The Peacock Summer

by Hannah Richell

  Maggie looks up, startled to see the house lit up, lights blazing at every ground-floor window. Her gaze falls upon the dusty Land Rover parked at an angle in front of the house. ‘Albie,’ she says.

  Gus pulls up alongside the car. ‘Wow. So now he’s back. Quite the family reunion.’ He keeps the engine running but she can feel his glance sliding in her direction. ‘What does he want?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can’t be anything good.’

  Maggie feels a flicker of resentment ignite in her belly. She knows Gus is right, but she can’t help feeling defensive of her father. It’s a default setting she has when it comes to Albie. She hesitates, one hand on the door catch. ‘Goodbye, Gus,’ she says.

  ‘Bye, Maggie. Take care,’ he adds, indicating Albie’s car with a jerk of his head.

  She nods. ‘I will.’

  It feels like a long walk up to the front door, the car engine idling and Gus’s gaze following her, waiting – ever the gentleman – to ensure her safe return home. Entering through the front door, the sound of the car turning on the drive, she drops her keys onto the tarnished silver plate sitting on the console and calls out, ‘Hello?’

  The only response is her greeting echoing back at her. She walks from room to room, noting that doors that were shut now stand thrown open, lights blazing in each room as she passes, dust sheets glowing white under the glare. Further along the corridor, she can see light slanting onto the parquet floor from the library. She pushes on the door and finds Albie standing across the room, his back to her, his feet bare and a brandy glass in one hand as he rifles through the drawers of a walnut bureau.

  ‘Hello, Dad. Looking for something?’

  Albie spins round, his lined face weathered brown and framed by a mop of shaggy, white hair, quickly morphing from surprise to delight at the sight of her. ‘Maggie, my love. I didn’t hear you return.’ He smiles and opens his arms, inviting her into his embrace.

  She hesitates, battling the sudden flurry of emotion: relief and excitement mixing with anger and rejection too. She hates herself for wanting to run over and throw herself into his outstretched arms. He can’t just walk in here and make everything all right with a smile and a hug.

  Albie doesn’t appear to notice her turmoil. He walks towards her, arms still held wide and draws her into his embrace.

  Maggie holds herself rigid and closes her eyes, willing herself to resist; but the scent of him – aftershave, the faintest tang of tobacco, the sweet brandy on his breath – brings a rush of weakness. After her confrontation with Gus, it’s all she can do not to burst into tears there in her father’s arms.

  ‘My darling girl,’ he says. ‘I’m glad to see you.’

  She opens her eyes, blinking back tears, and fixes on the faded pattern woven into the carpet beneath her trainers; a blood-red flower motif repeated over and over, petals splaying in ever-increasing circles. ‘I’m glad to see you, too,’ she says, the words leaving her mouth before she’s even realised it’s the truth. There are questions burning on the tip of her tongue: where has he been? Why hasn’t he been here for Lillian? And what is he looking for? But she resists, stoppering her questions and recriminations. Not now, she thinks. There is time.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks, eyeing her carefully. ‘You look like hell.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I’ve had a bit on my plate.’

  Albie ruffles her hair. ‘Well your old dad’s back now. How about you pour us another one of these,’ he suggests, waving his almost empty glass at her, ‘and you can tell me everything that’s been going on.’

  She eyes him for a moment. Is she really going to let him do this? Is she really going to let him through her defences again?

  She sighs. ‘Come on,’ she says, turning for the kitchen. She’s sick of feeling so lonely. She’s sick of facing this fight on her own. Besides, Lillian said it herself, didn’t she? Just like Albie. Why fight biology?

  ‘There’s a bottle of very expensive Scotch in the other room,’ she says over her shoulder. ‘Want to help me sink it?’

  Part Three

  I must go walk the wood so wild,

  And wander here and there

  In dread and deadly fear;

  For where I trusted I am beguiled,

  And all for one.

  —Anonymous, fifteenth century

  They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Certainly, in a house such as this, there is much beauty to behold. Gilt. Glass. Gold. Everywhere you look, precious treasures beckon. Only nothing seems to shine as brightly as she does. She is a flower – a natural treasure – unfolding in the light.

  Her transformation is so obvious: the candlelight catching in her hair; the colour rising on her cheeks; the flames of desire burning in her eyes. She is lit up – her allure irresistible. A flame, enticing the moth ever closer. How does he not see her blossoming, right here under his nose?

  For this is the trouble with beauty: it can never be enough simply to revere or admire it. With beauty comes desire – a yearning to touch – a need to possess. The coveter’s grasp moves ever closer, reaching out to seize and steal, to hold too tightly that which must not be taken.

  But while others remain oblivious, the watchman sees the threat. The watchman sees everything. He stands in the shadows, watching and waiting . . . waiting for the moment he must act.

  Chapter 21

  Charles mentions the dinner party three days after his return from London. ‘Just a couple of chaps from the bank and their wives,’ he says, folding The Times and laying it on the table beside his plate of half-eaten kippers. ‘I thought a clay-pigeon shoot on Friday followed by dinner might make them more agreeable to my proposal. You’ll make the necessary arrangements with the staff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  She waits, tensed, sensing something; an atmosphere hanging over the table. ‘Is that all?’

  Charles narrows his eyes. ‘I think so. Were you expecting anything else?’

  Lillian shakes her head.

  For all her shock at returning from the flower show to find Charles’s car at the house, and her fear that he would somehow be able to read her betrayal, she had escaped lightly. She’d found him settled in his study, head bowed over a mountain of paperwork, a glass of whisky at his side and Monty stretched luxuriously at his feet. ‘Hello,’ she’d said, hovering at the open door.

  He’d spun in his chair. ‘Darling, you’re so late. Had a good day?’

  ‘Yes. Joan insisted I return for sundowners after the flower show.’ She’d held her breath, her lie hanging in the air between them.

  ‘I’m sorry to have missed it this year. Was it good?’

  ‘Yes. Very well attended.’

  He’d smiled and opened his arms to her, beckoning her to come to him. Lillian, with a feeling akin to dread, had forced herself across the room and stepped into his waiting embrace and Charles had drawn her close, pressing his face against her stomach, breathing her in. ‘I missed you. It’s been hellish in London.’

  Lillian, holding herself stiff in his embrace, had hesitated, before lowering her hands onto his head. Her complicated, damaged husband. Sometimes he could be so hard to hate.

  ‘Have you seen Albie?’ she’d asked with a sudden flash of guilt and fear. Would Charles be cross that she had left him to his own devices?

  ‘Yes, safely tucked up in bed. He said he lost you in the crowds. Bentham drove him home.’

  Lillian had swallowed down her relief and offered up silent prayers of gratitude for the always reliable Bentham.

  ‘I brought him a little gift,’ Charles had added, pulling back a little and looking up at her. ‘A record player of his own. He seemed to like it.’

  Lillian had nodded. The pattern was repeating to the letter: violence followed by tenderness and lavish bribes. ‘Yes, of course. Lucky boy,’ she’d added, the words sounding hollow.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ He’d frown
ed, peering more closely at her cheek. ‘You’ve scratched it.’

  ‘Helena,’ she’d said simply, no other explanation required.

  Charles had tutted, before leaning back in his chair. ‘I’m afraid I’ll be a while yet,’ he’d said, indicating the desk of papers in front of him.

  ‘In that case, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire,’ she’d said, jumping at the chance to leave him. She’d bent to kiss the top of his head before he’d waved her away, already returned to his paperwork.

  Lillian looks at Charles now, seated across the dining-room table. She assumes he will return to his breakfast and the newspaper, but he is still staring at her, a frown on his face. ‘I need Friday to go well, Lillian. It’s important.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Charles’s frown deepens. ‘Perhaps Albie should join us for the shoot,’ he adds. ‘Some sport would be good for the boy.’

  Lillian studies her husband, noticing how tired he looks, how drawn. The stress he wears seems caused by something more than a couple of late nights in his study or a little too much whisky. I need Friday to go well. She has never thought of Charles as a man of needs; more one of wants and desires. Need has always been a little too close to weakness for Charles Oberon.

  ‘I received another bill from Cole & Osborne this morning,’ he continues. ‘Fincher is certainly racking up quite the expense sheet.’

  ‘He’s been very busy since you’ve been away.’

  Charles tuts. ‘He must think me as rich as Croesus.’

  Lillian stares at Charles. ‘You told him yourself that no expense was to be spared.’

  Charles sighs. ‘Yes. I did. You’re quite right.’ He reaches for the sugar bowl and drops a lump into his tea. ‘Bentham says he never dines with the staff. Keeps to himself. I can’t help wondering if he might have found a lady friend.’ Charles stirs his tea slowly, the silver spoon moving round and round, clinking against the edge of the china cup. ‘Can’t blame a chap, I suppose. As long as she’s not distracting him from his work.’

  Lillian looks up from the table.

  ‘Probably someone from the village,’ Charles continues. ‘Any guesses who she might be?’ he asks, eyeing her over his own cup.

  Lillian’s thudding heart takes flight in her chest. There is no way he could know.

  ‘My money’s on that rather eager blonde down in the village,’ Charles continues. ‘The bubbly one with the irritating giggle.’

  ‘Susan Cartwright?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the one.’ Charles looks thoughtful. ‘I’ll ask Fincher to dine with us on Friday night. I’m sure my city friends would be interested to meet him. I’ll press him for a finish date . . . perhaps a few details about his after-hours activities, too.’ Charles’s lips curve in a smile for the first time that morning.

  Lillian tries to return his smile but fails. It’s not the end of the world if Charles thinks Jack is having an affair with someone in the village. But she will have to warn him about the dinner party and Charles’s intentions.

  ‘You know it did occur to me that it might all be some clever ruse,’ he continues.

  Lillian’s knife hovers over her toast. ‘A ruse? Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘The room. No one has seen a jot of what he’s been working on. What if it’s the greatest Emperor’s New Clothes trick ever performed?’ He lets out a gruff laugh. ‘I suppose that would make me the prize fool.’

  Lillian lays her knife on the tablecloth. ‘No one could make a fool out of you, Charles.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but it doesn’t seem to stop people from trying.’ He eyes her again, then snatches up the newspaper, obscuring his face and signalling the end of their conversation.

  Lillian looks out through the French doors across the terrace, her appetite completely gone. He can’t know, she tells herself. There is no way he can know.

  Lillian agonises all morning about how to warn Jack. She doesn’t dare visit him in the west wing, but neither does she trust the house staff to carry a message for her; though in the end, it is he who finds her, on her way to talk to Mrs Hill about the menus for the dinner party. Her attention is fixed on the list in her hand, when a figure steps out from the kitchen at the far end of the panelled corridor. She glances up, expecting Bentham or Sarah, but finds Jack instead, striding towards her.

  He doesn’t stop until he is standing right in front of her, taking her face in his hands and pressing his lips to her own.

  It is a perilous situation yet she can’t help but respond, moving against him until they are pressed against the panelled wall, his weight against hers, the fear of discovery somehow adding to her desire. His lips are on her lips, her face, her neck. His hands are in her hair. ‘My dearest heart,’ he murmurs into her ear.

  Somewhere, far away, she registers the sound of pans crashing in the kitchen, the distant murmur of voices, but she can’t stop herself, until, as quickly as their embrace has begun, it is over, Jack moving away, putting a respectful but unbearable distance between them. They stand staring at each other, breathing hard.

  ‘Did Bentham tell you? There’s a dinner,’ she says, her voice wavering. ‘Tomorrow night.’

  ‘Yes. But I need to see you. Alone.’

  ‘It’s too risky. Charles seems . . . he seems suspicious. He thinks you’re carrying on with someone from the village.’

  Jack shrugs. ‘Good. Let him think that. Meet me in the woods. Saturday,’ he says, his voice low. ‘You know the place?’

  She nods, an image of the leafy clearing where they first kissed clear in her head.

  ‘Midday. I’ll wait for you. If you can’t make it, I’ll try again the next day. I’ll be there . . . until you can come.’

  He waits for her to nod and then he is gone, striding away down the corridor. She runs a finger over her mouth, tracing where he has kissed her. Saturday. Just two days to wait until they can be alone again.

  There is a sudden burst of noise from the kitchen. A loud shout followed by a peal of laughter. Sarah appears in the doorway with a tray of silver. ‘Mrs Oberon,’ she says, nodding and smiling as she passes.

  Charles’s guests arrive the following morning, two private bankers from London by the names of Edwin Parker and David Molesworth, with their wives Catherine and Miriam. The morning passes quickly with greetings and coffee and organising lunch with a flustered Mrs Hill before the men and a reluctant Albie troop off with Bentham for the shoot. Lillian sits in the parlour with the ladies, exchanging news while listening to the slow tick of the carriage clock. At three they take a walk about the gardens, Lillian pointing out interesting features and plants as they go.

  The day creeps on. Charles and the men return from the clay-pigeon shoot mud-spattered and elated, and after tea and scones, they all retire to change for dinner. Lillian opts for a simple black dress and a single string of pearls but when Charles arrives in her dressing room he frowns. ‘You’re looking a little funereal, my dear.’ He throws open the doors to her wardrobe and rummages through it, pulling out a long, low-cut gold dress covered in elaborate beading. ‘Wear this. I need you to be at your most appealing. I want the chaps to understand that we’re . . . a solid investment.’

  ‘We?’ She laughs lightly. ‘Surely you’re the one they’re investing in? I doubt any dress I wear will have an impact on the business deals you’re cooking up.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Lillian,’ snaps Charles, ‘just do as you’re told. Wear the damn dress.’

  She flinches as he throws the garment at her. ‘As you wish,’ she says. She waits, braced, breath held tightly in her chest, but Charles is already heading towards the door.

  By seven o’clock, Charles’s facade is back in place. Lillian joins him and the guests in the drawing room. As she enters, the other wives coo and swoon over her flamboyant gown and Lillian accepts their compliments while trying not to feel like an out-of-season Christmas cookie next to their more conservative attire. Charles hands out cocktails. ‘To fruitful business ven
tures,’ he toasts, and Lillian takes a sip of the martini and watches her husband, noting the gleam in his eye and the high colour on his cheeks, wondering how much he has had to drink already. Something is off. She can’t put her finger on it but if there were a barometer measuring the atmosphere in the room, she knows the dial would be pointing towards change.

  ‘I simply adore your peacocks,’ says Catherine Parker, gazing out at the birds strutting across the terrace. ‘They’re divine. But tell me, I always thought they were supposed to bring bad luck?’

  ‘Only if you believe in superstitious nonsense,’ laughs Charles. ‘Why fear something so beautiful? I consider it a privilege to gaze upon such a creature.’

  ‘And you just let them roam freely around the place?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why don’t they fly away?’

  ‘Fly away?’ Charles laughs again. ‘Where would they go that could offer them better than a life at Cloudesley?’ He turns to the other lady at his side. ‘David tells me you have four boys, Miriam, the eldest at university?’ Charles shakes his head in admiration. ‘You look far too young!’

  Miriam Molesworth flushes pink and lets out a high-pitched giggle. Lillian turns her back on the room and gazes out across the grounds, bathed in evening sunshine, to where the dark line of trees sits upon the horizon. Just a few more hours to get through and she will be with Jack again.

  ‘Ah, here are the stragglers.’

  She turns to see Jack and Albie being welcomed into the gathering. ‘May I introduce another of our house guests: the artist, Mr Jack Fincher.’

  Jack greets each of them in turn. When it comes to Lillian, he takes her outstretched hand and she feels the tip of his index finger momentarily brush the underside of her palm. ‘Mrs Oberon. How are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ Albie has sidled across the room to stand at her side. She smiles down at the boy. ‘Did you have a good day?’

  He nods and holds out his hand, uncurling his fist to reveal a small, crumpled green leaf. Lillian peers more closely. ‘A four-leafed clover? How clever you are. Wherever did you find it?’