Henry straightened up, holding something long, no bigger than his own hand. With his other hand he brushed it to remove some of the mud.
‘What have you found?’ asked Marguerite, just as he said, ‘It is a figurine – what is it, though?’ He strode across the site, to the ladies’ side of the rampart, stepped up and held it out to her. Marguerite gazed at the muddy little figure, through which, at some points, a little green showed. ‘Brass? Bronze?’ she ventured. ‘One can’t see what it is except that it is a human figure. It looks …’ She frowned. ‘It looks too sophisticated for a Bronze Age encampment. And yet …’
‘Best to plunge it in a bucket to remove the mud,’ Mrs Constantine advised. As if to prompt a move, a cloud went over the sun, the landscape darkened and they became more conscious of the cold wind.
Henry Reeve, who was staring bemused at the find he held in his open, muddy palm, came to himself, ‘I must get you ladies out of this field,’ he announced. ‘Especially you, Miss Elaine. We must not overdo our outing. Mrs Welsh has tea for us. May I suggest we go back to the road now? If we walk along a little, we shall come to the farm.’
As they went back across the field he said to Mr Welsh, ‘Can you spare David tomorrow? I will come back early and continue, but I need him to help.’
‘He’ll wait for you,’ Welsh said.
‘Good.’
Marguerite had turned round to see Elaine a little further back, standing still. Henry stopped also and followed her eyes. ‘You’re tired, Miss Selsden,’ he called back. ‘Stay where you are.’ He retraced his footsteps and offered her his arm, which she took.
‘Have you any guess about the statuette?’ enquired Marguerite, when they had caught up with her.
‘It might be Roman,’ he said. ‘If so, I’m a little disappointed. You see, I was searching for a Bronze Age village and now I have a fear I may have found a Roman villa. This would delight anyone not looking for the site of something older. Men are ever searching and ever discontented, you ladies will tell me.’
‘I would never tell you that,’ Elaine said, looking up at him. Marguerite and Mrs Constantine were now walking behind them. Elaine, with a blush on her cheeks and her fair hair whipped by the wind, looked very pretty.
Once through the gate in the hedge, Henry asked Elaine if she would prefer him to go back for the car, and drive to the farm. She told him she would prefer to go on foot, so the party walked along the road, together between open fields, gulls swooping overhead. Henry still had Elaine’s arm. She leaned against him as they went.
They settled to a substantial tea around Mrs Welsh’s kitchen table in her well-scrubbed kitchen. There were scones and a fruitcake, and a large brown teapot. A fierce red glow came from the open door of the kitchen range.
‘A cottage tea – so much nicer,’ declared Henry. As soon as the ladies were seated he went into the scullery to wash and returned, looking astonished, with the greenish bronze figurine, clean now. ‘It isn’t Roman,’ he said, ‘I think it’s earlier. Much earlier.’
Mrs Constantine asked what the others wanted to ask: ‘What’s the difference?’
‘About a thousand years,’ he responded. ‘Mine could be a Bronze Age site after all. Or not. It might be from the villa, if it is Roman – but how incongruous. What a thing to find here in Strand. I shall have to take it to London, after further investigation of the site.’
He handed it to Marguerite. The statuette was about six inches long, and depicted a slender, bare-breasted woman in a long pleated skirt. A horned helmet was on her braided hair.
‘How charming it is. How grave she looks. Who do you think she is?’ asked Marguerite.
‘A goddess, perhaps. Astarte?’
‘And who was she?’
‘A Canaanite goddess – a lady with power. The Greeks called her Aphrodite.’
‘The goddess of love.’ Elaine had taken the figurine from Marguerite and was gazing at it. ‘Love,’ she repeated. ‘Love. This is perhaps not how we would represent love. She is so – commanding. She wears a warrior’s helmet.’
‘That is concept of love, perhaps’ he said, with a smile. ‘Now Miss Elaine, I insist you eat one of Mrs Welsh’s excellent scones. At least one. We must build you up.’ He was very cheerful.
Mrs Constantine took the figurine doubtfully. ‘Very pretty,’ she said.
‘It may be three thousand years old,’ Henry said.
Now Elaine had the statuette and was gazing at it.
‘Well, it has been a delightful day,’ Mrs Constantine said firmly. She took the statuette from Elaine and returned it to Henry.
Twenty-Seven
‘Mrs Constantine, have you seen Elaine?’ Marguerite Selsden asked urgently. It was nine o’clock. They had returned at eight from the excavations and she had imagined Elaine, who had gone upstairs, to be in her room, preparing for bed after the exertions of the day. When she had gone in to talk to her she had found the room empty. Elaine’s coat was also missing.
Mrs Constantine, knitting in front of her fire, looked up in alarm. ‘No, Miss Selsden. I have not. Ring for Jenny straight away.’
Marguerite rang the bell beside the fireplace. Jenny came in wearing her hat and coat, for she was about to leave for home.
‘Have you seen Miss Elaine?’ Mrs Constantine asked.
‘Yes, mum,’ Jenny responded. ‘When I came out of the kitchen door with more coal for your fire she was just leaving.’
‘Leaving?’ Mrs Constantine queried. ‘Did she say anything as she left?’
‘No, mum. She was just going through the front door in her hat and coat when I came out of the kitchen into the passageway. I don’t think she even saw me.’
‘It must have been about an hour ago. That was when you brought in coal, wasn’t it?’ Mrs Constantine said.
‘About that, mum.’
‘Well, go home, now,’ said Mrs Constantine.
After Jenny’s departure Marguerite, still standing, said bewilderedly, ‘I don’t quite understand. She’s been gone an hour. Where can she be?’
‘It is strange,’ agreed Mrs Constantine. ‘I expect she’s bursting to throw off the restraints of being an invalid. Perhaps our outing today stimulated her – but you would have thought she’d have mentioned—’
‘And where would she go at this time? The town is shut up for the night. She knows no one here.’
‘Only Mr Reeve,’ Mrs Constantine said flatly.
Geoffrey Bennett and Henry were at Lion House. ‘So, to encapsulate,’ Henry said, smiling, ‘Bly is as good as sold, your old housekeeper Mrs Grose has picked out her cottage near the village church and pronounced herself satisfied, and Flora has heard this news apparently with indifference and not ceased for a moment to buy new clothes and go out all the time. This is so?’
Geoffrey Bennett and Henry Reeve were sitting at ease before the fire in Henry’s little sitting room. Bookcases stood against and took up nearly all the length of two walls. Next to the fireplace, in a corner, French windows led into the darkened garden. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and a subdued clatter as Henry’s housekeeper cleared the table in the dining room next door.
‘That seems to sum it up,’ responded Geoffrey. ‘Having bothered you with our family history and told you all my anxieties, I’m embarrassed to be here, sitting at your fire, after an excellent dinner and telling you all is well.’
‘Well, I’m delighted,’ Henry said. ‘“Will you have a cigar”?’
They had only just lit their cigars when the doorbell rang. Henry frowned. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone.’
The housekeeper knocked and came in, ‘There’s a lady to see you, Mr Reeve,’ she announced.
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘She said she preferred not to give her name.’
Henry frowned. ‘I can’t think—’ he began, then broke off.
Once upon a time Henry had been accustomed to the arrival at his door of ladies who would not give their names.
He had been no stranger to unexpected arrivals, notes sent and received and covert meetings. Suddenly he was reminded of those bygone days.
He put out his cigar, got up and said to Geoffrey, ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
He found Elaine Selsden in the hall beside the round central table on which were a Chinese vase and two books for return to a London library. In the corner a long clock ticked steadily in the silence. Head a little lifted, Elaine gazed at him.
‘Miss Selsden,’ he said. ‘How nice to see you. Do please come into the drawing room where there is a fire. I have a guest with me you would like to meet. But first, let me take your coat.’
She was wearing a faint scent, slightly pungent, like the smell of dried flowers. ‘I would rather speak privately.’
‘But of course,’ he said calmly. ‘We had better go into the dining room. There is no fire in the big salon upstairs.’
She glanced nervously at the dining room door. ‘I would rather go upstairs,’ she told him.
‘As you please,’ he agreed. ‘In that case, you would do well to keep your coat on.’ He led her upstairs to the first floor.
Surprised by her unexpected visit, he decided to behave as if it were the most natural event in the world. Elaine meekly followed him upstairs. On the landing he said, ‘Here we are then – the piano nobile,’ and opened the door for her. The room was bigger than those downstairs with large windows, the curtains undrawn, looking over the garden. It was plainly furnished, though the pieces were old and elegant. The carpet was fine, though a little faded, the walls pale yellow. It was extremely cold.
‘Do sit down,’ he said, gesturing to a sofa near the fireplace. He drew up a slim chair and sat down opposite her. ‘I regret the disused feel of the room. I use it seldom in winter. Now’ – he leaned forward attentively, observing what he thought might be rouge on her cheeks – ‘what can I do to help you?’
She unbuttoned her coat. The dress underneath was blue, wool, quite low in the neck. She smiled, ‘Well. It is not so much that I wished to speak to you as that I sensed you wished to speak to me.’
‘On a particular subject?’
She smiled into his eyes, her head a little on one side, ‘You fence with me. Well, I will not fence with you in turn. I will drop my sword and be frank. Or what shall we do?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean’, he said carefully, suddenly aware of the situation he was in.
‘I think you like me a little.’
‘Of course I do, Miss Selsden.’ There was a pause. ‘I find you very charming,’ he said, to fill the silence. He began to add, so that there might be no mistake, ‘It is a great pleasure to have you and your sister as neighbours—’ but before he had said more than four or five words she broke in, ‘I find you charming also, Mr Reeve – but I shall call you Henry. You know you charm me, Henry. I think you know more, too.’
‘I’m not quite sure where we are driving, Miss Selsden,’ he said, about to suggest the conversation change, or end, but, again, she anticipated him: ‘Henry,’ she reproached, ‘I have come here, alone and secretly, risking my reputation to an extent, putting myself in your hands. I think you owe it to me to be direct.’
‘I am not being indirect, Miss Selsden. But I am at something of a loss—’
‘Miss Selsden, Miss Selsden,’ she said impatiently. ‘Why do you not call me Elaine? Why will you not bridge this distance between us? I know you have feelings for me, as – I confess it – I have for you. That is why I have taken the step of coming to you. Please speak openly to me, call me by my name, admit your feelings for me.’
He stood up abruptly. ‘Miss Selsden – Elaine – I will call you anything you like, but this conversation must end.’
‘End? It is only beginning,’ she said. ‘Please speak. This afternoon I noticed so many little signals. And there was the figurine, the love goddess you put in my hand – we are not children, Henry.’
She had stood as she said this and now moved closer to him, until they were almost touching. He responded by moving away, across the room to the door, which he opened. In the doorway, with his hand on the handle, he said. ‘I’m sorry if anything I said or did this afternoon gave you the impression I had deeper feelings for you than, I must tell you, I truly have. I wish to give you no pain, but I can only look on you as a friend. I believe our best course is to forget what has happened here tonight.’
‘No!’ she cried, her hand to her breast. ‘Denials now. Why? Oh why? Has someone spoken ill of me to you? Has my sister come here to malign me? Or is it your guest? What has he said to make your feelings alter?’
Henry was pitifully embarrassed both for himself and almost as much for Elaine, who now stood rigidly in the middle of the room, her cheeks aflame. He thought that his housekeeper might hear raised voices and come to find out what was happening, or Geoffrey might arrive upstairs from the downstairs room. He would look a fool and this poor woman would look something worse – pathetic, mad, deluded. He must get rid of her, put a stop to all this. How in heaven’s name had this occurred? She had acted so quickly, seizing the initiative like a fighter.
He went to her and took her by the shoulders. She gazed at him yieldingly, ‘Henry,’ she said softly, tilting her head up to his.
‘No, Miss Selsden,’ he said emphatically. ‘No. This will not do. I want you to come downstairs with me. I will take you home. You need rest. You have, I am sorry to say, misinterpreted my feelings. I do not wish to have to say this, but I will say so clearly – so that there can be no mistake. I have no special feelings for you.’
‘You have! Someone has poisoned your mind,’ she cried. She threw here arms round him and pressed her lips to his.
At once he pushed her away. ‘I cannot go on with this scene,’ he said angrily and, dropping his hands from her shoulders, left the room rapidly. He had to get away from her, he thought in some desperation. He had taken only two steps down when she was on the landing crying out, ‘Henry! Henry! Do not do this to me!’ She had shed her green hat and her coat. Her hair hung loosely on her shoulders. She was playing one last, high card. She would make it seem before his servants and his guest that he had been making love to her.
He reached the foot of the stairs. She was halfway down, calling his name. ‘Henry,’ she implored him. He turned, ‘Miss Selsden,’ he said, ‘you have one last chance to leave. Otherwise I shall have to put you out of the house. Please do not force me to do that.’
She had paused to listen to him. She stood, her head raised and back straight, one hand on the banister. She smiled. ‘Oh Henry. You would not be so cruel.’ Her smile faded. She shouted, ‘You cannot do this. Traitor! Traitor! Help me someone – help!’ Horrified, he realised she was trying to trick him into playing the lover to quiet her.
As he looked up he heard the drawing room door open. He turned to see Geoffrey Bennett in the doorway looking up at Elaine. He was about to make some explanation, when he saw Geoffrey’s enquiring expression suddenly change to one of incredulity, then horror. And, equally suddenly, Elaine saw him. Her face drained of colour, her proud carriage collapsed, her head dropped so that only her hair was visible to the two men below.
‘My God!’ Geoffrey said in a low voice from the drawing room doorway. Then he turned and blundered back, slamming the door behind him with a crash which echoed throughout the house.
Henry looked up at Elaine. ‘Miss Selsden, what’s happening?’
His housekeeper had come from her door at the end of the passageway beyond the dining room.
‘Get my hat and coat,’ Elaine Selsden said to Henry in a faint voice.
‘Get Miss Selsden’s hat and coat from upstairs,’ Henry ordered. The housekeeper, with a careful look at Elaine as she passed her, went upstairs. Elaine began mechanically to tuck her hair up into a rough knot behind her neck. The housekeeper, having collected her hat and coat, passed them to her where she stood on the stairs. She took them. ‘Let me out,’ was all she said, descending, and
walked by him with a light tread, moving smoothly, almost as if sleepwalking, across the hall. She pulled open the front door and went out.
The door closed behind Elaine. Henry Reeve stood quite still. All that remained was the ticking of the clock and a faint trace of the scent she had worn. Astonished and shaken, Henry went to confront his friend.
Twenty-Eight
Beth Bennett faced her niece in the drawing room. Flora was dressed for a dance in a dark red, low-cut, straight velvet dress, which ended only a little below her calf. She wore red silk stockings and red satin shoes. Her hair was loosely arranged, clouding out about her head in tendrils of reddish brown. About her neck was a choker of heavy antique gold. She wore long white gloves and carried a closed fan.
‘You look very beautiful, Flora,’ Beth said, but it was scarcely praise. ‘But I think that dress is too bold for an unmarried girl. Would it not be better to keep it for the honeymoon?’
Her voice trailed off, meeting Flora’s direct neutral stare. She rallied. ‘Don’t stand staring at me in that way, Flora. It’s not very nice. You’re making things very difficult. There is talk. Your manner’s too careless. You take a glass of wine too much at dinner, and your voice can be too loud – and your laugh. You come home very late. These are small things, perhaps, but they add up, and people are starting to notice. Lady Kilmoyne was here the other day and hinted that your behaviour was a little unrestrained. I found that humiliating. It reflects on your uncle and myself. Flora, I’m speaking only for your own good. Because I must. I say that dress is too short and the colour too bright.’
‘You sent Father Rawley away,’ Flora said.
‘What has that got to do with it? That was months ago. In any case, no one sent him away. He is your godfather. What do you mean?’
But Flora did not answer. Beth understood the accusation. She had cut Flora off from the clergyman who, Beth thought, was drawing her neice into a state of unsuitable piety and unwordliness. Now she was criticising Flora for showing signs of going too far in the other direction.
Miles and Flora Page 11
