A Season of Secrets (21 page)

By now she’d only been able to think of one reason for his not having made a romantic move on her. Despite her intuition to the contrary, it had to be that he was married – and
though she’d vowed she was never going to ask, that vow had been taken days ago, when it had seemed impossible that Max wouldn’t volunteer such information, or show by his actions that
he was free and available.

And so she’d made up her mind to ask the question she had so far been avoiding.

She’d known, though, that the ballroom would not be the right place – not when she was determined that, whatever the answer, she was going to ensure his straight, tough mouth came
down hot and hard on hers.

‘I need to change into another pair of dance shoes – the ones I’m wearing are killing me,’ she’d said as they made their way to their table after an exhilaratingly
fast quickstep. ‘Would you keep me company while I go and change them? Everyone is as high as a kite tonight, and I don’t want to run into unwelcome attention en route.’

With the amount of champagne everyone was drinking it had been a reasonable request and, with an assenting nod, Max had walked her out of the crowded ballroom and in the direction of the
first-class passenger accommodation. As always when they were walking side by side he’d kept a couple of inches of space between them, so that their hands didn’t accidentally brush
against each other. The contrast to the close hold they had been enjoying only moments earlier, as they danced, had been so stark that Rozalind had felt completely disorientated by it.

As they had neared the door of her cabin and she had wondered what his answer to her question was going to be, her inner tension had become almost uncontainable. Was he married or wasn’t
he? The question had roared through her brain until she’d been dizzy with it. If he wasn’t married, why was he behaving towards her with such stiff propriety when she knew –
absolutely
knew –
that he was as mad for her as she was for him? And if he was married . . . ?

As they’d come to a halt outside her cabin her mouth had been dry, her heart racing. One thing she’d known for certain. If he was married, then the sooner she knew about it, the
better.

‘I’ll wait here,’ he’d said, leaning nonchalantly against the far wall of the narrow corridor, one foot crossing the other at the ankle, his arms folded.

She’d opened her cabin door and had then taken a deep breath and turned to face him, the ice-blue of her dress shimmering in the corridor’s muted light. ‘There’s
something I have to know,’ she’d said, holding his eyes steadily.

He’d waited. Not moving. Not speaking.

Now, days later as she neared the Brandenburg Gate with Olivia, Rozalind remembered how furious she’d been with him for not making it easier on her. She hadn’t hesitated, though.
She’d said starkly, ‘Are you married, Max?’

‘Why?’ he’d asked, the expression in his dark-grey eyes unreadable.

‘Because . . . because I’d much prefer it if you weren’t,’ she’d said.

All nonchalance gone, he’d straightened up and unfolded his arms. ‘No,’ he’d said. ‘I’m not married.’

Her immediate reaction was a relief so vast that her knees felt weak, and then she’d said in utter incomprehension, ‘Then why . . . ?’ Unable to complete the sentence,
she’d made an expressive gesture with her hands.

‘Why no shipboard romance?’

She’d nodded, and beneath his dinner jacket she’d been aware of his muscles bunching with a tension almost equal to her own.

‘Because there’s someone in Boston waiting for me.’

‘You’re engaged?’ A new, but not impossible anxiety followed hard on the heels of her relief.

‘Not officially,’ he’d said.

‘Then I don’t understand.’ Her bewilderment had been total. ‘You’re still free – and you’ve wanted a shipboard romance with me just as much as
I’ve wanted one with you. I know you have.’

His eyebrow had quirked. ‘A shipboard romance? Is that all you wanted? Then perhaps it’s best that my head ruled my heart.’

‘By “shipboard romance” I didn’t mean a romance that would have ended when we sailed into Southampton.’ Her mouth had been dry. ‘Brief, meaningless flings
aren’t my style.’

‘Or mine.’

‘They why have you kept your distance?’ she’d asked, her voice thick with emotion.

‘Because I’m twenty-two years older than you,’ he’d said. ‘Because I’ve long outgrown the hand-holding, chaste-kiss romances of girls of your age. And last,
but by no means least, because I never seduce virgins.’

Nothing could have been blunter or more explicit, and she’d known that she had two choices. She could say that she quite understood. She could change her shoes and return to the ballroom
with their relationship the same as when they had left it. Or she could take another, far different course. It would mean, of course, telling the most monumental lie.

The only doubt she’d had about telling it was what would happen when she was found out. That was
if
she was found out. Blood on a sheet didn’t, surely, follow the loss of
virginity as night followed day. Even if it did, the deed would have been done and their relationship would have been changed in a way that could never be altered. Whoever was waiting for him in
Boston would wait in vain.

‘I’m not a virgin,’ she’d said, and then, as she’d seen that he didn’t believe her, she had said vehemently. ‘It’s 1925. Queen Victoria has been
dead for a quarter of a century. I’m a modern young woman. A flapper. I smoke. I drink. I have a career. I’m financially independent. I travel unaccompanied. I’ve read Marie
Stopes. There is absolutely no need to treat me as if I’m a pre-war virginal shrinking violet.’

‘Then I won’t,’ he’d said, ‘but I’m not in the habit of ravishing young women just because they’ve given me permission to do so. Change your shoes.
I’ll wait for you here.’

With burning cheeks she had entered her cabin, certain she’d made an absolute fool of herself. As she’d changed her shoes her hands had been shaking. Ever since he’d first
spoken to her she’d wanted him to think well of her and she’d been convinced, as she’d walked back out into the corridor, that even if he’d thought well of her when
they’d left the ballroom, he did so no longer.

It was a fear he’d immediately vanquished.

Putting a finger beneath her chin, he’d tilted her head to his so that their eyes met. ‘You didn’t misjudge my feelings,’ he’d said thickly, and the next moment his
mouth had come down hot and sweet on hers. It had been a long, passionate, expert kiss – a kiss totally unlike any she had previously experienced. When he had finally raised his head from
hers, her senses had been reeling.

This time, as their eyes held, the expression in his hadn’t been unreadable. It had told her all she’d needed to know and as they’d walked back down the corridor towards the
ballroom, thigh-to-thigh and with hands tightly clasped and fingers intertwined, Rozalind’s heart had been singing like a lark’s.

It was singing like a lark’s now too, as she and Olivia came to a halt outside the hotel she was staying in.

‘Do you really think he’ll break it off with whoever it is he’s been seeing in Boston, Roz?’ Olivia asked again, impatient for an answer to her question.

‘I’m absolutely positive. He’s as crazy about me as I am about him. I’m so crazy I was tempted to cut short my time in England by returning to New York with him in two
weeks’ time. The only reason I’m not doing so is because he’ll then be in Washington and I’d be in New York, twiddling my thumbs. Plus he’s due back here towards the
end of July, so I’m continuing with my original plans and then we’ll return to America together.’

‘And Hermione and Charlie’s wedding?’

‘Oh, I’ll be in Yorkshire for that.’ She gave Olivia’s arm a loving squeeze. ‘And, if I have my way, so will Max.’

‘Oh, Hal! A motor car! How wonderful!’ Carrie clapped her hands in delight.

They were standing in Richmond’s cobbled town square. It was the morning of Charlie and Hermione’s wedding, and in order to attend it they had arranged to travel to Outhwaite
together. Normally this would have meant an hour’s journey by bus on narrow, winding country roads, but to Carrie’s wonderment Hal had roared up the steep street into the square in an
open-topped motor car.

Hal grinned, pushing his driving goggles up into his dark curls. ‘It is pretty wonderful, isn’t it?’ he said, with the engine still running. ‘Hop in and I’ll tell
you how I got it.’

Carrie didn’t need to be asked twice. She’d been enraptured by motor cars ever since her chauffeur-driven ride with Blanche in the Fenton Rolls-Royce. Mindful of how blowy a ride
that had been, she took off the flower-decorated hat she’d bought especially for the wedding and hopped in.

‘How on earth have you managed to afford it?’ she asked as Hal, looking strangely formal in a navy-blue suit, put the car into gear.

‘It’s a Clyno,’ he said, circling the obelisk in the middle of the square and heading off in the direction of Frenchgate. ‘They’ve been making motorcycles for
years, but now they’ve moved into car manufacturing and, to get a foot in the market, they’re undercutting every other motor-car manufacturer. It’s a beauty, isn’t it?
It’s got wheel brakes, balloon tyres, a four-cylinder water-cooled engine, electric starting, a spare wheel and tyre . . .’

Carrie giggled. He was rhapsodizing about the car in the same way he used to rhapsodize about the baby voles. ‘However cheap it was compared to other cars, it must still have cost a lot of
money.’

‘Oh aye. It cost enough.’ As they bucketed down Frenchgate he shot her an amused glance. ‘But I’m not without a penny or two these days, Carrie. I write all the political
stuff for the paper now, as well as what my editor likes to call “Yorkshire high-society coverage”. It won’t be long afore I’ll be heading down to London to work on a
national paper – and, when I do, I’ll be driving myself down, not going by train.’

At what to Carrie was a giddying speed they roared through the cobbled streets and swooped over the bridge.

Carrie didn’t like to think of Hal leaving Yorkshire for London. It was bad enough Thea being there almost permanently, without Hal being there as well. It had been months since she had
seen Thea and Violet, and months and months since she had last seen Olivia or Roz. Almost as much as she missed her friends, she missed Gorton Hall. That she was going to be there in little over an
hour’s time filled her with elation.

It was Gorton, not the tied cottage she had been brought up in and which her granny still lived in, that she thought of as home – and she didn’t do so because she had illusions of
grandeur; she did so because it was where she had always been happiest, and because it was the family home of the people who were the dearest to her in all the world.

She said now, tentatively, ‘Do you think your editor will want you to write about Lord Fenton’s wedding to Lady Pyke?’

With Richmond behind them, Hal had increased speed and they were now spinning along the country roads at an exhilarating rate. As drystone walls flashed past he said, ‘He’s already
made it clear he wants me to use all my contacts with the Fentons to write an exclusive on the wedding. Have you heard yet where it’s to be held? As it’s a second marriage for both of
them and they’ve both been widowed, I imagine it will be a low-key affair. They may even end up marrying here, in Yorkshire.’

Carrie was silent, trying to imagine Gilbert Fenton marrying again. No image of it would come. When she thought of him loving anyone, then she thought of Blanche.

‘She was so lovely, wasn’t she?’ she said, tears suddenly pricking the backs of her eyes.

He didn’t need to ask who she was thinking about.

‘Lady Fenton?’ he said, his voice gentling. ‘Yes, she was a lovely lady.’

Carrie’s clasped hands tightened in her lap. ‘I think of her often, Hal. And though it’s a long time since I’ve been at Gorton, I know the instant I step over the
threshold it will be as if she’s still there. She was always so kind to me. I’ll never be able to forget her. Never.’

He slowed down a little and there was gruff concern in his voice as he said, ‘You never have to forget. Memories are precious – and if remembering her is a comfort to you, keep on
remembering her. She wouldn’t want remembering her to make you sad, though, Carrie. She’d want you to be happy. And she’d have wanted Lord Fenton to be happy, too. How long has he
been a widower? Five years? Six? It’s long enough for him to remarry without his being disloyal to her memory.’

The River Swale came into view again, its banks edged with glorious clumps of purple-headed knapweed and button-like yellow tansy.

‘You still haven’t said if anyone has written to you saying where the wedding is to be,’ Hal prompted as she remained quiet.

‘I don’t think anyone knows yet.’ Though she’d taken comfort from what he had said about memories, Carrie’s eyes were still overly bright. ‘Both Thea and
Olivia are unhappy at the thought of their father marrying again – especially to someone they haven’t yet met. I haven’t had a letter from Violet, but Thea says Violet is too
curious about Lady Pyke to be deeply distressed.’