Donald jumped up, pressing his palms together, meandering about the study, afflicted by the illness of an unbearable consternation. Account-Captain Turner had been emphatic about Lawrence’s performance.
He was a most useful officer for an organisation such as ours. Then again, times change; his sort of dedication is going out of fashion.
Such praise could mean almost anything. It all depended on the context.
“Did Lawrence ever talk to you about preventing surplus?”
“What?” Sarah-Kelly frowned. “No, of course not. Oban is too far north for flow. All those barges with the brass-munchers were to scare locals off poaching in Loch Sunart. Everyone knew that.”
Donald stared at the back of her head, wondering how convinced she really was.
Chapter 17
Sunday drifted into dusk. Donald and Sarah-Kelly retreated to the summer house to escape Butler Campbell and the chambermaids. It was damp, cold and smelled of mice. With a little kindling and some coal left over from September, they got the fire going. Steam rose from the couch. Sarah-Kelly tucked up her feet and relaxed against Donald, resting her head on his shoulder. His mind was too disrupted for him to settle down and savour this affection.
They stirred at the crunch of feet approaching on the gravel path. A little figure leaned into view, shyly curious at what might lurk behind the dark panes of the summer house. It was his eldest daughter, Marcia, aged nine. He had not seen her for weeks. A rush of joy carried away all his worries. He gave Sarah-Kelly a nudge.
“Look who it is.”
“Is that your daughter? Aww… isn’t she lovely.” She jumped up and pulled open the door, stooping and clasping her hands on her knees. “Hello sweetie. I’m Sarah-Kelly.”
“I’m Marcia,” she grinned and ran forward. Donald stood up, instantly aware that Sarah-Kelly and he were still dressed as slummies. Sarah-Kelly had no other clothing. Nothing in Lavinia’s wardrobe would have fitted her ample figure, even supposing any of it would have appealed. She had borrowed fresh underwear from Donald.
He lifted Marcia and sat her on his forearm. He hugged her long and close and kissed her on the forehead and she kissed him on the cheek.
“Hello Daddy.”
“You’re very beautifully dressed. Are you going to a party?”
“Mm-hmm. I’m playing with Suzi.” She frowned. “You forgot.”
“What’s the matter?” whispered Sarah-Kelly.
“He forgot,” said Marcia. She was staring at Sarah-Kelly with a blatant scepticism. She had now caught on to the accent—that is, people one spoke at, rather than with.
“Marcia is playing a duet with Suzannah Krossington at TK’s Advent Dinner tonight,” Donald said, dully. He was sinking in a mire of shame. Well, he had been shot at and fled for his life in the last twenty-four hours. Not that Marcia would ever know.
Another pair of little feet scampered down the gravel. It was Cynthia, aged eight. She ran forward until she saw Sarah-Kelly, whereupon she stopped dead, confused by the sight of a woman wearing denim trousers. Not even servants presented themselves like that, like a factory girl.
“Is she the new gardener?”
“Is your mother here?” Donald asked.
“Mm-hmmm. She looks absolutely gorgeous.”
Marcia must have heard the words from someone else. Donald wondered who. Like an ice guillotine, Lavinia’s voice cut through the conifers.
“Donald! Are you there? Campbell said you were—”
Lavinia strutted into view, dainty on the gravel in her ballroom shoes, which lifted her as tall as Donald. She wore a fox fur coat and carried a neat black handbag with a gold clasp. She brought the prinkage of social affectation: perfume, lip stick, hair lifted in elaborate chignons, hands soft as a child’s, nails manicured. She suited the world of gleaming teeth and harmless prattle.
Sarah-Kelly whispered under her breath: “Oh my God, she’s really beautiful.”
Lavinia’s eyes lingered on Sarah-Kelly, slowly falling to The Captain’s Best boots, her expression sagging through disbelief, to disappointment, to disgust.
“Lavinia!” It was the last voice Donald wanted to hear on this earth, the coarse bawling of Marcus-John Krossington, TK’s bigoted elder brother. “Lavinia! What are you… Call this patch a garden? I wouldn’t let an old nag shit in here.”
Marcus-John strode into view. He was taller than TK, at five foot nine, a fit man of about sixty with a face weathered from years of ocean cruising on his yacht. He was often mistaken for a drunk because of his complexion and harsh voice. He wore riding boots and breeches and a leather bomber jacket. Donald noted the riding crop. For a few seconds, Marcus-John was focused on Lavinia, obviously baffled to find her standing outside.
“What’s up? You look like the footman just gave your fanny a grope…” He swung around, following her gaze,
