since it was excellent. Barking she might be, but Elen could certainly cook. Her sauce, unlike mine, didn't come from a jar, nor had any of the marinated vegetables she'd heaped on to the technicolour plate of antipasto. And the bread, from its warm yeasty smell and texture, must also have been freshly baked.
Christopher, who apparently not only shared Bridget's penchant for flirting but also her appetite, finished his first helping faster than anyone. He looked expectantly at Elen. "Is there more?"
"Yes, of course..."
"It's all right, I can get it." He rose, plate in hand, and headed for the kitchen while Elen told the rest of us, "There's more of everything. I always make too much."
"With Bridget and my brother here, you won't have any leftovers," James promised her. He poured himself another glass of wine and glanced at Gareth. "Oh, I nearly forgot— Lyn was asking me earlier. How much do you know about the prophecies of Merlin?"
' "The prophecies?'' His frown, I thought, looked faintly diabolical. "A fair amount. I have the book, at home."
"What book?" asked James.
' 'A History of the British Kings, by Geoffrey of Mon-mouth. The prophecies are part of that. It's rather hard going, twelfth-century prose, and the prophecies themselves don't make much sense, they're more like riddles."
"There you are, then," Bridget said, to me. "You should borrow the book."
I studied the man seated opposite. "I don't imagine Mr. Morgan likes to loan his books."
Our eyes locked, while he weighed the challenge. ' 'No, you're right," he said, at last. "I don't. You'll have to read where it lies." I caught the smugness in his smile, and knew he knew I'd rather die than visit him at home. "You can come tomorrow morning, if you like."
"Good," said James. "That's all arranged, then. Anyone for wine?''
Gareth declined the offer. "Why," he asked me, "do you want to know about the prophecies?"
I didn't have a chance to answer. From the floor above a sound rose sharply, unexpectedly, demanding our attention.
Elen's baby was awake, and crying for his mother.
XI
For if there ever come a grief to me
I cry my cry in silence, and have done;
None knows it.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "Guinevere"
I reached for my wineglass to hide the effect that the sound was producing. Please stop, I begged silently. Oh, please stop crying. My fingers clenched convulsively around the glass's fragile stem, and snapped it as I drank.
"Oh, blast!" I leaped too late. The dark red wine spilled down my left side to my lap, an ugly spreading stain.
"White wine," said Bridget quickly. "I remember reading somewhere if you pour white wine on top of red, the stain won't set. Do you have any, Elen?"
"No, I'm afraid I—"
James cut in to say there ought to be a bottle or two in his uncle Ralph's dining-room. "Look in the drinks cabinet, under the window."
I stood, grateful for the opportunity to leave the room, to leave the house, to leave the crying baby.
"Shall I come with you?" asked Bridget.
I shook my head. "No." Overhead the crying rose again in volume, grew more piercing and persistent, and my hand shook as I set my napkin down beside my plate. "No, I'll be fine. I'll be back in a minute." I managed to walk, very calm, from the dining-room, my footsteps firm and even on the flooring, like a soldier making an honourable retreat. I didn't start running until I reached the lawn.
In the front porch of the larger house, I pulled the door shut and leaned against it, steadying my breathing. The crying couldn't reach me here—I only heard the rattle of the windowpanes above the covered coal box, and the scuttle of a bit of leaf across the chequered floor. Relieved, I closed my eyes and felt my heartbeat settle. There, I thought, that's better. I can manage.
Upstairs, I changed clothes and spent some minutes in the bathroom, pressing the cold dripping flannel to my cheeks until the face in the mirror looked less flushed and more like my own. I was letting the
Christopher, who apparently not only shared Bridget's penchant for flirting but also her appetite, finished his first helping faster than anyone. He looked expectantly at Elen. "Is there more?"
"Yes, of course..."
"It's all right, I can get it." He rose, plate in hand, and headed for the kitchen while Elen told the rest of us, "There's more of everything. I always make too much."
"With Bridget and my brother here, you won't have any leftovers," James promised her. He poured himself another glass of wine and glanced at Gareth. "Oh, I nearly forgot— Lyn was asking me earlier. How much do you know about the prophecies of Merlin?"
' "The prophecies?'' His frown, I thought, looked faintly diabolical. "A fair amount. I have the book, at home."
"What book?" asked James.
' 'A History of the British Kings, by Geoffrey of Mon-mouth. The prophecies are part of that. It's rather hard going, twelfth-century prose, and the prophecies themselves don't make much sense, they're more like riddles."
"There you are, then," Bridget said, to me. "You should borrow the book."
I studied the man seated opposite. "I don't imagine Mr. Morgan likes to loan his books."
Our eyes locked, while he weighed the challenge. ' 'No, you're right," he said, at last. "I don't. You'll have to read where it lies." I caught the smugness in his smile, and knew he knew I'd rather die than visit him at home. "You can come tomorrow morning, if you like."
"Good," said James. "That's all arranged, then. Anyone for wine?''
Gareth declined the offer. "Why," he asked me, "do you want to know about the prophecies?"
I didn't have a chance to answer. From the floor above a sound rose sharply, unexpectedly, demanding our attention.
Elen's baby was awake, and crying for his mother.
XI
For if there ever come a grief to me
I cry my cry in silence, and have done;
None knows it.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "Guinevere"
I reached for my wineglass to hide the effect that the sound was producing. Please stop, I begged silently. Oh, please stop crying. My fingers clenched convulsively around the glass's fragile stem, and snapped it as I drank.
"Oh, blast!" I leaped too late. The dark red wine spilled down my left side to my lap, an ugly spreading stain.
"White wine," said Bridget quickly. "I remember reading somewhere if you pour white wine on top of red, the stain won't set. Do you have any, Elen?"
"No, I'm afraid I—"
James cut in to say there ought to be a bottle or two in his uncle Ralph's dining-room. "Look in the drinks cabinet, under the window."
I stood, grateful for the opportunity to leave the room, to leave the house, to leave the crying baby.
"Shall I come with you?" asked Bridget.
I shook my head. "No." Overhead the crying rose again in volume, grew more piercing and persistent, and my hand shook as I set my napkin down beside my plate. "No, I'll be fine. I'll be back in a minute." I managed to walk, very calm, from the dining-room, my footsteps firm and even on the flooring, like a soldier making an honourable retreat. I didn't start running until I reached the lawn.
In the front porch of the larger house, I pulled the door shut and leaned against it, steadying my breathing. The crying couldn't reach me here—I only heard the rattle of the windowpanes above the covered coal box, and the scuttle of a bit of leaf across the chequered floor. Relieved, I closed my eyes and felt my heartbeat settle. There, I thought, that's better. I can manage.
Upstairs, I changed clothes and spent some minutes in the bathroom, pressing the cold dripping flannel to my cheeks until the face in the mirror looked less flushed and more like my own. I was letting the
Similar Books
