Page 67 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘Obviously not. Oh dear, it seems wrong to take a cab for such a short journey.’

‘You’d never get one, anyway,’ Giles said, looking at the crowds lining the pavement.

‘At least we can walk together,’ she said hopefully. ‘I suppose you’re staying at your aunt’s house?’

‘No, at Richard’s new place in Bolton Street. He has rented a pied-à-terre , though he’s not there now – he’s at Ashmore. Are you going back directly to Berkeley Square? I suppose you are waited for.’

‘No, Mr Cowling has gone to Leicester on business. He goes home from there, and I join him on Saturday. I had one or two things to do in Town tomorrow.’

They stood in silence for a moment, as occupied cabs swished past, and the few unoccupied ones were snapped up by those nearer the kerb. Then he said, ‘Look here, the rain’s blowing in on us and we’re getting wet anyway. We might as well take the plunge, don’t you think?’

‘I’m resigned to getting wet,’ she said. She only wanted to prolong this moment with a short walk – he would surely escort her to Berkeley Square.

But he was looking at her keenly, if uncertainly. ‘I’m starving – are you?’ he said. ‘What do you say to a little supper? I know a nice little restaurant on Dover Street. If we walk quickly, we might make it there without drowning.’

Her heart lifted with joy. ‘I’m hungry too,’ she said.

He took her hand and pulled it through his arm.

‘Stick close and I’ll keep the worst off you,’ he said, and, huddled together, they stepped out into the rain.

They hurried across the road, dodging between the wet horses and rain-slicked motors.

As they crossed Albemarle Street a gust threw a hatful of drops straight into their faces, but they only laughed, like children on a lark, and Giles tore open his overcoat and wrapped it round her, so that she was pressed against him inside its warmth.

The intensity of her feelings was almost more than she could bear.

They turned into Dover Street and stopped outside Pinotti’s, where she removed herself from inside his fine tweed, they straightened themselves, and entered the welcome light and warmth with a modicum of dignity.

It was a small place, and obviously popular, but the genial Italian patron who greeted them gave them a comprehensive once-over and escorted them to a tiny table in a rear corner, seating them catty-corner to each other so that their knees were almost touching under the table.

‘Pinotti’s is known for good food at reasonable prices,’ Giles told her. ‘Not that price is an issue for me now, but I used to come here when I was a student. I hope you like Italian food.’

‘I hardly know, but it smells delicious,’ Nina said.

In truth, she would have eaten matchboxes for the chance of being with him a little longer.

She was determined to enjoy every moment, shutting her mind to any other consideration.

This fragment of joy had been vouchsafed to her by Fate, and who was she to reject it?

The food was simple and delicious, with bright, honest flavours, and they ate heartily, drank red wine and, after a little awkwardness to begin with, relaxed and warmed into a freedom of thought and expression that seemed utterly natural.

They talked and talked, ranging from subject to subject with the ease of old friends.

There was laughter, and when at one stage he put his hand over hers and squeezed it to emphasise a point, that seemed natural too.

When they had finished their main course, the waiter came to propose dolci , and when that was finished, there was coffee, and Signor Pinotti brought them a digestivo and placed the glasses with an exaggerated gesture and an indulgent look.

He murmured and gave Giles something that was almost a wink.

‘What did he say?’ Nina asked, when he had gone.

‘Something in Italian. I didn’t understand,’ Giles said, stirring his coffee.

She frowned. ‘But you speak very good Italian. I know that for a fact.’

Now he met her eye. ‘He said, all the world loves a lover,’ he told her.

Time seemed to hold its breath. Nina’s chest felt tight, as though she had taken a big breath of cold air.

He laid his hand over hers, folded the fingers under it.

It was warm, and strong, and it gave her such a feeling of safety, it was as if it had conferred invulnerability on her.

Perhaps there was another world, parallel to this one, where another Nina was licensed to hold the hand of another Giles, and was with him whenever she wanted to be, was not exiled from the all-encompassing happiness of his presence.

It was almost over, this magical interlude.

How was it that he read her unspoken thought? ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘It’s not over yet.’

She met his eyes, and everything was said without words.

They were silent then, but it was a silence of warmth and closeness.

Some time later they went out into the evening street, lamplight and wet pavements.

The rain had stopped. They walked, not hurrying now, further along Piccadilly.

Bolton Street was the third turning along, no distance at all.

At the street door she waited behind him while he fished in his pocket. ‘You have a key?’ she said.

‘There’s no live-in staff. Richard and I both use it when we’re in Town.’

The house was in darkness. She shivered. He opened the door and she stepped inside, and he followed her. But then he paused and said carefully, ‘Do you want me to take you home?’

To take the offered escape, the safe way out, or to jump into the void? But it was long past the moment of choice for her. She had to have this. She stepped forward into his arms. ‘You are my home,’ she said.

He closed the door, shutting them together in the dark. Just enough street glow came in through the fanlight for them to find their way upstairs.

In the bedroom he said, ‘I think we’re owed this. Life owes us this.’

She said, ‘Just this one time.’

It was not a stipulation but an understanding of reality. Such chances did not come twice. This was time out of Time; a different story they might have lived – but the ending would be the same.

‘Can it be enough? Can we make this one time pay for everything?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But we can try.’

Afterwards he held her tenderly. She understood now.

The poems, the novels, the paintings, all the great passionate and tragic outpourings of art in all its forms that had puzzled her.

She had been standing outside a closed door, hearing faintly the music from inside.

Now she had stepped through the door, and she knew.

‘You’ve never—’ he began to ask.

‘No,’ she said. Not properly, she thought. Not like this.

‘Thank God,’ he murmured, kissing her hair, holding her a little tighter, as though someone were about to snatch her away.

‘But you have,’ she suggested, in a small voice.

‘Not like this,’ he said. But that was all.

No more could be said, without betrayal.

But she wouldn’t think about that. She sighed and pressed closer, feeling the great warm wash of contentment that was as powerful as sexual passion and, she guessed, would be more enduring, for those lucky enough to be able to know it.

They lay entwined without speaking, and slept a little, the best sleep of all.

She woke in the dark and felt him wake too, and joy surged in her as she realised where she was.

Giles, she was with Giles. She felt his skin against hers, smelt the scent that belonged to him alone out of all the creatures in the world.

She would know it, even if she was never with him again until the end of her life.

He drew her against him, his mouth to her ear. ‘I love you,’ he whispered. ‘Only you.’

But words were not their friend. Words were sentinels of Time, and Time was not their friend.

She nuzzled closer, and felt his body respond.

It was so natural, this fitting together, such a miracle the sensations, the satisfaction.

They made love again, and slept again, tumbled together like puppies, utterly content.

The curtains were undrawn, and she woke to a lightening of the sky over the chimneys. ‘What time is it?’ she said.

He separated himself from her and searched for his watch. ‘Nearly half past six,’ he said.

It was almost over.

He took her in his arms again. They were silent, her head on his chest, his chin resting on her hair. He said, ‘Will they have worried about you?’

‘It’s only the servants. They’ll think I’ve stayed with friends.’ The staff at the house in Berkeley Square were not old family retainers, concerned for her well-being. But the question had started up a train of thought. She felt it in his body, that he was thinking too.

‘You mustn’t feel guilty,’ he said at last.

‘No. You mustn’t either,’ she said.

‘It wasn’t wrong. It was . . .’ He didn’t seem to be able to finish.

She thought. It was wrong, of course. They had always taken such care that no-one else was hurt. They must go on doing so. It was wrong, but it was also right. ‘It was a balancing of the books,’ she said.

‘Oh, my love,’ he said brokenly. ‘My only love.’ He kissed her wildly, and she responded, and thought, There it is, the grief that always, in art, seems to come coupled with love. The lovers are separated, the loved one dies, it all ends in tragedy and a mighty crashing chord of desolation.

She held him tightly, and said, ‘We had this. No-one can take that away. We will always remember this.’

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I love you too,’ she said. And that seemed to be all of it.

The monde was not about, only people going to work, heads down and hurrying in the damp October air.

The postman in his red collar and peaked cap was working his way up the street.

Two doors down, the milkman’s horse stood with its forefeet on the kerb, fragments of its breakfast chaff still caught in its whiskers, contemplating eternity.

A dog trotted busily by, and glanced up at them without interest. Reality going about its business, as if no earth-shattering event had taken place.

Nothing had changed, and everything had.

A café was open on the corner of Hay Hill, and they went in and had coffee and toast, drawing no curiosity from the proprietor or the other customers.

Ladies and gentlemen breakfasting after a night out were not uncommon.

They sat close and did not talk, too aware of the approaching end, savouring these last drops from the bottom of the cup.

Berkeley Square was just round the corner. When they quit the café, he said, ‘I’ll walk you to your door.’

But ‘Better not,’ she said. They might be spotted and recognised. And she needed a few moments to compose herself before she reached the house. Her husband’s house.

‘So, then – goodbye?’ he said. He held out his hand.

She took it, and felt the warmth, the shape of his palm and his fingers that she would know for ever. ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

She walked away, and forced herself not to look back. There was such a pain in her throat she could not swallow.