with Rupert at all and abandoned him to a series of nannies, who all spoilt him because they were frightened of him, or felt sorry for him. He learnt far too early in life that, by making himself unpleasant, he could get his own way. The only decent relationship he had was with old Nanny Heald, and she was his father’s old nanny, so she didn’t look after Rupert very long. Rupert’s mother, of course, was besotted with Adrian, Rupert’s younger brother, who was sweet, curly-haired, plump, easygoing, and who, of course, has turned into a roaring pansy.
“As a result I don’t think Rupert really likes women. He certainly doesn’t trust them. Subconsciously, I think he enjoys kicking them in the teeth, just to pay them back as a sex for letting him down when he was a child. He’s bright, though, and enormously talented. Funnily enough, the one thing that might save him could be a good marriage. But she’d have to be a very remarkable girl to take the flak.”
As they reached the motorway, he put his foot on the accelerator.
“Wouldn’t it be easier,” he said, “to find a respectably rising barrister or some bright young publisher?”
Helen shrugged. “I guess so, but he is kind of addictive. You take a lot of trouble with all these guys. Have you got kids of your own?”
“We’ve got a daughter. She events.”
“Oh,” said Helen, “that’s what Mark Phillips does, as opposed to Rupert.”
“That’s right.”
“Any sons?”
“No.” There was a pause. Then he said in a measured, deliberately matter-of-fact voice. “We had a boy. He was killed in Northern Ireland last year.”
“Oh,” said Helen, aghast, “I’m desperately sorry.”
“He drove into a booby trap, killed outright, which I suppose was a mercy.”
“But not for you,” said Helen. “You weren’t able to say good-bye.”
Oh hell, she said to herself, that’s why he was reading that Rupert Brooke poem. And I came barging in with all my problems.
“Were you very close?” she asked.
“Yes, I think so. The awful thing was that I’m not sure he really wanted to go into the Army at all. Just felt he ought to because my father had a dazzling war and…”
“And you got an MC, Billy told me.”
“But Timmy was really rather a rebel. We had an awful row. He’d got some waitress pregnant, felt he ought to marry her. He didn’t love her, he just had principles. We tried to dissuade him. His last leave was all rows, my wife in hysterics.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“It was a false alarm, which made the whole thing more ironic. Now I wish it hadn’t been. At least we’d have something of him left.”
They had reached London now. When they got to Regina House he got out as well. A few stars had managed to pierce the russet haze hanging over London. Lit from behind by the street-light, there were no lines on his face.
Helen swallowed, took a deep breath to conquer her shyness, and stammered, “I always dreamed English men would be just like you, and it’s taken me six months in this country to find one,” and, putting her hand on his shoulder, she kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Thank you so much for my lift. I do hope we meet again.”
“Absolutely no doubt about that,” said Malise. “Young Rupert’ll be on the warpath in no time. But listen to an old campaigner: play it cool, don’t let him have it all his own way.”
Malise let himself into his Lowndes Street flat and switched off the burglar alarm. It was a cheerless place. His wife had conventional tastes, tending to eau de nil wallpaper, overhead lights, and Sloane Square chintz. She was away in the country, eventing with their daughter. The marriage had not been a success. They had stayed together because of the children, but now there was only Henrietta left. In the drawing room, on an easel standing on a dust sheet, was an oil painting of a hunting scene Malise was restoring. He could finish it in two hours. He didn’t feel tired. Instead, he poured himself a glass of brandy and set to work, thinking about that exquisite redhead. She was wasted on Rupert. He was not entirely sure of his motives in whisking her back to London. Was it a desire to put Rupert down, or because he couldn’t bear the thought of Rupert sleeping with her tonight, forcing his drunken hamfisted attentions on her? For a minute he imagined painting her in his studio, not bothering to turn on the lights as dusk fell, then taking her across to the narrow bed in the corner and making love to her so slowly and gently she wouldn’t realize it had been miraculous until it was all over.
He cursed himself for being a fool. He was fifty-two, thirty years her senior, probably a disgusting old man in her eyes. Yet she had stirred him more than any woman he had met for years.
She’d have done for Timmy. He picked up the photograph on the piano. The features that smiled back at him were very like his own, but less grim and austere, more clear-eyed and trusting.
Were Rupert and Billy and Humpty merely Timmy substitutes? Was that why he’d taken the job of chef d’equipe? After six months he was surprised, almost indignant, at the pain. Putting the photograph down, he slumped on the sofa, his face in his hands.
As Helen let herself into Regina House the telephone was ringing. “Shush, shush,” she pleaded, and, rushing forward, reached the receiver just before the principal of the hostel, furious and bristling in her hairnet.
“It’s one o’clock in the morning,” she hissed, “I won’t have people ringing so late.”
But Helen ignored her, hunching herself over the telephone to ward off the outside world. Praying as she’d never prayed before, she put it to her ear.
“Hello,” said a slightly slurred voice, “can I speak to Helen Macaulay?”
“Oh yes, you can, this is she.”
“Bloody bitch,” said Rupert, “waltzing off with the one man in the room I can’t afford to punch on the nose.”
Helen leant joyously against the wall, oblivious of the gesticulating crone in the hairnet.
“Are you okay?” Rupert went on.
“Fine. Where are you?”
“Back in my horrible little caravan — alone. I’ve got your dress here, like a shed snakeskin. It reeks of your scent. I wish you were here to fill it.”
“Oh, so do I,” said Helen. Again at a distance, she felt free to come on more strongly.
“Look, I’m on the road this week and most of next. I haven’t really got myself together, but I’ll ring you towards the end of the week, and I’ll try and get up to London on Monday or Tuesday.”
“Rupert,” she pleaded, “I didn’t want to go off with Malise. It was just that you seemed so otherwise engaged all evening.”
“Trying to make you jealous didn’t work, did it? Won’t try that again in a hurry.”
13
For the next few weeks Rupert laid siege to Helen, throwing her into total confusion. On the one hand he epitomized everything she disapproved of. He was flip — except about winning — spoilt, philistine, hedonistic, immoral, and very right-wing — eating South African oranges just to irritate her,
On the other hand she had very much taken to heart Malise’s remarks about Rupert’s disturbed childhood and the possibility that he might be redeemed by a good marriage. Could she be the one to transform this wild boy into the greatest show jumper of his age? There was a strong element of reforming zeal in Helen’s character; she had a great urge to do good.
Princess Anne had also just announced her engagement to Mark Phillips and every girl in England was in love with the handsome captain, who looked so macho in his uniform and who, despite being pretty unforthcoming when
