Adrian chuckled. ‘All right, my dear, have it your own way. But I shall expect you to model it before we leave for the party.’
Madeline smiled and shook her head. Really, Adrian was a dear, she thought, sighing. Why couldn’t she decide to marry him and be done with it?
They were due at the Mastersons’ at nine o’clock and Adrian called at ten minutes to nine. He had already collected Mr. Hetherington and he was waiting in the car when they went down. Diana was not going out this evening. Jeff was studying and she had decided to wash her hair and play her records.
Madeline was wearing a brushed wool coat in a creamy colour and for once had left her hair loose on her shoulders. She looked about twenty-five and Diana had said, rather scathingly:
‘Good heavens, Mum, no one will believe you have a daughter of over sixteen!’
‘That’s all to the good, surely?’ Madeline had answered, but Diana had sounded non-committal. Madeline wondered whether the fact of Diana losing Joe at such an early age had made her doubly dependent on herself, and doubly willing to resent her mother’s youthful appearance. It was as though she was afraid Madeline might forget she had a daughter altogether, which was ridiculous.
Of course, Joe had been so much older, and Diana would have obviously greatly preferred a homely, buxom type without any pretensions to attraction. Perhaps her campaign on Adrian’s behalf was fixed on the idea that as Adrian was middle-aged he might tone her mother down somewhat.
Madeline was amused at her speculations. Ought she indeed to make Adrian and Diana happy and marry him after all? But then she squashed the idea. It wouldn’t make anybody happy really. The novelty of having a headmaster as her stepfather would wear off with Diana if he tried to press any restriction upon her; Adrian would be continually in a state about his precious collection and Madeline – well! she would be utterly bored by the whole affair. Nothing, not even security, was worth that much.
Hetherington was most complimentary about her appearance. Adrian had already said how delightful she looked in the new dress, so Madeline felt sure she was going to enjoy herself, and relaxed completely.
The Mastersons’ house, Ingleside, was not far away. Standing in its own grounds and floodlit by night, it looked very impressive as they turned between the permanently open drive gates. There were several cars parked in front of the house on the gravelled courtyard. Madeline saw that most of them were the wide, luxurious type, made by the Sheridan factory and its counterparts. They looked superlatively comfortable and she envied their occupants such vehicular superiority. There were several Sheridans like the one into which she had skidded last week on her scooter, but not one red one.
The house, which had been built during the sixteenth century, had been renovated extensively and although from the outside it looked typically Elizabethan, inside central heating, electric lights and fitted carpets had done away with much of its atmosphere.
The hall, wide and high with a carved roof was lit by electric candelabra, set at intervals round the walls giving a restful, luminous quality to the polished panelling and oak furniture. The floor, too had been polished and was ideal for dancing. However, most of the guests seemed to have congregated in a large lounge to the right of the hall and the manservant who had admitted them and taken their coats went into the lounge to advise his employers of their arrival.
Madeline was entranced by the place and was fascinatedly studying the minstrels’ gallery when a dainty little woman in rich purple pants and blouse came out of the lounge to greet them. She introduced herself as Lucie Masterson, and said that her husband would join them later.
‘He’s closeted with Nicholas – you know, Nicholas Vitale, at the moment,’ she said, after she had discovered their identity. ‘They’re always talking business these days. I do hope you won’t think he’s being rude. But Nicholas is the boss and they do have a lot to discuss while he’s here.’
‘That’s quite all right, Mrs. Masterson,’ replied Hetherington, smiling. ‘We understand.’
‘Good,’ Lucie beamed. She could have been any age between thirty-five and forty-five, speculated Madeline, who thought she seemed a rather shallow woman at first appraisal.
Lucie drew them into the throng in the lounge. There were about thirty guests, all standing around drinking cocktails and exchanging small talk. A radiogram played soft music in a corner and there was an aroma of French perfume and Havana tobacco. A rich red carpet covered the floor, the colour of which was echoed in the heavy velvet curtains. There were couches and armchairs upholstered in soft leather while the white walls were relieved of starkness by vivid prints.
Many of the guests seemed to be married couples, Madeline discovered, as Lucie introduced them around. There was an almost equal number of Italians and Americans, and Lucie explained that Sheridans had factories in both countries as well as here. When Adrian and Mr. Hetherington got caught up in technical discussions with some of the older guests present Madeline found herself beside a young American couple called Fran and Dave Madison.
‘Do you live in Otterbury,’ asked Fran, interestedly, as Madeline accepted a cigarette from Dave.
‘Yes. I have a flat not far from here, actually,’ replied Madeline. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes. We, too, have a flat,’ confirmed Dave. ‘But we’re expecting to have a house soon in the new development near the factory later in the year.’
‘Oh, I see. You’re from America?’
‘That’s right,’ Dave grinned. ‘I guess the accent is unmistakable.’
Madeline chuckled. ‘I thought you might have been here visiting the Mastersons,’ she said. She looked at Fran. ‘Do you like England?’
‘It’s okay, I guess,’ said Fran, without enthusiasm. ‘There’s not much to do, is there? We’re hoping to go to Italy later on. Have you ever been abroad?’
‘Just to France,’ said Madeline ruefully. ‘Since my husband died, my daughter and I don’t go away a lot.’
‘You have a daughter?’ exclaimed Dave in surprise. ‘A baby daughter?’
‘No. Actually, she’s sixteen,’ replied Madeline, smiling. ‘But thank you for those few kind words.’
‘They weren’t kind,’ exclaimed Dave, grinning. ‘I wouldn’t say you looked more than twenty-five or six.’
Fran was looking a little put out now and Madeline was glad when another man came to join them. He was like Dave, tall and fair, with pleasant freckly features.
‘Hi there, you two,’ he said easily, obviously knowing the Madisons well. ‘Have we got a new member of the organization?’
‘No,’ answered Dave, turning to him. ‘Madeline, this is Harvey Cummings – he, too, is a member of the Sheridan clan.’
‘How do you do,’ said Madeline politely, nodding at the newcomer.
‘I’m fine,’ answered Harvey, grinning. ‘Especially when a lovely woman is interested. Say, do you have a husband somewhere around?’
‘I’m a widow,’ replied Madeline, her cheeks reddening. His rather direct approach was a little disconcerting, to say the last.
‘Great. I mean great for me,’ said Harvey exuberantly. ‘I thought you looked rather lonely and unattached. May I attach myself to you?’
Madeline looked rather helplessly at the Madisons. ‘Is your wife not here?’ she asked cautiously.
Dave roared with laughter. ‘Harvey married? Are you kidding? Who would take on a liability like him?’
‘Take no notice,’ said Harvey with mock disdain. ‘It’s simply that no one understands me.’
Madeline laughed. She was enjoying this