Clothes were strewn all over both their bedroom floors as Becky emptied half Daphne’s wardrobe and most of her own in a desperate attempt to find something to wear. In the end she chose the dress Daphne had worn at the Fusiliers Ball, and never worn since. Once she had managed to do up the top button she checked herself in the mirror. Becky felt confident she would “pass muster.” The clock on the mantelpiece struck eight and the doorbell rang.
Guy, wearing a double-breasted regimental blazer and cavalry twills, entered the room carrying another bottle of red wine as well as a dozen red roses. Once he had placed both offerings on the table, he took Becky in his arms.
“What a beautiful dress,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”
“No, it’s the first time I’ve worn it,” said Becky, feeling guilty about not asking Daphne’s permission to borrow it.
“No one to help you?” asked Guy, looking around.
“To be honest, Daphne volunteered to act as chaperone, but I didn’t accept as I hadn’t wanted to share you with anyone on our last evening together.”
Guy smiled. “Can I do anything?”
“Yes, you could uncork the wine while I put the potatoes on.”
“Trumper’s potatoes?”
“Of course,” replied Becky, as she walked back through into the kitchen and dropped the cabbage into a pot of boiling water. She hesitated for a moment before calling back, “You don’t like Charlie, do you?”
Guy poured out a glass of wine for each of them but either hadn’t heard what she had said or made no attempt to respond.
“What’s your day been like?” Becky asked when she returned to the drawing room and took the glass of wine he handed her.
“Packing endless trunks in preparation for tomorrow’s journey,” he replied. “They expect you to have four of everything in that bloody country.”
“Everything?” Becky sipped the wine. “Um, good.”
“Everything. And you, what have you been up to?”
“Talked to Charlie about his plans for taking over London without actually declaring war; dismissed Caravaggio as second-rate; and selected some button mushrooms, not to mention Trumper’s deal of the day.” As she finished speaking, Becky placed half a melon on Guy’s mat and the other half at her place as he refilled their glasses.
Over a lingering dinner, Becky became more and more conscious that this would probably be their last evening together for the next three years. They talked of the theater, the regiment, the problems in Ireland, Daphne, even the price of melons, but never India.
“You could always come and visit me,” he said finally, bringing up the taboo subject himself as he poured her another glass of wine, nearly emptying the bottle.
“A day trip, perhaps?” she suggested, removing the empty dinner plates from the table and taking them back to the kitchen.
“I suspect even that will be possible at some time in the future.”
Guy filled his own glass once again, then opened the bottle he had brought with him.
“What do you mean?”
“By airplane. After all, Alcock and Brown have crossed the Atlantic nonstop, so India must be any pioneer’s next ambition.”
“Perhaps I could sit on a wing,” said Becky when she returned from the kitchen.
Guy laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m sure th
ree years will pass by in a flash, and then we can be married just as soon as I return.” He raised his glass and watched her take another drink. For some time they didn’t speak.
Becky rose from the table feeling a little giddy. “Must put the kettle on,” she explained.
When she returned Becky didn’t notice that her glass had been refilled. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” Guy said, and for a moment Becky was anxious that he might be thinking of leaving.
“Now I fear the time has come to do the washing up, as you don’t seem to have any staff around tonight and I left my batman back at barracks.”
“No, don’t let’s bother with that.” Becky hiccupped. “After all, I can spend a year on the washing up, followed by a year on the drying and still put aside a year for stacking.”