obstruction to my view of the house, and the pillars and beams of the pergola stretching out on its flagstoned causeway above the orchard were bare of the wisteria that would one day swathe them. Workmen were active amongst them, however, fixing flower-baskets and what looked like fairy-lights to the undersides of the beams. Preparations for the house-warming were evidently well advanced.
I rounded the curve in the drive and gained my first view of the front of the house. How strange it was to have no mundane business to conduct there, no problem so simple as plumbing or damp-coursing to solve. Would that I had, I could not help thinking. Would that I had a dozen recalcitrant stonemasons to face rather than the one person I was bound now to betray.
I must have been seen from the house, for as I moved across the courtyard towards the arched porchway, the oaken door opened and Danby, the butler, smiled out at me in greeting.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Staddon. It’s a pleasure to see you.’
‘Hello, Danby. How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, sir. Let me take your bag. Gleasure will deliver it to your room.’ A footman appeared behind him: tall and well built with sleeked-down black hair, a squarish jaw and strangely mournful eyes. When he took my bag from Danby, it was obvious that it seemed much lighter to him than it had to us. ‘We’ve put you in the orchard suite, sir,’ Danby continued. ‘I do hope that meets with your approval.’
‘Couldn’t be better. Have you many guests staying?’
‘Other than Mr Caswell’s family, just you and Major Turnbull, sir.’
My heart sank. The odious but perceptive Turnbull was somebody I had no wish to meet again.
‘Mrs Caswell is in the drawing-room at present, sir. I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you. Some tea, perhaps?’
‘Er … no thank you.’ Suddenly, my mind was alive with unfounded suspicions. Even the attentive Danby could seem guilty of sarcasm if his every word was analysed. ‘I think I’ll go up to my room first.’ I fanned myself with my hat. ‘Hot, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. Uncommonly.’
Consuela must have known I had arrived and must have thought it odd I did not immediately join her in the drawing-room, but she could hardly have guessed the reason. I needed time to gather my wits and prepare what I would say to her. I washed the grime of the journey from my face, unpacked and changed into blazer and flannels. In the mirror, as I struggled to arrange my cravat with suddenly disobedient fingers, I could see reflected a furtive cast to my features that I had never seen there before. Would Consuela see it as well? I could only pray she would not.
I left the orchard suite with a curious sense of remoteness, following my steps along the landing as if they were those of another man. To my left, internal windows gave me glimpses of the hall below, sunlight flooding across the polished wood and dragon-patterned rugs. Everything I had planned had come to pass in this house – solidity, comfort, novelty, the satisfying fall of golden light on well-pointed stonework – yet much more I had not planned meant I could take no pleasure from my success.
I descended the stairs – feeling the waxed smoothness of the banister rail beneath my palm, noting how my view of the hall expanded with each of the quarter-landings – then turned towards the drawing-room. The double doors were open. For coolness, I wondered, or for warning of approach?
She was sitting on a sofa near the windows that gave on to the ornamental garden. The windows were open, but no breath of air entered, only the low hum of a bee from a trailing loop of honeysuckle; only stillness and a dust-moted wedge of sunlight that seemed to stand like a barrier between us, blurring and confusing the image of her that reached me. Her dress was of cream and gold, elegant yet insubstantial. Her hair was drawn up and no string of pearls compromised the slender perfection of her neck, but the
I rounded the curve in the drive and gained my first view of the front of the house. How strange it was to have no mundane business to conduct there, no problem so simple as plumbing or damp-coursing to solve. Would that I had, I could not help thinking. Would that I had a dozen recalcitrant stonemasons to face rather than the one person I was bound now to betray.
I must have been seen from the house, for as I moved across the courtyard towards the arched porchway, the oaken door opened and Danby, the butler, smiled out at me in greeting.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Staddon. It’s a pleasure to see you.’
‘Hello, Danby. How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, sir. Let me take your bag. Gleasure will deliver it to your room.’ A footman appeared behind him: tall and well built with sleeked-down black hair, a squarish jaw and strangely mournful eyes. When he took my bag from Danby, it was obvious that it seemed much lighter to him than it had to us. ‘We’ve put you in the orchard suite, sir,’ Danby continued. ‘I do hope that meets with your approval.’
‘Couldn’t be better. Have you many guests staying?’
‘Other than Mr Caswell’s family, just you and Major Turnbull, sir.’
My heart sank. The odious but perceptive Turnbull was somebody I had no wish to meet again.
‘Mrs Caswell is in the drawing-room at present, sir. I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you. Some tea, perhaps?’
‘Er … no thank you.’ Suddenly, my mind was alive with unfounded suspicions. Even the attentive Danby could seem guilty of sarcasm if his every word was analysed. ‘I think I’ll go up to my room first.’ I fanned myself with my hat. ‘Hot, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. Uncommonly.’
Consuela must have known I had arrived and must have thought it odd I did not immediately join her in the drawing-room, but she could hardly have guessed the reason. I needed time to gather my wits and prepare what I would say to her. I washed the grime of the journey from my face, unpacked and changed into blazer and flannels. In the mirror, as I struggled to arrange my cravat with suddenly disobedient fingers, I could see reflected a furtive cast to my features that I had never seen there before. Would Consuela see it as well? I could only pray she would not.
I left the orchard suite with a curious sense of remoteness, following my steps along the landing as if they were those of another man. To my left, internal windows gave me glimpses of the hall below, sunlight flooding across the polished wood and dragon-patterned rugs. Everything I had planned had come to pass in this house – solidity, comfort, novelty, the satisfying fall of golden light on well-pointed stonework – yet much more I had not planned meant I could take no pleasure from my success.
I descended the stairs – feeling the waxed smoothness of the banister rail beneath my palm, noting how my view of the hall expanded with each of the quarter-landings – then turned towards the drawing-room. The double doors were open. For coolness, I wondered, or for warning of approach?
She was sitting on a sofa near the windows that gave on to the ornamental garden. The windows were open, but no breath of air entered, only the low hum of a bee from a trailing loop of honeysuckle; only stillness and a dust-moted wedge of sunlight that seemed to stand like a barrier between us, blurring and confusing the image of her that reached me. Her dress was of cream and gold, elegant yet insubstantial. Her hair was drawn up and no string of pearls compromised the slender perfection of her neck, but the
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