Daphne by Justine Picardie Page B

like Mrs Danvers, she told herself. She was Lady Browning, a loving and dutiful wife, waiting for her husband to return home again.
    Tommy was on his way back to Menabilly after three weeks in the nursing home, after tranquillisers and electric shocks and God knows what else, her husband was being delivered back to her this evening, like a parcel. No, not a parcel, what was she thinking of? 'He will need a great deal of your support and affection,' the doctor told Daphne on the telephone two days ago, when he rang to explain that Tommy was now well enough to leave the nursing home, and spend the rest of the summer convalescing in Menabilly. 'No stress, obviously, no over-excitement, absolutely no alcohol. Just keep everything very quiet and peaceful for him.'
    It was inconceivable to Daphne that she could drive Tommy all the way from London (she rarely drove anywhere these days, not even to Fowey), and the train seemed too lacking in privacy, as did a hired driver. It wasn't fair to ask either of her daughters to take responsibility for such a long journey, but she didn't trust anyone outside the family, so in the end, she decided to ask her cousin Peter, who had been at Eton with Tommy, and served alongside him in the First World War. She telephoned Peter at the publishing company he ran with his younger brother Nico and he agreed, readily, and didn't ask for any further explanation than Daphne had already offered: that Tommy was suffering from nervous exhaustion, hence the stay in the private nursing home and the cancellation of the silver wedding anniversary party.
    She made sure that Menabilly was looking at its best for Tommy's arrival: vases of roses in the Long Room and the entrance hall, and everything swept and scrubbed clean and polished, just as he liked it. Then she changed out of her usual nondescript trousers into a blue chiffon dress, dabbed perfume at her wrists and throat, and applied her make-up with unusual care, gazing into her dressing-table mirror at her pale, anxious face, powdering over its shadows and uncertainties. But would she meet Tommy's high standards? Would he find her lacking?
    When Daphne saw Peter's car turn into the drive, just after half past seven in the evening, she took a sharp intake of breath, and smoothed her hands across her hair, then ran downstairs to the front door, so that she would be standing there, a smile on her face, ready to welcome Tommy. She'd got Tod out of the way with various errands, and the maids had left for the day, which meant that Tommy could slip in without a fuss.
    'Darling,' she said, as he got out of the car, 'how lovely to see you again, and you're looking so much better.' In fact, she was shocked by his appearance, for although he was immaculately dressed in a suit and tie and polished brogues, his face was a powdery grey, like dirty chalk, and rather than his usual confident stride, he seemed to shuffle towards her.
    'Good drive?' she said, patting him awkwardly on the arm.
    Tommy shrugged, and gestured towards Peter. 'Ask your cousin,' he said. 'I had my eyes closed for most of the journey.'
    'It was terribly kind of you,' she said, turning to Peter and kissing him on the cheek. For a moment she felt as if she were watching all of three of them, jerking like marionettes, as if she were back up again in her vantage point at the bedroom window, at one remove from this stiff little scene by the front door. 'I suppose both of you men are longing for a . . . for a cup of tea.'
    Tommy grimaced, while Peter raised one eyebrow at her almost imperceptibly. 'You're sounding more and more like my mother,' said Tommy. 'What we all need is a stiff drink.' He stumped into the house, leaving the front door open behind him, and as Daphne looked at Peter, she wondered if he could see the flush that she felt rising from her neck, across her face.
    'I take it a drink isn't yet in order?' said Peter.
    'Not yet,' she said. 'Just hang on for a bit . . .'
    By the time she found