Page 17 of The Gathering Storm

’They won’t go bad,’ Richard said stubbornly. Underneath, his thoughts were seething. A reluctant husband? No, he wasn’t that – not exactly. But he was not in love with her. Had Samuel guessed that? Oh, God, did she guess it? He knew how much she loved him; yet she would release him without reproach? No shame would stick to him? Perhaps not in public, but in his head, in his heart … He could never forgive himself if he hurt her, or them, so much.

He felt the velvet jaws of the trap close on him. But he must not remain silent, or Samuel would believe the worst. ‘Of course I don’t want to be released from the engagement. I want to marry Cynthia, and I say that with my whole heart.’

Samuel grunted, as if different words entirely had been spoken. But all he said was, ‘You had better tell her that, then, when you see her next. She can’t help wondering, poor child.’

‘She shouldn’t. What have I ever done to make her doubt me?’

‘She hasn’t seen much of you in the past few weeks.’

‘I’ve been very busy,’ Richard said, burning again, though outwardly composed. ‘But perhaps I have neglected her. I’ll put that right.’

Cynthia appeared at the door just then. ‘Papa, Richard, dinner’s ready.’ She looked quizzically at them. ‘You look so serious. Did something happen?’

Richard knew then that Samuel hadn’t told his daughter he was going to have this conversation.

‘I was telling Richard how your mother wants me to retire once you’re safely off my hands,’ Samuel said.

‘But, Papa, you can’t retire! Whatever would you do with yourself all day?’ Cynthia responded.

‘That’s just what I said,’ Samuel said, and laughed.

Richard chuckled too, to keep up the benign pretence.

Samuel put his arm round Cynthia’s shoulders and walked out towards the dining-room. Richard followed their entwined figures down the dark passage towards the smell of soup, now joined by that of fried fish and something richly beefy, and felt so unreal he almost had to look down to see if his feet were still there, and still working.

Basil Compton emerged, blinking, from the Underground at Green Park station and felt the sun warm on his face, unseasonably for March. Across the road, the eponymous park beckoned: its towering plane trees were just coming into leaf; the grass was edged with a cheery paint-spatter of daffodils. Flat-dwellers were walking grateful dogs, nursemaids were pushing perambulators, children were slipping restraining hands and running wildly about after pigeons.

The weather had tempted him from his desk at the Bugle. He ought to have been working, but a sunny day in March, he reasoned, must be celebrated lest the Weather Gods be offended and inflict cataracts and hurricanoes instead. He darted across Piccadilly, dodging between taxi-cabs and delivery vans. He’d hardly gained the opposite pavement when he was hailed by someone coming out from Queen’s Walk. It was a woman in a loden-green two-piece. Skirts were calf-length this year and slightly flared at the hem, jackets were fitted, with built-up shoulders (he knew this from perusing all sections of his own newspaper most days instead of working) and the two-piece was bang up to the mark. The lady had completed it with a saucy Robin Hood hat decorated with an upright diamond turkey-quill and rather exciting high-heeled ankle boots, and was wearing a black fox fur round her shoulders, proving she was wealthy as well as fashionable.

‘It is Mr Compton, isn’t it?’ she said, extending a leather-gloved hand. ‘Gloria Rampling’s Mr Compton?’

He remembered her now. ‘Mrs Glenforth-Williams,’ he said, raising his hat and shaking her hand in the same movement.

‘You remember my name,’ she said, with a dazzling smile. ‘I couldn’t be more flattered.’

‘I am hardly likely to forget you, of all people,’ he said, returning the smile.

‘And what are you doing here, Mr Compton? Are you meeting Gloria?’

‘Sadly, no. She’s out of Town at the moment.’

‘Paris?’

‘Yorkshire.’

‘Oh, the poor darling. How too sick-making!’

‘Not really. She’s attending a country-house sale, something she adores. So I believe she’s quite happy. And how about you, Mrs Glenforth-Williams?’

‘Veronica, please! When people use all my names I can’t get it out of my head that they’re scolding me. Makes me feel quite put-upon.’

He grinned. ‘I can’t believe you ever feel anything but superb.’

‘Oh, now, after that you simply have to let me take you to lunch,’ she said, laying a hand on his wrist. ‘I was just heading for the Ritz and hoping I’d find someone there to lunch with.’

Basil was flattered, and liked the idea of being seen going into the Ritz with the famous Mrs Glenforth-Williams on his arm, but there was a problem. He made a rueful face and a vague gesture towards his pocket. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ he said, ‘but I’m ashamed to say – have to admit …’ he felt himself reddening, ‘… somewhat financially embarrassed just at present, you see. In fact – absolutely stony. Frightfully sorry.’

The pressure on his wrist increased, and she laughed trillingly. ‘Oh, my dear, it’s I who should apologise! Of course I meant you to be my guest. I thought that was understood.’