They sat together during lunch, Harry hurrying to them from time to time, between intervals of being polite to his parents’ older guests. They drank hock, and talked. ‘I’ve missed the whole season, but it doesn’t matter,’ David Ashleigh said. ‘The best is now … worth breaking a leg just to see you here for the first time …’ . His gesture indicated the moors about them, the heather which had come into purple bloom, the clouds scudding across the sky. He looked into her face. ‘It’s not true, is it, that you’re going to marry Harry? Twelve thousand acres of shooting in Scotland is nice, but you wouldn’t marry someone for that, would you?’
‘You’re impertinent,’ she said, and her sense of depression grew worse, because even this young man, newly arrived, seemed to have the same idea as the rest of the party. What had she done? And what was she to do?
‘I’m spoiled,’ he admitted. ‘My mother died when I was very small, and my granny has spoiled me thoroughly. I haven’t any brothers or sisters to keep me in my place, and a father who seems afraid to interfere with Granny’s spoiling. So I say all kinds of impertinent things ‒ such as, you shouldn’t marry Harry Blanchard, you should marry me!’
‘Now you’re outrageous!’ But she laughed because it was such a relief that someone was speaking to her as if any other choice was open.
‘Just so long as you know,’ he said. ‘I warn you … I mean it. If I could just get you to Lynmara …’
‘Lynmara …’ she repeated the name, and he talked on, inconsequential things, charmingly put. He was young and beautiful and golden. He smiled a great deal, and his eyes crinkled, so that the smile seemed genuine, someone whom no trouble seemed to have touched, the golden youth.
And why hadn’t she remembered, when Henson had talked during one of those endless sessions of changing clothes that a house party seemed to involve? She had been too engrossed in her own problems, and Henson’s gossip was like water running, a sound one grew accustomed to, and sometimes did not even hear. But the words came back ‒ ‘Lord Ashleigh. He’s Manstone’s only son. Lynmara …’ And then there was the memory, frozen in time, of Anna’s words that night in the softly subdued office of a man called Lucky Nolan. ‘He was twenty years old and unmarried. He was John Ashleigh, thirteenth earl of Manstone. I called him Johnny, and I fell very much in love with him …’ With growing coldness and dismay she remembered the word ‘Lynmara’ on Anna’s lips. ‘I suppose if I’d been English I might have known about Lynmara, might have heard it was one of the show-places of the country … What I can’t forgive him for was letting it happen at all. He should never have asked me to marry him. But he was young … The young can be so unintentionally cruel. Johnny just failed to see past those couple of weeks when we were in love.’
And now John Ashleigh’s son sat beside her, filling her wine glass, talking, laughing, charming, impudent … as she imagined his father once had been with Anna. Involuntarily she shivered, and the concern was immediately in his face. ‘I say … you’re cold. Stupid things, these shoots, aren’t they? Everyone getting frozen, and pretending to love it. I’ll see if any of the others would like to go back to the house … you need a brandy and a chair by the fire. And I’ll hold your hands and make them warm …’
Nicole learned afterwards that David Ashleigh was an excellent shot, and only the weakness of his leg kept him from the long, tiring day on the moors. But for the next two days he scarcely seemed to move from Nicole’s side, and Nicole was aware of Harry’s unhappy, bewildered face, and Henson’s disapproving comments. ‘Really, it’s not at all what I would have expected of Lord Ashleigh. He used to be such a well-mannered boy. Not at all fair on poor Lord Blanchard …’
No, not fair, Nicole thought. The golden boy with his good looks, and laughter and charm was hardly fair on any other young man around him. But she was strangely grateful for his presence. He felt like a younger, less sophisticated version of Gerry Agar, someone for her to trust, almost to lean on. But she still did not talk to him of Lloyd Fenton. That was an unhappiness she kept close to herself, and she was surprised that David Ashleigh could sense it.
‘Something’s wrong, Nicole. Every so often your face seems to cloud over, and I wish I could …’
‘Could what, David?’ she said absently, incautiously.
‘Could take it between my hands and kiss it, and take that look away. Yes, I know Blanchard wouldn’t like to hear me say that, and everyone here thinks I’m behaving in the worst possible taste, but I don’t give a damn. If I thought for one second that you’d … oh, hell, why did we have to meet here, so late?’
She silenced him by leaving his side and going to talk to Lord Hawkings. By this time he felt like an old friend, and she risked a question. ‘Lord Hawkings, can I ask you a question?’ She rushed on as he inclined his head. ‘Are there things in your life you regret very much doing? I mean … you seem so wise now, so sure. Are there things you regret? … big things …?’
He pierced the end of a cigar, having asked her permission to smoke it. ‘Child, the things I regret are not the things I’ve done, but the things I didn’t do. I regret the chances I didn’t take. It’s only when you reach my age that you regret having played for safety. To live is to take chances …’
After that Nicole asked the Duchess if she could make a telephone call to London. The Duchess called one of the footmen to show her to the Duke’s study. ‘By all means, my dear. I expect you want to call your aunt.’ Nicole nodded, and hoped it didn’t constitute too great a lie. It was an abuse of hospitality, she knew, but she was already here under false pretences. She spent the next hour in the study trying to reach Lloyd Fenton.
At St Giles’s Hospital they kept her ten minutes on the switchboard before finding out that Mr Fenton was no longer on duty. Once again she waited until the connection was made to the flat that Lloyd shared with Carl Zimmerman. She had met Carl Zimmerman a few times when she and Lloyd had lunched at the Italian restaurant near St Giles’s; Zimmerman was a refugee from Nazi Germany, and would be, Lloyd said, one of the finest plastic surgeons in the world in a few years. She recognized the heavily accented voice at once when the telephone was answered.
‘Carl? ‒ this is Nicole. Nicole Rainard. You remember?’
‘I remember.’ His tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly, merely neutral.
‘Is Lloyd there? Could I speak to him?’
‘He isn’t here. I expect him back ‒ who knows when? He comes ‒ he goes. One does not ask. We merely share the flat, and even that for not long more.’
‘Carl? ‒ what do you mean. Not for long? He’s going somewhere?’
She could almost see the shrug of his heavy shoulders, the mild look of neutrality behind the heavy glasses. Carl was neutral to everyone and everything in England, his place of refuge, but not his home.
‘When a man resigns his position, it usually means he is going someplace. He will leave the hospital in a few weeks.’
‘Resigned? But why? Where is he going?’
‘I am not quite sure that he knows himself. But if I were to guess, I would say he is going back to Boston. But I do not guess. It is better to let friends make up their own minds without advice.’
‘Boston!’ The line between this distant Scottish castle and London seemed to grow very faint, or was it a kind of ringing in her own ears. ‘Boston … You mean he’s going home?’
‘Home? Yes … I would say Boston is home to Lloyd Fenton. But where is home any more once one has made a break from it? Sometimes I think he’s as much a rootless one as I am. I think …’ The voice drifted away into nothing.
Frantically Nicole jiggled the received. ‘Operator … operator, please don’t cut us off…’
‘I’m very sorry … the line was disconnected. Shall I try again?’
‘Please.’ Nicole now seemed to be begging. ‘Please.’
In another ten minutes she was again speaking to Carl Zimmerman. ‘Please, Carl … please, when he comes in will you ask him to ring
me. The number is …’
‘I may be in bed.’ So calmly said.
‘Please wait for him. Please wait until midnight, at least. I’m asking a favour. I’m begging you, Carl. If he comes in before midnight, he’s to ring me here. Will you take the number? And if he’s later than that, he can ring me any time after seven. He’s to insist on speaking to me. There may be a delay. There are a lot of people in the house, but tell him he must insist on the butler bringing me to the phone. I’ll wait until after midnight. I’ll be awake at seven. Will you Carl?’
‘I am taking it all down,’ the voice answered calmly. ‘Whether I am in bed or not he will have a note. What more can I do?’
‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you, Carl. You will say it’s urgent won’t you? Very urgent.’
‘I will say it is urgent,’ he answered, as if he were speaking to a child. ‘Good night.’
And after that there was only a long silence on the line between London and the Highlands, a silence of heartbreak and uncertainty to Nicole. She sat there numbed, with the receiver still in her hand, her face close to the mouthpiece. The operator’s voice came through. ‘Have you completed the call, madam? Is there another number you want?’
‘No ‒ no, I’ve finished, thank you.’ She replaced the receiver. Finished. Resigned.
She went and sat before the log fire in the great carved fireplace, bending towards its warmth as if towards succour. What spirit she had ever had seemed momentarily among the fine grey ashes that settled as each part of it died. It was there that Harry Blanchard found her, came to her side, and asked her to marry him. She turned stricken, contrite eyes upon him. ‘I’m so sorry, Harry. I can’t.’
‘Can’t …’ For an instant his brow wrinkled in puzzlement and dismay. ‘You can’t … Pi-pity … It seemed su-such a good thing. Everyone tho-thought it was such a good thing.’
‘I’m so sorry, Harry,’ she repeated. ‘It’s my fault. I didn’t know … no, that’s not true. I just didn’t think. I was so selfish. I just let it all float along. I never should have done that. I never should have done that to you, Harry. You’re so kind … And I’ve been …’ She turned her head away from the hypnotic draw of the flames. ‘And I’ve been a selfish little girl. Forgive me, Harry. Can you forgive me? I just didn’t see … I didn’t see what was happening. There’s so much I still don’t understand.’
He shook his head. ‘You mu-mustn’t get upset. My f-fault. My fault, entirely.’
And then she turned and it seemed for the first time she actually saw that bland, good-natured, unintelligent face. Then she leaned and kissed him. ‘I could never possibly deserve anyone as nice as you are, Harry.’
He flushed and started back from that kiss. ‘No ‒ you mu … mustn’t say that. My f-fault. Entirely.’
She looked at him closely. ‘I must go in the morning, Harry. I couldn’t possibly stay here now. You understand?’
‘Yes … yes, of course. I’ll speak to my mother.’
As he was leaving the room, he turned back. ‘You’re in lo-love with someone else, aren’t you, Nicole?’
She answered him as honestly as she could. ‘I’m not sure I know what love is, Harry. But if I understand it, I’m in love … yes, I’m in love.’
‘Ashleigh? Is it Ashleigh?’
For a moment she stared at him, bewildered. ‘Ashleigh? You don’t mean David Ashleigh? How could I be in love with him? I only just met him. No ‒ no, it isn’t David Ashleigh.’
He nodded. ‘I thought it was someone else ‒ someone you knew before you came here.’
Her nod answered him. ‘I’ve only known him a little while. I never wanted to fall in love with someone like him. But still ‒ it almost seems that I’ve known him all my life.’
His determined smile at her had more spirit and understanding than she had ever expected of Harry.
‘G-good luck, then.’ And he closed the door. Once again Anna’s words came back, ‘The young can be so unintentionally cruel …’ As she had been to Harry.
She waited, dressed, in her room until long after midnight, but no summons came to the phone. She had dismissed Henson, and the vigil was long and cold. The fire sank in the hearth, and the wood was exhausted. Finally she gave up, undressed and crept into bed, and the hot-water bottle had grown tepid. Still she lay awake, straining to hear through the long stone passages of that great house the lonely sound of the telephone ringing. But she heard nothing. She fell asleep as dawn came to the Highland sky, and dreamt an exhausted dream of Lloyd Fenton who walked away from her, never once turning his head, and Iris and the Duchess of Milburn who stood before her in his place holding a long string of pearls which suddenly broke, and the pearls scattered and were lost. She woke to the sound of Henson drawing back the curtains from the windows, the morning tray of tea beside the bed. ‘A lovely bright day, Miss Nicole. The gentlemen will enjoy the shooting. Shall I lay out your green tweed, Miss? You’ve never worn it before.’
Nicole struggled to sit up, rubbing sleep from her thickened, puffy eyelids. The bedside clock pointed to eight. ‘Has there been a telephone call for me, Henson?’
‘Gracious, no, Miss. Whoever would be telephoning as early as this?’ She was pouring the tea, and Nicole sipped the hot liquid gratefully.
‘We’ll have to pack, Henson. We’ll be leaving today. I’ll have to speak to the butler about times of trains, and things …’
Henson’s face was at first stricken, and then outraged. ‘We are leaving, Miss? Whatever have you done?’
‘I’ve done the right thing, Henson ‒ and if I hadn’t been such a stupid little fool, poor Harry wouldn’t be in this mess, and neither would I.’
Unexpectedly the Duchess delayed her own departure for the shooting party on the moors to be at hand when Nicole’s bags were brought down to the car. She was waiting in the hall when Nicole herself descended the stairs. She came at once and offered her hand. ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’ Astonished, Nicole realized she actually meant those words. ‘I thought you would accept him … oh, I know, you’re much more intelligent than Harry, and no doubt in time you would have become very bored. But I thought you were ambitious. A little scheming, perhaps. But I was prepared to accept that. You would have been an excellent wife, I’m sure. I suspect you’ll make a very good mother, though you’re not the obvious type. Now that I know this much more about you, I’m even sorrier it didn’t work out. You mustn’t worry about Harry. He’ll be upset for a while, but things don’t touch him very deeply. He’ll recover. He has before. Now his brother, Lord Peter … he’s different. He might have interested you very much if Harry hadn’t been in the way. Peter will go very far. He will have a very interesting life.’ She gave a dry little laugh. ‘Things don’t always work out the way we think they should, do they …?’
Nicole drove to the station, staring at Henson’s back, rigid with disapproval, and thinking that while she would never regret not having married Harry Blanchard, she might just have missed having the best mother-in-law any girl could hope for.
At the station she saw David Ashleigh, his luggage piled about him, fishing rods in hand, looking towards her as if he had expected her arrival. ‘You’re bound for London too? Marvellous! I was dreading a dull journey. What fun! Did they telephone for sleeper reservations for you from Edinburgh?’
‘What are you doing here?’
He looked innocent. ‘Me? Oh ‒ the leg has been bothering me a bit. Thought I ought to get the London chap to look at it. I expect it’s nothing ‒ maybe just the Highland damp.’ He smiled at her, and she doubted that his leg was troubling him in the least.
‘I’m sorry. Such a shame to have to cut your stay short.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘And aren’t you leaving before time?’
He shook his head as she frowned at him. ‘No use, you know. It was all round the breakfast table this morning, and by tomorrow everyone in London will know it. I wonder why you turned him down? Of course, I have my own opinions ab
out that, but I’d like very much to hear yours.’
‘Keep your own opinions,’ Nicole snapped at him, her temper fraying under his teasing, and Henson’s frigid stare. ‘My opinions are my own business. They’re not for discussion.’
He bowed his head slightly. ‘Sorry. Properly put in my place. But I’m glad. I just can’t see you married to old Harry.’
‘I really don’t care what you think, David.’
He smiled. ‘You can’t make me angry, you know. Even if you are implying I have atrocious manners. It really matters quite a lot to me what you think. And I’ll show you. Well, here’s the train. We’ll be together until Edinburgh, at least. And would it be going beyond the bounds of propriety if I asked if we can’t dine together at the Caledonian before the train leaves for London? Surely nothing wrong with that, is there? A chance meeting. Two acquaintances travelling south happen to be on the same train …’ The local train had come to a stop, and he was establishing her in a first-class compartment, while Henson and his valet gave directions to the porter about placing the luggage. ‘I hope you don’t think you’re going to read a newspaper,’ he said. ‘We’ve got from here to Edinburgh to talk, and I don’t intend to miss a minute of it.’
It was then she became certain that he had left Carrickcraig when he had learned that morning that she also was leaving.
Nicole dined with David at the Royal Caledonian while they waited for the departure of the night sleeper train for London. She would have enjoyed the dinner, the occasion, the charming presence of this charming, golden young man if she hadn’t been nagged with anxiety about Lloyd Fenton. In desperation she had asked the hotel switchboard to put through a call to his flat, and a waiter came to summon her as she and David finished coffee. ‘Will you excuse me?’ she said. She didn’t know why she felt it necessary to add, ‘A call to my aunt …’
The Lynmara Legacy Page 22
