Page 45 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #2)

She determined to enjoy herself, and it was wonderful to be out of the house after so many weeks.

Richard was the most attentive of companions, and had the earl’s son’s assurance that made everything fall effortlessly into place.

The train journey was a novelty, through the baked August landscape, yellow fields and dark green hedges under a cornflower sky; plump hills, little villages, charming thatched cottages, rambling roses.

It was all very pretty; and she felt pretty too – well, not pretty, she was too old for that, but attractive, in a beige shantung summer suit that she had hardly ever had the chance to wear, and a straw hat trimmed with artificial daisies.

Then, drifting down the river, reclining on cushions, was luxurious; watching the fine play of muscle in Richard’s arms as, sleeves rolled up, he rowed with expert smoothness.

How well he did it! How well he did everything.

She indulged herself with gazing at his face as he concentrated on guiding the boat through the usual August river traffic.

She no longer tried to see likenesses in his features to his father’s.

He was himself, and now she only saw that he was attractive – a good, firm face. A face one could love.

Once they had got past the crowds, Richard sought out a quiet bit of bank for them to settle on, under a large, spreading tree.

He arranged the cushions from the boat and the rug that came with the picnic basket to make her comfortable, and she let him fuss over her, seeing it pleased him.

The picnic, acquired from a hotel between the station and the river, was good: cold chicken, pork pie, tomatoes, buttered rolls, Eccles cakes, Battenburg cake, and fruit – peaches and grapes.

The sun flickered through the leaves and threw dappled shade across their faces; the river chuckled a little against the bank with the occasional passing boat; four brown cows had come down to the water to stand knee deep, just far off enough to be a charming addition to the landscape.

‘Talk to me,’ Richard said, reclining on one elbow, a branchlet of grapes in hand. ‘Tell me your life.’

‘I think you’ve heard most of it already,’ she said. The talk between them was always easy and satisfying.

‘Not nearly most,’ he said. ‘You’ve never spoken about your marriage. Who, for instance, was Mr Sands?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘I really do. Expound, please.’

‘Vancourt Sands was an importer of cigars. You may have heard of him,’ she said.

He frowned. ‘Vancourt Sands – of course I have. But I didn’t know it was one person. I thought it was a company, like Mappin and Webb.’

‘He was very much one,’ she said, her mouth turned down. ‘He was a lot older than me and not – not a very attractive character. My mother and father – I won’t say they forced me into the marriage, but they urged me very hard. Van was rich, and they were not.’

‘Was he unkind to you?’

‘Not directly. He used me to further his business – that was what he wanted me for. I was beautiful in those days—’

‘What do you mean, in those days ?’

‘Don’t interrupt. Van’s clients included the highest in the land, right up to and including the Royal Family, and to keep them sweet, and to recruit more customers, he held regular dinner parties – gentlemen-only dinners.’

‘Oh? Oh !’

‘Not what you’re thinking. But I was the only woman there.

My job was to welcome the gentlemen, to circulate among them in the drawing-room and see they were all comfortable, well supplied with drink.

Flirt with them just a little and make them feel good.

Then at the dinner table I sat at the head and kept the conversation going.

I had to read up in advance about politics and world affairs and society gossip.

“You must sparkle,” Van would say. “You must scintillate, Molly.” It was he who first called me Molly.

Only when the cloth was drawn and it came to the cigars and port was I released, and could go to my room, usually with a headache.

It was at one of his dinners, of course, that I met your father. ’

‘I think I had guessed that,’ Richard said, a little stiffly. He didn’t want to talk about his father and Molly in this context; but still he wanted to know. ‘Did your husband . . .?’

‘Pimp me to him?’ she said brutally, but with a wry smile.

‘No, he wasn’t that bad. But he’d told me, long before, when the dinners first started, that if any of the gentlemen wanted to .

. . that if the situation arose . . .’ She shook her head, as if to clear it, ‘. . . I was to keep them in a sweet temper. The dinners must be a high spot in their calendars. They must look forward to it above anything. So I flirted and flattered. I’m not proud of what I was then—’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Richard interrupted angrily. ‘You were in no position to—’

‘Refuse? But I did. I had propositions, many of them, but I treated them lightly and laughed them off. Until—’

She had no need to say your father . The words were like little darts to his heart.

He had said all along that he did not care that she had been his father’s mistress.

But he had taken care not to think about what that really meant.

Until now. Inwardly, he shrugged. He had made her tell him. He had to face up to it.

‘So he knew about you and my father.’

‘He approved of the situation. Your father was a valued client and had many friends. And he and I – Van and I – we didn’t – we no longer—’

‘I understand,’ Richard said hastily.

‘William was the only one,’ she said, holding his gaze steadily. ‘At least, on my side. On his side . . .’ She shrugged. ‘It’s different for men.’

‘It need not be,’ he said hotly. She was silent. After a moment, he asked in a more normal tone, ‘What happened to him – your husband?’

‘He died. He was a lot older than me, as I said, suffered from bronchitis and had a heavy cough every winter. And one winter, it was too much for him. He developed pneumonia and died. Strange to think I was only married for five years. In retrospect it seems so much longer.’

‘But then,’ Richard frowned, ‘he was very wealthy. Surely you must have been left a fortune.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mention that I was his second wife.

And he had a son by his first wife, a grown man with a wife and child of his own.

He left everything to Edgar. I appealed to him for help, for justice, but he said he would not spare a penny for a woman such as I was .

He said he was sure I had plenty of paramours who would keep me. ’

‘I should like,’ Richard said in even tones, ‘to kill that swine.’

Molly shook her head. ‘It was a long time ago. It hurt me at the time, very much, but the memory of pain fades. I had my skill as a pianist, which allowed me to earn a respectable living. And your father was kind. He would have given me much more, but I was proud and wouldn’t take it.

After what Edgar had said, I had to prove to the world, or rather to myself, that I was not what he’d called me.

I let William provide me with a house, but I would not allow him keep me entirely.

Though I let him give me the occasional gift, for Chloe’s sake. ’

‘Ah, yes, Chloe,’ Richard said, and paused, not knowing how to go on.

‘Chloe was two when I first got to know your father,’ she said, and saw his brow clear. ‘How long have you wanted to ask that?’

‘No time at all,’ he said blithely. ‘I knew she was not my father’s child. She looks nothing like him.’

‘You are a very poor liar,’ she said. ‘It’s something I like about you.’

He smiled. ‘Now, really, that is not a logical statement, Molly Sands! If I were a good liar, you wouldn’t know when I was lying, would you? And, by the way, you said it was your husband who started calling you Molly. What is your name really?’

‘Oh dear. I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. It’s really quite unsuitable.’

‘It can’t be anything too bad,’ he said. ‘My second name is Peregrine. I took good care the fellows at school didn’t get hold of that, let me tell you! Come, madam, out with it!’

‘If you must know, it’s Mariamne.’

‘But that’s delightful!’

‘No one – literally no one – could ever spell it. I was Marianne all through school.’

‘It suits you much better than Molly. Mariamne was beautiful, and a princess. What more need I say?’

‘You’re such a fool!’ she said, laughing.

‘I shall call you by it from now on.’

‘Do,’ she invited, ‘if froideur amuses you.’

‘You can’t frost me. You like me too much.’

‘Sadly true.’

They fell silent, but it was a peaceful silence of accord.

She took off her hat, and let the little wandering breeze cool her brow.

Richard lit a cigarillo and lay on his back, watching the smoke coil up through the branches.

A strand of hair had fallen on his forehead, and she wanted to brush it away, and kiss the place where it had been.

Impossible! But just at that moment, less impossible than usual.

He caught her looking at him; he met her eyes, and sat up abruptly, putting aside his cigarillo. She felt herself blush. He was searching her face urgently, and she knew something difficult was coming.

He said it quite plainly, in a steady voice, like a statement of fact. ‘I love you.’

‘No, Richard,’ she protested weakly.

‘Yes. I love you. And I think you love me.’ She didn’t answer.

Impossible! ‘I am in such a damnable position,’ he said.

‘I love you, and I want to marry you, but I have nothing to offer you, no establishment. I couldn’t support you, and so I can’t ask you.

But if I could, if I did, would you say yes? ’

She was silent a long time. Then she said, ‘I think that is a question that has to be asked to be answered.’

He looked hurt. ‘Don’t trifle with me! Do you think I’m not sincere? I mean it, every word.’