different strokes, catches, styles of bowling and batting, but to Pitt’s pleasure and carefully concealed amusement, he also spoke of strategy. He explained it at some length over the first course and well into pudding, his face alight with enthusiasm. Various condiments were moved around the table to represent different ways of placing his fielders.
Jemima rolled her eyes, but listened patiently. Then, just to keep up her own position in showing off abilities that no one else understood, she spoke at length about French Medieval history, smiling to herself as they pretended to be interested.
It was well into the evening before Charlotte and Pitt sat alone before the fire and she was able to tell him about her evening with Emily, which she was clearly eager to do.
Pitt had difficulty keeping his eyes open. The room was warm and extremely comfortable. The light was soft, only one gaslamp was lit. The fire whickered gently in the hearth and every so often settled lower as the wood collapsed. It was Charlotte who leaned forward and put more fuel on: old apple wood, sweet smelling.
Pitt made an effort to be interested.
‘How is Emily?’
‘Involved,’ she said immediately. ‘As I am. I think that’s half her real problem — she’s bored stiff!’
He tried to pay attention. ‘Involved in what? Didn’t you say it was a lecture on Arctic exploring, or something? I can’t imagine Emily caring even remotely about that.’
‘North Atlantic and North Sea,’ she corrected him. ‘And no, I don’t think she cares about that any more than I do. Although some of his photographs were dazzlingly beautiful.’
‘You said involved … didn’t you?’ He must be half asleep. He was losing the thread.
She was smiling, leaning forward a little, her eyes bright.
‘Fascinated. I saw Ailsa, almost accidentally — although I did follow her, in a most extraordinary affair.’
‘Affair?’ She was speaking in stops and starts and he had lost the drift of it.
‘Love affair, Thomas! Or perhaps it was more lust than love. Or maybe it was lust on his part, and something quite different on hers. I don’t know what, not yet. But I mean to find out.’
He sat up a little further. ‘Why? What are you talking about? And how is it your concern? It isn’t Jack … is it?’
‘No! Of course it isn’t Jack!’ She was completely upright, her back like a ramrod. ‘Do you really think I’d be sitting here comfortably spinning it out if it were? I’d have brought you in here and told you before dinner!’ she said indignantly.
‘Oh. Yes, of course. Then why are you bothering with it?’
‘Because it’s Ailsa Kynaston and Edom Talbot!’
Now he sat upright, instantly wide awake. ‘What? Who did you say?’
‘You heard me, Thomas. I was following her, and I saw her, reflected through two mirrors. He stood behind her and put his arms around her … intimately. I’d have broken the foot of anyone who did that to me, unless it were you.’
‘And she didn’t mind?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she did mind, but she pretended not to. It took her a few seconds to master herself …’
‘Are you sure? How do you know?’
‘Because I could see her!’ she said fiercely. ‘Then she turned round and kissed him. But she had to make herself do it! Doesn’t that send a hundred questions racing around in your head?’
‘A couple of dozen anyway,’ he agreed. ‘I’d begun to wonder if she were Kynaston’s mistress. This makes it look very different.’
‘Not necessarily,’ she argued. ‘Maybe she’s both?’
‘Both?’ he said incredulously. ‘Why would she allow Talbot to touch her, if she doesn’t like him? Is that to mislead people that she’s having an affair with him, and not with Kynaston?’
‘Maybe,’ Charlotte conceded. ‘But it seems like a lot of trouble when no one seems to suspect it anyway. Unless, of course, Rosalind does?’
He was about to say something, but she rushed on. ‘But there are a whole lot of other possibilities, Thomas. What if they have been in love for a long time? Even when she was married to Bennett Kynaston?’
‘With Talbot?’ he said incredulously.
‘No, of course not! With Dudley! Maybe that’s why Bennett died so young?’
‘Of what? People can’t die of being betrayed, even by a wife and a brother. Or are you saying they killed him? Isn’t that a bit-’ He stopped. It was appalling, but then so was treason. Was it possible that the whole tragedy was domestic rather than political?
‘They might have,’ she answered. ‘That would be a terrible enough thing if Kitty Ryder found out. She’d run from that house, middle of the night or not! I would. And of course,’ she added, ‘the other possibility is that Rosalind found out, and she meant to kill them in revenge, or to expose them. That would be more effective-’
‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you,’ he told her sharply.
‘No, I’m not!’ she insisted. ‘You think just because Rosalind looks as if she hasn’t the fire to break the skin on a rice pudding, doesn’t mean she wouldn’t hold that over their heads!’
‘You don’t break the skin on a rice pudding with fire, darling!’
‘Don’t be pedantic!’ she said exasperatedly. ‘The flame inside her. There’s something all twisted up going on there, Thomas. I’m only giving you a few possibilities. It’s your job to find out which one is true.’
He looked at her perched on the edge of the chair, her eyes bright, the firelight catching red and gold in her hair, her cheeks flushed. It was the last thing she would have thought about herself, but to him she was utterly beautiful.
‘You have enough flame inside you to cook me rice pudding for the rest of my life,’ he said, keeping his tone light, for fear emotion swallowed him up.
‘I didn’t think you liked rice pudding!’ she protested.
‘I don’t! But I like the flame!’
She laughed and moved forward off the seat and into his arms.
When Jack Radley telephoned Vespasia and asked if he might visit her in the afternoon, she was surprised, but she caught the edge of urgency in his voice.
‘Of course,’ she said, as if it would cause no inconvenience at all. She had intended to visit an old friend and spend a leisurely time looking at an exhibition of art. They had not met recently, except at such functions as allowed no serious conversation. She had been looking forward to it. She would have her maid send a note, with profuse apologies. Perhaps she should send Mildred flowers tomorrow? A family crisis Mildred would understand. She had daughters herself, and now granddaughters as well.
Vespasia hesitated over offering tea. It was not a meal she imagined Jack to take, but it was an excuse to sit down and have an uninterrupted conversation. One never stopped until the full ritual had been observed. She believed that was what Jack wished for, even if a good stiff brandy would have been more to his taste.
He arrived punctually. For a man as busy as he was, it was a nice compliment to her that he had taken such care. But then, he had always had perfect manners. It dated from his years when he had lived on his charm. He had been the sort of handsome young man who had wit, poise, grace, and the intelligence never to overstay his welcome in any one place. He dressed perfectly, was graceful on the dance floor, had seen most of the latest plays, and above all never gossiped or carried tales from one household to the next, or spoke afterwards of the ladies he had accompanied to one function or another. He never drew comparisons, or made promises he did not keep. His ability to charm was deeper than a surface ease. There was a quality to his nature that was worthy of respect.
He came in now and greeted her warmly. The maid took his hat and coat, and he kissed Vespasia lightly on the cheek. He accepted her invitation to sit and assured her that he would be delighted to take tea with her.
The years had been kind to him. The touch of grey at the temples lent him a maturity, the few fine lines in his face deepened the sense of character, even gravity rather than mere handsomeness. But in spite of his smile, she could see that he was worried.
‘Please, my dear, don’t waste time leading up gracefully to whatever it is that concerns you,’ she requested.
He smiled, relief easing out the worst of the tension in his body.
