doing a great job – ’
‘I’m not talking about the bloody horse!’ The uncharacteristic sharpness in her tone made James wince. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with him these days. I mean, you don’t stick brandy in your morning coffee unless there’s something seriously wrong, do you?’
Oh God, thought James. What was it that made him such a coward when it came to Lucy? Why couldn’t he just come out with it, that he thought – no, knew – that her husband was a drunken, spineless waste of space, and then just take her in his arms, lay her down in the hay and kiss her, tell her it was all going to be all right?
He remembered the first time he’d met her. He and Mickey had had the run of Honeycote House following their parents’ death. After Mickey’s first wife, Carola, had moved out, James had moved in for a short time. He’d just spent eighteen months in a lowly-paid position in a London auction house, where he’d learned everything he needed to know about the antiques and paintings he loved, and he was hoping to set up in business locally. The two of them lived in abandoned bachelordom with a long-suffering ‘woman that did’ who adored them both, and they soon became the toast of the county – a pair of handsome, well-heeled young bucks whose tastes for wine, women and song were well documented, though it was generally agreed that James was a gentleman while Mickey was an unscrupulous bastard. This didn’t necessarily make one more attractive than the other – it depended entirely on your tastes.
One spring afternoon James had been faced with the unpleasant task of having their mother’s Jack Russell, Raffles, put down. The little dog had been an integral part of the household for nearly twenty years and somehow his demise signalled the end of an era even more than their parents’ death. Mickey had steadfastly refused to have anything to do with Raffles’s disposal, as he hated responsibility, so it was left to James to call out the local vet. Richard Soames had done his job discreetly and humanely in the scullery, covering the little dog’s body with the tartan blanket that had lined his basket for as long as anyone could remember, while James slugged back Scotch in the kitchen. Lucy had come with her father on his rounds – at eighteen she had just left school, but was undecided as to her future, so her father gave her pocket money to help him out while she made up her mind.
When the deed had been done Lucy had come into the kitchen while her father washed his hands. A look of concern had crossed her face when she’d seen James’s angst. She’d put a timid little hand on his arm and reassured him gently: ‘You did the right thing. You couldn’t have let him go on suffering.’ An arrow had pierced his heart, injecting him with sweet agony as he fell head over heels in love. But he’d thought she was barely more than a child – fifteen or sixteen – and he didn’t feel he could add child-molesting to the rumours that were already flying round, so he kept his distance. He cursed himself many a time after, for he’d left the door wide open for his brother, who had no such scruples and besides had bothered to do his homework and discovered that Lucy was older than she actually looked. Strangely, the horses at Honeycote suddenly seemed to need more veterinary attention than ever before and Richard Soames and his daughter became regular visitors.
And so, one fine summer’s evening less than a year later, James had suffered indescribable torture when Mickey carried Lucy, shrieking with laughter, into the Honeycote Arms and announced he was going to marry her. James had wanted to warn her then, take her to one side, tell her she was one of many, that Mickey was sleeping with most of the girls in the county – all the good-looking ones, anyway, and some of the ones that weren’t. And tell her the salutary tale of the first Mrs Liddiard, the true story, not the watered-down
‘I’m not talking about the bloody horse!’ The uncharacteristic sharpness in her tone made James wince. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with him these days. I mean, you don’t stick brandy in your morning coffee unless there’s something seriously wrong, do you?’
Oh God, thought James. What was it that made him such a coward when it came to Lucy? Why couldn’t he just come out with it, that he thought – no, knew – that her husband was a drunken, spineless waste of space, and then just take her in his arms, lay her down in the hay and kiss her, tell her it was all going to be all right?
He remembered the first time he’d met her. He and Mickey had had the run of Honeycote House following their parents’ death. After Mickey’s first wife, Carola, had moved out, James had moved in for a short time. He’d just spent eighteen months in a lowly-paid position in a London auction house, where he’d learned everything he needed to know about the antiques and paintings he loved, and he was hoping to set up in business locally. The two of them lived in abandoned bachelordom with a long-suffering ‘woman that did’ who adored them both, and they soon became the toast of the county – a pair of handsome, well-heeled young bucks whose tastes for wine, women and song were well documented, though it was generally agreed that James was a gentleman while Mickey was an unscrupulous bastard. This didn’t necessarily make one more attractive than the other – it depended entirely on your tastes.
One spring afternoon James had been faced with the unpleasant task of having their mother’s Jack Russell, Raffles, put down. The little dog had been an integral part of the household for nearly twenty years and somehow his demise signalled the end of an era even more than their parents’ death. Mickey had steadfastly refused to have anything to do with Raffles’s disposal, as he hated responsibility, so it was left to James to call out the local vet. Richard Soames had done his job discreetly and humanely in the scullery, covering the little dog’s body with the tartan blanket that had lined his basket for as long as anyone could remember, while James slugged back Scotch in the kitchen. Lucy had come with her father on his rounds – at eighteen she had just left school, but was undecided as to her future, so her father gave her pocket money to help him out while she made up her mind.
When the deed had been done Lucy had come into the kitchen while her father washed his hands. A look of concern had crossed her face when she’d seen James’s angst. She’d put a timid little hand on his arm and reassured him gently: ‘You did the right thing. You couldn’t have let him go on suffering.’ An arrow had pierced his heart, injecting him with sweet agony as he fell head over heels in love. But he’d thought she was barely more than a child – fifteen or sixteen – and he didn’t feel he could add child-molesting to the rumours that were already flying round, so he kept his distance. He cursed himself many a time after, for he’d left the door wide open for his brother, who had no such scruples and besides had bothered to do his homework and discovered that Lucy was older than she actually looked. Strangely, the horses at Honeycote suddenly seemed to need more veterinary attention than ever before and Richard Soames and his daughter became regular visitors.
And so, one fine summer’s evening less than a year later, James had suffered indescribable torture when Mickey carried Lucy, shrieking with laughter, into the Honeycote Arms and announced he was going to marry her. James had wanted to warn her then, take her to one side, tell her she was one of many, that Mickey was sleeping with most of the girls in the county – all the good-looking ones, anyway, and some of the ones that weren’t. And tell her the salutary tale of the first Mrs Liddiard, the true story, not the watered-down
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