Summer's Awakening (14 page)

'No, probably I shouldn't want to come back here,' she conceded. 'But as long as one owns a place to live, one can always sell it and buy another. If I were to sell the cottage, and then property values rocketed, I could find in, say, three years' time, that the smallest, most badly-built bungalow was beyond my means.'

'That's been a well-founded theory at certain times and in certain conditions. There are also times when money works better in investments than in bricks and mortar. You have to bear in mind that any property, especially when it's old, as this is, requires some maintenance. And that's not the only expense to take into account. Your agent will require his cut for acting for you, and there'll be tax to pay.'

He paused, swirling the last of his whisky round the bottom of his glass.

'No doubt you're wondering if my advice is reliable. Before you come up to the house tomorrow, I'll put some figures down on paper for you. You can then get your bank to check them for you. They can check me out, too, if you ask them. You don't have to take my word for it that I know more about handling money than Emily's father and grandfather.'

Again that strange distant way of referring to his brother and father, she thought, as she watched him drain his tumbler and rise to replenish it.

'Can I refresh yours?' he asked her.

'No, thanks. Not at the moment.' She was becoming aware of the same slightly hazy feeling the sherry had induced before lunch.

Undoubtedly he and Emily would have had a more substantial evening meal than hers had been. Two crispbreads and an orange wasn't much of a lining on which to drink strong liquor.

'You may think it's none of my business, but I'd like to know where Emily stands financially. Has she means of her own now, or is she dependent on you?'

'She'll have some funds when she's older. At present she has none.'

'It seems so extraordinary that her parents made no proper provision for her... just in case something happened to them.'

'I agree. But it's not unusual for people to ignore life's less pleasant eventualities. Your own parents did.'

'Yes, but my father had practically nothing to leave. Hers had a great deal.'

'Not really. I don't think you understand the realities of owning an historic house. A few of Britain's aristocratic families are rich. The Duke of Buccleuch is said to be one of the richest men in the country. But in terms of income, many owners are actually quite poor. They may have paintings worth a fortune on their walls, but amazingly little cash at the bank.'

He leaned forward to poke the fire.

'Most of what Emily's father owned wasn't his in the way my holdings are mine,' he went on. 'He was merely a trustee, keeping things going for the next generation or, as he had no sons, for the next in line. Both he and the old man knew that, as much as they might dislike it, there was no way they could prevent my inheriting everything if they died.'

'But if they both disapproved of you—'

He cut her short with a harsh laugh. 'They hated my guts.'

She longed to ask, Why did they hate you? What had you done? But she hadn't drunk enough whisky to overcome her very British inhibition about asking intimate questions of anyone but a close friend.

Instead, she said, 'In that case, one would think they would have taken particular care to protect Emily from being left in your charge.'

He shrugged. 'Emily, being a girl, was of little consequence in their scheme of things. The Lancasters have always been strongly sexist in outlook. The portrait of Maria proves that. She was a woman of achievements, but did they give her a place of honour? Certainly not. She was relegated to the Yellow Bedroom. You see, she hadn't fulfilled either of the functions for which your sex was created. She hadn't given a man pleasure in bed, and she hadn't given birth to sons.'

Summer knew it was foolish to flush after he said 'pleasure in bed'. At her age most girls had experienced that pleasure many times, sometimes with
a
variety of partners. She not only hadn't experienced it, she had seldom heard it discussed.

The circumstances of her life—no television, school-friends who were serious rather than frivolous, no money to buy magazines which dealt with feminist issues and sexual relationships and, perhaps the most important factor, her own appearance—had kept her as far behind the times as someone of her mother's generation.

Since her aunt's death she had bought a book about sex which had enlarged her theoretical knowledge. But her experience was as limited as that of one of Jane Austen's heroines. She had never been embraced or kissed except in her imagination.

Hoping he hadn't noticed her heightened colour, she said, 'How did you come by your more enlightened views?'

'What makes you think I am more enlightened?'

'Aren't you?'

'Not much. I'll allow women equality of opportunity, if that's what they want. But as far as I'm personally concerned, they have only one useful function—the first of the two I just mentioned. The second doesn't interest me, and for all my other needs from cooking to conversation I would always choose a man in preference to one of your sex. That isn't to say I've never had a good meal cooked by a woman, or an interesting conversation with a woman. But the best meals I've eaten have been prepared by chefs, and the memorable conversations have been with men.'

As a put-down it was masterly. It made her furious, yet she couldn't see how to rebut it.

'If your views have become widely known, I daresay the women who could give you memorable conversation try to avoid you,' she answered, striving to match the blandness of his tone.

'No man with my income is ever avoided by women, no matter what his views,' he said dryly. 'If a man has money and power, he can be the biggest bastard ever born; there'll always be plenty of women prepared to overlook his defects.'

His cynicism chilled and repelled her. She couldn't bear to think of Emily's most sensitive years being spent under the aegis of someone who saw women in those terms.

She said, with a sparkle in her eyes, 'Are
you
a bastard, Mr Gardiner?'

For a long tense moment his eyes narrowed almost to slits, making her wish she had kept her mouth shut and ignored his jibes about her sex. She felt he was going to annihilate her, and she realised precisely what it would mean if he ever chose to stop her from staying on with Emily. Which he could, if she riled him enough. He might claim to like plain speaking, but—

'James,' he reminded her quietly. 'We agreed to dispense with formality. And to answer your question—no, I don't think you'll find me an objectionable person to deal with. As long as you're always frank with me, and you don't waste my time arguing about decisions which I've already thought through and have no intention of changing. On those terms, we should get along splendidly.'

With these last words he rose, placed his empty glass on the ledge along the top of the ugly ceramic-tiled fireplace, and moved to pick up his coat.

'You've forgotten the whisky,' she said, as he went towards the door.

'I'll leave it here. We may have other things to discuss over a dram. Goodnight, Summer.'

She had not heard his car drawing up outside the cottage but she heard it moving off. When the sound of the engine had died away down the road, she decided to try a drop more of the whisky.

He had also neglected to take the portrait miniature of Lady Maria. It was still on the low table beside her chair. She fetched Miss Ewing's magnifying glass in order to study the painting in all its exquisitely fine detail.

Thinking about the woman who had kindled his interest in the tiny pictures, she wondered what kind of youth he had been to arouse her interest in him.

Probably nearly as tall as he was now, and almost as powerfully built. But without the hard, ruthless look which, except when he smiled or laughed, characterised his dark face and made it difficult for her to trust him.

Who had formed his derogatory view of women? Not that first one, the painter of miniatures. His expression when he spoke of her had suggested that he remembered her with affection.

Did he have the portrait she had painted of him, or had she kept it? A memento of an amorous friendship between a gifted older woman and a virile youth on the brink of manhood.

It was said to be the kind of apprenticeship every man needed if he were to become an accomplished lover. She had learned that from reading French novels of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. But how could any man be a good lover if, at heart, he despised his bed-fellow, feeling lust for her body but only disdain for her mind?

Surely making love to perfection was not just a matter of technique; the skilful performance of the actions described in the manual. There had to be affection... poetry... tenderness.

When she was undressing for bed, she was surprised and puzzled to find a dark mark on her arm, above the elbow. Then she realised it was a bruise caused when James had grabbed her in the street, forcing her to a standstill after she had asked if his friends indulged in marijuana and orgies.

She had always bruised easily and his fingers had been painfully strong. It annoyed her to have the mark of them there, like a brand. His brother would never have dreamt of gripping her arm in that rough way. But then, to be fair, she would never have suggested that Lord Edgedale might be mixed up with those kind of people.

She woke up with a headache, which was something which had never happened to her before. She came to the conclusion it must be caused by the whisky. She ought to have chased the alcohol with a glass or two of water.

As her bicycle was still at the Castle, she had to walk there. By the time she arrived the exercise and fresh air had cleared the headache and she felt equal to the demands of the day. She had also come to a decision about the cottage. She was going to burn her boats and sell it.

The days which followed were very busy ones. Suddenly the house was full of experts making inventories. There were two or three people from Christie's fine art department making lists of the paintings; someone else valuing porcelain and china; a representative from Maggs, the London antiquarian booksellers, was at work in the library, selecting the most valuable works; and elsewhere experts on silver, furniture, clocks and Oriental rugs all making their separate assessments of the Castle s treasures.

James himself was in charge of the list of things which were not to be sold but retained, in storage, for the day when Emily was ready to furnish her own house.

One day Summer had an opportunity to speak to Conway alone. Inevitably the elderly butler was one of the busiest members of the household, and she had almost despaired of a chance to consult him in private, without fear of interruption.

When the opportunity did arise, she almost had second thoughts about tackling him on a matter which he might regard as a gross breach of propriety.

'Mr Conway, I can't help being worried about this tremendous disturbance in Lady Emily's life,' she began. 'First the loss of her parents, then of her grandfather, then all this upheaval and, next week, a long tiring journey to a completely strange environment. It would put a great strain on an adult, let alone a rather delicate child of her age.'

The butler regarded her with his grave stare for some moments.

'I understand your concern, Miss Roberts, but I think your presence throughout this calamitous period in Cranmere's history has been Lady Emily's bulwark, if I may say so.'