Chapter Eight #3
And yet – and yet…She drifted gracefully over to him, offering her hand, and when he took it and bowed over it he smelt her perfume again, and felt a twinge of natural reaction. There were definitely parts of him that did not think her ridiculous. Not at all.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ she purred. ‘I was desperately bored, and longing for someone interesting to talk to.’
He took back his hand, and picked up from the table where he had left them the files he had brought with him, of figures and diagrams. ‘You asked me to come, if you remember, to talk about the milk scheme.’
‘I did, I did,’ she allowed, ‘but first let us be civilised.’ She moved – as smoothly as though she was on wheels – to the small table in the corner on which decanters and glasses stood. ‘A glass of wine,’ she said, not as if it was a question. ‘All work and no play, as the poet says…’
With an inward shrug, he took the glass she presented to him. She came to stand rather closer to him than usual custom dictated, raised her own glass, and said, ‘A toast. To new friendships. And all the possibilities that flow from them.’
He sipped. It was a very good Madeira.
‘Do rid yourself of those absurd objects,’ she said, taking the files from him and putting them down on a table, ‘and come, come sit with me. Relax a little before we get to business. You are as tightly wound as a coil on a drum. Has something happened to upset you?’ She drew him to a sofa and sat, pulling him down beside her.
He was surprised by her percipience. ‘I am a little upset, I suppose. I had a letter this morning that – ah – threw me off balance.’
‘Bad news? I hope nothing too alarming,’ she said, in a voice that dripped sympathy.
‘It’s nothing of consequence,’ he said dismissively. He would not talk about Molly to anyone, least of all to this woman he barely knew. He drained his glass and said, ‘Shall we discuss the milk scheme?’
She took his glass from him and rose to refill it.
How was it she managed to move like water flowing?
‘All in good time,’ she said. ‘You aren’t in a hurry, I hope?
’ She handed him his refilled glass and sat beside him again.
‘I had supposed there would be a great deal to discuss, so I have made no other engagements. The rest of the day is yours. Or have you allotted me nothing but a polite half-hour?’
‘No, of course not,’ he said, forced to do the polite. ‘I’m in no hurry. I am at your command.’
‘That is what I wanted to hear,’ she said. ‘I have a great many commands, which I think it will give us both great pleasure for you to obey.’
Various doubts began to coalesce in his mind. ‘Lady Shacklock—’ he began, drawing back a little.
‘Oh, please call me Ailine,’ she interrupted.
‘Lady Shacklock makes you sound like a tradesman, Richard. Richard,’ she repeated, as if tasting the syllables.
‘It has always been a favourite name of mine. So manly. One thinks of heroes. Richard the Lionheart. What sort of heart have you, Richard? A warm one, I can tell.’
Her intentions were by now obvious, although a gentleman never wanted to anticipate or misjudge.
But in case he had any doubt, she was removing his glass from his hand, putting it down on the table, and taking the opportunity to run her fingers over the back of his.
But the red, angry face of Lord Shacklock loomed in the back of his mind.
Wild folly to start an affaire with a neighbour’s wife – and that particular neighbour to boot!
He must extract himself, but without offending.
‘I fancy you are not much interested in hearts,’ he said pleasantly, moving his hand away. ‘From what I hear, you have won as many as even a beautiful woman could want. You don’t need to add my poor specimen to your collection.’
‘You are too modest,’ she purred. ‘A lionheart would be the great prize.’ She stood up, and automatically he stood too, but she closed the gap between them, put her hands on his shoulders, and lifted her face to him. ‘Why do you think I asked you here?’
‘To talk about milk,’ he said. Oh, Lord, was this the smooth, sophisticated Mr Tallant of legend? He sounded like an idiot.
‘Wrong,’ she said, her voice low and husky.
‘Milk was the furthest thing from my mind.’ She was raising her lips closer to his, leaning her body against him.
It felt hot through the thin silk. As her weight came against him he had to put his hands to her waist to keep his balance.
She took it as encouragement. ‘We are alone in the house, Richard.’
He drew his head back to keep his lips from touching hers. ‘Except for the servants,’ he heard himself say.
‘Don’t worry, they are completely to be trusted. They are paid too well to risk their position with gossip. You are quite safe.’
He couldn’t pull back any further without falling over. The backs of his legs were against the sofa, he had nowhere else to go. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Your husband—’
‘Henry has no use for me,’ she whispered. ‘I’m lonely, Richard. You can’t imagine how lonely it is to be married to a man who sees no value in you, to have no-one who cares for you, no-one who wants to make you happy.’
For an instant he was caught. In her large, beautiful eyes, inches from his, he saw tears form. To be married to Shacklock, that insensitive, choleric martinet – what a fate! This poor creature…
‘Make me happy, Richard,’ she whispered, her lips moving against his. ‘We can do beautiful things together.’
He was actually beginning to kiss her, when the last word – together – hit him, like being struck in the face.
He had made love to many women in his life, but they had all been before Molly.
Now together meant nothing if it did not mean with Molly.
He felt suddenly cold all through, as though he had swallowed too much ice cream too quickly.
He tightened his grip on her waist and used all the strength of his arms to put her back from him. ‘I can’t,’ he said.
Her arms fell from his shoulders. She took a step back, drew herself upright. For an instant she looked at him searchingly, and then, reading his expression, her face closed down in fury. She had offered herself, he had refused. It was an insult not to be borne.
‘A servant will see you out, if you ring the bell,’ she said icily. ‘Would it be asking too much of your manners to open the door for me?’
He sprang, feeling idiotic, like a performing monkey, and opened the door, and she swept past him, still gliding, but not like a swan now – more like a huge ship with pounding engines that could brush him aside and founder him in its churning wake.
He didn’t ring. He saw himself out, feeling shame, relief and apprehension in about equal proportions.
He walked home, and the distance, a mile and a quarter, was not enough to settle his mind: he had to tramp about Green Park for another half-hour before his sense of humour reasserted itself and he smiled at the image of the ridiculous figure he had cut.
Nina was sitting in the tiny garden, enjoying the last rays of the sun before it went down behind the surrounding houses, when she heard the bustle from inside the house, which meant Mr Cowling’s arrival home.
She heard the murmur of Moxton, and Mr Cowling’s louder tone, but she didn’t get up.
She was large with child now, and didn’t get up unless she had to.
And now here he was, coming straight out to her, bending over to kiss her cheek.
There was a slightly smoky tang about him that said he had been at the factory.
‘How are you, my darling?’ It was always his first question, these days.
He took a garden chair of twisty iron design from under the table and placed it in front of her so that he could sit and look at her.
‘I’m very well,’ she said automatically.
‘Are you sure? You look tired.’
‘I don’t. You worry too much,’ she replied.
There, the sun had gone. There was lingering warmth still in the air, holding the scent of the jasmine that grew up the wall behind her, and a robin in the tree in next-door’s garden was threading his silver beads of song onto invisible strands, like dewdrops on a spider’s web.
She didn’t want to go in yet. ‘Would you like tea? Shall I have it brought out here?’ she asked.
‘I’ll sit a bit, if you’re sure you’re warm enough. But I don’t want tea. I think I need something stronger.’
She lifted the bell from the table beside her and rang it. ‘Has something happened to upset you?’
‘I don’t know as upset’s the word,’ he said. ‘I’m put out, that’s fair to say.’
The housemaid, Polly, appeared, and Nina looked enquiringly at her husband. ‘Whisky and soda,’ he said. ‘What will you have, my dear?’ Nina waved the question away, and Polly disappeared. Cowling lapsed into a brooding silence, and eventually Nina asked, ‘So, what is it?’
He looked up. ‘Eh? Oh, I don’t want to bother you with stuff, in your condition.’
‘Please bother me,’ she said, smiling. ‘I have so little to do “in my condition”. And if something’s upset you, I need to know about it.’
He gave her the look of fondness, as if he couldn’t believe he deserved her love – that was his usual expression, these days, when he talked to her. ‘Aye, that’s like you! I couldn’t want a better wife, nor find one if I searched the world.’
‘Yes, but what’s upset you?’ Nina insisted. She found his declarations a little embarrassing, welcome though it was to know how much he loved her.
‘Oh, it’s something at the factory. My foreman. Parker – an excellent chap – he came to me as I was leaving to say some female has been hanging around talking to my women and upsetting them.’
‘Some female?’