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  Leo, not understanding but hopelessly depressed by the general air of misery and disapproval, could suppress his grief no longer and burst into tears.

  “Why are you crying, Leo?” asked Papa, not unkindly, but Leo was too bewildered and unhappy to answer. “Please ring for Marie to take the children away,” Papa said wearily to Mama. In his way he loved his sons, but he had no comprehension at all of their behaviour. They seemed irrational, undisciplined, and incapable of understanding basic elementary laws. He was proud of them, as he was proud of his wife, his daughters, his house in the town, and his country farm up in the hills. They were his tribe, his unit of the world that he had created for himself. He led them and intended to go on leading them, even though they needed constant discipline and correction.

  Marie came in and the small boys were taken back to the nursery—Leo still weeping and Jozsef trying hard not to because he was six. Papa’s temper abated and breakfast was resumed.

  “I hope, in spite of the unorthodox way Kati’s party was attended, that you conducted yourselves courteously—as befits the Ferenc girls.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Their eyes met briefly and then they hurriedly looked away from one another. Papa’s idea of how the Ferenc girls should behave was very different from theirs.

  “What was the noise outside the house last night?” asked Papa calmly, but there was the suggestion of a threat behind the question.

  Malie answered quickly, anxious to prevent Eva’s giving a rapturous but possibly unwise account of the evening’s finale. “Some of our partners during the evening escorted us home—at a distance. They employed Uncle Alfred’s musician to play to us as a compliment for the pleasant evening.”

  “You did not encourage them? There was no forwardness?”

  “No, Papa.” Said together and in perfect unison.

  “Very well.” He could accept the compliment to his daughters as it was given in the traditional manner. It was quite understandable that young men would—respectfully—wish to pay tribute to the daughters of the house of Ferenc. He pushed his chair back and rose from the table. “I suggest we call on Gizi at eleven-thirty,” he said. “I will have Uncle Sandor bring the coach round at eleven.”

  “Yes, Zsigmond.”

  “Yes, Papa.’”

  And then, as he left the room, “Oh, how dreadful it is going to be!”

  Aunt Gizi lost no time at all in conveying to her brother her fury: with his wife for forgetting the date of Kati’s party, with the décolletage of Eva’s dress, with Eva’s impertinence and rudeness, and with the wink, which she had most certainly seen. Her anger was all the more vehement because six of the most eligible young men had left the party early in order to accompany her brother’s wretched girls home. Papa grew more and more silent, and his face went red and white in turn.

  Mama, staring wan and disinterested out of the window, mentally removed herself from the entire situation and began to plan her summer wardrobe: soft mauves and lavender this year, she thought, the full range in muslins and voiles and trimmed with falls of white lace and ruffles. Lavender shoes to match. And for country picnics up at the farm, some new white shirtwaists and a mauve and white hat. It would all be quite entrancing. She had discovered, many years ago, that whenever she became frightened of her husband she could, in some measure, control the fear if she pushed it to the back of her mind and thought about something else, something trivial but nice like a party or a new dress. It didn’t remove the fear entirely but it gave her a sense of detachment, as though it were someone else he was angry with. She couldn’t always do it. Last night the full first blast of his anger had reduced her to paralysed tears, but now, with the spring sun shining on the branches of the trees outside the window, she began to practise her usual antidote. There was also a small glow of satisfaction at the back of her mind because she had won at cards last night and therefore would be able to settle her dressmaker’s bill without asking him. Resolutely she pushed away the thought of what would happen if ever he found out that she played for money.

  There were no traces at all in the drawing-room of last night’s party. The carpet was rolled down again and the chairs were back in their usual places. Uncle Alfred was absent, still coping with the excesses of the previous evening, which had left him with a sour mouth and eyes that needed protection against the glare of the sun. He was also in no mood this morning to cope with his wife, who was angry about Kati again.

  Eva, sitting silent and miserable between Kati and Amalia on the ottoman, reflected how cruel and bitter fate was. Last night, in this very room, she had had the most wonderful experience of her life. And now she was sitting here listening to Aunt Gizi giving a long and thoroughly prejudiced account of the evening and watching Papa grow more and more angry. Malie, dressed in a dark grey dress and hat that reflected the general mood of gloom, was nervously drawing the strings of her purse open and shut, open and shut. Eva glared at her; it was really more than she could bear. Her head ached and she longed to go home and shut herself in her room (away from Papa) with a cologne-soaked cloth on her forehead.

  “Do stop that, Malie!” she hissed suddenly. Amalia jumped and let the bag fall to the floor. It fell with a loud clink, and Papa stared and frowned.

  “Uncle Zsigmond looks cross,” whispered Kati helpfully-

  And Eva snapped, “Of course he’s cross! Don’t be so stupid, Kati!”

  Papa rose from his chair. His stillness was controlled, only just controlled, and not for the first time Eva noticed what a very big man he was.

  “If you cannot be quiet, leave the room, Eva.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa.’”

  “Please apologize to your cousin for your rudeness.”

  “I’m sorry I called you stupid, Kati.”

  Kati smiled, humbly and apologetically. “Oh... yes. I’m sure I don’t mind, Eva.” She paused, desperately trying to think of something she could say that would help her lovely, gay, enchanting cousin. “I’m sure I am stupid. You’re quite right.”

  “You see!” Aunt Gizi, erect and taut, turned brilliant eyes on her brother. “You see! Everything, just everything I do for Kati is ruined by Eva. Last night’s party, disgraced by a girl who is blood relative to me. And Kati goes round telling everyone she is stupid just because her cousin says so!”

  “Not everyone, Gizi. Only the people in this room.”

  Aunt Gizi ignored him. Her beautiful long hands curled over the arms of her chair and her fingers slotted into the carved mouths of two snarling wolves. Malie, in spite of her nervousness, looked from Aunt Gizi’s elegant hands to those of poor Kati: small and square-fingered, with close-cut stubby nails.

  “All this comes from sending them to Vienna,” Gizi told her brother viciously. “They had tutors and governesses enough before that—but you had to send them to an expensive finishing school. Left to roam the streets and gardens on their own, and what have they learned? Bad manners and lack of consideration for the family. Eva deserves to go back to the nursery until she has learned her manners. As for Marta—”

  Her eyes narrowed as she stared at her sister-in-law, who, with enormous concentration, was managing not to hear most of what was being said. But at the mention of her name she was forced to look up, smile, and say, “Yes, Gizi?”

  Gizi’s look implied that Marta Bogozy (for she still thought of her sister-in-law as a Bogozy) should go back to the nursery also.

  “I am very sorry I confused the date of Kati’s party,” Mama said vaguely. She wondered if she were too old for the really soft lilac shade, verging on pink. Silk with a fall of lace would be so effective.

  “You confused them because you could not be bothered!” said Gizi in shrill tones. “It was my daughter, and therefore you were not interested.”

  “Oh, no,” replied Mama, distressed. “Truly no, Gizi. I would not dream of neglecting Kati or hurting her. We love her too much for that! We love her most dearly; it is as though she were one of us!”

  Kati f
lushed happily. She looked proud and not quite so plain as usual, and Gizi was suddenly unable to answer. Partly it was rage—the impertinence of daring to suggest that Kati, the nearest thing the town had to an heiress—should be honoured by inclusion into the ill-mannered Bogozy tribe, but also because Kati looked so small and ugly sitting beside her beautiful cousins. How could it have happened? she thought. How could it have happened? I was—am—attractive. I would never have captured Alfred if I had not been. I am brighter than my brother. There were only the two of us but always I was the quicker, and he, indeed, was quick enough. I have made Alfred’s fortune for him. I have run his house as though I, not he, were the child of gentlefolk. And to what purpose? She is ugly, slow, without wit or pride. She is my daughter and I love her, and I want her to be bright and pretty like those other two. But nothing I do can make her that way. Nothing.

  Mama, with one of her kind, thoughtless, spontaneous Bogozy gestures, swept across to Kati in a cloud of violet perfume and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Dear little Kati,” she said warmly. “Now! You shall show that you have forgiven your silly aunt for her foolishness and you must promise to come to our little party on Saturday. Yes!” She clasped her hands together. “We shall invite everyone and it will be just for you—a second birthday—and this time we shall all behave beautifully!”

  When she was young, when Zsigmond Ferenc had been in love with her and overwhelmed because it seemed that she, a Bogozy, was within his reach, such gestures had moved and enchanted him. Now they made him angry.

  “Sit down, Marta! Why do you never stop to think? Kati has had her party and you did not come. You think, in a few days, you can give her more than Gizi gave her?”

  “And in any case,” said Gizi, stinging from her sister-in-law’s careless patronage, “we shall not be here on Saturday. We are going to the country.”

  “You too?” said Eva, dismayed. “Going to the country in March? Why are you going to the country in March?”

  Gizi’s bright black eyes were expressionless. “It will be quiet for us. We are all tired after Kati’s party, and we can rest and enjoy the spring. Now is the best time to go to the hills, before everyone else comes up.”

  “But Fel—” Eva stopped. She didn’t want to mention anything that might refocus attention on her behaviour of last night.

  “Now we shall leave,” said Papa, rising from his chair. “There is nothing more we can say. Amalia, pick up your purse, please.” He made no attempt to kiss his sister good-bye, and he did not speak to Kati. He had not spoken to Kati at all. He walked to the door and waited for Mama, Eva, and Amalia to file past him; then he followed, down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

  “I shall walk,” he said to them as they climbed into the coach. “Eva, I shall see you in my study at three this afternoon.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Eva’s voice was so small it was blown away in the wind.

  “Did you hear what I said, Eva?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Louder.

  “Now you may go.”

  He nodded to Uncle Sandor and the coach moved away. Inside, Eva began to cry.

  By three she had not only recovered, she had thought of a brilliant and wonderful plan—a plan that would solve all their problems at once and make her the happiest girl alive again. She was waiting outside Papa’s study ten minutes before she was to see him, wearing a rose-coloured woollen dress with cream lace at the neck and wrists. Her hair was brushed, and shiny tendrils curled out and framed her face. In her hand she carried a wooden box covered in coloured pebbles. Promptly at three she knocked on the door.

  “You may come in, Eva.”

  With bowed head she went and stood before him.

  “I could not speak to you before, because I could not trust my own temper. I was shocked and appalled to hear of your behaviour last night. The dress—that alone would have horrified me. But to learn of your impertinence, and your... your wantonness! I am distressed, Eva. I cannot tell you how distressed.”

  Eva began to cry again, but this was not the way she had cried in the coach; this was a gentle bowing of the head and a soft brimming over of the eyes.

  “I cannot let your behaviour pass without punishment.”

  She sobbed a little. “I know, Papa.”

  He looked down on his daughter, puzzled and angry at the emotions in his breast. She was so pretty, this one. She was like Marta had been twenty years ago—gay, thoughtless, self-indulgent, spoilt in spite of his careful discipline, caring for nothing except her own pleasure—so why did this one child make his heart leap when she came into the room? Why did Eva delight him when she said or did the same things that angered him so much in his wife? He sat down, depressed and confused, and Eva dropped gracefully to the floor at his feet and rested her hand on his shoe.

  “I’m so sorry, Papa! Truly sorry. I cannot think why I behaved that way. It was because you were not there. I would not have behaved so badly if you had been there.”

  “There was the dress,” he murmured. “How could you have gone to Kati’s wearing a dress like a... like a street woman?”

  She sobbed again. “I didn’t know it was like that, Papa. I didn’t realize, and when Aunt Gizi told me to wear a scarf I was so embarrassed I didn’t know what I was saying.” Her head slipped forward onto his knee, and unconsciously his hand touched her hair.

  “Your mama had no right letting you go like that,” he said, suddenly very angry with his wife. “She should have seen the dresses before you collected them. She should have made you change your gown.”

  “I won’t wear it again, Papa. I promise.” In her other hand was the box covered in pebbles. She held it up to him, raising her tearstained face at the same time.

  “I hate to make you unhappy, Papa. I finished this just now, because I want you to know how sorry I am. I thought perhaps you could keep your cigars in it, or nibs, 1 or something; I have tried to make a pretty pattern with the pebbles. It is to show I am sorry.”

  How lovely her face was—pink, bright, young, the way Marta’s had been.

  “Thank you, Eva,” he said sternly. “But the little box, precious though it is to me, cannot excuse you from punishment. You have behaved badly and you cannot expect to be excused.”

  “Oh, no, Papa! I thought—forgive me, Papa, but I thought if I promised not to go to any more parties this spring, and not to go out to picnics or to coffee or anything, it would show that I was truly sorry.”

  He frowned. “I think I must insist on no more parties for a little while.”

  “Yes, Papa. Of course. And I thought that—to show Cousin Kati and Aunt Gizi how sorry I was, to make it up to them—I would go away from the town. Go to the country early, like Kati. I could keep her company. I would be very good with only Kati and Aunt Gizi there, Papa.”

  Zsigmond Ferenc was silent. In his heart he couldn’t believe she was really this penitent, ready to give up two months of parties and other social events that delighted her frivolous heart so much. Why was she saying these things? Why was she so pretty, so like a piece of delicate porcelain? Why did she move him more than Amalia, who was obedient and reliable, and more than his sons, who would carry on his name and the business he had created from nothing? Why could this soft creature cajole and delight him as no one else could?

  “I would like to go to the country, Papa,” she said simply. “I would like to show Kati how sorry I am.” She bent forward, hiding her face and resting her cheek on his hand. Suddenly he couldn’t bear it and abruptly he stood, letting her slide to the floor. But even that she did with grace.

  “Very well.” He walked over to the window and stared out, clasping his hands hard together behind his back. “Very well. But you will not stay with Kati and Aunt Gizi.” He knew enough of his sister to understand that the very quality in Eva that enchanted him infuriated his sister. “We shall go to the farm early this year. You and Amalia, and Mama and the boys, you will go as soon as we have sent a message up. And I shall
follow when I can, perhaps a little earlier than usual. We shall have a long spring and summer together, a quiet summer up in the hills. You can go over to see Kati every day—she will be very happy, I am sure—and we will remind ourselves that we are one family again: Gizi, Kati, you, me, all of us, one family.”

  She was so happy, so singing happy, she could hardly keep still. She wanted to rush across to Papa, dear wonderful Papa, and hug him for giving her what she wanted most. But she had never hugged Papa, not even when she was small. But how good he was—how kind and wonderfully indulgent!—to send her to the country early, up into the hills where Felix was.

  “I’ll go and tell Malie now, Papa,” she said meekly.

  Papa didn’t turn round, nor did he answer.

  “Thank you, Papa,” she said softly, and she rose to her feet and glided to the door. He was still staring out of the window—what a very big man he was—and she closed the door quietly behind her, anxious not to disturb him.

  Outside she raced along the passage and into their bedroom, longing to share the news with Malie, the wonderful news that they were leaving town and going to the farm almost at once.

  She didn’t even think about whether or not Malie would have preferred to stay in town that spring.

  3

  The Ferenc farm was neither as splendid as Aunt Gizi and Uncle Alfred’s nor as profitable and modern as the Kaldys’. But Malie loved it—warm, rambling, casual—more than Gizi’s elegant stone-built country house or the Kaldys’ smart, modern building complete with dairies and granaries.

  Their farm, which lay on a huge natural meadow just before the mountains rose up into vast oak forests, was surrounded with birch and acacia trees. When they arrived the first thing Malie noticed was the acacia trees, a mass of white and yellow with bees already humming in and out of the blossoms.