the sight of the brothers, these two giant men clinched in a bear hug, moves me, almost to tears. I wish David were here to see it. He longed to see his younger son settled, worried about him constantly—not that he’d ever say.

Nina climbs back onto Jimmy’s lap, both arms wound around his neck. I can’t take my eyes off them. When did I last look at Nina properly? Nina, who has a radar-like sensor for Jimmy’s changing moods and weathers the worst of them effortlessly. Nina, whose beauty is matched by her vivaciousness, her willingness to laugh, to dance, to find the best outcome. Nina, who might have had anyone, but has been firmly stuck on Jimmy since she was nineteen.

“A wedding, then?” I say. “Let’s have it here.”

“Oh,” Nina laughs. “Forgot about that bit.”

“We’ll invite everyone,” Jimmy says. “The whole damned village. It’s about time we had a party.”

The concept of a wedding at Blakely Farm envelops us in a cloud of excitement. Glancing up, I see Frank looking at me. He smiles fractionally and nods his head. I know we are thinking the same thing. This wedding is what we need. This wedding is going to be good for us all.

Before

I am in my mother’s bedroom getting dressed for a dinner party at Meadowlands. My sister is here too, lolling on my mother’s bed, dishing out fashion advice and snippy remarks about the Wolfe family.

“Is it too much?” I say, staring at myself in the long, gilt-framed mirror.

I am wearing an off-the-shoulder top of Eleanor’s, with a circular skirt my mother and I have sewed painstakingly over the past four days. My mother has lent me a wide patent leather belt and Eleanor has put waves into my hair with my mother’s rollers. Makeup too, borrowed from my sister: red lipstick, rouged cheeks.

“Oh, Beth,” my mother says, when I turn around. “You are lovely.”

“You look great,” Eleanor says. “Although that dreadful woman will no doubt tell you your clothes are completely out-of-date.”

It was probably a mistake to tell my family about Tessa’s behavior the first time I met her.

Gabriel came here for supper a few nights ago. He was his most charming self, talking to my mother about the Brontë sisters, her favorite; to my father about Dublin, where Gabriel had holidayed as a child; and asking Eleanor all about London’s nightlife.

It did no good. When Gabriel left, Eleanor said: “He’s all right, I suppose. Very good-looking. But how do you put up with that voice? Frightfully posh, isn’t he?”

The dinner party is in full flow by the time I arrive.

“There you are, dear Beth,” Tessa says, when I walk into the dining room where Gabriel, his parents, and some visiting American friends are gathered. “The silly girl brought our soup out before we were ready for it. So I’m afraid we’ve had to start without you.”

“And here’s your place next to me,” Edward says, rising in his chair. “Let me introduce you.”

The guests are Richard and Moira Scott and their daughter, Louisa, who has just finished her first year at St Hilda’s, Oxford. Gabriel gave me no other information about this evening other than there was some dreary American girl coming for the weekend whom he was being forced to look after, and please would I help.

He’s giving a good show of being willing rather than coerced is my first thought, as I watch him listening to Louisa, his head tilted toward her. Perhaps no one had told him how pretty she was, although “pretty” does not do justice to her pink-and-white skin and glittering eyes, a mouth that curves upward as if in permanent readiness for a smile. She has a doll-like perfection, dainty ears, elegant little nose, curvy rosebud mouth, like a prototype for classic beauty.

I thought I had dressed up for this evening, but it is nothing compared with Louisa. She is in strapless black satin, a choker of pearls around her lovely neck, a daring suggestion of cleavage on show for this family party.

It’s interesting seeing mothers and daughters together, particularly when they are the mirror image of each other, like Louisa and Moira Scott. It bodes well for Louisa, her mother’s smooth, unlined skin, her slim body encased in a narrow black dress. Good genes, great bone structure. Strong white American teeth. They laugh a lot, perhaps to reveal these excellent smiles.

Louisa waves at me from the other side of the table. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she says. “Gabriel has been telling me all about you.”

“And Louisa has been filling me in on Oxford.”

“Some of my best friends at Oxford are poets and playwrights. They are always on the lookout for other writers.”

With sudden clarity I understand two things: Louisa and Gabriel are going to become close, and I will feel excluded.

Whether out of politeness or design, I am soon distracted by Richard Scott, who is sitting on the other side of me. I’ve never known someone so curious—he asks a stream of questions about my family, my school, my favorite authors, what sort of music I like, whether I’m a confirmed country person or could picture myself living in town?

He treats me like an adult, asking how I feel about Anthony Eden, our new prime minister. Was I sad to see Churchill go?

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