At Suzanna’s door she stopped and listened, heard the excited little voices inside. She turned the handle and entered, foundSuzanna, Thomas, and the nanny huddled around the window, ogling the late arrivals and no doubt Bradley Monteith’s car. Thenanny stiffened when she noticed Katherine, tried to suppress her smile; Katherine waved that it was fine.
“Mummy, Mummy, did you see it? Did you see the motorized car?”
“It’s motorcar, not motorized,” Thomas corrected, eleven years old and already assuming he knew it all. By now they should probably have been thinkingabout school for him too, but Billy was keen to keep him at home as long as he could. He had come round, belatedly, in thisnew century of opportunity, to the benefits a good education could bring, but Thomas was the son he’d always wanted—a horse-riding,cattle-droving replica—and although he claimed it was good for the boy to be home-tutored a while longer, to properly embedhim in station life, she knew it was for Billy’s benefit too. He’d be miserable without his favorite to teach and mold andtease. None of the others got a look in. Pathetic though it sounded, the boy was about as close as Billy had to a friend.
“I did see it,” she told Suzanna. “And a fine machine it is too. You certainly don’t get many motorized vehicles in our part of the world.”
She raised an eyebrow at Thomas, who didn’t appreciate the joke. Suzanna said, “Can we get one, Mummy? Can I ride in it . . .please?”
“A horse is quicker,” Thomas grumbled.
“I’m sure your father is already planning it. Not too late now, you hear?”
“Yes, Mrs. McBride,” the nanny said, a little curtsy and dip of the head. She had come on the boat from England, apparently, where she’d worked in some fine old country house; Lord only knew what she was doing out here. Katherine walked over and kissed both children on their heads, Thomas twisting like he’d been poked. She left the room. Pulled the door closed behind her, made her way to the landing balustrades, the crowd below revealing itself, the hats and beehive hairstyles, a constellation of shining bald heads. Happily they milled around the atrium and into the adjoining reception rooms, waiters circulating with canapés and drinks trays, the string quartet tucked under the stairs; later, when the full band played, the atrium was to become a dance floor. There were fresh flowers everywhere, tinsel hung from the chandelier, the house dolled up like Christmas—what was Billy trying to prove?
Of course, she already knew the answer. That much never changed.
One man stood out among the revelers: loitering alone by the wall, clutching his champagne flute in a fist, dressed in plainscruffy clothing and a khaki-colored jacket, he looked more like one of their stockmen in truth. Katherine thought she mighthave recognized him. Maybe he’d been to the house before. Light brown hair and a thick mustache, hooded eyes restlessly rovingthe crowd. Whenever a tray came by he snaffled as much food as he could carry, and always took a refill of champagne, throwingit back greedily, eating openmouthed. She wondered if Billy knew him. Or if somebody’s coach driver had managed to sneak inunchecked.
She drifted around the balcony landing, her hand trailing the banister, and here and there heads began to turn. A flutteringin her stomach, heat rising in her cheeks; a part of her hated being the reason for all this excess.
Glasses began tinkling, rings tapping champagne flutes, as guests filtered through from the other rooms. The strings fell silent. A hush enveloped the house. Katherine paused at the turn partway down the stairs, every face now toward her, mostly strangers; a room of rich, grinning fools. And there was Billy, in the center, moving forward, the biggest fool of them all, buttoned up in his dinner suit, the waistcoat pulling at his gut. His face was flushed, his eyes wide, looked like he might already be drunk. He gazed at her warmly and hollered, “Here she is, ladies and gentlemen: my beautiful wife, the birthday girl!”
Applause and cheering. Glasses were raised. Katherine came another few steps down then halted when Billy began talking again.
“Now, you all know, I’m sure, that this party wasn’t Katherine’s idea. She doesn’t like being the centerpiece, ridiculousas that may seem—if you have a Turner why not hang it in the middle of the wall?” Laughter. Billy paused. “But no, this eveningwas my idea, because I wanted to mark her birthday with the kind of occasion she deserves. A celebration in her honor, a celebrationof her. We didn’t have a lavish wedding. Hell, I could barely afford a suit. Sixteen years ago that was, down in Bewley’slittle chapel, none of you lot would have been there, I know that much. But life’s been kind since then, to both of us. Notthat it hasn’t been bloody hard work.” There was sniggering. Billy caught the implication and scolded: “I meant the station,you cheeky bastards—the station’s been bloody hard work!”
As the laughter died out, Billy’s expression changed. He was staring up at Katherine with an almost boyish zeal. If she didn’tknow him better, she might have thought him ready to cry.
“I love you,” he told her earnestly, in front of all those people, those hardened cattlemen. “I’m sorry for not being aroundmore—and for everything else. I don’t know where I’d be without you. So here’s to you, my Katie. Happy birthday!”
There was a momentary pause, an inhalation in the room, followed by an audible sigh. Billy raised his glass and the othersjoined him, to cries of Happy Birthday! and To Katherine! and Hear Hear! The strings began playing again while, bewildered, suspended on the staircase, Katherine could only stare. Billy had neverspoken to her that way before, not in public anyway. Despite herself, despite everything, she felt a rush of warmth and gratitudethat shamed her a little too. She knew what he was, what he’d done, but he was also her
