September

Henry, at eight years old, had not only run away from school, but accomplished his flight in certain style. He'd planned the whole operation with undreamt-of courage, good sense, and forethought. He appeared to have been prepared for any contingency, and it was only the disastrous and unfortuitous reappearance of the wretched Lottie Carstairs that had finally defeated him.

Eventually, the tears ceased. Henry had cried himself dry. Edmund gave him his clean linen handkerchief, and Henry sat up and blew his nose. He said, 'I think I should like to go to bed now.'

'Of course.' Virginia smiled down at him. 'Do you want a bath first? You must be feeling very cold and dirty.'

'Yes, all right.'

He got off her knee. He blew his nose again, went to his father to return the handkerchief. Edmund took it, and drew Henry close, and bent to kiss the top of his head.

He said, 'There's just one thing you haven't told us.' Henry looked up. 'Why did you run away?'

Henry thought. And then he said, 'I didn't like it. It felt all wrong. Like being ill. Headachy.'

'Yes,' said Edmund after a bit. 'Yes, I see.' He hesitated, and then went on. 'Look, old boy, why don't you go up with Edie and get into that bath. Mummy and I have got to go to this party, but I'll ring Vi first and tell her you're in great shape, and we'll come up and say good night before you go to sleep.'

'All right.' Henry put his hand into Edie's and they made for the door. But he turned back. 'You will come, won't you?'

'Promise.'

The door closed behind him. Edmund and Virginia were left alone.

With Henry gone, she sat slumped in the hard kitchen chair. There was no longer need to conceal the trauma of shock and strain, and beneath her make-up he saw her face pale and drawn, and her eyes shadowed, no longer bright with the evening's laughter.

She looked drained. He stood up and took her hand and pulled her to her feet. 'Come,' he said, and he led her out of the kitchen and along the passage to the empty library. The fire that he had rekindled still blazed, and the big, shadowy room was warm. She was grateful for the warmth. She went towards it, sank down on the fireside stool, and spread her hands to the flames. Her long, many-layered skirts flowed about her, and the collar of her fur coat supported her head, her clear-cut profile.

'You look like a particularly well-heeled Cinderella.' She glanced up and sent him the ghost of a smile. 'Would you like a drink?'

She shook her head. 'No. I'm all right.'

He went to his desk, switched on the lamp, and dialled the number for Croy. It was Archie who answered his call.

'Archie. Edmund here.'

'Is Henry all right?'

'Yes, he's fine. Had a bit of an experience, but don't say anything to Vi. Just tell her that Edie's with him, and he's on his way to bed.'

'Are you coming back here?'

Edmund watched his wife, sitting with her back to him, silhouetted against the firelight. He said, 'No, I think not. We'll go straight to Corriehill and meet you all there.'

'Right. I'll tell everyone. See you later, Edmund.'

'Goodbye.'

He put down the phone, went back to the fire, and stood, with one foot on the fender and a hand on the mantelpiece, gazing, as his wife gazed, at the flames. But the silence that lay between them was no longer one of enmity, but the peaceful communion of two people who, having together survived a crisis, felt no need for words.

It was Virginia who broke that silence. She said, 'I'm sorry.'

'What are you sorry about?'

'I'm sorry I said that. In the car. Telling you not to be angry. It was stupid. I should have known that you would never be angry with Henry.'

'On the contrary, I feel proud of him. He did very well.'

'He must have been so miserable.'

'I think he just felt lost. I was wrong. You were right. Colin Henderson said as much. He's not ready, yet, for boarding-school.'

'You mustn't blame yourself.'

'That's a generous thing to say.'

'No, it's not generous. I'm grateful. Because now we can stop arguing and quarrelling and destroying each other. And you had only the best intentions in mind. You thought it would be best for Henry. Everybody makes mistakes, sooner or later. A man who never made a mistake never made anything. It's over now. Let's leave it behind. Just be thankful that nothing dreadful happened to Henry, and that he's safe.'

'Lottie happened to him. I should think that experience would be enough to give him nightmares for the rest of his life…'

'But he dealt with it. Very sensibly. He got himself to Mrs. Ishak. Took care of himself, gave the alarm. It's no good brooding about it, Edmund.'

He said nothing to this. After a bit, he moved away from the fire and sank down at one end of the great sofa, his long legs, in their red-and-white tartan stockings and silver-buckled shoes, stretched out in front of him. The firelight winked on polished buttons and the jewelled hilt of his sporran.

She said, 'You must be exhausted.'

'Yes. It's been a long day.' He rubbed his eyes. 'But I think we have to talk.'

'We can talk tomorrow.'

'No. It has to be now. Before it's too late. I should have told you this evening, when 1 got back and you started telling me about Lottie. Lottie and her talk, her gossip. I said she was lying but that wasn't strictly true.'

'You are going to tell me about Pandora.' Virginia's voice was cool, resigned.

'It has to be done.'

'You were in love with her.'

'Yes.'

'I'm frightened of her.'

'Why?'

'Because she is so beautiful. Mysterious. Under that flood of chat, you never know what she's thinking. I can't begin to imagine what goes on inside her head. And because she knew you for ever, when 1 didn't know you, and that makes me feel left out and insecure. Why did she come back to Croy, Edmund? Do you know why she came?'

He shook his head. 'No.'

'I'm afraid of her still being in love with you. She still wants you.

'No.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'Pandora's motives, whatever they are, have no importance. To me, all that matters is you. And Alexa. And Henry. You seem to have lost sight of that basic priority.'

'You were married when you loved Pandora. You were married to Caroline. You had a baby. Was that so different?'

It was an accusation, and he accepted it.

'Yes. And I was unfaithful to both of them. But Caroline wasn't like you. If I tried to explain to you why I married her in the first place, I don't suppose you'd understand. It was something to do with the way things were at that time, the swinging sixties, and all of us young, and a certain restless materialism in the air. I was making my way, making money, making my mark on London society. She was part of my ambitions, part of what I wanted. Her parents were immensely wealthy and she was an only child, and I craved the security of being established, and the reflected dazzle of success.'

'But you loved her?'

Edmund shook his head. 'I don't know. 1 didn't think about it all that much. I only know that she was wonderful