by Anne Weale
Though she knew little about him, her instinct told her that Roderick Anstruther was no hypocrite. It would be impossible for him, having watched the film with that fierce expression on his face, to offer the sort of unctuous comment her grandfather expected.
So she got in ahead of him, saying brightly, ‘It’s terrific, Dodo. I didn’t know you were having a film made. It’s very well done. Those children in the final shots are a great improvement on the two little horrors stuffing themselves in your last TV commercial.’
She was rattling on in the same vein when, to her relief, Watson entered.
‘Mr Dursley is on the telephone, sir.’
Abel picked up the cordless telephone which went everywhere with him and, in a tone of considerable annoyance, said, ‘What the hell’s gone wrong now, Steve?’
Flower could hear her brother’s voice, but not what he was saying.
After a few moments her grandfather interrupted him. ‘Hold on a minute.’ To the others, he added, ‘I’ll take this call in the study.’
‘That was my brother,’ Flower explained after he had stumped out of the room. ‘Have you any brothers or sisters, Sir Roderick?’
He shook his head, moving from the section where he had been sitting to one closer to hers. ‘No, I haven’t. Why not call me Roderick? May I use your first name?’
‘Of course. Tell me, what are your plans for this house? Do you want to live here yourself? Or is there something about us which makes us unacceptable tenants?’
‘As I’ve only just met you and your grandfather, it could hardly be a personal antipathy, could it?’ was his equable reply.
‘I don’t know,’ she said with a gesture signifying puzzlement. ‘Perhaps your father regretted leasing the house and charged you with the task of getting rid of us.’
‘On the contrary, my father often said he wished he had moved to Arizona sooner. He liked the American way of life. He was a younger son. It was his elder brother who should have inherited the place, but he was killed in the Second World War. My mother liked America too. We all did. But now my parents are dead I no longer have family ties there and, as I was telling your grandfather earlier, this house is entailed. It’s mine now, but not to sell. I have to keep it for my son, if I have one.’
He paused, looking at her thoughtfully, before he went on, ‘The nine months till the present lease ends should be ample time for your grandfather to find somewhere else to live. Shall you mind leaving here? Wouldn’t you be equally if not more comfortable in a large modern house?’
The honest answer would have been, ‘No, I love this house now. It’s been my home since I was ten. I can’t bear the idea of leaving it.’
But if she said that it could only make him uncomfortable, and she didn’t want to do that.
It was his right to come back. In spite of his time in America, he belonged here as they never had. Her grandfather would fight him if the option he held gave him a chance of winning. But Flower knew that, deep in her heart and absurd as it might seem to anyone else, she was not on her grandfather’s side. She wanted Roderick Anstruther to have possession of his ancestral home.
Aloud, she said, ‘I shouldn’t like to live in a new house. I don’t think much of contemporary domestic architecture—or indeed any modern architecture. My brother has an ultra-modern house, designed for him and my sister-in-law by a prize-winning architect, but I don’t like it at all. How long are you staying in England?’
‘For two weeks. There are various people in London I want to look up. Will you be there again in the next fortnight?’
‘Probably. I’m there most weeks for a night or two.’
‘Perhaps we could have dinner together?’
‘I’d like to.’
The smile in her grey eyes was a tacit admission that she found him attractive and wanted to see more of him, no matter what the situation was between him and her grandfather.
It was a long time since she had smiled at a man with open warmth. Mostly she played it cool, letting them make all the running.
But Roderick was not like a stranger. He was the embodiment of someone who had been her beau ideal for years, just as Andrew Fairchild had always personified Emily’s ideal man.
‘I don’t know which are the best places to eat nowadays. You will have to advise me,’ he said.
Flower, who had dined at all the fashionable restaurants too often to be excited by them, and who knew how expensive they were even if she never paid the bills, said, ‘Why not come and eat at my flat?’
It was not an invitation she would normally have issued on so short an acquaintance. In fact he was the first man she had ever asked to dine alone with her there. The indiscretions of her nineteenth year were a thing of the past. She was much more circumspect now, even if the columnists would not have it so.
Seeing the slight lift of his right eyebrow, she wondered if she had given him the wrong impression. But, before she could hasten to correct it by adding that she had some friends she thought he would enjoy meeting, her grandfather returned.
Abel had not been reared on the belief that dirty linen should never be washed in public. He said what he thought, when he thought it, regardless of any embarrassment caused to his hearers.
Now, in spite of Roderick’s presence, he said crossly, ‘That damn fool brother of yours seems incapable of putting a foot right. Heaven knows what’ll happen if I leave him in charge when I pass on. Call Watson. I need a drink. What about you?’ This to Roderick.
‘No, thank you. If you’ll excuse me I’ll go to bed.’
Abel nodded. ‘Right you are. Tomorrow I’ll be busy in the morning, but Flower will show you round and look after you. We’ll discuss the lease after lunch.’
After Roderick had left them, he went on, ‘I’m beginning to think it’s a pity I didn’t take you into the business instead of Steve. I don’t hold with girls having jobs, except as something to keep them out of mischief until they get married. But, as you don’t seem to want a husband, I might have done worse than train you up to take over.’
‘I’m not cut out for management, Dodo. And I should like a husband, if I could find one to suit me.’
‘Seems to me there’ve been half a dozen who would have suited you. I don’t think you know what you do want,’ he retorted irritably, his brimming annoyance with Stephen spilling over on to her.
‘Well, don’t let it worry you, darling. I’m not quite on the shelf yet, you know,’ she said, trying to tease away his glower.
‘Maybe not, but I’d like to see you settled. Where the devil is Watson?’
‘He’s off duty now. I’ll get your drink. What would you like? Brandy and soda?’
He nodded. ‘What were you and that fellow talking about while I was out of the room?’
‘Nothing special. Just chit-chat.’
‘I noticed he’d moved to sit nearer. Was he chatting you up?’
She shook her head. She didn’t want to discuss Roderick with her grandfather, who regarded every man she dated either as a possible fortune-hunter or a prospective husband.
At the beginning of something which might turn out to be an important relationship, or nothing more than an acquaintance, she didn’t think ahead to the outcome. She knew what she felt at this moment—that she might be on the brink of a wonderful, life-changing experience. But, with only a fortnight in hand before Roderick returned to America, maybe nothing would come of it.
But when she tried to steer the conversation away from their unexpected house guest Abel was not to be deflected.
He said, ‘He’s got a few bees in his bonnet, judging by his talk at dinner, but he’s a fine-looking fellow. You could do a lot worse for yourself...and it would solve a lot of problems.’
‘Dodo, are you seriously suggesting that I should set my cap at him to save us the trouble of finding somewhere else to live?’ she asked with some exasperation.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Certainly not! You’ve no need to set y
our cap at any man. You’re a beautiful girl with a lot of money behind you. You can take your pick,’ Abel said complacently.
‘Not entirely,’ was Flower’s dry reply. ‘There are men who look for other things besides looks and money.’
‘Such as?’
‘Intelligence...character...breeding. I’m not and never can be well-bred. Roderick would never marry beneath him.’
Abel’s face purpled angrily. ‘Beneath him! Don’t talk piffle, girl. You’re as good as he is any day.’
She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I’m not his social equal, Dodo. And, with only very rare exceptions, the aristocracy marry each other, not outsiders.’
‘You’re not an outsider,’ he thundered. ‘I sent you to one of the most exclusive schools in England, and to a posh finishing-school. There’s no difference between you and a duke’s daughter that I can see.’
‘On the surface, not very much. But I’m not a member of the charmed circle. My grandmother didn’t “come out” with their grandmothers. My brother didn’t go to Eton with their brothers. My forebears were their forebears’ servants. We are nouveau riche, Dodo, and the fact that Emily’s parents didn’t discourage her from being my friend doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have discouraged her brothers from taking an interest in me if they had been closer to my age.’
Abel fumed but said nothing. She could see his mind searching for a way to demolish her case. In a few moments he found it.
‘What about when some duke or other married that American heiress... one of the Vanderbilts?’ he countered.
‘That was one of the rare exceptions and it was a disastrous marriage. They had nothing in common and were miserable with each other. Surely you don’t want me to contract an unhappy marriage merely to have a title, do you?’
‘No, no, I didn’t suggest that. I may have a title myself before I’ve done,’ he told her with a covetous gleam in his eyes. ‘But you’ve just admitted you’d like a husband, and it strikes me you could do worse than consider young Anstruther. As for him not thinking you good enough, that’s stuff and nonsense. I’m not sure yet what his game is in trying to shift us, but I’ve a shrewd idea his dad won’t have left him more than a few thousand. Without money he’s no catch for a girl, and most of your so-called upper crust aren’t as well-heeled as they used to be.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, the primary requisite for marriage is love,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m going to bed now. I was up late last night and I need to catch up my sleep.’
She bade him good night and went up to her beautiful bedroom, which would have been even more beautiful had he not installed the showbiz bed in place of the original four-poster with its ice-blue silk curtains to match those at the two tall windows.
The carpet was ice-blue and gold, and the floorboards beneath it creaked in places as she moved about, putting away her clothes and thinking over the disturbing conversation downstairs.
By conceiving the idea of a match between herself and Roderick, her grandfather had forced her to face things she wasn’t ready to face yet and would have preferred to ignore.
What he didn’t realise, she thought ruefully, was that he himself, with his brash ways and uncouth manners, was a major obstacle between her and a marriage into the aristocracy. They might, at a pinch, find her acceptable. But Abel—never. From her point of view it was a case of love me, love my grandfather. She might have mixed feelings about him, but she wouldn’t stand for a husband or in-laws looking down on him.
Actually she didn’t think Roderick did look down on the old man in the social sense. She felt he disliked him for another reason; what it was she couldn’t yet fathom.
In spite of having said that she wanted an early night, she wasn’t in the least sleepy. She decided to write to tell Emily about the man now asleep in the room which had been his as a boy.
There was a half-written letter to her friend on one of the disks she kept in a box by her personal computer in the adjoining sitting-room. She had bought it and taught herself to use it for the same reason that she had taken a crash-course in French. She liked to feel that, in the unlikely event that it ever became necessary for her to work, she had some qualifications for earning a living.
A few minutes later, with what she had already written displayed on the monitor screen, she continued the letter by describing her time in London and the clothes she had bought. Emily’s interest in clothes had not diminished because she was married to the son of a landowner and now spent much of her time in the serviceable garments suitable for her life as the wife of a working farmer and the mother of a year-old daughter.
Having dealt with her London news, Flower then went on to describe coming home and finding Roderick in the house.
I’m not sure what to make of him yet. One wouldn’t describe him as reserved, but nor is he the outgoing type. I feel he’s rather like an iceberg. There’s a lot more under the surface than is visible at first sight, and a collision with him could be dangerous.
Having brought the letter up to date, she tapped the keys which would keep it stored in the computer’s memory until she had some more to add. Then she switched off the machine, covered it with an Indian silk shawl to protect it from dust and hide it—it was useful but a terrible eyesore—and set about taking off her make-up and brushing her teeth.
After that she read for a while before setting the alarm which would wake her with music at seven-thirty and, finally, switching off the light.
But at midnight she was still awake, unable to stop thinking about Roderick and the changes he might bring to their lives
It was a full moon; a brilliant night. Restless, she slipped out of bed and went to the window to look down at the garden, where tomorrow she might get to know him better.
The house was built in two wings at right angles to each other. To her surprise she saw lights on in the morning-room.
She was wondering if one of the staff could have left them on by mistake, when she remembered Roderick saying that, in his parents’ time, they had used the library and morning-room more than any of the other ground-floor rooms. She felt sure he was down there now, his sleep pattern disrupted by being in a different time zone from the one he had inhabited the night before.
Suddenly she couldn’t wait until tomorrow to talk to him again. Flicking on a light, she chose a housecoat of dark red panne velvet to cover her transparent nightie. Quickly she brushed her hair and ran a stick of colourless gloss over what a man had once called her Botticelli lips, presumably because of their sweeping curves.
The moon lit her way along the corridor and down the wide staircase. Some of the rooms downstairs were locked up last thing at night as a precaution against burglars. The exterior of the house was protected by a sophisticated alarm system. In the unlikely event of a thief breaking in, he would find it difficult to pass from one room to another. But the morning-room contained none of the valuable paintings and clocks the Anstruthers had left behind them.
For a moment before she opened the door she hesitated outside it, wondering if she might be intruding on reminiscences of his youth which Roderick would prefer to dwell on in private.
However, having reached this point, she was not inclined to retreat without at least speaking to him. If she sensed that he wanted to be left alone, she would withdraw.
Hoping her entrance wouldn’t startle him too much when he thought he was the only person about, she turned the handle and walked in.
He was sitting in a chair facing the door, wearing a dark brown silk dressing-gown over pale grey pyjamas. These were not silk. The material looked like poplin, and perhaps he was only wearing the trousers as she couldn’t see any sign of a jacket.
On his lap was a large leather-bound book she recognised as one of several albums of family photographs from the highest of a bank of shelves containing bound volumes of magazines such as Punch, Country Life and London Illustrated News.
Visitors’ books, dating back to the last century, and novels
and biographies from the twenties and thirties were also housed on the shelves.
At the sight of her he closed the album and rose. Obviously he had very steady nerves. She would have jumped out of her skin if anyone had walked in on her at that hour. He didn’t seem even surprised.
‘Please don’t get up. I saw the light from my room and thought it must have been left on by mistake. Can’t you sleep? I suppose in New York it’s early evening.’
‘Yes, and I don’t usually go to bed much before midnight. You’re also a night-bird, I gather?’
His vivid eyes appraised her velvet robe which, although it had a scarf collar and the hem swept the floor, clung to the contours of her body, the flattened pile catching the light to accentuate the curves of her breasts and hips.
She sat down on the chintz-covered sofa. ‘I go to bed early but read late. Tonight I was finishing a novel, and then I got up to look at the garden by moonlight, which is when I noticed the light on down here.’
‘You’re not nervous of wandering about the house at night?’
Flower shook her head. ‘Should I be? Is it supposed to be haunted? We’ve never heard that.’
‘There are no family ghosts... no grey ladies or headless Elizabethans. Most of my forebears died peacefully in bed.’
‘Piers Anstruther died a violent death, although not here,’ she reminded him.
‘Piers? Oh, yes, the chap in the dining-room. How did you find out about him?’
‘He’s mentioned in some of the books about the English Civil War in the library. One can’t help becoming interested in a man whose portrait one sees every day. If you were to grow a moustache and wear your hair long you’d look very like him.’
‘So my mother used to tell me.’
He had resumed his seat and crossed his long legs. His bare ankles were brown. He was wearing needlepoint slippers, dark brown with an almost invisible monogram in navy or black—it was difficult to tell in artificial light—on the fronts.
She wondered who had worked them for him. His mother? Or one of his girlfriends?
