Page 63 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘My garden. You know I consulted Mr Blomfield last autumn. And he sent Mr Fenchurch to talk about what I wanted.’

‘I remember. I thought nothing came of it.’

‘They sent the preliminary plans in November, just before we went to Germany.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘I didn’t want to bother you at such a busy time. But I do want my garden. I want to leave something behind me at Ashmore.’

He looked amused. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

‘Don’t joke, Giles. I want this. I want my garden!’

He recoiled a little at the vehemence. ‘I didn’t know it was so important to you.’

She thought, You don’t need me any more, now that you have two sons, and you certainly don’t want me any more. I must have something of my own, something that will stand to my name. But she just said, ‘It is.’

‘All right, then,’ he said, turning away again.

It sounded like a mere acknowledgement that she had spoken and she clenched her fists in frustration. It was like trying to pin down fog. ‘Do you mean I can have it? I can go ahead with it?’

‘I can’t talk about it now, Kitty,’ he said impatiently. ‘You can show me the plans some time.’ And he was gone.

Show me the plans some time. As if she could ever get his attention for long enough! And if he did look at them he’d say, I’ll have to think about it. And when she reminded him it would be Not now, Kitty, I’m busy . . . But she had to start somewhere. She went straight to the Peacock Room, sat down at her desk, drew out a sheet of letter-paper, and started writing: Dear Mr Fenchurch, I write with regard to the plans you sent me in November . . .

It was difficult to find Dory at Ashmore Castle without asking where she was, and Sebastian couldn’t – it simply wasn’t done. He hovered about the corridors and stairs, hoping. Word would have gone around among the servants that he was back – Crooks would have talked about him, if for no other reason than the long, healing cut across his ribs. He had certainly stared, and had asked whether it required any unguent or dressings, probably wanting to hear the story. But if Sebastian had hoped that curiosity or simple gladness at his return would prompt Dory to seek him out, he was disappointed.

He returned to his piano and chose the C minor étude, the Revolutionary, as best expressing his frustration. His left hand, unused to doing so much work, grumbled, and his wound ached with some of the right-hand reach, but it worked. He did not see her, but he was aware of a shadow passing the door, and knew instinctively that she was standing just out of sight, listening.

He jumped up and got to the door before she could disappear. ‘Come in,’ he demanded. He reached for her arm and missed as she drew it back. ‘Something has happened.’ he said. ‘I must talk to you.’

His urgency must have communicated itself to her, because she stepped into the room, looking nervous. She had someone’s chemise folded over her arm. When he tried to close the door, however, she baulked, and would have retreated.

‘Come over by the window, then,’ he said impatiently, ‘where we can’t be seen by anyone passing the door.’ As she still hesitated, he snatched the chemise from her and threw it on to a chair, and said, ‘It’s important.’

She walked over to the window, and stood, hands folded before her. And now he couldn’t think how to begin. In the end she said, ‘I can’t be long. I’ll be missed.’

‘I miss you,’ he said.

And she turned her head away wearily and said, ‘If that’s all it is—’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s about your husband.’

Her eyes jerked back to him, and she stared in instant dread. ‘Jack?’

‘I found him,’ he said.

Astonishment – and fear. ‘What? Why would you do that? How?’

He took the last question. ‘I employed an enquiry agent to look for him. He traced him to Brighton. He’d opened a second-hand clothes shop.’

‘Is that where you’ve been? You saw him?’

‘Yes. But, Dory—’

‘Oh, God! Why did you do that? He’ll follow you back here. He’ll find me! I have to get out of here!’ She was actually turning away towards the door. He could almost hear her feverish plans, to pack up the little she owned and get out of the house, to run and hide herself again.

He caught her arm to stop her, and she struggled, crying softly, ‘Let me go!’