Page 11 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

‘The new wing I’m planning. Wriothesby House is a fine old place – it was you taught me to appreciate it, my love – but it’s too small to be the country seat of an important person. And by the time our son inherits it, he’ll be an important person all right.’

‘We’re having a son, are we?’

He smiled at her. ‘Now, then, we’ve been into that. If it’s a girl, I’ll love her just as much. But for argument’s sake—’

‘Yes, I know. Go on.’

‘When I was talking to Utterby about buying the land, I thought to myself that it would be a bit unbalanced, a park of twenty acres – well, twenty-two when you count in the garden and the bit of spinney down the north end – and this small house. Like wearing a hat that’s too big. So I got that architect chap we both liked, Leathwaite, to draw up a rough plan for a new wing. A couple of decent-sized reception rooms down here. Four or five bedrooms. A bathroom or two,’ he said, giving her a look that was almost gleeful – their bathroom had excited Market Harborough when they’d had it put in. ‘And here, at the top, the nursery suite.’ His look had become shy and tender. ‘A palace fit for a prince – or a princess.’ He laid his hand over hers, as it rested on the plans, and squeezed it. ‘Our first-born. There never was a child more wanted.’

That night, he came to her bedroom. As he slipped under the covers, he laid a hand against her cheek and said, ‘I asked, and it will be all right for a few weeks more, as long as you’re comfortable. Oh, Nina, I love you so much. Shall we?’

She turned her head and kissed his palm for answer. Since he had rediscovered his ability, he had wanted to do it often. At first she had just tolerated it, as she believed was her duty, but lately something had changed in her. She had begun to find not just comfort in it, but pleasure. It seemed to be something her body wanted, as her mind wanted the reassurance, the closeness, the warmth of his undoubted love. When he touched her cheek and said, ‘Shall we?’ she had felt a certain sort of pang inside that she recognised now. Was it, she wondered, something that came with being pregnant?

Whatever it was, she gave herself to the sensations, which had the additional benefit of driving away thought for a while. Like hunting, it occupied you to the exclusion of everything else, and there was a release in that. And when it was over, and he drew her onto his shoulder and folded his arms round her, she felt a great kindness and affection for him that were almost as good as love.

As she drifted into a contented sleep, she thought drowsily, No, that was ungenerous. It was love. A kind of love. There could be more than one sort, couldn’t there?

CHAPTER THREE

After a restless night, Giles abandoned his bed and took the dogs out for an early walk. It was still dark, but with a faint lemon tinge on the eastern horizon, and though cold, it was not bitter. The dogs, for whom it was never too early, romped happily at this unexpected treat. Giles had walked without intending any particular destination, but passing the gate of Hundon’s he realised from the lamplight and the sounds of activity that it was milking time, and went in.

Michael Woodrow abandoned the cow he was attending to and came to greet him, while Fly and Jess went out to play with the dogs in the yard.

‘Come to help with the milking, my lord?’ Woodrow said genially.

‘It’s a long time since I’ve milked a cow,’ said Giles.

‘Oh, you never forget. Like riding a bicycle. Come and lend a hand – we’re short one today.’

He didn’t mean it, of course, but on a whim Giles said, ‘All right, I will.’

Woodrow grinned. ‘Good for you, my lord! Take Primrose – she’s quiet.’

Giles set down the stool, positioned the bucket and sat, pushing his head against the warm brown flank. He had not forgotten the knack, and there was something satisfying in the strong white streams hitting the bucket, the ringing noise changing as the bucket filled to a steady hissing. But it was not long before his hands were aching with the unaccustomed exercise. Fortunately, before he was forced to give up and humiliate himself, Woodrow was back by his side, saying, ‘Beattie can finish her for you, my lord. There’s something I’d like to show you.’

Giles stood up without regret, patted the cow’s rump, and followed him outside. Woodrow led him to a semi-derelict building at the end of the yard, wooden but with one brick side and a slate roof that was busy falling in. ‘The old stables,’ Woodrow said. ‘No use as they are. I’d like to pull all this down and build a new milking parlour.’

Giles wrinkled his nose. ‘Parlour? Where the cows can enjoy afternoon tea and conversation?’

Woodrow laughed. ‘I believe it’s an American term, my lord, but it’s what the modern ones are called. And in seriousness, cows do like to be talked to.’

‘You know best about that,’ Giles said, with scepticism. ‘But milking machines?’

‘I’m trying to invent a machine to milk several cows at once. I’m still only at the drawing stage, but I’m determined to get there. Run by electricity, too. But for now, I’d just like a sound building with a level floor and proper drainage and so on. Hygiene is essential if we’re to sell to the best market.’

‘My brother talks about that sort of thing. He’s the one you should be asking.’

‘But there’s the capital expenditure,’ Woodrow said. ‘Bricks, tiles, concrete, pipes, fittings…’

‘And labour,’ Giles added.

‘I can do a lot of the work myself, once the evenings get lighter. I don’t have much to do after milking, bar there’s a calving.’

Giles glanced over at the big old house, where a single dim light was showing in what he knew to be the kitchen. It looked lonely. He thought of Woodrow sitting in there of an evening with no company but the dogs. ‘You should get yourself a wife.’

‘Oh, I have someone in mind, sir – my lord.’

‘Well, what are you waiting for, man? Bring her home!’