‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so; it isn’t the done thing, although it would depend on my wife’s inclination. There’s a delightful dower house with four bedrooms, a sitting room, a dining room and a garden room that will be perfect for Mother, and rooms for a couple of staff, don’t you know.’
Delia’s mind was reeling. How could anyone have so much and be so laissez-faire about it? He would need to choose a very special kind of wife to be by his side. She hoped she would be able to keep his friendship if he should marry for she was very fond of Arthur.
That evening, Jenny wore a dark green dinner gown of satin and taffeta with a padded bustle, the colour showing off her creamy complexion and flaming red hair to perfection. The sleeves were fitted and ended in a frill at the wrist. Above the low-cut neckline she wore an emerald green necklace, one she had been given by her parents on her twenty-first birthday; a simple emerald jewelled clip was pinned in her hair, which she had twisted into a chignon, with wisps of curl framing her face. She suppressed an excitement she hadn’t experienced before when dining out with gentlemen, most of whom had bored her. Nor had she taken so much care over her appearance. She wrapped a fur cape round her shoulders. She was ready.
Arthur had not only sent a cabriolet to collect her but was waiting within it. When she appeared at her door, he went to greet her at the gate wearing an elegant black frock coat, with lapels of satin, and narrow trousers and a gleaming white linen shirt.
At the table in the hotel dining room, where they were shown into a discreet alcove with swagged draped curtains, a bottle of champagne was waiting in an ice bucket and an opened bottle of claret on a side table.
When a waiter took her cape she saw from Arthur’s expression that she had made an impression, and she was pleased with his sincere comments on her appearance.
‘Miss Robinson,’ he murmured as they sat at their table. ‘How delightful; how elegant. It is a pleasure to be in your company and I am grateful that you were able to come at such short notice, when your time must be valuable.’
‘I’m a schoolteacher, Mr Crawshaw,’ she said disarmingly. ‘I do not as a rule dine out on a weekday evening, but as you are a special friend of my special friend, Miss Delamour, I made an exception. And,’ she added less formally, ‘I’m curious. I wanted to ask you, as you know Delia so well, just how she managed to survive alone, with little money and a child, for so many years, and yet still carved out a professional career for herself. She is no longer the girl I remembered.’
The menu was brought and conversation was suspended. Arthur didn’t look at it immediately but asked the wine waiter to open the champagne. When it was poured, he said, ‘My intention wasn’t to talk of Delia this evening, Miss Robinson, but I wonder whether you are trying to discover if she had any monetary help from anyone. I can tell you assuredly that she did not from me, and almost certainly not from anyone else, as most stage performers, unless they are at the top of their particular tree, do not have any money to spare. It is a precarious profession to be in.’
‘Please don’t misunderstand me,’ Jenny said with some unease. ‘It is not my intention to pry. She has told me that you’ve been a good friend to her, as I would have been too, had she not disappeared from my life. She was a shy, nervous girl when she was young, unlike me, who had the good fortune to come from a strong family background, but she appears to have found extra strength from somewhere and I don’t understand where.’
Arthur picked up the menu. ‘I would like to think, Miss Robinson, that you and I could have many interesting discussions, but let me tell you this about Delia and then perhaps we could speak of your own ambitions?’ Jenny was flummoxed. She hadn’t realized that she might be questioned about herself. For goodness’ sake, she thought. I’ve only just met the man.
‘Put quite simply,’ Arthur Crawshaw went on, ‘I believe Delia gained her strength in the age-old manner of a mother protecting her cub. If she had lost her child at birth, which she could well have done under the circumstances, she might not have survived; she might have died of despair as well as hunger. Our friend,’ he said softly, ‘yours and mine, who appears so vulnerable, has, in my opinion, because of her child, developed an inner tensile strength like nothing else I have ever known; that is why I became her friend and not her benefactor.’
Jenny was silent for a moment, and then she said, ‘Do you love her?’
He glanced at the menu, then looked up and smiled disarmingly. ‘Of course I do.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
From behind the thin curtain at her kitchen window, Mrs Deakin watched the man and woman talking in the Robinsons’ farmyard. The woman had turned her back so she couldn’t see her face, but the man was undoubtedly the Robinsons’ son, unmistakable with that head of red hair. The woman wasn’t his wife; she was fair and this one was dark. Robinson, his wife and their brood of children now appeared to be living in Foggit’s farmhouse next door.
‘They’ll be trouble,’ she mumbled, though there was no one to hear her. ‘Deakin isn’t happy about it.’
Deakin had gone on a fishing trip early that morning, telling her that he would be home after dark and would want hot food to warm him. ‘Make sure there’s plenty of hot water for my tub,’ he said as he went out,
