September

unawares and surprised her into saying, quite sharply, 'Lottie, I don't think you should say that about Pandora.'

'Oh, you don't?' Lottie was still smiling. 'Not pleasant, is it, hearing the truth? Nice Pandora's back, everybody is saying. But if I were you, I wouldn't be too happy. Not with your husband. Not with her. Lovers they were, Edmund and Pandora. That's why she's back, mark my words. Come back for him. Eighteen years old, and Edmund a married man and the father of a wee bairn, but that didn't stop them. That didn't stop him, rutting in her own bed. Night of the wedding it was, and everybody dancing. But they weren't dancing. Oh, no. They were up the stair and thinking nobody noticed. But I noticed. Not much missed me.' Pink spots burned on Lottie's sallow cheeks, her boot-button eyes were like a pair of nails, hammered into the sockets of her head. 'I went after them. Stood at the door. It was dark. I heard. Never heard anything like it. You didn't guess, did you? He's a cool fish, that Edmund. Never let on. Never say a word. Just like the rest of them. They all knew. Well, it was obvious, wasn't it? Edmund back in London and Pandora sulking in her bedroom, face swollen with tears, wouldn't eat. And the way she spoke to her mother! But, of course, they're all thick as thieves. That's why Lady Balmerino gave me my notice. Didn't want me around. I knew too much.'

Still smiling. Hot with excitement. Mad. I must, Virginia told herself, keep very calm. She said, 'Lottie, I think you are making all this up.'

Lottie's demeanour, with quite startling suddenness, changed. 'Oh, am I?' The smile was wiped from her face. She backed away from Virginia and stood, four-square, facing up to her as though they were about to engage in a contest of physical strength. 'And why do you think your husband's suddenly taken himself off to America? You ask him when he comes home to you, and I'll doubt you'll enjoy his answer. I'm sorry for you, do you know that? Because he'll make a fool of you, same as he did his first wife, poor lady. There's no streak of decency in him.'

And then, abruptly, it was over. Her venom spent, Lottie seemed to slump within herself. The colour seeped from her cheeks. She pursed her lips, brushed a scrap of lichen from the front of her cardigan, tucked a wisp of hair under her beret, patted it into place. Her expression became complacent, as though all were now well, and she was content to prink.

Virginia said, 'You are lying.'

Lottie tossed her head and gave a little laugh. 'Ask any of them.'

'You are lying.'

'Say what you please. Sticks and stones may break my bones…'

'I shall say nothing.'

Lottie shrugged. 'In that case, what's all the fuss about?'

'I shall say nothing and you are lying.'

Her heart was banging in her chest, her knees trembling. But she turned her back on Lottie and began to walk away; walking steadily and without haste, knowing that Lottie watched, determined to give her no satisfaction. The worst was never looking back. Her scalp crawled with terrified apprehension, the fear that, at any moment, she would feel Lottie's weight leap upon her shoulders, dragging her to the ground with all the inhuman strength of a clawed monster from childhood nightmares.

This did not happen. She reached the far bank of the river, and felt a little safer. She remembered the dogs and pursed her lips to whistle for them, but her mouth and her lips were too dry for whistling, and she had to try again. A tiny piping sound, a pathetic effort, but Edmund's spaniels had had enough of abortive rabbiting, and almost immediately appeared, bounding through the bracken towards her, trailed with goose-grass and with twigs of thorny bramble entwined in their feathery fur.

She had never been so glad to see them, so grateful for their instant obedience. 'Good dogs.' She stopped to fondle them. 'Good to come. Time to go home.'

They ran ahead, down the lane. Leaving the bridge behind her, Virginia went after them, her pace still resolutely unhurried. She did not allow herself to look back until she reached the bend of the river, where the lane curved away beneath the trees. There, she stopped and turned. The bridge was still visible but there was no sign of Lottie.

She was gone. It was over. Virginia took a deep breath and let it all out in a whimpering sigh that was not far from panic. Then the panic took over, and, without shame, she bolted for home. Ran to Edie, to Henry, to the sanctuary of Balnaid.

Back to the beginning.

You are lying.

Two o'clock in the morning and Virginia was still awake, her eyes, scratchy with fatigue, wide open, staring out into the soft darkness. She had tossed and turned, been either too hot or too cold, fought with pillows lumpy with pummelling. From time to time, she got out of the bed, wandered about in her night-gown, fetched a glass of water, drank it, tried again to sleep.

It was no good.

On the far side of the bed, Edmund's side, Henry slumbered peacefully. Virginia, defiantly breaking one of Edmund's strictest rules, had taken her son to bed with her. Every now and then, as though for reassurance, she put out a hand to touch him, to feel his gentle breathing, his warmth through the flannel of his striped pyjamas. In the huge bed, he seemed small as a baby, scarcely alive.

She'd eat them for breakfast and leave them chewed. A right wee whore.

She could not get the appalling scene out of her mind. Lottie's words went on and on, round and round like some scratchy old gramophone record, worn with playing. Circles of torment, never ceasing, never coming to any sort of conclusion.

Lovers they were. Edmund a married man, and the father of a wee baim.

Edmund and Pandora. If it was true, Virginia knew that she had never imagined nor suspected for a single instant. In her innocence, she had not watched for evidence, had read no inner meaning into Edmund's casual words, his easy demeanour. 'Pandora's home,' he had told her, pouring himself a drink and going to the refrigerator to search for ice. 'We've been asked for lunch at Croy.' And Virginia had said, 'How nice,' and gone on frying beefburgers for Henry's supper. Pandora was simply Archie's errant young sister, back from Majorca. And when the great reunion happened, she had paid little regard to the brotherly kiss Edmund had planted on Pandora's cheek, their laughter, and the understandable affection of this greeting. And as for the rest of the day, Virginia had been more interested in the croquet game than curious to know what it was that Edmund and Pandora, watching from the swing seat, were talking about.

And what did it matter what they talked about? Be sensible. So what if they had had a wild and impetuous affair and ended up in Pandora's bed? Pandora at eighteen must have been sensational, and Edmund at the height of his virility. This is today, and adultery is no longer called adultery but extra-marital sex. Besides, it was all a long time ago. Over twenty years. And Edmund had not been unfaithful to Virginia, but to his first wife, Caroline. And now Caroline was dead. So it didn't matter. There was nothing to agonize over. Nothing…

They all knew. All thick as thieves. Didn't want me around. I knew too much.

Who knew? Did Archie know? Did Isobel? Did Vi know? And Edie? Because if they knew, they would have been watching, fearing perhaps that it was all going to happen all over again. Watching Edmund and Pandora. Watching Virginia, their eyes filled with a pity that she had never seen. Did they worry for Virginia as they must have worried for Caroline? Did they talk amongst themselves, like conspirators, agreeing to keep the truth from Edmund's second wife? Because if they had, then Virginia had been betrayed, and by the very people she was closest to and most relied upon.

And why do you think your husband's suddenly taken himself off to America? He'll make a fool of you, same as he did his first wife, poor lady.

This was the worst. These were the most dreaded doubts. Edmund had gone. Had he really had to fly off like that, or was New York simply a trumped-up excuse to get away from Balnaid and Virginia and to give himself time to work out his problems? His problems being that he loved Pandora, had always loved her, and now she was back and as beautiful as ever, and Edmund was once more trapped in marriage with yet another woman.

Edmund was fifty, a vulnerable age for restlessness and mid-life crises. He was not a man for showing emotion, and most of the time Virginia had no idea what he was thinking about. Her own self-doubt grew to terrifying proportions. Perhaps this time he would cut his losses and run, leaving Virginia with her marriage and her life tumbling in ruins. Leaving her and Henry lost in the rubble of what she had once thought totally impregnable.

It did not bear thinking about. She rolled over, burying her face in her pillow, shutting out the ghastly prospect. She would not acknowledge it. Would not let it be true.