Page 45 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

‘Still, I should like to see it.’

Miss Eddowes’s face was inscrutable. ‘Very well. If you insist. I only ask—’

‘Yes, yes, discretion. I assure you I have no wish to draw attention to myself.’

‘Then if you will let me know when you wish to come, I shall arrange it.’ She rose to her feet. Kitty rose too, and rang the bell. ‘It will be a novelty for us to receive a visitor at High Beeches,’ Miss Eddowes added, and smiled.

Just for a moment, Kitty saw in that smile the young woman she had been, orphaned and wealthy, with a strange determination to do what she thought right and everyone else thought wrong. It must have been a lonely place to be. As a smile, it was almost ethereal.

Giles did look in, but by then Miss Eddowes was long gone. ‘I’m going up to Top Heath with Adeane,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be back for luncheon. We aren’t expecting anyone, are we?’

‘For luncheon? No.’

He was withdrawing, then turned back. ‘Oh, I forgot, you had a visitor, didn’t you? What did she want?’ Kitty hesitated on the brink of telling him – she didn’t like to have secrets from him. But even as she drew breath, he answered his own question. ‘Money, I suppose, as always, for one of her pet schemes.’

‘Yes,’ Kitty said.

‘Well, don’t give her all your pin-money,’ he said kindly. ‘You’re too generous. Any lame dog…I’ll be back before dinner.’

And he was gone. She could have detained him, but he was not really interested, and he wouldn’t have liked to be delayed when he was about his business. She would go and see High Beeches and, if she decided she wanted to be involved, it would be time enough then to tell him.

In his house in Bolton Street, Richard received a letter from America, sent to him at the Castle and redirected. Mrs Poole, who cooked and cleaned for him, put it down beside his plate at breakfast with a look of devouring curiosity that he forgave, seeing how few people received letters from abroad, let alone from as far away as the United States. All the way across the Atlantic Ocean in a ship! Though experience told him she probably had little idea exactly where America was. To most people, geographical knowledge stopped when you got to the sea, and after that it was just Abroad. France, India, South Africa and America, the places they would have heard of, might just as well be lined up on the other side of the Channel for all they knew.

‘Thank you, Mrs Poole,’ he said, gave her a smile, and added, ‘I’d like some more toast, if you please,’ which got her out of the room.

His heart had contracted sharply when he saw the American stamp. He didn’t recognise the writing, smudged as it was by water-stains on the envelope, but there was only one person who would write to him from New York. It was a thick envelope, which suggested a long letter, and a long letter, surely, could only mean that she had changed her mind. That she was uncomfortable in her new dependency, was missing London, was writing to tell him she was coming home. He held the envelope flat on his palm as though weighing it, savouring the anticipation. If he wrote back straight away, and if she started off as soon as she received it, she could be here in a month, possibly three weeks. Or perhaps – delicious thought – she had left already, she was on her way. Why would she wait for a reply from him? She could be in no doubt he wanted her to come back. Perhaps she was only days away. Could he find out what ship she was on and meet it? He could be waiting at Southampton when she came down the gangplank…

He opened it. The envelope contained a number of cuttings from American newspapers, recounting Chloë’s triumphs in New York, Philadelphia and Chicago. On the bottom of the Chicago cutting she had written Boston next!.

There was no letter, only a single sheet of paper, on which she had written, without address or salutation, ‘She is lauded everywhere. And she is now expecting a child in November. Sir T is ecstatic. So you see things have worked out for the best. Don’t be unhappy. Let me hear one day that you have married a nice young woman and have sons of your own and have forgotten all about us.’

That was all. He lifted the page to his nose, wondering if there would be any scent of her, but it just smelt like dusty paper. What ‘us’ did she mean him to forget? Her, Chloë and Sir Thomas? Or Molly and Richard? She wasn’t coming back. She said it was for the best. In bright, shiny, exciting America, with all the money and new clothes, the travel by luxurious train and probably luxurious motor-car as well, and now a grandchild on the way, she was too busy and happy to miss him. Well, that was good. He didn’t want her to be unhappy.

He got up abruptly, forgetting the toast he had asked for, and stomped upstairs to dress. When he reached his room he found he still had the letter in his hand. He tore it across and across and threw it into the fireplace. It was a warm day and the fire had not been lit, so he didn’t have the satisfaction of seeing it catch flame, but it would next time.

By the time he reached Bedford Square his mood had improved to the point at which he was not likely to hit any unfortunate who bumped into him. But he was still not his usual sunny self. He tweaked his jacket and adjusted his sleeves and rang the bell, trying to fix his mind on cows and milk. The butler seemed to be expecting him and showed him upstairs, though not to the drawing-room. He was conducted instead to a small sitting-room and left there with the assurance that Lady Shacklock would be with him immediately. All butlers practised being impassive but this one seemed to have an extra crust, which, contrariwise, indicated that he was experiencing some emotion, though what it could be passed Richard.

The room was done out with the asymmetrical swirls and sumptuous colours of the art-nouveau movement, and while he waited he examined the various exquisite ornaments, the drawings and paintings of varying accomplishment – which he assumed had been done by his hosts or their friends – that crowded the room. There was enough to keep him amused for longer than he actually had to wait, and hearing the door open he put down a Lalique glass figurine he had lifted from the chimneypiece and turned to see Lady Shacklock closing the door behind her. She was dressed in a flowing silk robe of Pre-Raphaelite splendour in peacock shades of blue, green and gold, and a turban of gold fabric with a large diamond and ruby brooch in the centre, so that she looked like a young rajah. She gave him a smile so theatrical, so very aware of the impression she was making, that he had to bite his cheeks so as not to laugh.

And yet – and yet…She drifted gracefully over to him, offering her hand, and when he took it and bowed over it he smelt her perfume again, and felt a twinge of natural reaction. There were definitely parts of him that did not think her ridiculous. Not at all.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ she purred. ‘I was desperately bored, and longing for someone interesting to talk to.’

He took back his hand, and picked up from the table where he had left them the files he had brought with him, of figures and diagrams. ‘You asked me to come, if you remember, to talk about the milk scheme.’

‘I did, I did,’ she allowed, ‘but first let us be civilised.’ She moved – as smoothly as though she was on wheels – to the small table in the corner on which decanters and glasses stood. ‘A glass of wine,’ she said, not as if it was a question. ‘All work and no play, as the poet says…’

With an inward shrug, he took the glass she presented to him. She came to stand rather closer to him than usual custom dictated, raised her own glass, and said, ‘A toast. To new friendships. And all the possibilities that flow from them.’

He sipped. It was a very good Madeira.

‘Do rid yourself of those absurd objects,’ she said, taking the files from him and putting them down on a table, ‘and come, come sit with me. Relax a little before we get to business. You are as tightly wound as a coil on a drum. Has something happened to upset you?’ She drew him to a sofa and sat, pulling him down beside her.

He was surprised by her percipience. ‘I am a little upset, I suppose. I had a letter this morning that – ah – threw me off balance.’

‘Bad news? I hope nothing too alarming,’ she said, in a voice that dripped sympathy.

‘It’s nothing of consequence,’ he said dismissively. He would not talk about Molly to anyone, least of all to this woman he barely knew. He drained his glass and said, ‘Shall we discuss the milk scheme?’