Page 73 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

The dog was lying on its side in the road.

Other people were hurrying across, but Nina got there first. She heard voices, heard the dray driver’s protest, felt the nervous movement of the two big horses, was aware of their steaming bulk and the smell of manure and chaff and the scrape of their iron-clad feet on the road.

The dog was panting shallowly, its eyes staring straight ahead.

She couldn’t see any damage on it, and was bracing herself to touch it when it gave an oof of expelled breath, and was still.

Mr Cowling reached her, and pulled her to her feet. ‘Your gown! The wet road!’ he protested. ‘Come away, there’s nothing you can do.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s gone. Poor thing.’ She heard her own voice, and it sounded quite calm. It seemed to reassure Mr Cowling, who led her back to the hotel.

People were passing them the other way, going to look at the accident. The doorman was one of them: Mr Cowling had to open the door himself. ‘Perhaps a brandy-and-soda, for the shock,’ he suggested.

‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘I just want to go to bed.’ Still she sounded normal.

She took his arm and they went upstairs in silence.

Tina and Moxton were waiting. Moxton took Mr Cowling through into the adjoining room, while the maid undressed Nina.

It was only when Tina saw the marks on the coat at knee level and the state of the gown’s hem that she broke silence. ‘Oh, madam, what happened?’

‘I knelt down for a moment. In the road. Can you do anything about it?’

‘Don’t worry about it, madam. I’ll brush it when its dry,’ Tina said, her voice puzzled, longing to ask more. But she restrained herself. ‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see. Oh, madam, don’t upset yourself,’ she concluded, seeing Nina’s expression.

Mr Cowling came back in in his dressing-gown, assessed the situation, and took charge. ‘You can go,’ he told Tina, and she was glad to scurry away. When she was gone, he said, ‘My love. What is it?’

She was trembling. ‘I’m cold,’ she stammered, between clenched teeth. ‘I’m so cold.’

He stepped close and put his arms round her.

‘Get into bed,’ he said, guiding her there.

He helped her between the sheets, hesitated, then turned off the lamps, took off his dressing-gown and got in beside her.

‘My love,’ he said, drawing her against him.

‘Let me warm you. My poor darling. I’ll stay with you. ’

He held her close against him, and for once she was glad of the solid heat of him.

There was comfort in his strong arms, his kind words, and she let herself relax against him.

He kissed the crown of her head, and she felt as though her heart would break.

‘It’s your poor little dog, of course,’ he said.

‘I should have thought. It’s bound to bring it all back to you. There, there. Don’t cry, my Nina.’

But she did, even as his warmth crept into her and the shaking stopped.

She cried her sadness and guilt and loss, lying in the darkness and staring down the long lonely years ahead, exiled from what she loved.

Aunt Schofield had asked her if she had thought enough about it when she had accepted Mr Cowling, and she had said yes, she had.

But she had been so young, how could she have?

Now she knew. This was what there was for her, for the rest of her life.

She was wife to this kind but utterly separate man, whose thoughts she could not read, and who could not read hers.

Eventually the tears stopped. He kissed her hair again, and then her cheek, and she felt the difference in his breathing.

He nudged her face round to kiss her lips, and she let him.

‘My love,’ he whispered. He caressed her neck, and then her breast. She did not pull away.

His hand was on her bare skin now, inside her nightgown.

How could she help remembering the last time she had been touched so?

But this was her husband, and she had a duty to yield to him. She made herself move into his embrace.

And for a wonder, this time, he seemed to have no difficulty.

She could not respond to it, but she allowed it: she owed him that.

He possessed her, and she held him lightly, her senses silent, her mind blank.

He cried out softly at the end, a small sound of helplessness that hurt her heart.

And then it was all over and he was holding her tightly, covering her unresisting face with kisses.

‘My Nina! My Nina!’ he murmured passionately again and again.

For the rest of my life. This, now, for ever.

He did not go back to his own room. With her in his arms he slept, quiet with accomplished joy; woke early, remembered, and lay with her warm softness cradled against him, savouring the memories.

There had been no struggle, no difficulty.

It had been natural and easy, as he’d always hoped it would be.

He felt a page had been turned. What was it that had made the difference?

He was not one for self-analysis, but he knew without words that it was because she had needed him.

He had been jealous of her pleasure in other men’s company at the dinner, and she had been cool towards him, as always.

But then there was the accident to the dog, which must have brought memories rushing back to her.

And in her distress she had turned to him.

She had needed him, and he had been able to comfort her.

The balance of power between them had changed.

He had always been the unworthy supplicant, she the proud, inaccessible goddess.

Now, he was a man again, with a man’s pride in a man’s proper role – providing, protecting, nurturing, comforting.

Now she was his wife in truth. He looked down the long happy years ahead, in union with what he loved.

Her aunt, he knew, had been doubtful about the match, but he had sworn to himself that he would make her happy, and now there was nothing in the way of that intent.

Lord and Lady Leven were immensely rich, and great patrons, especially of fine art.

One of the ways in which they supported it was to invite the pupils at the Blackwood School to visit their impressive permanent collection.

The young ladies came in groups to study the paintings close up, to copy them, to discuss them with the attending teacher.

Alice and Bron were in a group that went at the end of October.

‘I’ve heard they serve refreshments,’ Bron said eagerly, as they walked in crocodile to the Levens’ house in Portman Square.

‘ I ’ve heard that’s not true,’ Alice countered.

‘Oh, well – it will be fun anyway. They have some very important paintings. They say Lord Leven is richer than the King. When a great Old Master comes on the market, he buys it up to keep it in the country.’

‘I want to see the Holbein portrait of Henry the Eighth,’ Alice said.

‘It’s only a copy.’

‘Well, of course it is. The original was painted on a wall in Whitehall Palace and it burned down. Miss Deeks told me.’

‘I know,’ Bron said vaguely. ‘Oh, I remember what I was going to say to you. Next term, what would you think about living in lodgings? There’s a house in Bloomsbury that lets out rooms to girls from the Blackwood.

There’s a live-in housekeeper, so it’s all very respectable, and I’ve heard that there’s a room for two sharing that’s going to be available from January. ’

‘Bloomsbury? That’s further away than I am now,’ Alice said.

‘But think what fun, to be just all girls together! Oh, do say yes – I’d sooner share a room with you than anyone else.’

‘I don’t suppose I could get permission,’ Alice said.

‘But I told you, it’s frightfully respectable – it has to be, otherwise no-one would get permission. It’s owned by the school, you know, so it’s official. I bet if you asked they’d say yes – why not?’

‘I expect my aunt would like to have her house to herself sometimes,’ Alice said doubtfully. Aunt Caroline had never hinted anything of the sort, and seemed not just resigned to, but actually to relish her role as the family’s free hotel. ‘All I can do is ask.’

‘You can do what I do – keep asking until they say yes just to get some peace and quiet,’ Bron said, with a grin.

There were, in fact, no refreshments, but Alice was soon too absorbed in the wonderful paintings to mind or even notice.

Among them she was intrigued to discover a pair of very brown eighteenth-century romantic oils by Hubert Robert, called The Flight of Galatea and The Trial of Cicero , whose provenance noted that they had once been owned by her father.

Sold, she supposed, before she was born, to pay off a debt.

Passing into an anteroom, still searching for the Holbein, she saw something that made her call excitedly to Bron. ‘Come and look, come and look!’

‘Goodness,’ Bron breathed into her ear, gazing over her shoulder. ‘It’s a Wentworth!’

‘Ivor Wentworth,’ Alice marvelled. ‘One of our teachers!’

‘Seeing it here makes you realise properly that he is a famous artist. To think that we know him!’

‘Well, not “know” really,’ Alice said, in fairness. ‘But we’ve seen him in the flesh. Passed him in the corridor. Spoken to him.’

‘I count that as “knowing”,’ Bron said. ‘And he praised your drawing at the Hampstead Heath outing. That makes you practically family!’

Alice examined the painting. ‘It’s not much like his usual work. Not much colour.’

‘ Cicero Denouncing Catiline ,’ Bron read the title.

‘The Levens seem to have a particular interest in Cicero,’ Alice said.