Page 80 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘Quite so!’ said Lady Stavesacre. ‘You never see a horse running at that speed.’

‘Except if it bolts,’ Nina pointed out.

‘But a horse will always try to avoid you. A motor vehicle is insensate,’ she concluded.

‘Where do you buy your motor spirit from?’ Lord Stavesacre asked Richard. ‘Is it hard to get hold of?’

‘We used to get it from Bolliard’s, the hardware shop in Canons Ashmore, but they didn’t carry very much and sometimes ran out. But now Tim Tucker has opened a garage in the village, and sells petrol as well. And since it’s more in his line of trade, he’s keeping a larger stock, so we should be all right from now on.’

‘We ought to start manufacturing it in this country,’ Decius said. ‘Most of our benzene comes from Russia, and with all the unrest over there, the supply shouldn’t be relied on.’

Richard looked amused. ‘Is there anything you don’t know?’

Decius smiled. ‘I keep up with the news. And import and export have been rather my concern for the last couple of months.’

‘I should like to drive a motor-car,’ Nina said, out of her own train of thought.

‘Heaven forbid!’ Mr Cowling said, startled.

‘I’m sure driving a motor-car must be easier than driving horses,’ she objected.

‘As the only person here who has come a cropper in a motor-car, I wouldn’t recommend it for the nerves,’ Richard said.

Lepida judiciously changed the subject. ‘Father tells me George Bernard Shaw has a new play opening on Tuesday at the Royal Court: Man and Superman.’

Mr Cowling nodded. ‘Aye, your pa told me he’s getting up a party to go to the opening night. I’ve enjoyed some of Shaw’s plays.’

Decius said, ‘I’ve heard it’s based on Nietzsche’s philosophy of the Übermensch.’

‘Father told me he asked Shaw about that, and he denied it,’ Lepida said. ‘He said he’s exploring his own idea that it’s woman who advances natural selection, because it’s women who force men to marry them, rather than men taking the initiative.’

‘It sounds like a tremendous romp,’ Richard said gravely, and Nina laughed.

‘We can’t get away from the woman question this evening, can we?’ she said. ‘Rescue us, Richard!’

Richard bowed. ‘With pleasure! Tell me, Mrs Cowling, what do you think of this summer’s hats? Isn’t it rather like wearing a fruit bowl on your head?’

* * *

Sebastian was in miserable seclusion at Wisteria House, his place in Henley. He had no guests, and was not at home to callers. He went for long walks along the riverside, his expression deterring those who might have passed the time of day with him.

The early-summer weather was fair, mocking him; the willows were filling out with pale green leaves, reaching down to the water, the oaks thick with olive-yellow flower. The river was peopled with pleasure boats, rowers and idle paddlers: under a sky of tender robin’s-egg blue, the constant ripples laid their flèches of light and shadow on the surface, rocking the ducks and moorhens as they dabbled along the banks. And everywhere the hawthorn hedges were in starry bloom, filling the air with their sweet, maddening scent.

Sebastian brooded as he walked. When he had been a young man, he had wanted to marry a girl named Phyllis. He had delayed asking her because of family disapproval, and in the delay she had caught the fever and died. How could he have lost his love again? He went over and over the few phrases he had exchanged with Dory before she ran away. What should he have said instead? What combination of words would have cut through her panic and won her over? He was a clumsy fool to have bungled it.

Where was she now? He tortured himself with imagining her suffering. At best, she would have got a position, but it would be a lowly one without a reference. She might be scrubbing doorsteps, or toiling in a laundry, dragging wet heavy sheets from boiler to mangle for fourteen hours a day. Or a drudge in a house where they kept no other help and pitilessly drove the maid-of-all-work from dawn to midnight with scolds, abuse and contempt.

Around him the days lengthened and new life was everywhere, the fields greening, insects busy in the campion and rattle, the cranesbill and loosestrife, the red clover and the bugle. The first swifts screamed overhead, glorying in their own speed; ducklings and moorchicks followed the adults in neat, sagittal flotillas. Mrs May, his housekeeper, tried to tempt his appetite with lamb and spring greens; even Crooks dared to murmur something about a new straw hat for summer wear, as if that might lift the winter in his heart. He did not play the piano. He could only mourn in silence.

And then one day as he exited the garden wicket onto the path leading down to the river, he saw a figure in the shadow of the trees at the end. An undefined female figure, any-woman-shaped, in drab skirt, jacket and felt hat. She was almost indistinguishable in the bosky darkness, but he knew who it was, and his heart contracted so sharply it hurt him. He started forward, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste. ‘Dory! Dory!’ he cried. The figure hurried from him, darting away out of the tree-shadow, turning onto the riverside and out of sight. ‘Wait! Dory, wait!’

The river path was narrow where the gardens of the houses came down to it, and it was thronged. He glimpsed the small, dark-clad figure some way ahead, but he was too bulky to slip through the crowd as she did, and she was getting away. At the end of this section was a cattle gate, which further slowed him down, after which the way opened out into meadows and he could move freely. But where was she? In the wide open space there were couples and groups dotted about, sitting on rugs, one set playing a game of cricket with their children, others strolling. He twisted about, searching for her. And then he spotted her hurrying to the top of the meadow where it joined the road.

Gentlemen of his age and condition did not run. He probably had not run since the last time he had played cricket for the village team, years ago. He attracted stares of disapproval, suspicion and, in the case of a group of young men, derision; but the road led back into town and he’d never find her there. He ran, clutching his hat and his stick, until he was close enough to cry out, breathlessly, ‘Dory! Wait! Wait! Talk to me!’

She had gained the road. She turned her head to look, and for a moment he thought she would hurry on and leave him behind. But she hesitated, and he cried, with the last of his breath, ‘Please!’

And she stopped.