the prospect of returning to the sanctuary of the past.
They married at the beginning of January, in the Catholic church in Cambridge. Jossy wore white satin, which emphasized her big bust and hips. Daragh, standing at the altar, glancing back over his shoulder, felt a shudder of panic-stricken regret. The ranks of well-dressed strangers, and Jossy herself, plodding up the aisle on the arm of her uncle, seemed nightmarishly unfamiliar. His bride should have had a different face: his bride should have had dark gold hair and cool grey eyes. It was as though he had become caught up in someone else’s dream. He had to force himself not to run.
Jossy had wanted a honeymoon. She had proposed six weeks’ motoring on the continent, but Daragh had pointed out to her that it was winter. In truth, he had not been able to imagine being stuck for weeks in a motor car with Jossy, in a country where his lack of a foreign language would deprive him even of a conversation with the barman in the evenings. Daragh suggested London and Jossy happily agreed. They were to spend their wedding night at the Savoy Hotel. Daragh, driving down the Great North Road in the sports car that Jossy had bought him as a wedding present, thought that the worst of it was almost over. The horror that had seized him in the church seemed ridiculous out in the cold blue of a fine winter’s afternoon. He’d have a drink or two when they got to the hotel – not too many, though: he had, after all, a last duty to fulfil. He knew that it hadn’t really sunk in, what he had done. He hadn’t climbed the ladder a rung or two; he’d leapt to the top. Southam Hall was his, the farm was his, even the steward’s house where that peculiar boy and his uncle lived was also legally his. He had rid himself of the last vestiges of his Irish accent; he had devised a less shameful background. His talent for mimicry and invention seemed to have paid off: not one of Jossy’s smart friends had refused to shake his hand at the reception. When Daragh remembered his previous arrival in London, less than a year before, he told himself how lucky he had been. Born lucky.
At the Savoy, they dined on caviar and smoked salmon, and drank the best champagne. Whenever Daragh looked up, Jossy’sdark eyes were watching him. When that began to grate, he reminded himself that they didn’t have to spend the rest of their lives in each other’s pockets. He would make something of the estate, and Jossy – well, Jossy would have children. Lots of them. The sooner the better.
After dinner, he whirled Jossy a couple of times round the ballroom, and then escorted her upstairs to their suite. There, she stood in the bedroom, fiddling awkwardly with the buttons on her gloves, her hair spiralling out of the tidy sculpture her hairdresser had made of it that morning.
Daragh extracted the remainder of Jossy’s hairpins, unbuttoned her gloves and peeled them off. Kissing her neck and shoulders, he undid the hooks and eyes at the back of her dress. Her eyes were tightly closed, and he was unsure for a moment whether she was aroused or terrified. When he touched with the tip of his tongue the hollow of her spine, she moaned, so he didn’t worry any more. The dress slid to the floor, a pool of spangled black, and Daragh let the straps of Jossy’s slip fall over her shoulders.
It was when he began to tackle the complicated boned and laced undergarment that she wore beneath her slip that he found the scrap of paper. It fell to the floor, and he picked it up, and said, ‘What on earth is this?’
Jossy’s eyes opened and her face went brick red. She mumbled something.
‘Pardon?’ said Daragh.
‘I said, it’s your letter.’
He was still confused. She said, ‘You remember, dear, the one you wrote to me before we met. I’ve worn it next to my heart ever since.’
He unfolded the paper, and read, Since I saw you that day, I have been able to think of no-one else. I long to see you again, to
They married at the beginning of January, in the Catholic church in Cambridge. Jossy wore white satin, which emphasized her big bust and hips. Daragh, standing at the altar, glancing back over his shoulder, felt a shudder of panic-stricken regret. The ranks of well-dressed strangers, and Jossy herself, plodding up the aisle on the arm of her uncle, seemed nightmarishly unfamiliar. His bride should have had a different face: his bride should have had dark gold hair and cool grey eyes. It was as though he had become caught up in someone else’s dream. He had to force himself not to run.
Jossy had wanted a honeymoon. She had proposed six weeks’ motoring on the continent, but Daragh had pointed out to her that it was winter. In truth, he had not been able to imagine being stuck for weeks in a motor car with Jossy, in a country where his lack of a foreign language would deprive him even of a conversation with the barman in the evenings. Daragh suggested London and Jossy happily agreed. They were to spend their wedding night at the Savoy Hotel. Daragh, driving down the Great North Road in the sports car that Jossy had bought him as a wedding present, thought that the worst of it was almost over. The horror that had seized him in the church seemed ridiculous out in the cold blue of a fine winter’s afternoon. He’d have a drink or two when they got to the hotel – not too many, though: he had, after all, a last duty to fulfil. He knew that it hadn’t really sunk in, what he had done. He hadn’t climbed the ladder a rung or two; he’d leapt to the top. Southam Hall was his, the farm was his, even the steward’s house where that peculiar boy and his uncle lived was also legally his. He had rid himself of the last vestiges of his Irish accent; he had devised a less shameful background. His talent for mimicry and invention seemed to have paid off: not one of Jossy’s smart friends had refused to shake his hand at the reception. When Daragh remembered his previous arrival in London, less than a year before, he told himself how lucky he had been. Born lucky.
At the Savoy, they dined on caviar and smoked salmon, and drank the best champagne. Whenever Daragh looked up, Jossy’sdark eyes were watching him. When that began to grate, he reminded himself that they didn’t have to spend the rest of their lives in each other’s pockets. He would make something of the estate, and Jossy – well, Jossy would have children. Lots of them. The sooner the better.
After dinner, he whirled Jossy a couple of times round the ballroom, and then escorted her upstairs to their suite. There, she stood in the bedroom, fiddling awkwardly with the buttons on her gloves, her hair spiralling out of the tidy sculpture her hairdresser had made of it that morning.
Daragh extracted the remainder of Jossy’s hairpins, unbuttoned her gloves and peeled them off. Kissing her neck and shoulders, he undid the hooks and eyes at the back of her dress. Her eyes were tightly closed, and he was unsure for a moment whether she was aroused or terrified. When he touched with the tip of his tongue the hollow of her spine, she moaned, so he didn’t worry any more. The dress slid to the floor, a pool of spangled black, and Daragh let the straps of Jossy’s slip fall over her shoulders.
It was when he began to tackle the complicated boned and laced undergarment that she wore beneath her slip that he found the scrap of paper. It fell to the floor, and he picked it up, and said, ‘What on earth is this?’
Jossy’s eyes opened and her face went brick red. She mumbled something.
‘Pardon?’ said Daragh.
‘I said, it’s your letter.’
He was still confused. She said, ‘You remember, dear, the one you wrote to me before we met. I’ve worn it next to my heart ever since.’
He unfolded the paper, and read, Since I saw you that day, I have been able to think of no-one else. I long to see you again, to
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