The Love Letter (29 page)

‘I knew nothing!’

‘You two had a very cosy tête-à-tête over supper in the pub last night before I arrived, I gather,’ Francis snarled, having clearly just been debriefed, probably by Kizzy.

‘We had to share the last free table in the restaurant.’ Legs immediately became defensive. ‘I had no idea he was Poppy’s son, did I, Byrne?’

His face was deadpan. ‘It was like eating in a busy Prêt. Didn’t even know I’m called Jago. Spent all evening trying to avoid
addressing me by my first name, so she did.’

‘You noticed?’ she gasped, mortified.

‘Well,
Jago
here has certainly made tonight’s meal one to remember,’ Francis snapped, grasping Legs’ elbow and steering her towards the house, calling back to Byrne. ‘You can stay there. Talk to him, Édith.’

‘Isn’t that a bit unfriendly?’ Legs muttered as he marched her through the Moroccan arches, footsteps echoing and her high heels buckling under her. ‘He’s family now, after all.’

‘Not my bloody family,’ Francis hissed, whisking her behind an amoebic statue and taking her by surprise with a long, hungry kiss. There was no courteous request tonight.

‘Christ, I needed that,’ he laughed with relief as they surfaced for air.

She looked at his face, so handsome and indomitable, longing to cut him down to size for manhandling her mind and body so much in the past forty-eight hours than both were dizzy, yet too fearful of hurting him again to cross him.

‘What about Kizzy?’

‘She’s going off the rails faster than a faulty coathanger this evening. You’re so right, Legs. There’s no point in faking. Say the word and it’s over.’

Even though she now she knew that he’d only been cohabiting with the fish-eating Babooshka-singer for a fortnight, it sounded terribly cruel. ‘What word?’

By way of an answer, he settled another kiss on her lips, this one longer and gentler, but no less possessive.

Oh hell, Legs thought in a panic, casting her eyes nervously over her shoulder in case Kizzy was nearby. But there was no denying the frantic heartbeat rattling right through her, from pulse to pulse via every erogenous zone.

‘Have you been eating garlic?’ he asked when they surfaced again.

She had no time to answer as there was a commotion from the
staircase in the main hall and Francis dropped her like a hot brick as Poppy’s deep voice boomed into earshot. ‘I am going to spend time with my son, who has returned to me!’ she was announcing theatrically.

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Her friend Yolande was right on her heels, sixteen stone of breathless panic in a kaftan, harem pants and clicking flip-flops.

Puce in the face, her lip-gloss kissed off, Legs mustered a winning smile. As the duo swept past, she and Francis were standing a respectable three feet apart like butler and housekeeper. Poppy didn’t bat an eye in their direction. Yolande, however, reserved a venomous look for her daughter’s rival. Unlike her friend, whose low, jewelled turbans lent her wizened Middle Eastern ethnicity, Yolande favoured an exotic millinery modelled on well-upholstered Nigerian friends from London. Thus Legs received a furious glare from beneath a foot of orange satin, silk and feather folds of such weight and plumage that Cici’s fascinator would look like a small slaughtered budgie by comparison.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Francis let out a sigh of relief.

‘I need a stiff drink.’ He led the way towards the service door, as though the kiss hadn’t happened, adding over his shoulder. ‘What’s he like,Jago Byrne?’

‘Pretty combustible.’

‘Then we’ll sit him close to a candle.’

‘I think I’ll just pop to the loo.’ Legs dived through the door to the cloakroom, slamming it gratefully behind her and sliding the lock.

Her detective head was trying to add up facts, but there were so many new developments she was running out of fingers on which to count.

She fished a fresh tampon from her bag with shaking hands, wishing she hadn’t come. A pale crocheted dress with just a transparent g-string for protection was making her paranoid, despite all
the adverts for sanitary protection starring women leaping across streams and stepping stones in tight white jeans with no knicker line during their periods. But really, it was the cross-currents that were causing her heart to hammer as though taking a shower with Norman Bates holding her soap just beyond the curtain. Francis was as abrupt and snappy as she could remember. And while angry Byrne might have plenty to distract him from her silly flirtation, Kizzy looked absolutely murderous tonight. She could almost hear the knives sharpening beyond the door.

Pulling herself together, Legs washed her hands and stepped out into the hallway, turning towards the green baize service door. An angry voice just the other side made her stall.

‘How could you bring her along tonight? That is so cruel.’

She stepped back, throat clutched with shame. It was Kizzy, her voice hacked through with tears.

‘You lied to me!You said her love affair was just the excuse you needed to be free, and now you bring her here and rub my nose in it. You still love her, don’t you? You just used me to try to get information. But you don’t know the half of it. I could bring this family to its knees. You’re all rotten to the core apart from Poppy. You’ll get your just desserts. I am not going to be humiliated like this!’ Footsteps hammered away along the back lobby.

Legs retreated hastily across the chequered marble floor to the base of the staircase, debating whether it was better to make a run for it past Byrne in the cloisters or down the dramatic sweep of entrance steps.

Before she had made up her mind, she heard the baize door swing and a click of heels as Édith appeared carrying her topped-up wine glass, along with a heavy crystal glass in which ice cubes rattled like bones beneath deep amber liquid.

She jumped when she saw Legs. ‘What are you doing skulking about out here? Francis is looking for you. Do you think the Prodigal will notice this is Amaretto not Irish malt? He asked for scotch, but there’s none in the house.’

‘I think he might.’

‘Oh well, I guess it will be a test of good manners.’ She smiled wickedly and swept off through the Moroccan wing, ice clanking.

Stealing herself, Legs summoned the last traces of Julie Ocean grit and headed to the kitchen, knowing that running away would just make the situation with Francis worse; equally aware that she couldn’t drag herself away from Byrne and his extraordinary revelations.

The vast Farcombe kitchen was as big and deep as a squash court, and little modernised since its Victorian heyday, apart from the replacement of the original cast-iron range with a custom-painted turquoise four-door Aga and the addition of several fifties-styled fridges and quite a lot of Poppy statues.

To Legs’ embarrassment, she had to edge past Kizzy who was standing directly in the doorway, stiff-jawed and wild-eyed as she spoke with Édith’s girlfriend Jax. Both appeared viciously angry as they turned to let her past.

At the opposite end of the room, Francis was prowling around by the French windows looking trapped.

‘There you are!’ He had already poured Legs a glass of Gavi, which he quickly handed to her, blue eyes desperate to convey a message. Apart from an obvious topnote of fear and irritation, she couldn’t read any more detail.

‘Francis!’ Kizzy called him to her side and he melted reluctantly away.

Legs watched the gathering storm clouds through the windows, wondering anxiously how Kizzy could bring the family to its knees. Perhaps she was planning to become a vicar, she thought hopefully.

Having originally planned to stick to mineral water after last night’s excess and the sleep-inducing Happy Ever Afters, she sipped the Gavi unenthusiastically but discovered it was so delicious that she couldn’t resist snorkelling up some more. She then crossed the room to greet Jax, who was now alone, pressed up
against the Aga despite her leather jacket and the heat of the evening, her hackles raised. She had a nervous smile like a terrier. Legs had always found Jax good company and refreshingly down to earth once one penetrated the edgy coolness.

‘Knew you’d be back,’ Jax said in an undertone as she approached.

‘So good to see you.’ She kissed her cool, porcelain-pale cheeks. She smelled deliciously of Antaeus. ‘I don’t think I’m very welcome.’

‘You and me both,’ Jax snarled, then flashed another defensive smile. ‘Édith always reckoned you and Fran is the real deal,’ her gruff little Dublin-meets-Cockney voice made Legs suddenly homesick for city hustle and bustle.

‘You’re a part of the family,’ she insisted, unable to comprehend why Jax would cast herself in the same turncoat mould as herself.

‘They like new blood, the Protheroes,’ Jax said darkly. ‘Like vampires.’ She stalked over to a fridge to fetch another beer, glaring at Kizzy as she passed by.

Legs sagged against the Aga, barely feeling its heat scalding her through the crochet dress. The high drama and crashing contradictory waves of Farcombe were making her seasick.

Even now, Francis was once again at Kizzy’s side, putting up a united front as they discussed in sotto voices what to do with the Keiller-Myleses, who Kizzy’s father Howard was right now welcoming in the main entrance hall. As Farcombe Festival’s biggest sponsor and long-term supporter, Vin Keiller-Myles was always treated by the Protheroes like a visiting dignitary, even though nobody in the family liked him very much.

‘At least they used the main drive so didn’t encounter the touching reunion on the terrace,’ Francis said tetchily, ‘but somebody will have to explain to them what the hell’s going on.’

‘My father can show them into the library,’ Kizzy suggested, brittle and distracted. Her eyes were bloodshot, Legs noticed, and her pale neck was leaping with sinews and veins.

Francis pulled at his long cuffs, nodding. ‘You and Legs can keep them entertained for a bit, Kizz. Fill them in with the bare details. Legs is good at these things.’ He turned to her.

‘Me?’ Legs gulped.

‘We’ll be a double act.’ Kizzy looked slightly more cheerful, managing a weak conspiratorial smile at Legs. ‘Partners in crime.’

‘You keep him talking and I’ll lift his wallet?’ Legs joked.

Kizzy grabbed a jug of Pimms and raised it shakily, sounding like Miss Jean Brodie. ‘If we fail to anaesthetise him with girlish good manners, Jax can go in man-to-man.’

Not apparently listening, Francis kept on nodding. ‘Indeed – Jax must back you both up. Vin Keiller-Myles loves to be surrounded by pretty faces, and Imee wants us out of here, don’t you Ims?’ The Filipina housekeeper nodded with relief, having been battling to fight her way past Legs to the Aga with a tray of puff pastry circles loaded with caramelised onion, pears and Gorgonzola. The last thing anybody was ever expected to do at a Farcombe kitchen sups was gather in the kitchen.

Stashing a spare bottle of Budvar in her pocket, Jax shot Legs a martyred look as they trailed through to the library. ‘Fran’s turning into his father don’cha think?’

Legs looked at her in surprise. ‘They couldn’t be more different.’

‘Look around you, girl. The writing’s on the wall.’ She bared her tiny teeth, gazing around the library which always made their jaws drop no matter how many times they’d been inside it.

The library at Farcombe Hall was a show-stopper. It was one of the few family rooms in the house that was used during the festival, a textbook setting for intimate readings and small audience discussions, creating the perfect atmosphere with the high walls lined with books and the oversized windows that looked straight out to sea. Located in one of the hall’s turrets, it was almost as high as the house with four tiered galleries, accessed by glorious mechanical ladders. Engineered in Victorian times during one of
the hall’s gothic makeovers, these magnificent wooden climbing frames could be rotated to access the thousands of books overhead.

As teenagers, Francis and his friends had swung around on them like monkeys. As young lovers, he and Legs had dared to copulate on each narrow gallery in turn, excitement mounting with every tier. Coming in here still gave her a wistful tingle.

Despite first appearances, the room’s contents contained little to excite most book-lovers. Hector was not a snob about a volume’s appearance, believing that what was inside was far more important than its condition outside, so the library wasn’t lined with beautifully leather-bound first editions, but instead by battered, foxed and well-thumbed volumes with fraying spines and loose pages. Visitors would struggle to find much in the way of easy bedtime reading here. Many, especially at ground level, were deeply obscure texts on subjects only of interest to Hector: unintelligible tomes on the history of jazz and bassoon, dreadful impenetrable poetry, long technical manuals detailing the geography and geology of obscure corners of the world, thousand-page theological polemics or deeply self-indulgent self-published art critiques, most often penned by his friends. Despite Poppy haranguing him for years to hire a professional librarian and indexer to create some sort of order, he relied upon his own eccentric system and brilliant memory to locate any given volume. As a result few family members could ever find a thing of interest to read there, but the incredible views from the windows, straight out to the Celtic Sea, were among the best afforded from the ground floor of the house, and tonight they were entrancing Poppy’s supper guests over aperitifs and appetisers.