Since neither of them had anticipated more than the conversation, there had been no romantic dimming of the lights. She could see his face clearly. Gasping for much-needed breath, she stared at him in wonder.
Unwanted by her mother, undefended by her father, Clare had never seen love and strength in one person. She saw it now. The question of lust did not arise. She knew his desire for her was strong and terrible and would look at tempests and not be shaken. This gorgeous, intelligent man, so utterly unlike the bumbling, fumbling boys she had known, had in the space of three hours fallen as wildly in love with her as she had with him. He would not damage her, even though he wanted her with a desperation unmatched in her experience.
In the deep black eyes she saw herself crowned, enthroned. He would do anything she asked. Suddenly, she felt, for the first time in her life, full of power. It was dizzying, intoxicating; it was whole bottles of champagne, magnums of champagne. It was joy and delirium.
She smiled at him. “Silly man,” she breathed, reaching for the pearl button at the most strategic point on her satin bodice. “You’re not taking advantage of me. You’re going to marry me and make me happy beyond my wildest dreams for the rest of my life.”
In only one detail did she err. He did indeed make her happy beyond her wildest dreams, an achievement he reached there on the sofa in the following twenty minutes, then twice again in her bed before morning and for years to come, not just in bed but in everything. But it was only for the rest of his life.
Chapter 16
SUNDAY
Four Days After Rob Hillman’s Death
Tom and Kathryn debated whether or not to brave the unwelcome attention of the press hounds at the Castle gates in order to attend worship at the village church; the possibility that they might attract even more attention once inside the church, remote English villages being what they were, turned the decision to a private Eucharist in the double-viewed parlor.
“It’s bending the rules a bit,” Kathryn admitted, “but I’ve had a bad week and I think God will forgive me.”
Tom earned a smile and a brief hug by responding, “Sure She will.”
Meanwhile Sir Gregory’s doctor, undeterred by besieging media, arrived at the Castle and after a careful examination certified his patient fit to emerge from his room for supper that evening. As soon as the doctor had left the premises, the patient sent word to the kitchen that what was required was not supper but Dinner. The Baronet, having been tardy in greeting his guests, was determined to make up for it.
Leaving Mrs. Drundle in a happy panic, Crumper sought out the rest of the Family to deliver the news. As he opened the door to their favorite drawing room, he was troubled, though not surprised, to see Mr. Derek execute a nervous start.
And Miss Meg still looked as though she spent much of her time crying. Derek Banner got hold of himself and said, “Ah! Crumper! Only you!”
Affecting the convenient blindness of the perfect servant, Crumper passed on the news about Sir Gregory’s health and about Dinner.
When he had left and closed the door behind him, Derek and Meg turned to each other.
“We must make an effort,” she said, clearly not feeling like making any effort at all.
“Yes. We must,” he replied, as unenthusiastic as she was. “We owe it to him.”
“Yes.”
Silence fell.
Meanwhile in Crumper’s world, the next item of business would have to be a discreet inquiry into the ability of the American visitors to Dress for Dinner. This British phrase signified more than the donning of clothes; the concern was: would the visitors have brought the right clothes? The right clothes being, for the man, a dinner jacket (the upper-class English term for what Americans call a tuxedo) and for the woman, something of equal formality.
Crumper found the visitors in what had been Rob Hillman’s room. Miss Koerney was seated on the bed, clearly in somber mode, sorting small piles of clothing; Mr. Holder was watching her from a nearby chair.
Broaching the subject was not difficult; as soon as Crumper employed the word “dinner” Miss Koerney lifted her brows and said, “Ah! Are we dressing?”
“I do hope that would not be inconvenient?” Crumper replied, making it a question.
“Not for me. I was going to dine on High Table at Magdalen, and packed accordingly. But Tom . . .”
Before Tom had time to be embarrassed by either his ignorance or his wardrobe, Crumper interjected smoothly that a gentleman on holiday naturally does not take his dinner jacket, and that he, Crumper, would therefore be pleased to procure suitable attire for Mr. Holder (if Mr. Holder would pardon the liberty) which Mr. Holder would find in the closet of his room when he returned to it.
Mr. Holder expressed a slightly bemused thanks, Crumper withdrew, and Kathryn explained to Tom what had been going on. He expressed his willingness to play along, and Kathryn returned to the business of sorting out Rob’s belongings while Tom administered sympathy as required.
Tom found himself looking forward to dinner as an invigorating challenge. After all, he had been in extravagantly wealthy homes often enough not to be intimidated. Admittedly, he was seldom in them as a guest. But Amalie Prescott had once invited the entire vestry to a drop-dead sit-down dinner that had gone, literally, from soup to nuts. He’d heard the expression all his life, but it wasn’t until the end of the meal (which had begun with lobster bisque), when everything else was cleared away and the servants had set out the silver bowls of walnuts, Brazils, and macadamias, that he realized he was looking at that rare bird, the source of a proverbial phrase.
He’d gotten through that meal comfortably enough, and not just because he’d been among friends. He’d watched Miss Amalie to see which fork she was using, and he had twice made his ignorance the subject of jokes that had convulsed the people on either side of him. That success under his belt, he figured that he was ready for whatever number of pieces of flatware this baronet chose to throw at him.
Kathryn had tried to tell him something when they met in the hallway to go down to the dining room, but she’d been interrupted by a pretty housemaid who had come, on Crumper’s orders, to show them the way. The housemaid acted as if she were dealing with the Bereaved, and Kathryn, obviously hating it, had chatted with the girl and made jokes about getting lost in the Castle until the air of solemnity crumbled under its own weight.
Tom gazed with avid interest at the Family Dining Room, heavily curtained against the still-light evening sky so that it might be transformed by candlelight and silver into something from another age, and at the room’s owner, also quite deliberately presented as something from another age. Tom Holder, plain New Jersey cop, sat down in happy anticipation of a rare and enjoyable evening, and caught nary a glimpse of the blow that was soon to turn Mrs. Drundle’s excellent food into ashes in his mouth.
It started when their host, frail but genial, had responded to Kathryn’s enthusiasm at the sight of the first course, which was fresh asparagus, by telling her to wait until dessert and taste the raspberries; most of the fruit and vegetables consumed at Datchworth were grown on the estate. “Organically, these days, thanks to that young upstart Wales,” Sir Gregory added, cheerfully taking advantage of that right which is commonly accorded to the elderly—that is, to say any outrageous thing they please.
Kathryn had instantly thrown a glance at Tom and explained, “Prince Charles is a famously keen organic farmer,” and turned back to the Baronet.
Tom was grateful to her; she’d known he wouldn’t have a clue who “Wales” was, and she had informed him in a way that made it sound like she was merely explaining a royal hobby to an American who might not have heard about it. He looked at her profile and thought, God, she’s marvelous. He’d always known she was quick. But the sympathetic tact was new to him—possibly because there had never previously been a need for tact between them.
Sir Gregory was saying, “You should pay a visit to the home farm tomorrow morning, my dear; Derek w
ill be pleased to take you. If you see something you fancy, only speak the word and we’ll have it for lunch.”
The object of Tom’s admiration was responding to this offer with a courtesy slightly more elegant than he had seen her use before and which, he recognized, was perfectly appropriate to their surroundings. It was as though “Upper Class” was a language and she was fluent in it. He felt proud of her, which he knew was silly, but that knowledge didn’t stop the feeling.
And then, within two minutes, everything was ruined. Kathryn had assumed a tone of apology; she was telling Sir Gregory that she wasn’t going to be at Datchworth for lunch tomorrow. She had met someone on the train to Oxford a few days ago who’d told her to get in touch when she arrived at Datchworth, and she had done so on her mobile phone that afternoon.
“You know him, I believe,” she said to the Baronet. “Kit Mallen?” At least it sounded to Tom like “Mallen.” And it created a sensation.
“Oh, by Jove!” Sir Gregory exclaimed. “You’ve met Kit! That’s wonderful. A jolly good chap, is Kit Mallowan.”
But Derek was visibly not pleased. He attempted to make light of it, saying, “Damnation, prettiest girl”—he pronounced it ‘gel’—“this village has seen in years, and she’s off to lunch with the competition.” But what he was saying was too close to the truth, and the humor failed to hide his annoyance.
Derek’s annoyance, however, was nothing to Tom’s. This Kit person was obviously an attractive man of approximately Kathryn’s age; if Kit was a friend of the people at the Castle, the odds were good that he was wealthy, too; and since castles and titles surely couldn’t be all that thick on the ground, this Mallen fellow wasn’t likely to be encumbered by them. Tom sensed danger, and looked at Kathryn. Danger became disaster.
She was blushing.
Bright peasantries were bouncing around the table like billiard balls. Meg was telling Kathryn how sweet Kit was; Derek was ordering Meg whom he addressed as “Niece,” to shut up; Sir Gregory laughed and assured Kathryn that Kit was one of the finest men he knew, then dared Derek to tell him to shut up.
As the others laughed, Tom forced a smile, but his stomach had gone leaden, recalling the horrible sinking sensation he’d had at the airport: his time there would be no miraculous reprieve, no request for his aid or his company; Kathryn was abandoning both to go off and have lunch with some rich Englishman.
He stared down at his untouched asparagus, lying in a pool of melted butter in an oval dish, and forgot to watch somebody to see which utensil to use. He picked up the fork which was farthest left and transferred it to his right hand.
“Oh, Tom!” she said.
He looked up.
“Every American should be warned about this,” she said with a smile. “I made a complete mess of it when they served asparagus at a dinner at my college.” She picked up one green spear with her fingers, muddled the end of it in the butter, leaned over her plate, and bit the tip off.
“Oh, yes, Tom,” Derek agreed. “Contrary to what you may think, we’re actually savages on this side of the pond. This vegetable, served thus as a first course, is eaten with the fingers.”
Tom obediently put down his fork and followed suit, asking what you did when you got down to the ones that were lying in the butter, you wouldn’t be able to keep your fingers clean, and watched politely as Meg demonstrated. (“You plunge right in, get your fingers as buttery as you can, and on the last bite you do this.” He watched, as incredibly, she actually put vegetable, butter, and fingertips into her mouth.) But all the while a dull pain grew in him which, he finally recognized, was anger. Kathryn already knew this stuff. She belonged in this kind of place, she was at home here. And she was instructing him in how to behave. He hated it.
Meanwhile, Crumper, unobtrusive as air, moved silently around the table, providing the kind of service that is so perfect, it goes unnoticed. The butler’s mind was busy, however, with more than his allotted tasks. He was wondering which of the five people he was serving was having to work hardest to achieve the semblance of a carefree person at an uncomplicated social occasion. He was proud of the showing the Family was making. Sir Gregory seemed his old accustomed genial self; making an effort for the sake of his visitors, Crumper concluded. At the same time, the Baronet’s niece and nephew had donned their best party faces; making an effort for their uncle, Crumper approved. The lady priest, also, was working hard. She made no mention of what had brought her to Datchworth, and appeared intent on being entertaining to her host. At the same time, she was keeping a careful eye on her friend, making sure he was staying afloat, but doing so with exquisite tact. The tact availed her nothing, however, once she had revealed her luncheon date for the next day. Crumper watched sadly as Mr. Holder, who had been the only person at the table not under a significant cloud, became as overcast as the rest of them, until he, too, needed to make an effort to appear more jovial than he actually was. Crumper was impressed with all of them, and only wished he could do something more helpful to them than wait table.
That wish was to be granted the following day.
At twelve-thirty on Monday, Tom was stationed at a window he had searched out that morning. It was at the end of a narrow hallway that seemed little used, and it overlooked the drive in front of the castle. He watched despondently as a vintage MG of a cheerful yellow pulled up to the front door and a very good-looking young man hopped out. Surprisingly, the man looked Indian or Pakistani—much too dark for an Englishman. Not that that mattered. He looked impossibly handsome, disgustingly rich, and obnoxiously young. He disappeared from Tom’s view, presumably into the entrance hall. Tom kept his post. In a few minutes, the tall dark stranger reappeared, laughing and talking with Kathryn. They got into the car and drove off, Tom watching them out of sight.
Finally he turned away and proceeded back down the hallway in the direction of one of the broader corridors. Just before he reached it, Crumper walked past, and having caught sight of Tom, stopped, uttered a cordial greeting, and asked if there was any way in which he could be of service.
Tom started to say no, then changed his mind.
“Well,” he said, “I guess you could tell me what sort of name ‘Mallen’ is.”
Crumper replied placidly, “A very old one, sir. The Mallowan family has been in Oxfordshire nearly as long as the Thorpes.”
“Then why does Kit Mallen look like he comes from Calcutta?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Crumper spoke with as much surprise as he permitted himself to reveal while on duty.
“I was exploring, trying to learn my way around, you know,” Tom overexplained, “and I was looking out a window down there”—he gestured—“and saw a little yellow sports car drive up. Guy got out, went into the Castle, came out with Kathryn, so I assume he’s Kit Mallen, but he looks Indian. Or Pakistani, I can’t tell the difference. What do I know? I’m from New Jersey.”
The surprise had gone from Crumper’s face. “A very natural conclusion, sir. But an Indian gentleman driving a yellow sports car would be one of the Tandulkar twins. Probably Mr. Harry Tandulkar, as the car is his, but it might be his brother Mr. William, who sometimes drives it. I imagine Mr. Tandulkar came to drive Miss Koerney to Morgan Mallowan for lunch.”
Tom assumed Morgan Mallowan was a nearby village, which was a pity, because if he had asked about it, Crumper’s answer would have relieved him of some of his misery.
Kathryn, meanwhile, who had hailed her driver as “Will” and been politely corrected, was marveling at God’s bounty in having produced not one but two bronzed gods. As they drove, she began to observe the subtle differences in manner which distinguished this one from the one she’d met on the train, even as she enjoyed the soft sunshine and summer greenery of the countryside and wished that her hair was more suitable for riding in convertibles. God, I’m going to be a mess before we get there, she worried.
Harry, having thwarted the gaggle of reporters at the castle gates by slipping out of Datchworth
by way of the home farm, was offering Kit’s apologies. “He’d have come to fetch you himself, but his car is—what do you Americans say? In the store?”
“In the—? Oh! In the shop!”
Harry complained that he had never been any good at foreign languages, and launched into the sad tale of his first date with an American girl at Oxford; he had gotten entirely the wrong view of the lady’s character and intentions when she’d said she’d sat so long in the library that day that her fanny was numb and needed some exercise. (In Britain, “fanny” is a jaw-droppingly obscene slang term for “vagina.”) Kathryn admitted that that was a pretty good one, but she didn’t want to get bogged down in “divided by a common language” stories, so she asked Harry if he and Will shared a house.
“Not any more. I abandoned the house to Will when I married Dotty.”
“But you and, ah, Dotty apparently didn’t go far.”
“Dotty didn’t go anywhere at all. Will and I shared the Tithe Barn, which is more or less in Kit’s back garden, and Dotty already lived in the Dower House, which Kit gave her years ago, and I simply moved in with her there because she didn’t want to leave it. I don’t blame her; jolly nice house.”
“Uh—Kit gave Dotty the Dower House?
“Well, call it a lifetime loan.”
“And, ah, Kit loaned Dotty the Dower House, ah, for some reason?”
Harry chuckled. “Well, we all roast him, claiming that he was just trying to halve the number of aunts he had to live with, but the truth is that Dotty is frightfully independent and didn’t really want to be a permanent guest in her sister’s house.”
“Harry, I am hopelessly confused.”
Harry allowed that Kathryn could hardly be expected to have the whole family sorted out after one train ride with Kit and Will. He began to lay out the various relationships and domiciles of the people they were going to be lunching with.
Kit, of course, lived in “the Big House.” Kathryn had already assumed it must be fairly huge if it had a dower house and a tithe barn. She was feeling a little flutter of excitement. She had known Kit wasn’t poor, but it was pleasant to discover that he was, apparently, out-of-the-ordinary rich.
Thieves Break In Page 14
