a great deal of herself, I fear.”
He was prevented from saying any more on the subject by a knock on the door, and a moment later Mary Ann appeared with their tea. The tray was so laden with plates that it looked precariously heavy, and Pitt shot to his feet to take it from her in case in her efforts to hold both it and the door, she should drop it.
“Thank you, sir,” she said uncomfortably, flushing a little. “But you shouldn’t!”
“It is no trouble,” Pitt assured her. “It looks excellent, and very generous. I had not realized I was hungry, but now I definitely am.”
She bobbed a little curtsy of satisfaction and almost ran out, leaving Wray to pour, smiling at Pitt as he did so. “A nice child,” he said with a nod. “She does everything she can to care for me.”
There was no answer to make that would not have been trite. The contents of the tray were stronger evidence of her care than any words could have been.
They ate in silent appreciation for several minutes. The tea was hot and fragrant, the sandwiches delicious, and the fresh scones crumbled at the touch, rich with butter and the sharp, sweet jam.
Pitt bit into it, and looked up. Wray was watching him intently, waiting to see if he truly liked the greengage jam, and he could not bear to ask.
Pitt did not know whether to praise it highly, if that would sound artificial, in the end a condescension worse than silence. Pity could be the ultimate offense. And yet if he were lukewarm that would be wrong, too, insensitive and of little use.
“I hate to eat the last of it,” he said with his mouth full. “You won’t get the like of it again. There is a richness and a delicacy to it. It must be exactly the right amount of sugar because there is no cloying sweetness to mar the taste of the fruit.” He took a deep breath and thought of Charlotte, and Voisey, and everything he could lose and how it would destroy all that was good and precious in his world. “My wife makes the best marmalade I’ve ever tasted,” he said, and was horrified to hear his voice husky.
“Does she?” Wray struggled to keep control, to speak with something like normality. They were two men who were barely acquaintances, sharing afternoon tea, and thoughts of preserves, and the women they loved more profoundly than any words about anything at all could say.
The tears brimmed in Wray’s eyes and slid down his cheeks.
Pitt swallowed the last mouthful of scone and jam.
Wray bent his head and his shoulders trembled, and then began to shake. He struggled for a moment or two.
Pitt stood up quietly and went around the table, and sat sideways on the arm of the old man’s chair. Tentatively at first, then with more assurance, he put his hand on Wray’s shoulder, feeling it startlingly frail, then around him, and as he relaxed his weight, allowed him to weep. Perhaps it was the first time Wray had permitted himself to do so since his wife’s death.
Pitt had no idea how long they sat like that, until at last Wray ceased to move, to shake, and finally straightened himself up.
He must be allowed dignity. Without looking at him, Pitt rose to his feet and walked out of the French doors into the garden and the sun. He would give him ten minutes at least to compose himself, wash his face, and then they could both pretend nothing had happened.
He was standing facing the road when he saw the carriage coming. It was a very handsome vehicle with excellent horses and a coachman in livery. To his great surprise it stopped at the gate and a woman alighted carrying a basket covered with a cloth. She was of very striking appearance, dark-haired, with a face not immediately beautiful, but of powerful intelligence and character. She walked with unusual grace, and appeared to notice him only as her hand was on the latch. Perhaps at first she had assumed he was a gardener, until she looked more clearly and saw his clothes.
“Good afternoon,” she said calmly. “Is Mr. Wray at home?”
“Yes, but he is a little unwell,” he answered, moving towards her. “I daresay he will be pleased to see you, but in courtesy I think we should allow him a few minutes to recover himself, Mrs. . ”
“Cavendish,” she replied. Her look was very direct. “I know his doctor, and you are not he. Who are you, sir?”
“My name is Pitt. I am merely a friend.”
“Should we call his doctor? I can send my carriage immediately.” She half turned. “Joseph! Dr. Trent. .”
“It is not necessary,” Pitt said quickly. “A few minutes and he will be much better.”
She looked doubtful.
“Please, Mrs. Cavendish. If you are a friend then your company may be the thing most helpful.” He glanced down at her basket.
“I brought him some books,” she said with a faint smile. “And some jam tarts. Oh! Not greengage. . this is merely ordinary raspberry.”
“That is kind of you,” he said sincerely.
“I am very fond of him,” she answered. “As I was of his wife.”
They stood together in the sun for a few minutes longer, then the French doors opened and Wray himself came out, walking carefully as if a trifle uncertain of his balance. His skin was very pink and his eyes red-rimmed, but he had obviously dashed a little water over his face and was almost composed. He looked startled to see Mrs. Cavendish, but not in the least displeased, only perhaps embarrassed that she should find him in such a barely concealed emotional state. He did not meet Pitt’s eyes.
“My dear Octavia,” he said with warmth. “How kind of you to call on me again, and so soon. You really are very generous.”
She smiled at him with affection. “I think of you very often,” she replied. “It seemed the natural thing to do. We are all extremely fond of you.” She turned her shoulders away from Pitt, as if to exclude him from the remark. She took the cloth off the basket. “I have brought a few books you may care to read, and some tarts. I hope you will enjoy them.”
“How thoughtful,” he said with an immense effort to sound pleased. “Perhaps you will come in and have some tea?”
She accepted, and with a sharp look at Pitt, started to walk towards the French doors.
Wray turned to Pitt. “Mr. Pitt, do you care to come back also? You are most welcome. I do not feel as if I have helped you very much, although I confess I have no idea how I can.”
“I am not at all sure that there is any way,” Pitt said before he considered the defeat implicit in the remark. “And you have given me most excellent hospitality. I shall not forget it.” He did not mention the jam, but he knew by the sudden brightness of Wray’s eyes, and the way he blushed, that he understood perfectly.
“Thank you,” Wray said with overwhelming emotion, and before he was overcome again, he turned and followed Mrs. Cavendish back towards the French doors and went inside after her.
Pitt walked through the flowers to the gate, and out into Udney Road.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The air blowing down off the moor was sweet, barely stirring the leaves of the apple tree in the cottage garden, and the silence and darkness were unbroken. It ought to have been a perfect night for deep, untroubled sleep. But Charlotte lay awake, aware of her loneliness, ears straining as if expecting to hear a sound, a footfall somewhere, a loose stone disturbed on the track beyond the gate, perhaps wheels, or more likely simply a horse’s hoof striking a sudden hard surface.
When at last she did hear it, the reality shot through her blood like fire. She threw back the bedcovers and stumbled the mere three steps to the window, and peered out. In the starlight there was nothing but a variance of depth in the shadows. Anyone could have been there, and she would not have seen.
She stayed until her eyes ached, but there was no movement, just another slight sound, no more than a rustle. A fox? A stray cat, or a night hunting bird? She had seen an owl at dusk yesterday evening.
She crept back to bed, but still lay awake, waiting.
