“Here we are.” Self-importantly Danny bashed hard on the door. “Aunt Nancy. A visitor. I can’t wait,” he added to Christopher with a man-to-man smile, “supper’s ready and my mum’s got a temper on her like a bee-stung cat if we’re late.”
Christopher watched him down the stairs with some admiration. He could not somehow visualize young Danny Benton in ten years’ time trembling before a woman’s door.
“Come in.” Nancy’s voice was oddly flat. “Door’s open.”
She was sitting, staring out into the rain, her shoulders slumped. It was bitterly cold in the little slope-ceilinged room. At the sight of the insubstantial frame, the light-boned boyish face, which was highlighted by the single lamp that burned on the table, Christopher felt a twist of physical pain. She looked absurdly vulnerable, hopelessly miserable.
She looked up. “Oh, hello, Chris. Come to see the conquering heroine, have you? The—” she pushed a crumpled newspaper with her foot “—‘valiant Amazon’?” Her voice was choked with self-disgust.
Christopher found his voice. “You aren’t letting the Express get you down, are you? You know how they feel about the Cause. Why, Mother says that to get your name in the Express is the next best thing to making a speech at Hyde Park Corner—”
That brought a very small smile. “Tell Molly that. I don’t expect she’s exactly over the moon about having her face plastered all over London.”
“She seemed all right when I saw her just now.”
“Wait till our Jack comes home.”
Christopher flushed. “He’s home. They were – together. I’m sure your brother wasn’t angry.”
“Oh well, that’s a relief anyway.” Her voice was listless.
Christopher shivered. “It’s freezing in here. Why haven’t you lit the fire? Have you had anything to eat?”
Nancy shrugged, shook her head.
The dim light, the miserable droop of the slight figure in the chair brought stirrings of confidence. “How silly. You’ll do no good sitting here in the freezing cold and pretending you’re back in prison, you know.” He surprised himself with the briskness of his tone. “There’s a meeting at home tomorrow—”
Nancy moved her head vaguely. “I’m not sure I can make it tomorrow…”
“Nonsense. If you’re afraid of what the others will think, or that they’ll look down on you because your brother paid your fine, then you don’t know them. They understand, of course they do. Mother’s delighted you’re back. She said so. Now, where are the matches? Look at you – the fire laid and ready and you’re shivering with cold. Here, put this round you—” He picked up a shawl that was draped over the back of a chair. “No, don’t move. Just sit there until I get the fire going. Then I’ll make us a cup of cocoa and some toast. Have you any eggs?”
Bemused, Nancy nodded.
“Good. Because scrambled eggs are all that I can do that’s edible.”
“Scrambled eggs?” A gleam of amusement lit her brown eyes.
More than anything he had ever known he loved every line, every expression on the tired face. “I may be one of the fairly-idle almost-rich,” he said with unusual lightness, “but a few years ago I fagged for the most awful chap named Wellington. He had the strongest right arm in the school. And he liked scrambled eggs. Therefore I learned to scramble eggs.”
Nancy laughed. “Very sensible.”
Christopher winced. “Yes, I suppose that’s what I am. Most of the time anyway.”
He busied himself with the fire, watched the first unwarming yellow flames lick wood, catch, sputter, dance around the as-yet-untouched coal. Sparks, a puff of smoke; he coughed, blew into the glowing wood, felt the early stealings of warmth.
‘There. That’ll be going marvellously in a minute. Come closer. That’s it. Now stay there and get warm while I get some supper.”
He worked at the little stove, quietly happy, whistling softly and tunelessly between his teeth, glancing every now and again at the still figure beside the fire. Nancy had extended her thin hands to the blaze, and the flame glowed bloodily through her fingers.
“Eggs au Edmonton coming up.” With a flourish he scraped the golden mixture onto the plate. “Oh, cripes, the plate’s cold. It’s a good job you aren’t Wellington Major.” As he laughed the firelight caught his young face, drawing its fine and sensitive lines, sharpening angles, hardening the jaw, mapping the future. “Eat it quickly before it gets cold.”
The first mouthful showed her how hungry she was. She ate every scrap, wiped the plate with a crust of toast while he looked on delightedly.
“Cocoa,” he said, handing her a mug. “Strong and with lots of sugar, just as you like it.”
She took it, cupped her hands around the warmth. “When I was a little girl,” she said, “Jack used to smuggle cocoa up to me in bed when I was supposed to be asleep—”
Christopher stared into the glowing coal-cave. “You think a lot of Jack, don’t you? For all that you fight a lot?”
There was a long, thoughtful silence. “Yes,” said Nancy, faint surprise in her voice. “Yes, I still do. The problem with us is that we look at things from different angles. We both see the same things. But we both see something totally different. And we’re both stubborn as mules.”
“But you’re both right.”
She laughed, “Or were both wrong. And neither of us would admit that.”
“He frightens me.” An evening of surprises. How had he brought himself to admit that? And to Nancy of all people? She was watching him, waiting for him to go on. “His size, I suppose. His strength. He has a – potential for violence.”
“Jack isn’t violent. Never deliberately so.”
“I didn’t say he was. It’s a feeling, an impression. I wouldn’t want to cross him.”
“You’d be right.”
Christopher leaned forward and poked the fire. A flurry of sparks flew up the dark chimney. “Jack,” he said thoughtfully, “is a symbol of his kind – of his class if you like. Something is changing. There is an impatience, a self-confidence growing in men who work hard and who know the value of that work. But there is violence too, just beneath the surface. It’s what makes a policeman heft his truncheon when he sees two or three working men talking together on a corner. It’s what brings the troops onto the streets of Wales. It makes fingers jumpy on triggers.” His young voice was very serious now.
Nancy looked at him curiously. “It sounds as if you’re talking of revolution?”
“Perhaps I am.”
“Don’t be silly. Revolution? In England?”
“It could happen.”
The atmosphere between them had changed. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Nancy, in an effort at lightness, said, “What a strange boy you are,” and could not miss the sudden, angry lift of his head, the irritation in the movement as he tossed his hair back from his eyes.
“What have I said?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, now, what is it?”
“Don’t you know? Don’t you really know?” His voice was low.
“Would I be asking if I did?” a faint impatience threaded the words. “Perhaps I should light another lamp—” She made to move, found herself imprisoned by his hands.
“No, don’t. Please.”
She looked down at the hands that, though trembling, determinedly held hers. “All right.” She tried to disengage herself. His cold grip tightened.
“Chris, what is it?”
“I’m not a child. Please don’t treat me like a child.”
“But I don’t—”
“‘What a strange boy you are’,” he repeated. “Would you say that to – to Jack?”
She did not answer.
“Would you?”
“No, of course not. But—”
“I’m not a boy, Nancy. I’m a man. A man. And I love you.”
The echoes of his raised and desperate voice died into the silence. Gently Nancy pulled her hand from his. His
brief courage burned out, he could not look at her. He rested his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands.
“You don’t mean that. Not the way you said it.” Nancy kept her tone level. “You can’t. You are too young. Not a child, certainly not that. But a boy of how old? Seventeen?”
He nodded.
“And I am twenty-eight. Twenty-eight. An old maid. Almost old enough to be your mother.” Agonizing thing to say with Edward never far from her mind.
He moved violently. “You’re deliberately exaggerating. Eleven years: it isn’t that much. If it were the other way round; if you were a man and I a girl – who’d care then? Oh, it’s stupid! Stupid! I love you, Nancy, truly love you. It isn’t fair—” He knew himself how those words, the eternal cry of the child, damned him. He turned away from her.
Into the flickering silence she said, “I think you should go.”
“No!” With a movement so sudden she could not prevent it he slipped to the floor at her feet, burying his head in her lap. “Oh, no. Don’t send me away. Please don’t.” It was the cry of a desolate child.
Her hand hovered an inch from the fine, straight hair. “I’m not sending you away. I’m not. But it’s late and it really is time for you to go. I’ll see you tomorrow at your mother’s. But you must promise me something—” He lifted a stricken face, tear-marked in the firelight. Her own eyes blurred at the sight of his distress but she kept her voice calm. “You must promise never to mention this again. We’re friends. We always will be.” His breath was catching in his throat; she had to use every ounce of self-discipline she could muster to prevent herself from gathering him into her arms as she might Edward or Danny. “Don’t be unhappy. Please don’t. These things don’t last. It’s perfectly natural to – to feel something for someone who is older than you. But you’ll see – you’ll meet some pretty girl, and the next thing you know you’ll be inviting me to the wedding—”
He sat back, ungainly, on his heels, his head moving slowly back and forth. “No,” he said.
“Christopher—”
“Please don’t say any more.” He had almost gained control of his voice. “I know I love you. I know how much. It doesn’t matter that you don’t believe me. I know I’m not good enough for you,” he said, ignoring her involuntary, protesting movement, “I’m weak, not strong like you, and Jack and the others. I’m a coward. But I’ll prove to you that my love is the best part of me. I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you. I haven’t spoiled things, have I? We are still friends?”
Nancy swallowed. “Of course we are. How could we be anything else? I’ve no one else to read Mr Byron to me with such feeling. No one else to make me cocoa and scramble me eggs when I’m sick of myself. Ah, that’s better—” A tremulous smile had shown through the fiery, glittering tears. “Friends,” she added softly. “When you think about it, it’s a better word than ‘lovers’. More—” she smiled “—comfortable. We’ll be friends, Christopher. Until some young lady takes my friend from me—”
He shook his head, struggled to his feet, brushing the back of his hand across his still-wet face. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” His voice was almost normal.
She watched him shrug his coat untidily on, fling his scarf about his neck. “Yes.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
“Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight. God Bless.”
In the quiet after his departure Nancy leaned a weary head on her hands and stared into the slowly dying fire.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
On the 15th March 1907 the new offices of Stowe, Jefferson and Partners were to be officially opened. Two days before the event Adam Jefferson arrived in person at The Larches to deliver an engraved invitation card.
“Were making quite a splash of it. I think you might enjoy it.”
The physical attraction of the man was almost tangible. Molly put the width of the room between them. “Oh, no, I don’t really think that—”
“Of course you’ll come. After all the hard work you’ve put into the project? Miss Benton is, I am sure, more than capable of holding the fort for a day. Aren’t you, Miss Benton?”
Nancy smiled, and Molly noted with some surprise that even she did not appear entirely immune to Adam Jefferson’s distinctive charm.
“A day? Oh, no, I certainly couldn’t manage a whole day.”
“Nonsense. There’ll be people there whom you should meet. Nothing like personal contact, Mrs Benton, nothing at all. Especially with a smile like yours. Sacrifice a single day on the altar of the Venture Employment Agency’s future prospects; you won’t regret it, I assure you.”
“Must it be for the whole day?”
“But of course.” His voice was bland. “You could hardly walk out halfway through? I’ll bring you home at about six? Good. That’s settled then. I’ll be passing this way, I might as well pick you up. About ten-thirty? Good day, Mrs Benton, Miss Benton. I’ll see myself out.”
Molly pulled a face as the door closed behind him. “Personal contacts? I reckon I made enough of them at the start to last me a lifetime! I wonder if anyone at Stowe, Jefferson’s will remember the girl with the blistered feet who pounded on their door with a boxed-up typewriter in one hand and a thinly disguised stick of dynamite in the other?”
* * *
Nobody did, not that Molly found that surprising. The surprise came a little later when, after a few pleasant, politely applauded speeches, a few glasses of champagne, a few cut ribbons, the guests began to depart and the workers to settle at their new desks.
“I don’t know what else you do exceptionally well,” Molly said to Adam Jefferson repressively, “but you’re certainly an extremely good liar. Is it too much to ask what you have planned for the rest of the day?”
“I thought a trip into Essex. Luncheon at a very quiet and rather pleasant little inn that I know. A few hours together. A chance to talk.”
“Business?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“And if I won’t come?”
He watched her with unsmiling steady eyes for several seconds. “Then I promise you I will not bother you again,” he said simply.
Molly tucked a straying curl beneath her hat. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” she said tartly. “Think of the profit margins.”
They drove through pale spring sunshine into the lanes and byways of Essex. Epping Forest was mantled in new green, the dark, leaf-smothered earth putting up brave and tender spears of life into the chill air.
“You’re very quiet?” Adam raised his voice above the rhythmic chug of engine.
Molly smiled and nodded, nursing the memory of a lifted, laughing face, a warm hand in hers. Harry had been dead for nearly nine years. But the forest still held him, still echoed faintly with the sound of his voice.
The woodland gave way to farmland, to new-sprouting hedges and wide fields. The sky was washed blue and streaky with high cloud. Molly found herself relaxing, exhilarated by the rush of wind, the unaccustomed speed. She was here now, it would be stupid not to enjoy it.
They lunched at an ancient and rambling inn, alone in a room with a low, beamed ceiling, tiny deep-set windows and a fire, very welcome after the sharp March air, in a great inglenook fireplace almost as big as the room itself. The innkeeper treated Adam with that mixture of deference and familiarity reserved for a very special customer.
“Good day, Mr Jefferson. A fine, fine day for a spin in the country. I trust the journey was enjoyable? Some of the roads round here—” he lifted his eyes exaggeratedly to heaven. “Well, it’s just a good job it isn’t raining! Will you eat straight away, Sir, or will you take sherry first?”
“Sherry, please, Paxton. We’ll take them in the little bar. We’ll eat in half an hour.”
“Certainly, Mr Jefferson, certainly.”
“He was expecting us,” Molly said.
“Yes, he was.”
She did not comment further. She was coming to
know Adam Jefferson.
“Come, sit by the fire. You must be chilled. Does the sherry suit you?” He settled himself into a deep, rather battered leather armchair. He was watching her intently.
“Perfectly, thank you.” She drank the sherry rather too fast; on top of the champagne and an inadequate breakfast the effect was a little alarming, though not altogether unpleasant.
“I’m sorry?” She had missed something that her companion had said.
“The money we spoke of. I take it you are happy to invest it with us?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I promise you won’t regret it.” He spread his fine hands in a characteristic gesture. He used his hands a lot, Molly noted. He knew how attractive they were.
“I’m sure I won’t.”
“Clever girl. An astute businessman never leaves his money lying useless in the bank. He gets it working for him.”
“Quite,” she said intelligently.
He leaned forward. “I believe – I really believe – that you’re going to make a great success of your agency.”
“So do I,” she countered promptly.
He laughed. “You, my lovely Irish Molly, are someone I’ve been waiting a very long time to meet. If there’s one thing I enjoy it’s being proved right.”
“About what?”
“About you. I recognized a kindred spirit the moment I met you. Oh, you may not recognize the likeness yourself as yet. You may not even like the thought. But it’s there. So be careful.”
“Of what?” She was caught again in that silver web of fascination that the man wove so apparently effortlessly around her. She could not take her eyes from his face.
The distinctive voice was pitched to reach her alone. “Success, Molly, is like a drug. Or like love. If you have never had it then you can manage very well without it, but the first taste, the first touch, and you’re in danger of addiction.” He watched her for a long moment, the corners of his mouth tilted in a half-smile. Then he called, “Paxton, two more sherries if you please.”
Molly Page 33
