Page 37 of A Sky Painted Gold

“And did they feed you well?” asks the ever-practical Midge, for whom good food is always the top priority at any social event.

“They did.” I nod. “And, oh, it was so funny last night. For the party everyone came dressed in white and everything was decorated so beautifully in white and silver, and then at dinner all the food was white, every single course.”

“Ridiculous!” Aunt Irene spits as if it is the filthiest word she knows.

“And the party was in the orchard and the place was hung with lights and silver fruit, and there was dancing,” I continue stubbornly.

“Dancing!” Aunt Irene puts in here, and it seems she has found a dirtier word than “ridiculous”, after all.

“Yes.” I nod innocently. “Dancing. To jazz music.”

But this is a bridge too far for Aunt Irene, who visibly swells. “Did you hear that, Midge? Jazz music! Did you hear what she said?” If I was writing Aunt Irene as a character, I’d probably give her a cane that she would slam into the floor at this point for emphasis. As it is, Aunt Irene makes do with flinging her hands in the air.

“Yes, I heard perfectly well, thank you,” Midge says. “I don’t care for it myself, but according to the children it’s all the rage.”

“You said you quite liked Jelly Roll Morton when Tom played you the record,” I point out helpfully.

“Yes, that’s right.” Midge nods. “I remember. It was very jolly.”

“Midge!” Aunt Irene’s indignation lifts her from her seat and she stands, outraged, in the middle of the room. “How could you? Jelly roll, indeed!”

I have to stifle a giggle here at the way Aunt Irene says the words “jelly roll”, and her eyes snap in my direction.

“I don’t see that there’s anything funny about it, Louise,” she barks. “It’s uncivilized is what it is. It’s not proper for a girl like you to be dancing around to that … that sort of music. And I certainly can’t believe that you allow it in the house, Midge.”

“Oh, calm down, Reeny,” Midge says, clacking away with her knitting needles. “We were all young once … even you, as I recall.”

“You’re still young, Midge,” I say affectionately because it is the truth, however hard she tries to make out that she is an old matron. The same cannot be said of Irene, who is ten years older than her sister, and looks and acts another ten years older than that.

“So, you’ve been off dancing and drinking and doing goodness knows what with those troublemakers,” Aunt Irene snaps, turning her attention to me.

“They’re not troublemakers,” I say, biting back laughter again and thinking that Caitlin would probably quite enjoy the description. “It was just a party,” I add, deciding to leave the more salacious details out until Aunt Irene is gone.

“Just a party.” Aunt Irene falls back into her seat with a thud. “Their parents must be turning in their graves, the way those children behave.”

“Did you know them?” I perk up then, interested to hear about Robert and Caitlin’s parents.

“Not personally.” Irene sniffs. “Though their reputations were absolutely spotless, of course. A credit to the village, they were.”

“Lady Cardew died when Caitlin was born,” I prompt.

“That’s right,” Aunt Irene says. “And poor Lord Cardew, left with those two little children on his hands. He never remarried, you know, and it wasn’t because there wasn’t interest, believe me.” Her eyes are gleaming now. Aunt Irene can play the Victorian widow all she likes, but there is little she enjoys more than a good gossip. And Lord Cardew’s decision not to remarry obviously meets with her approval, lifting him up somewhere near sainthood. “He served with distinction during the war, of course, as you’d expect,” she carries on.

“And when did he die?” I ask.

“Only a couple of years ago,” Aunt Irene says thoughtfully. “Not long after your dear departed uncle.” Here she lifts a handkerchief to her dry eye, as is her habit when she mentions Uncle Art. Midge and I remain quiet, because to speak too quickly after Uncle Art’s name has come up is to be branded ungrateful, unfeeling, and to receive a sharp lecture on the respectful treatment of one’s elders.

“How did he die?” I push further, breaking the silence after what I judge is an appropriate amount of time.

Aunt Irene’s eyes glint dangerously, but fortunately, her love of gossip wins out over her sense of propriety. “I’m not sure,” she says. “Some sort of accident, I believe. Riding, I heard … so surprising, because he was a great horseman. Poor man. We didn’t see much of him around the village after Lady Cardew died,” she adds. “Just the occasional summer holiday with the children. They seemed to lose their enthusiasm for the place after her passing – she was so fond of Penlyn. A real lady, she was, not like those young good-for-nothings.”

Unfortunately, this reminder of the children brings her back around to her original grievance. “And it isn’t proper for you to be up there at the big house, all high and mighty,” she snaps. “You don’t belong with them.”

“Those things don’t matter any more,” I say lightly, waving my hand. I try not to let Aunt Irene’s words faze me, but I can’t help thinking about standing on the front steps with Lucky last night. Caitlin and Robert and their friends were so welcoming, but when it came down to it I wasn’t quite one of them. I even know that it’s because of that fact that I was invited … someone new, someone different.

“Oh, yes, those things do matter, my girl, and the sooner you realize that the better. It’s not right,” Irene says. “If you keep on with that lot, people will think you’re no better than you ought to be.”

“Irene!” Midge exclaims. “Really, that’s enough.” Even I am surprised by that remark and the accompanying sour-lemon face. It burns me up that crotchety old ladies like my aunt think that just because young people like to dress up and go to parties that they’re somehow loose or morally questionable.