lozenge-shaped brooch was in its normal place; I saw it glint in the sun as she leaned forward and slipped the book she had been reading beneath a cushion.
‘Is all well, Geoffrey?’
‘Of course. What makes you ask?’
‘The way you stand there. So stern and silent.’
I hurried across the room and took her hand. Now would have been the moment. Now, before resolution could falter or delay compound the offence, I should have told her what I had decided. But her delicate fingers were trembling, her dark eyes were roving my face in search of reassurance. And she was so very, very beautiful. I sat down on the edge of the sofa and kissed her, knowing as I did so that once I had told her I would never again feel her full lips yielding against my own, never again enjoy all that was still mine for the asking.
‘
Querido Geoffrey
. This is the beginning of the end.’
‘What?’ I flushed, then saw in her open, trusting face that I had misunderstood.
‘We can escape now,’ she said with a smile. ‘There is nothing left to wait for.’
‘No. There isn’t.’
‘So, when shall we leave?’
‘As soon … Well …’
‘I have an idea how to manage it.’
‘You do?’
‘It must be when Victor is occupied, when he is unable to interfere, when he has no way of knowing where I am or what I am doing.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Next Tuesday there will be such an opportunity. Victor is—’ She broke off and drew away from me. ‘We will speak later.’ Then she nodded towards the door.
I had heard nothing, but, as I looked round, there was a laugh from the direction of the hall that sounded horribly familiar and, a second later, Victor entered alongside Major Royston Turnbull. The sight of them made me flinch: Victor in tweeds, his broad grin and bristling moustache composing a gash across his face; Turnbull in a loose-fitting linen suit, cigar distorting his mouth into a leer.
‘Staddon!’ Victor exclaimed. ‘You got here, then.’
I rose and shook his hand. ‘It was kind of you to invite me.’
‘Not at all, not at all.’
Turnbull inclined his head in greeting. ‘Pleasure to meet you again, Staddon.’
‘And you, Major.’
‘Already monopolizing the ravishing Consuela’s company, I see.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Pay Royston no heed,’ said Victor. ‘His style of humour’s not to everyone’s taste.’ He laughed, but nobody joined in. Victor seemed in an unusually good mood; perhaps the prospect of a party was bringing out the best in him, though I could not help doubting it. ‘You must take a look at the ornamental garden, Staddon. It’s a picture, isn’t it, Royston?’
‘Indeed. One might say that the external charms of Clouds Frome are almost the equal of those within it.’ Turnbull’s eyes met mine with a mirthless sparkle.
‘I didn’t think it could look so good in its first year,’ said Victor, ‘but Banyard’s excelled himself. Come and admire his handiwork, Staddon.’
‘Er … I’d be delighted to.’
‘Consuela will excuse us. Won’t you, my dear?’
‘Yes,’ came her voice, seemingly from a distance far beyond the bounds of the room. ‘Of course.’
‘I’m very pleased with the house, Staddon, really I am. It has everything you promised. Character. Elegance. Comfort. And something else. Panache, you might say. Yes, that’s it. If a house can have panache, then Clouds Frome has it in abundance. My neighbours admire it. My friends covet it. You’ve done a fine job, a damned fine job.’
We were walking the length of the pergola, glancing back at the ornamental garden and the house as we went. Victor was in a declamatory frame of mind, waving his boater at arm’s length as he spoke, smiling and patting my shoulder at intervals. On my other side walked Turnbull, thumbs wedged in waistcoat pockets, head back and breathing deeply, as if sampling what little fresh air could penetrate the haze of smoke from his cigar.
‘And my wife likes it.
‘Is all well, Geoffrey?’
‘Of course. What makes you ask?’
‘The way you stand there. So stern and silent.’
I hurried across the room and took her hand. Now would have been the moment. Now, before resolution could falter or delay compound the offence, I should have told her what I had decided. But her delicate fingers were trembling, her dark eyes were roving my face in search of reassurance. And she was so very, very beautiful. I sat down on the edge of the sofa and kissed her, knowing as I did so that once I had told her I would never again feel her full lips yielding against my own, never again enjoy all that was still mine for the asking.
‘
Querido Geoffrey
. This is the beginning of the end.’
‘What?’ I flushed, then saw in her open, trusting face that I had misunderstood.
‘We can escape now,’ she said with a smile. ‘There is nothing left to wait for.’
‘No. There isn’t.’
‘So, when shall we leave?’
‘As soon … Well …’
‘I have an idea how to manage it.’
‘You do?’
‘It must be when Victor is occupied, when he is unable to interfere, when he has no way of knowing where I am or what I am doing.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Next Tuesday there will be such an opportunity. Victor is—’ She broke off and drew away from me. ‘We will speak later.’ Then she nodded towards the door.
I had heard nothing, but, as I looked round, there was a laugh from the direction of the hall that sounded horribly familiar and, a second later, Victor entered alongside Major Royston Turnbull. The sight of them made me flinch: Victor in tweeds, his broad grin and bristling moustache composing a gash across his face; Turnbull in a loose-fitting linen suit, cigar distorting his mouth into a leer.
‘Staddon!’ Victor exclaimed. ‘You got here, then.’
I rose and shook his hand. ‘It was kind of you to invite me.’
‘Not at all, not at all.’
Turnbull inclined his head in greeting. ‘Pleasure to meet you again, Staddon.’
‘And you, Major.’
‘Already monopolizing the ravishing Consuela’s company, I see.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Pay Royston no heed,’ said Victor. ‘His style of humour’s not to everyone’s taste.’ He laughed, but nobody joined in. Victor seemed in an unusually good mood; perhaps the prospect of a party was bringing out the best in him, though I could not help doubting it. ‘You must take a look at the ornamental garden, Staddon. It’s a picture, isn’t it, Royston?’
‘Indeed. One might say that the external charms of Clouds Frome are almost the equal of those within it.’ Turnbull’s eyes met mine with a mirthless sparkle.
‘I didn’t think it could look so good in its first year,’ said Victor, ‘but Banyard’s excelled himself. Come and admire his handiwork, Staddon.’
‘Er … I’d be delighted to.’
‘Consuela will excuse us. Won’t you, my dear?’
‘Yes,’ came her voice, seemingly from a distance far beyond the bounds of the room. ‘Of course.’
‘I’m very pleased with the house, Staddon, really I am. It has everything you promised. Character. Elegance. Comfort. And something else. Panache, you might say. Yes, that’s it. If a house can have panache, then Clouds Frome has it in abundance. My neighbours admire it. My friends covet it. You’ve done a fine job, a damned fine job.’
We were walking the length of the pergola, glancing back at the ornamental garden and the house as we went. Victor was in a declamatory frame of mind, waving his boater at arm’s length as he spoke, smiling and patting my shoulder at intervals. On my other side walked Turnbull, thumbs wedged in waistcoat pockets, head back and breathing deeply, as if sampling what little fresh air could penetrate the haze of smoke from his cigar.
‘And my wife likes it.
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