Da Silva walked a few steps over, giving Curtis just enough time to register that he affected a sinuous sort of movement, and offered him a hand so limp that he struggled not to drop it like a dead animal.
“Charmed,” drawled da Silva. Somewhat to Curtis’s surprise, his accent was that of an Englishman of breeding. “A military gentleman and a pugilist, how delightful. I do enjoy spending time with our brave boys.” He gave Curtis a curling smile and moved away, snake-hipped, taking Lady Armstrong with him as the party formed little groups.
“Well. Who’s that chap?” asked Curtis quietly.
“Dreadful dago,” said James, not quietly. “I’ve no idea why Sophie tolerates the man.”
“Oh, he’s terribly amusing, and so clever.” The pretty Miss Carruth smiled at Curtis. “I’m Fenella Carruth, in case you didn’t catch all those names. How do you know the Armstrongs? Through your uncle? He sounds like a wonderful man.”
They made small talk about that and Miss Carruth’s industrialist father, who had designed Peakholme’s telephone exchange, before they were called in to dinner. Curtis found himself seated between Miss Carruth and the drab Mrs. Lambdon, with his fellow Oxford man Holt on Miss Carruth’s other side. The younger lady was sparkling with witty repartee, daring without ever going beyond the bounds, and Holt returned some dashingly flirtatious comments. He was making his interest in Miss Carruth clear; her responses were flattering enough but neatly brought in both Curtis and James Armstrong, seated opposite, inviting them to compete for her attention. It seemed she liked to have a following of suitors.
Curtis couldn’t bring himself to play along. He could imagine his Uncle Maurice’s groaning despair at his lack of enthusiasm: Miss Carruth was a pretty, pleasant and wealthy young woman, just the sort he ought to be looking for, now he had no reason not to settle down. But he felt no desire to cut the other two men out and couldn’t have done it if he’d wanted to, since he had never been gifted at flirtation or banter and had no idea how people came up with quick, clever remarks and retorts. He managed a couple of appropriate responses, for the sake of appearances, but his concentration was on the tiresome demands of manipulating cutlery with his damaged hand, and on watching the company.
They seemed a normal country-house set. The Graylings and Lambdons looked to be unremarkable couples; the two single ladies were very pleasant. James Armstrong and Peter Holt were typical young men about town, James with more money, Holt with more brains. Da Silva stood out from the company as one of the “Bloomsbury” sort popping up in society like mushrooms, effete, artistic, disconcertingly modern to a solid Victorian soul like Curtis. It was quite clear why Lady Armstrong had invited the fellow, though. He had an astonishingly quick tongue, and his witty, waspish remarks set the whole company laughing on several occasions throughout the meal. Curtis didn’t find him any more likeable for it—he had spent three years at Oxford avoiding those poisonous decadent types, with their vicious remarks and knowing smiles—but all the same, he had to admit the fellow was amusing. Only Holt’s chuckles seemed rather perfunctory. Maybe he was concerned that da Silva would outshine his own conversation in front of Miss Carruth. Curtis didn’t think he needed to worry about a rival there.
There was nobody of Sir Hubert’s age present: his wife filled the house with guests of her own generation. Perhaps her husband felt younger for the company. It was hard to tell, since he made few remarks, but he beamed pleasantly enough on his guests, and the conversation flowed without difficulty until the ladies departed the table and their host called for port.
“I say, Curtis,” Grayling said, passing the decanter. “Do I understand you were in the war?”
“I was.”
“Injured?” Lambdon gestured at his hand.
Curtis nodded. “At Jacobsdal.”
“What was that, a battle?” asked Grayling. He was a little the worse for wine and trying to disguise it by attempting intelligent questions.
“No. Not a battle.” Curtis poured himself a glass of port, gripping the neck of the decanter with his finger and thumb, his left hand under it to support its weight.
“No, that’s right, it was the sabotage business, wasn’t it?”
“That was never proved.” Sir Hubert’s tone was intended to quell that line of conversation.
Curtis ignored the hint. He hated talking about this subject, hated thinking about it, but this was what he was here for, and there might not be another opportunity, not with Sir Hubert so evidently unwilling to discuss it. “My company was at Jacobsdal waiting for reinforcements when we got a shipment of supplies. Much needed.”