Free The Shape of Sand by Marjorie Eccles

jewellery made of semi-precious stones and twisted gold wire. Out of politeness, Daisy wore the turquoise beads he had given her, and I my carnelian ring, but Vita had declared she could not think of wearing carved amethyst ear-drops rather than the very modern pendant and earrings Bertie has bought her from Liberty’s. They are lovely, silver and green enamel, each with a black pearl drop - and the only possible choice for her ensemble that evening, she insisted.
    Iskander was not the only one who seemed intrigued by Miss Jessamy. Papa on her other side, the last person one would have imagined would care for her type, seemed to be finding her amusing, albeit in a despite-himself sort of way. Even Bertie’s glances strayed occasionally from Vita towards her – and as for Marcus, sitting across the table – well, if I were Mama, I would keep an eye on this Miss RJ, that’s all I can say.
    Only Kit, seated on Mama’s left, looking devilishly handsome as usual, with his black hair and thick-lashed blue eyes and sulky mouth – more good-looking than any man has a right to be, despite his nose – seemed immune to her charms. Or perhaps it was Mr Iskander he did not like. Tonight he was Kit at his worst, impossible as only he can be, obviously in one of his reckless moods, and kept throwing sardonic glances at the pair of them
across the table, but was so uncharacteristically silent that at one point Mama asked him if he were not quite well. “Quite well, thank you,” he replied, piling another helping of golden fish soufflé on to his plate. “Perhaps there is a little too much hot air in here tonight.”
    Mama, the perfect hostess, inclined her head, pretending not to understand, and signalled to Albrighton who murmured to the footman to open the french windows. She is so controlled. Papa, however, who allows Kit a good deal of rope but will tolerate neither boorishness nor innuendo from anyone, stayed with a morsel of soufflé momentarily poised on his fork. Since no one else appeared to have noticed anything, however, he resumed eating, and so did Kit. Oh dear, I do wish he were not so – volatile! The trouble is, he does not know what he really wants. Papa is of the opinion that a commission in the Guards would have been the making of him, but Kit had recoiled in horror at the very suggestion. He toyed for a while with the idea of the Foreign Office but then rejected it as being too stuffy, and immediately afterwards, with typical perversity, chose a career expressly the opposite of one suited to his nature. But it scarcely matters if he does not succeed in what he has chosen to do; one day he will be rich – riches, the curse of those without inner motivation – so he does not need to consider practicalities. There is so much to Kit that he will not admit, his character is composed of extremes, veering from downright misbehaviour to incredible sweetness. Wise old Nanny Byfield is surely right when she says he could become a saint or a sinner.
    Yes. Kit has always been difficult, but at the moment he is altogether dissatisfied with himself – and that is a very dangerous thing to be, with his temperament. There have been times lately when I have been very afraid for him, of something in him that could turn to self-destruction – or to destruction of others, and that includes myself. I do my best to fight it, but I have a desperate presentiment that one day Kit may break my heart – or I his.
    Presently, after Mr Iskander had finished trying to explain inscriptions, temple paintings and hieroglyphs to Daisy – always so eager to know, my little sister, so thirsty for knowledge, and how well I understand that! – he began a further discussion with Miss Jessamy, still on the same subject of ancient Egyptian art. Whether anyone else felt the same impatience as Mama evidently did about this, I couldn’t judge, but Miss Jessamy at least found
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