CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Royal Station Hotel was a much grander place than the cosy Maritime and Delia dressed appropriately for her lunch with Arthur. As it was a fine day, though cold, she walked from the lodging house in her old and comfortable boots and fastened a bright silk scarf about her neck to brighten up her grey day dress, with its pearl-buttoned bodice and back pleated skirt. Over it she wore her grey coat and a peacock-feathered hat.
Arthur was waiting for her in the lounge and came to greet her as she came through the entrance into the main hall where they had sat the previous evening. The sun was shining through the domed roof, lighting up the velvet couches and the crystalware.
‘I’m so pleased to have found you, Delia,’ he said warmly. ‘And I’m sorry it has taken so long; my father died at the beginning of December, and I’ve had a great deal of business to attend to.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Arthur,’ she told him when he had explained the circumstances, and then paused as a waiter swiftly arrived to escort them to the dining room. She marvelled at how Arthur always managed to attract immediate attention wherever he went. The consequence was that she drew herself up and made herself more regal than she knew she was.
‘The wine list, if you please,’ he said to the head waiter who came to their table. ‘You’ll take a glass of wine, Delia?’
‘Only one glass, Arthur. I’m singing tonight.’
‘You’ll sing all the more sweetly after a glass of champagne, m’dear. What are you singing?’
She told him about the Cinderella pantomime and that this was the last week of the season.
‘So you are not seen on stage?’ he queried. ‘And what next?’ He took the proffered list from the waiter and perused it, chose a bottle of claret for himself and ‘a glass of champagne for Miss Delamour’, he pronounced grandly. She wondered if his father had been generous in his will, for she couldn’t recall his ever being so lavish previously.
He tapped his finger on his mouth as he chose for both of them: lamb cutlets for Delia and rare steak for himself.
Without answering his question, she asked, ‘So what has happened, Arthur, since your father’s death? Clearly something has.’
‘Indeed!’ He put his head back as if deciding on the proper way to begin. ‘You might think that I have misled you to some degree, Delia, but I assure you that it wasn’t intentional. I have long been enamoured of the theatre and in particular with the writings of Shakespeare and Mr Dickens; but of course you know that already, as does your very special son. I wish that I had such a boy,’ he said disarmingly. He paused for a moment, and then murmured, ‘But perhaps it is not too late; I am not yet forty-five.’
Delia waited. He was in a reflective mood and she had heard these comments before, but something was different this time.
He changed the subject. ‘Your friend, Dawson. Have you known him long? What is his occupation?’
She told him briefly of meeting Giles on Hull railway station when she had first come back to the area, and that he was a musician; and then she told him why she had returned. ‘I had to take positive action, Arthur,’ she explained. ‘I was desperate; but also a little mad, I think, expecting to receive any help from my parents when there had been none previously.’
‘Indeed you were,’ he murmured. ‘You were distressed enough to take such drastic measures. I wish you had told me before how grim it was for you. I could have helped in some way.’
‘I was too proud to ask. But I think it will come right now. Except,’ she added quietly, ‘I don’t have Robin with me. But don’t let’s talk about me. Tell me more about you.’
As they ate their starter of smoked salmon with lemon juice, a sorbet and then the main course, he told her of his father’s substantial estate in Derbyshire and of his own previous intention of relinquishing his role as heir in favour of his younger brother, who was already married with a young family.
‘And then I reconsidered.’ He steepled his fingers and paused for a moment, and then continued. ‘I was beginning to tire of the theatre world. I have been treading the boards for nearly twenty years now, simply amusing myself if I’m honest, and I thought that perhaps I should settle down after all, look after the estate, maybe marry and have a family and raise an heir to carry on after me. Would I be able to manage that, Delia? Do I have it in me to carry that burden? To make that sort of life a success? My mother wants me to try; she thinks my brother’s wife is not up to scratch and won’t be able to manage such a grand house.’
‘How large is it, Arthur?’
‘Mmm, well.’ He looked around him. ‘We have a small ballroom, I suppose about the size of the hotel lounge, and I think there are twenty bedrooms. Hugh and I had such fun when we were youngsters playing hide and seek. We’re not landed gentry, of course,’ he laughed as he spoke, ‘but the house has been in the family for about a hundred years. Not well managed, I’m afraid; it’s badly in need of renovation. Someone with ideas could put it right, but my father was content to leave it unchanged. For instance, it has but one bathroom and three lavatories, which is not sufficient when guests come to stay, which you must, Delia,’ he added. ‘It’s in a delightful part of the county.’
‘You’d need help with it, Arthur.’ She thought that perhaps he might be rather lazy and not inclined to be businesslike; he most certainly would
