Lovers and Liars Trilogy (162 page)

For such a change, of course, you could not set a precise time or date, but some change they had both recognized: it was there when they fell asleep exhausted, and there again in the morning when they woke. It grew, day by day, after that; it came stealing back to them, not through the medium of words at first, but through glance and through touch. He had sensed a new calm, a cessation of striving, then the ghost of an old contentment, and finally, one evening, just there, unsummoned, an assured peace.

He rose now, suddenly eager to be with her, and quickly pulled on some clothes. He went barefoot down the stairs, and in the room below paused. He could sense something in the air of this room, some alteration in it, the eddyings of some unseen force.

He moved forward slowly and silently and looked into the kitchen beyond. Gini had not heard his footsteps; she was concentrating on some task with an eagerness that touched him to the heart. On the blue tray in front of her she was arranging a plate, a cup and saucer, and a glass. The glass was a champagne glass. Pascal frowned. He watched her take a flower from a vase on the windowsill, and cut its stem, and then arrange the flower on the tray. Its exact placing seemed to preoccupy her. She laid it first on the plate, then on the blue napkin, and finally next to the glass. She was wearing a nightdress, surmounted by one of his sweaters that was several sizes too large for her. The garments gave her the unstudied grace of a young girl; her head was bent over her arrangement; her hair, longer now, almost reaching to her shoulders, was tousled from sleep.

He felt suddenly the most profound love for her. It washed through his body with astonishing force; he felt it settle like an ache about the heart. The emotion was of such suddenness and intensity that for an instant he felt blinded, as if, newly emerged from some dark underworld, he stared directly at the sun. He lifted his hand involuntarily, as if to shield his eyes—and that small movement caught her attention. She looked up and gave a small cry of surprise.

He half knew already, he later thought. He stood looking at her for a few more moments in silence. Her face looked soft, a little sleepy, as if she had just recently awakened from more pleasant dreams than his own. Her lovely eyes—he had startled her—had widened. She made one quick gesture, as if she would have hidden the tray if she could; then her expression changed.

Watching her face, he began to know. He felt the knowledge, and the elation that came with it, begin to pulse along his veins. Her face had an almost secretive look, a very female look that was simultaneously triumphant and afraid. He felt such tenderness for her then that he could not speak; he took her hand, then drew her quietly into his arms.

He held her very close, and they stood for some time in this way, without speaking, their bodies interlocked. Gini could feel the beating of his heart; she listened to what she had so nearly lost, and what she had regained. Women, possibly, doubt less than men. That morning, she found all her doubts and prevarications had flooded away.

Her body spoke, and in accents of such joy that she had no desire to listen to any last cautious whisperings in the mind. She had silenced those whispers in any case, she believed; silenced them weeks before. Now her own grip on contentment was sure—and if Pascal’s was, or had been, more tenuous, she would cure him. That cure was now within her gift; she felt its power.

Today she could do anything: she could make water spring from dry rock; touch a mountain and make it move. Remake a marriage? Heal a breach of trust? Easy. Easy. She could do it with one finger, one flick of her wrist, one word. Never in her life had she felt so female, and never in her life—no, never—had she felt this power. Such bounty: taking Pascal’s hand, she waited; it passed through her palm and fingers; it passed from her hand to his.

Pascal said: “When did you know?”

“At once, I think. The next day. The next hour. But I had to be sure. So I waited. I saw the doctor yesterday.”

“Yesterday? You should have told me.”

“I had to wait. I meant it to be perfect. I was going to wake you, and then…” She caught his hand and pressed it against her stomach. “Do you think it’s a girl? Or a boy? I think it’s a boy. Your son. And you know how old he is? I know exactly. Six weeks, two days, and—oh, about five hours. I
know
you remember…”

“I think I do.” Pascal smiled.

“The Monday. By moonlight. We’ll have a moonlight child. We—” She stopped, seeing his tears. “Oh, tell me—please tell me. You did want this? You are happy? You will love him? Or her? And me… You will love me and trust me now? Always? I will, always. Oh, please, answer me, Pascal.”

Pascal drew her against him and pressed her face against his heart. Just for an instant, there and then gone, he felt some vestigial sadness, almost a weariness, as if his morning’s dream had returned. It clouded the edge of his vision momentarily, this product of the disparities between them, in years, in experience. Fortunately the sensation was brief; wisely, he concealed it.

“Which question first?” he asked gently, kissing her. “My darling, this may take some time…”

Lindsay always wept at weddings, and of course at funerals. At christenings, she discovered, she wept too. First she wept because the words of the service were so beautiful; then she wept because Max and Charlotte’s baby was sleeping so peacefully; then she wept again because holy water woke it, and on waking, the angelic baby bawled.

As she was leaving the group by the church after the ceremony, making her way along a narrow pathway bordered by gravestones and the foam of May wildflowers, Markov caught up with her.

“Good,” he whispered. “But don’t overdo it. Your mascara’s running again. We want
discreet
sentiment. Wipe your eyes.”

“Oh, piss off, Markov,” Lindsay said. “This isn’t acting. Go away.”

Markov went. Lindsay rubbed her eyes with a tissue, then skulked off to a corner, under some trees.

She watched the rest of the large christening party linger by the church for a few last photographs. Various friends and neighbors, whom she knew; Tom, persuaded into a suit for once, with his girlfriend Katya on his arm; Charlotte cradling her lovely baby; and Max, beaming at everyone, Max looking absurdly tall, thin, elbowy, and proud. For some reason Max’s elbowiness made her want to weep again. She sobbed quietly into her sodden Kleenex. From the church came wails from Max’s sons:
“More
pictures? Do we have to?”

“Shut up, Alex. Stand still.”

“What’s all the fuss about? It’s only a stupid girl…”

Lindsay smiled. She fixed her eyes on the tombstones in front of her and began to read the epitaphs: 1714, 1648, 1829. Much-loved wife, dearly beloved husband of, widow of, daughter of… The epitaphs calmed her; she dried her eyes.

The group by the church was leaving now. Only a few of the guests lingered, as the rest set off for the party at Max’s and the christening champagne. She could see the tall figure of Rowland McGuire, on the edge of the group as always. He was in conversation with a young girl Lindsay knew to be Mina Landis. Her parents were divorcing—or so Charlotte said; she and her mother were returning to America soon. The girl was slightly built, and seemed painfully shy; Rowland seemed to be making an effort to draw her out, but his kindness was receiving little reward. The girl hung her head, and seemed to make monosyllabic replies; shortly afterward she was claimed by her mother and swept away. Rowland lingered, looking up at the church, unaware he was observed.

Lindsay thought: I could go over to him and join him. I could put Markov’s advice into practice right now. I could ask him about buttresses and pillars. I could look at that famous Norman doorway with him. We could look at saints and angels together—and he could explain their symbolism, no doubt. But she turned away. She did not have the heart for the deception, and she could not bear the spectacle of Rowland, being kind.

None of this is going to work, she thought miserably;
none
of it. She waited until Rowland McGuire had disappeared back into the church—why? To examine its architecture? To pray?—and then she returned to the path. She picked some cow parsley—Queen Anne’s lace, Charlotte called it, a much prettier name—as she walked. She went down the old, worn steps, out through the lych-gate, and into the lane.

In the distance, some guests, the last stragglers, had reached the entrance to Max’s driveway. She saw the floaty pastels of the women’s dresses, heard a shout, then laughter from the men. Rowland McGuire said: “You cried.”

She turned around to find him at her shoulder, frowning into the sun, very nearly a foot taller than she was, impossibly handsome, unreadable, maybe amused, maybe sad.

“Yes, I did,” she replied a little irritably, walking on, Rowland keeping pace with her. “I’m sentimental. I like babies…”

“I can see that.”

“I also like puppies. Kittens. Foals. Lambs. The last time my cat had a litter—there were eight kittens—I cried all morning. It isn’t a virtue. I do know that. No one else cried back there.”

“Charlotte did.”

“Charlotte has cause.”

They walked on a short distance in silence. Lindsay tried to think of memorable remarks, and failed. For the first hundred yards she felt self-conscious and tongue-tied, an intellectual pygmy; for the second hundred yards she felt happy—he had
chosen
to walk with her, after all. By the time they reached Max’s drive—that cursed optimism of hers—full-blown elation had taken hold. He was
there,
she thought, drinking in the sunshine, and the air, and the scent of new-mown grass.

“I like your dress,” Rowland said into the silence, in somewhat cautious tones.

Lindsay tripped; she turned to stare at him.

“What did you say?”

“Your dress. It’s—I can’t stand fussy dresses. I like that. It’s…” He searched around for an adjective.

Lindsay looked down at her dress, cream linen, midcalf, high-necked, short-sleeved. She was aware that it looked good—well,
quite
good—against her tan.

“Plain?” she offered, smiling. “Modest? Elegant? Restrained? Matronly? Dull? Cream?”

“Most certainly not matronly. It suits you. It makes you look…”

Apparently the appropriate adjective failed him again. Lindsay could see how hard he was trying, and she felt a rush of pure affection for him. With a naturalness which surprised her, she took his arm.

“Come on, Rowland. I can see you find compliments difficult. It doesn’t matter. Let’s get some wine. There’s champagne, and a wonderful cake. It has three tiers, and a stork with a baby in a bundle in its beak…”

“Does it indeed?”

“God—what a glorious day!”

Lindsay lifted her face to the sky. Rowland watched her do this but made no comment. He escorted her through the gardens to the rear lawn, where formal Max, who liked ceremonies, had organized a resplendent marquee. Lindsay, among friends, began to enjoy herself, although every so often Markov would materialize at her elbow and remind her, in a sepulchral whisper, to look tragic.

“Jesus,” he hissed, toward evening, when the party was winding down. “You’re supposed to have a broken heart. Go off somewhere on your own. Linger in the distance, looking kind of
pensive.
Don’t argue. And give me that damn champagne.”

Lindsay obeyed him. It was actually quite natural to do so, because all afternoon Rowland McGuire’s polite attentions had been marked. He had ensured, for over three hours, that she was plied with canapés and cake, and that her glass was filled. He had ensured that, when trapped, she was extricated, and when stranded, she was not alone. As a result, Lindsay felt somewhat tipsy, but pleasantly and not dangerously so. She felt a benign dreaminess that might have been due to the attention as much as the champagne.

She wandered off from the remaining crowd of adults and children to the far end of the garden, where there was a lopsided summerhouse, constructed several years before by Max for his sons, and—thanks to Max’s inexpert joinery skills—now half falling down. It had a pleasing dilapidated air, and was canopied with a strangulation of roses and vines.

Lindsay sat down on the rickety bench beneath it and breathed in the scents of flowers. The light was just beginning to fade, becoming mauve on the flanks of the far hills. She could hear voices, and was glad they were distant and muted, and glad she was alone.

She closed her eyes and listened to these unfamiliar and welcome country sounds: birdsong and birds’ wings, from the field just beyond the hedgerow, the soft, velvety breathing of cows. In one more month, she thought, I shall be thirty-nine years old. She sighed contentedly; this fate, which had previously struck her as terrible, now did not seem so terrible at all.

“Are you all right?” said a voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Lindsay opened her eyes. There, outlined against the light, was the tall, dark-suited figure of Rowland McGuire.

“I’m fine,” said Lindsay, forgetting to act the tragic heroine. “I’m glorying in all this.” She gave a broad, encompassing gesture of the arm. “The smell of grass and flowers. The shade. The birds. The cows.”

“I’m interrupting you.”

“No, no—not at all.”

Rowland looked unreassured. He hesitated and then sat down next to her. He crossed his long legs, then uncrossed them again, then frowned in the direction of the fields.

He might have been calculating their exact acreage, Lindsay thought after a silence had fallen and endured for several minutes.

“Your friend Markov,” Rowland ventured, after a while. “He’s an interesting man. Not what I expected at all.”

“You were prejudiced, I imagine. People are. He plays to their prejudices—you know, the dark glasses, those foolish clothes.”

“I suppose,” Rowland said with a certain weight and a sideways glance, “that it was arrogance on my part…”

“Possibly. A little,” Lindsay said with a smile. “You can be arrogant occasionally, Rowland.”

“I know,” he replied with a certain amusement and possibly some gloom.

“You should let people surprise you.”

“You think so?”