Christopher's Medal by S.A. Laybourn Page A

lightly.
    Grace peered through the windscreen at the house. At least it was quite a bit smaller than Emma’s was, and a good deal older. The thatched roof was silver with age and the stucco walls between the ancient, curved timbers were painted a muted pink.
    “I’ll take your word for it.” She took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. The air was fragrant with the scent of pinks and roses.
    It’s only one night. You’ll be fine.
    Christopher wound his fingers through hers when they walked up the flagstone path. Grace took another deep breath when he opened the front door.
    “Hello! We’re here. Is anyone home?”
    Grace took in the flagstone floor and the polished table. A huge bowl of carefully arranged roses filled the foyer with the scent of the garden. The aroma of garlic drifted from somewhere else in the silent house.
    “Chris, darling.” A small woman hurried along the shadowed hall. “It’s so lovely to see you.” She swept Christopher into an enthusiastic hug.
    “It’s great to see you too, Mum.” He stepped back. “You look well.”
    “So do you, darling.” She turned to look at Grace. “And you must be Grace.” She held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you at last. We’ve heard so much about you.”
    Grace fidgeted under the scrutiny of those brown eyes, Christopher’s eyes. “It’s nice to meet you too.” Mrs Beaumont’s hand was cool, her grip firm.
    “Well, you must both want to freshen up after your drive. I’ve got the spare room ready for you both. We’ll have lunch when you’re ready. We might as well enjoy the peace and quiet while we can because Sally’s coming for dinner and the children have been demons lately.”
    She led them up the staircase. The polished oak floorboards creaked with every footfall. The pale gold walls were covered with photographs. Grace wanted to stop and look at them, to get a feel for Christopher’s family. Instead, she followed his mother who rattled on about people she knew nothing about.
    “Here we are.” Mrs Beaumont opened the door onto a cool, shadowed room. The small windows were open to catch the air. The scent of honeysuckle rose from a vase where blossoms spilled across the dressing table. “I hope you like it.”
    Grace looked at the four-poster bed, piled high with silk cushions. The ceiling was dark with heavy beams and the floorboards were covered with an ancient Turkish rug. A lopsided door with an old-fashioned latch opened into a small bathroom where a jar of pinks scented the room with spice.
    She thought it was like something from Country Living magazine. “It’s lovely.”
    “Thanks, Mum.” Christopher kissed his mother’s cheek.
    “Lunch is in an hour. Come down when you’re both ready.” Mrs Beaumont closed the door behind her.
    Grace sank onto the bed and exhaled slowly. The silk rustled beneath her fingers, cool to the touch.
    “Are you all right?” Christopher’s lips brushed her temple. “You’re very quiet.”
    “I’ll be fine. I just need to get over my inferiority complex.” She managed a smile.
    He put his arm around her and drew her down onto the bed, among the cushions. “She’s as nervous as you are, Gracey. You’re the first girl I’ve ever brought home.”
    “Really?” Grace twisted in his arms to look at him.
    “Yes, really. That’s how much you mean to me, Miss Webb.” He kissed her, pinning her to the bed with his weight. “Unless you think it’s pathetic that a man my age hasn’t brought someone home to meet the parents. Just call me picky.”
    “No, you’re not pathetic. You’re just discerning.” She brushed the hair from his forehead and wished his parents weren’t waiting downstairs.
    * * * *
    “It’s such a lovely day, I thought we’d have lunch on the patio.” Mrs Beaumont handed Grace a large bowl of salad. “I hope you don’t mind.”
    “Not at all.” Grace glanced around the kitchen. It was another room from a glossy magazine, complete with a