FIFTEEN
“Why are you still here?” her father asked in a low voice as Evie reached the group, his eyes flashing with irritation despite the polite smile he was holding onto.
“Couldn’t tear myself away,” she murmured back, unfazed. Aubrey was watching, and she was sure he had heard, despite how quietly she had spoken. So she impulsively decided to build on the moment and fixed a bright smile on her face, stepping gaily over to Aubrey and slipping her arm through his. She leant up to whisper in his ear—something real this time. “I’m sorry.”
He frowned down at her.
His wasn’t the only scrutiny she was attracting—the whole group, very much including her brother and best friend, were sneaking glances at the impromptu performance, even while being introduced.
So she leant closer, voice so soft her mouth brushed his ear. “I was judgy. And unfair. I’m sorry.”
His faint frown was questioning, his eyes—extremely close—were doubly so. He looked stern, and despite their proximity, entirely remote, as though he was a drawing on an old war poster: the textbook brave Captain in his uniform, perfect, handsome features, facing down death with nothing but noble determination. Not a flicker crossed his face. Then he laughed faintly, in the manner of a man accepting a grim fate, and said, “Couldn’t tear yourself away?”
She shook her head, starting to smile at the dry look he was giving her. They were still close together but talking in low voices now rather than whispering. Everyone was no doubt eavesdropping, even over the sound of her father describing the walk they were about to take.
“And miss the Show Off My Acres Tour ?” she said.
He gave an ironic smile. “Well. I hope you brought gum.”
“Gum?”
“Nothing. Come on.”
The others were already heading for the path that led into the wood. Aubrey removed her hand from his arm, but clasped it in his instead, giving her a you asked for it look as they set off hand in hand.
His grip was warm and dry, and he held her securely enough that it didn’t seem worth the bother of pulling free. Besides, this was what she wanted—Aubrey speaking to her, tolerating her presence, even if he did seem to be meeting her game with a strange one of his own.
Gum? What was that about? Then she remembered: Aubrey sitting brooding in her room, whiskey-soaked and bleak, his deep voice low in the dark. She had looked up at the silhouette of his jaw, marvelling that a man like him could have ever loved like that. Now she looked up the path, where, ahead of them, Liv walked with Domnall and Amy, Hugo stuck listening to their father several paces further on. That must be his game. Liv. He’d decided to play the jealousy card. She was happy to help him out while getting closer to her own goal.
“How’s it going then, with the ex?”
Aubrey flashed her a look, but they didn’t need to worry about being overheard. For some reason, they were walking slowly, Aubrey seeming content to amble, in no rush to catch up with the others who were now almost lost to sight around a curve of the path.
“Any closer to winning her back?” Evie prompted when Aubrey made no answer.
He gave her another frowning look. “I’m trying to get over her, not get her back.”
“Really?” She studied him in surprise, but his expression gave nothing away. “And how’s that going?”
“Ask me in another ten years.”
“Ah.”
They lapsed into silence again, footsteps muffled on the earthy path. The woods were quiet, the birds, quite wisely, having fled. She was painfully aware of his presence at her side, each step fractionally shifting the grip of their hands, palm against palm. His fingers were threaded through hers, hot and thick between the soft inner skin, fingertips lightly touching her knuckles. She darted a sideways look, noting his outfit for the first time. It was much the same as when he’d arrived yesterday. Not a suit for once, but a grey jumper of a light, soft material, and dark expensive jeans. The shoes, of course, were leather.
“Checking for blood?” he asked.
She jumped, caught out. “Stray feathers. Orphan tears.”
He gave a wry smile. “Yes. Orphan tears are just the things for washing one’s hands clean. Macbeth should have tried it.”
“Does this put my father in the role of Lady Macbeth?”
He laughed. “God forbid.”
She laughed, too, and they rounded the corner to find the others waiting for them. She knew what they must look like, walking into the scene grinning at each other, holding hands. Amy gave her a quizzical look that threatened many questions. Hugo winked then started whistling, squinting innocently up at the trees with his hands in his pockets. Though probably only because he knew it annoyed their father.
They set off again, Aubrey being called over to join the three grown-ups, who clearly seemed to think the autumn woods the perfect place for a spot of tax-dodging. Evie found herself at the back with Hugo and Amy.
“My sister the actress,” started Hugo. “Never knew you had such a talent for it.”
“Shut up.”
“If you weren’t so anti-establishment, you ought to consider MI5. This deep undercover thing might be your forte.”
“Again. Shut up.”
“Not a hundred percent sure on the ethical aspects of honey-trapping your man…”
“For the love of God, please stop talking.”
“He doesn’t,” Amy said, leaning around from Hugo’s other side. “Not ever.”
“True,” agreed Hugo. “Poor Amy.”
“I think we can all agree, Poor Amy ,” Evie snapped.
Hugo let out a whistle. “You’re touchy when you’re faking a romance.”
Amy sighed and stepped around behind Hugo to Evie’s side, taking her arm and giving Hugo an admonishing look. After a mild hesitation, she leant in to Evie and whispered, “It is still fake, right?”
“Yes!”
“OK, OK. Just checking.”
They caught up with the others at the edge of the wood. The path they had followed had wound gradually upwards through the trees, and now they were about halfway up a hill, the wood breaking at the edge of a grassy pasture that sloped back down to the low, broad valley in which Conyers House stood, the lake glinting softly in the lowering evening sun at the bottom.
“Now we head back through the quarter pasture,” her father said. “I’ll show you the lake and the boat house. Excellent fishing.”
“Where does this path go?” Aubrey asked, nodding towards one that led steeply up the hill, back into the wood.
“The view point,” Evie said.
“Worth the climb?”
“Yes.”
“We all need to head down to change in time for dinner,” said her father. “Come on.” He glanced at Hugo and Amy. “You two can explain to Domnall about how you’ve been looking after the place—what goes into making a classic English estate.”
Amy managed to look almost enthusiastic about this proposal, Hugo less so.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing the view,” Domnall said. “But my legs prefer the thought of heading down. You go ahead, though, Aubrey. You young kids can do the climb.” And he set off down the hill, towing Liv with him. He was rather red and sweaty, but his generosity towards Aubrey’s wishes probably had more to do with what Evie had observed from her position behind the group: Liv twice asking Aubrey for help over a stile, and once taking his hand while she nervously—allegedly—crossed a fallen log over a stream, miraculously managing to stumble laughingly into his arms at the end.
Aubrey paused, watching the others leave. Evie glanced at him.
“Let’s see this view, then,” he said.
They climbed in silence, though that was only partly due to the exertion required by the steep path, which was slippery with freshly fallen autumn leaves. Aubrey followed her, the path only wide enough for single file. She couldn’t even see him, but she was somehow just as aware of his solid presence as she had been when they walked hand in hand. His eyes on her back. A frown on his stern mouth. Or maybe he was looking at nothing but the trees, at the squirrels that rustled in the branches overhead, the occasional startled blackbird that leapt from the path.
“Nearly there,” she said, just because she needed to say something.
He made no reply, and she stopped, turning around to check he was even there—and nearly got knocked off her feet when he walked straight into her.
“Jesus Christ! Why did you stop so suddenly?” He grabbed her arms, stopping her from falling, his own feet slipping on the steep path as he stepped back to re-balance.
“Why are you so close?”
He let go of her with an irritated exhale. “Just keep walking.”
Blushing and muttering angrily to herself, she set off again, walking so fast she was soon out of breath. The path grew steeper, the soil worn away to the rock underneath—smoothed by a century of feet and even more slippery than the leaves. She took hold of the thin trunks either side of the path, pulling herself up. But that was the worst of it, and all at once the ground levelled out on a grassy plateau, the hill still rising for several more metres behind their backs. But on three sides nothing but open countryside, rolling fields, lines of scrubby, brown woods, and far in the distance, the grey shining water of the Morecambe coast.
She glanced over her shoulder as Aubrey came to join her. He was breathing as heavily as she was, and for a long while they stood saying nothing, getting their breath back, looking out at the patchwork of countryside.
The familiar view caught sharp in her chest the way it always did, a strange panging of love and loss she could never quite understand, almost too big to bear. It was just so beautiful, all the tints of green and brown and grey, all the hidden places, the damp, grassy tufts and crackling leaves and the earthy loam with its mushroom smell, a million, billion tiny lives all going on the way they always had, the way they always would, if humans would just let them be. She wasn’t as sentimental as most people thought her. She knew nature was cruel and hard. But it was still all a miracle, this entire precious earth, alive and green in the infinite cold of space. And hardly anyone cared, hardly anyone knew how lucky they all were, to breathe and live and think…
“You were right,” said Aubrey. “It was worth it.”
He was beside her, still and steady as a rock. She didn’t need to look at him to see, could easily conjure the brown eyes frowning out at the landscape, the face giving nothing away, mouth drawn firm. But at least he wasn’t mocking. She heard none of the usual dark irony in his tone. The breeze was cool up here, sweeping away the last of the autumn’s warmth, setting the leaves in the trees behind them sighing.
“I don’t know why I care so much,” she said quietly, voice trembling as though the breeze stirred it, too. “About the birds and the shooting and all of it. I know I’m not normal. I never have been.”
Aubrey waited, listening.
“When I was about ten,” she said, eyes still on the fields, the wide-open sky and the pink now blushing the horizon. “I went on a school trip to London. In Trafalgar Square, everyone was chasing the pigeons, racing after them shouting and laughing, setting them all in the air. And I just stood there and shouted at them to stop. I was crying. Over pigeons. I just hated to see them scared for nothing but a laugh. As though it was funny to frighten an animal. Only pigeons. What do they matter? They’re vermin. Rats of the sky.” She wiped a ridiculous tear from her cheek, angry at herself. “My heart was breaking for pigeons.”
But Aubrey didn’t laugh. “Caring too much is hardly the worst fault to have.”
She glanced at him, found him watching her, his dark eyes grave.
“But you think I’m an idiot for it.”
“Not for caring, but for…”
“For what?”
“For wasting it all on childish pranks and inane causes.”
“Inane! Maybe it seems that way to you, but it doesn’t to the people it helps. Something like a garden, a community garden, a real place where people can go and get their hands in the soil and grow things they can eat, make a community, bring school kids to learn about living things and where food comes from—is that inane to you?”
“I mean things like nearly getting yourself arrested for pouring ketchup over Domnall White. And for what? A few minutes’ news on a slow day? Men like Domnall don’t care. It won’t touch them.”
“What then?” she asked, annoyed at the fact he was probably right—that he was echoing what she had just been saying to Amy. “What can I do?”
“Focus on one thing at a time.”
“I know I should, but I don’t know how to when I care about… everything. ”
He gave her a look, somewhere between sympathetic and exasperated, as though she herself was a problem too big to solve. “If you really want to make a difference, the only effective tactic is to change things from the top down.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do! With FTP.”
But Aubrey was shaking his head. “They’re agitators. Anarchists, at heart. You can’t change the system from outside it. You need to get right in the middle of it. I might have turned my back on the law, but that’s a good place to do it. Legislation. Policy. Government.”
“Get involved in politics? They’re all corrupt.”
“But you wouldn’t be. Not everyone is. There are people genuinely making a difference. Like my younger brother.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a human rights lawyer. Defends refugees. Asylum seekers.”
She stared at him and he smiled crookedly at her obvious disbelief.
“Not all the Fords are evil.”
“But you…” She didn’t know how to begin. “You talk about all this stuff like you understand what I mean, what I’m trying to do, and yet you…you…”
“Don’t care?” He gave her a dark smile and looked back out at the view. The sun was falling rapidly, the sky a blaze of apricot and amber. “I’ve learned it’s best not to.”
“Liv. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
He tensed. Said nothing.
“So you cared once, for one person, and that’s it? You’ve given up now?”
He still said nothing. Retreated a little further inside himself. Any moment now, he would turn away, say it was time to head back.
“You’re letting her win if you do that,” Evie persisted before he could shut her down. “She’s still controlling your life. She’s…she’s amputated it. Cut it short. If you can’t love anyone else ever again then—”
“Stop it, Evie. I’m not some worthy cause for you to fly your flag at.”
“So you can tell me how to live my life, but I can’t try to help you?”
“The difference is that I know what I’m talking about.”
She bridled, taking an angry breath. “Because you’re so grown up and mature? When you’re the one acting like a lovestruck teenager, still moping after his first crush?”
“You’ve never been in love at all. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well if you think I’m an idiot for wasting myself on childish pranks, then I think you’re an idiot for wasting yourself on her . Even you, Aubrey, deserve better than that.”
He glared at her, eyes dark, and she tensed, ready for whatever scathing remark was coming her way. But what he said, so quietly she wasn’t sure she heard it, was: “I’m not sure I do.”
She stared after him as he left, heading back down the hill.