possible. And when they were married and he came to her bed he had found it as he hoped; her body next to his was slim, long-limbed, hard, with little fat anywhere and small breasts which she was shy and ashamed of and which he ignored altogether. And so he was able to do as she expected and give her a son.
But with the baby, her body changed. Her skin bloomed and her breasts swelled and although he understood it was a natural form of female beauty he did not want or dare to touch her any more; and after the baby was born she remained the same. His child-wife had blossomed into a mother, an adult woman with more generous hips, fuller breasts, a softer, looser stomach — and, in the early years, an embarrassing love and admiration for her husband. Despite a most earnest struggle with himself, none of those things, in the end, were what Charles Cavendish wanted.
And so over the years he had taken every opportunity to be away from home, with his soldiering and his polo and his secret. A secret that, until two months ago, he had guarded more carefully than anything else in his life. Even now, he was sure, Deborah had not the slightest suspicion. Despite my neglect, he thought, the poor woman still appears to be attracted to me. And, Lord knows, she's right in what she said about another child. Of course it's my duty. It's not completely impossible, even now. If Simon hadn't knocked on the door just at that moment, I might well have . . .
As though to mock him, the knock came again. Charles jumped, turned abruptly. ‘Yes? What the devil now?’
Simon Fletcher came in. ‘I'm sorry, sir. The motor's ready. I thought you said . . . ’
‘Oh, yes, of course I did.’ Charles waved his hand dismissively in front of his face, as though to brush his emotions away. ‘You saw the signal — meeting in Craigavon by six o'clock. You were right to bring it straight up.’
‘Yes, sir. I thought it looked urgent. It'll be about the gun-ship, I suppose — the Clydevalley, won't it?’
Charles paused, his tie half-tied, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Now, you're not supposed to talk about that, Simon, you know.’ So far as Charles knew, only twelve men in the whole of the UVF High Command knew that the Fanny , the ship that was bringing in 20,000 new Mauser and Mannlicher rifles from Germany, had evaded the British Navy and was preparing to transfer her cargo into the coaster Clydevalley , which was due to bring them into Larne tomorrow — the 24th of April. The men on the ship knew, of course, but apart from them only the most senior UVF leaders: Sir Edward Carson, Sir James Craig, and a very small, select committee of officers.
Charles was on that committee. Simon Fletcher was most certainly not.
Simon smiled — a peculiarly beautiful, winning smile, which he knew Charles could seldom resist. ‘Yes, sir, I know, of course. Mum's the word.’ Then, seeing Charles still lost in thought, fumbling with his tie, the young man walked over, took the tie out of Charles's hands, and fastened the knot for him. ‘There.’
He stepped back, still smiling conspiratorially. ‘I thought you needed rescuing, anyway.’
‘I . . . what the devil do you mean by that?’
Charles's voice was friendly, like an uncle addressing an indulged nephew, but there was an edge to it, too, which Simon had not expected. The smile stayed on Simon's face, and he lifted his chin very slightly, in a way that displayed the smooth line of his jaw to better effect.
‘I thought you were being — bothered — that's all. By your lady wife. I know how you say she fusses.’
Very suddenly, something snapped inside Charles. There was something about the insouciance of the tone, the self-consciousness of the pose, that hurt him deeply even as it appealed to him. Because it appealed to him, and Simon knew that and was using it.
He turned away, strode to a chair, picked up his jacket. ‘She is my wife, Simon. Don't speak of her in that way!’
‘But why ever not?
But with the baby, her body changed. Her skin bloomed and her breasts swelled and although he understood it was a natural form of female beauty he did not want or dare to touch her any more; and after the baby was born she remained the same. His child-wife had blossomed into a mother, an adult woman with more generous hips, fuller breasts, a softer, looser stomach — and, in the early years, an embarrassing love and admiration for her husband. Despite a most earnest struggle with himself, none of those things, in the end, were what Charles Cavendish wanted.
And so over the years he had taken every opportunity to be away from home, with his soldiering and his polo and his secret. A secret that, until two months ago, he had guarded more carefully than anything else in his life. Even now, he was sure, Deborah had not the slightest suspicion. Despite my neglect, he thought, the poor woman still appears to be attracted to me. And, Lord knows, she's right in what she said about another child. Of course it's my duty. It's not completely impossible, even now. If Simon hadn't knocked on the door just at that moment, I might well have . . .
As though to mock him, the knock came again. Charles jumped, turned abruptly. ‘Yes? What the devil now?’
Simon Fletcher came in. ‘I'm sorry, sir. The motor's ready. I thought you said . . . ’
‘Oh, yes, of course I did.’ Charles waved his hand dismissively in front of his face, as though to brush his emotions away. ‘You saw the signal — meeting in Craigavon by six o'clock. You were right to bring it straight up.’
‘Yes, sir. I thought it looked urgent. It'll be about the gun-ship, I suppose — the Clydevalley, won't it?’
Charles paused, his tie half-tied, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Now, you're not supposed to talk about that, Simon, you know.’ So far as Charles knew, only twelve men in the whole of the UVF High Command knew that the Fanny , the ship that was bringing in 20,000 new Mauser and Mannlicher rifles from Germany, had evaded the British Navy and was preparing to transfer her cargo into the coaster Clydevalley , which was due to bring them into Larne tomorrow — the 24th of April. The men on the ship knew, of course, but apart from them only the most senior UVF leaders: Sir Edward Carson, Sir James Craig, and a very small, select committee of officers.
Charles was on that committee. Simon Fletcher was most certainly not.
Simon smiled — a peculiarly beautiful, winning smile, which he knew Charles could seldom resist. ‘Yes, sir, I know, of course. Mum's the word.’ Then, seeing Charles still lost in thought, fumbling with his tie, the young man walked over, took the tie out of Charles's hands, and fastened the knot for him. ‘There.’
He stepped back, still smiling conspiratorially. ‘I thought you needed rescuing, anyway.’
‘I . . . what the devil do you mean by that?’
Charles's voice was friendly, like an uncle addressing an indulged nephew, but there was an edge to it, too, which Simon had not expected. The smile stayed on Simon's face, and he lifted his chin very slightly, in a way that displayed the smooth line of his jaw to better effect.
‘I thought you were being — bothered — that's all. By your lady wife. I know how you say she fusses.’
Very suddenly, something snapped inside Charles. There was something about the insouciance of the tone, the self-consciousness of the pose, that hurt him deeply even as it appealed to him. Because it appealed to him, and Simon knew that and was using it.
He turned away, strode to a chair, picked up his jacket. ‘She is my wife, Simon. Don't speak of her in that way!’
‘But why ever not?
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