Lucy was dead.
Dead.
Henry felt her loss like a punch to the stomach, a horrible tangle of emotions lodged in his gut like a ball of thorns. Had he loved her? He still didn’t really know. All he knew was that he had no right to feel anything; no right to grief or pain or any emotion except the guilt that enveloped him each night like a heavy, suffocating blanket, robbing him of sleep to the point where he could barely function.
And meanwhile, of course, Richard was devastated, and needed Henry’s support. But how could Henry give it, knowing what he’d done? Knowing the magnitude of his betrayal?
He’d betrayed Sebastian too, of course. But that was different. Kate wasn’t dead, and nor was Seb, thank God. Henry still had time to make it up to his brother. And Eva.
The list of people he owed a piece of his soul to was getting longer and longer, dragging Henry down like chains on a condemned prisoner. Since the accident, life had felt like hell. The sun could shine, and Hanborough could dazzle, and his business could soar and Eva could shower him with love. But none of it mattered. None of it got through.
Henry didn’t deserve to be happy. To be alive when Lucy was dead.
In the end, perhaps, it was as simple as that.
‘Wot, no grapes?’
Seb grinned as Henry pulled up a chair at his bedside and sat down empty-handed.
‘Sorry,’ Henry said blankly.
Seb’s room was nice, as far as hospital rooms went. There was a window overlooking the gardens and a Formica side table smothered with flowers, Get Well Soon cards and gifts, most of them related to hunting, including a large chocolate fox whose tail had already been half eaten.
In the days immediately after the accident, it had been unclear whether Sebastian would have permanent brain damage, or if his spine and leg injuries would end up confining him to a wheelchair for life. The strength and speed of his recovery had been remarkable, however, and his doctors had told Kate that, beyond using a walking stick to help with a slight limp, he should lead a completely normal life.
‘You know, Lady Saxton Brae, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with quite such a relentlessly positive attitude,’ Mr Crawford, Seb’s surgeon, informed Kate. ‘He’s damned lucky to be alive.’
The worst part, for Seb, were the surgeries on his face, which were complicated and painful. He still needed at least two more procedures, which was one of the main reasons he was still in hospital now and not back home at Hatchings, much to his irritation.
‘Are you hungry?’ Henry asked. ‘I should have stopped at Waitrose on the way here, I just totally forgot. Would you like me to run out and get you something now?’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Sebastian frowned. ‘I was only joking. Look, Henry old boy, are you all right?’
‘Me?’ Henry looked up, dazed. ‘I’m fine. You’re the one who broke both legs, fractured your spine and had your face pulverized like a crushed watermelon, remember?’
‘Probably improved it,’ muttered Seb good-naturedly. ‘Let’s face it, I was no oil painting before, was I? You definitely got the looks of the family.’
To Henry’s own astonishment, not to mention embarrassment, he found himself starting to cry.
‘Good heavens!’ said Seb, attempting to sit up. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘Why are you so damn nice about everything? All the time?’ Henry demanded.
Taking this to be a rhetorical question, Seb waited for Henry to go on.
‘I’ve done some terrible things,’ he said, running his hands through his hair frantically. Tears were still coursing down his cheeks. ‘Unforgivable things.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Seb, almost angrily. ‘You haven’t killed anyone, have you?’
‘Well, no,’ admitted Henry. ‘But—’
‘If you’re talking about what happened with Kate, I know,’ said Seb, matter-of-factly.
Henry looked at him, mortified. ‘You know? How?’
‘Kate told me.’
‘When?’
‘When I came round after the brain surgery. So if that’s what’s brought all this on, for Christ’s sake get over it. It’s water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned.’
Henry shook his head, disbelieving. ‘I’m your brother. I slept with your wife. How can you just forgive that?’
Sebastian sighed, then smiled. ‘To be honest, Henry, I’ve never been as ballyhoo about sex as you are. I mean, I’m not saying I was happy about it. But Kate’s sorry, and you’re sorry, and well … that’s an end to it, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘I think so,’ said Seb. ‘There’s nothing like getting your head kicked in by a horse and almost dying to put things in perspective. Especially when one thinks about the poor gal who did die. Richard and those children.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘That’s a bloody tragedy. If you want to blub about something, blub about that.’
Henry stared at his brother. He’d always loved Seb. But, at the same time, he’d also always viewed him as a bit of a buffoon. And he’d resented him, bitterly at times, for inheriting their father’s title and the estate, when he, Henry, was so clearly the superior of the two brothers. More intelligent, more talented, more resourceful, more deserving.
Now he saw clearly just how wrong he’d been.
One of them was a fool all right, but it wasn’t Sebastian. He was Henry’s superior in every way.
‘Nothing’s unforgivable, Henry,’ Seb told him now. ‘Where there’s life, there’s hope and all that.’
Henry wiped his eyes, too moved to know what to say.
Hugging his brother wordlessly, he left the room.
Then he drove back to Hanborough, unearthed a bottle of twelve-year-old single malt, before sitting down at the kitchen table and drinking until he passed out.
‘He’s in there.’
Mrs French looked at Flora anxiously and pointed towards the kitchen.
‘He hasn’t been to bed. He won’t let me go in, won’t talk to me, won’t take any calls, not even from Eva. He’s got a business meeting here this morning that I suppose I ought to cancel, but I don’t even like to do that without his permission.’
‘What makes you think he’ll talk to me?’ asked Flora. She’d woken up early again – ever since her break-up with Mason, a decent night’s sleep seemed to be eluding her – and decided she might as well drive up to the castle and get started. Graydon had called her last night, their first conversation in weeks, and had presented her with a long list of demands, complaining again about the slow pace of progress on Hanborough’s new, much more modern East Wing.
‘I don’t think you understand what a big deal this hunting accident was here,’ Flora protested. ‘Henry’s brother almost died.’
‘That’s no reason for works to slow down,’ insisted Graydon.
‘Henry and Eva wanted some peace for a few weeks,’ Flora explained patiently.
‘Well, they can’t have it!’ Graydon snapped. ‘You work for me, Flora, not them. Or had you forgotten?’
‘Of course not,’ said Flora. She couldn’t understand why he was so angry.
‘I’d have hoped that now you no longer have a wedding to distract you, or somebody else’s money to fall back on, you’d have refocused your energies on your career,’ Graydon observed cruelly. ‘But perhaps there’s something else on your mind? Something more important than GJD winning International Designer of the Year?’
It was almost as if he was alluding to something specific, although Flora had no idea what. She already spent every waking hour up at Hanborough. What more, exactly, did he want from her?
Mrs French put a hand on Flora’s shoulder.
‘You’re the only one he ever talks to,’ she said, answering Flora’s earlier question. ‘Well, you and Dr Smart. But he’s in no position to help, poor man, and with Eva away …’
‘All right,’ said Flora. ‘I’ll give it a try.’
She waited till Henry’s secretary had gon
e back into the office, then tapped on the kitchen door.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Henry barked. ‘What part of “go away” do you not understand?’
‘I understand it,’ said Flora, turning the handle and entering the lion’s den. ‘I’m just choosing to ignore you.’
Henry was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall, his legs sprawled out in front of him. There was an almost empty bottle of whisky on the table, along with various discarded crisp packets, and a half-full crystal tumbler on the floor beside him. He wasn’t slurring his words. And he hadn’t actually been sick, thank goodness. But the glazed, belligerent look in his eyes made it clear he was very, very drunk.
Moving to the table, Flora started cleaning up, scrunching up the crisp packets and throwing them in the bin before reaching for the whisky bottle.
‘Leave it,’ growled Henry.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Flora. ‘That’s not what friends do.’
Henry snorted what might have been a laugh. ‘So we’re friends, are we?’
‘Aren’t we?’ said Flora, pouring the remnants of the bottle down the sink.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ protested Henry. ‘That’s a Glenfarclas 1962.’
Flora turned and looked at him.
‘I don’t care. It’s still poison.’
In a fitted wine-red sweater dress and black boots, she looked more like a 1950s pin-up girl than ever. Even in his depleted state, Henry found it impossible not to let his eyes be drawn towards her full bosom and improbably tiny waist. She really was all curves, like a sexy but disapproving cello.
‘You do realize you can’t carry on like this?’ she said, rinsing her hands under the tap and drying them on a Great Houses of West Sussex tea towel hanging over the rail of the Aga. ‘Eva’s worried to death about you. Everyone is.’
‘Only because they don’t know the truth,’ muttered Henry, knocking back the four fingers of precious whisky in his glass before Flora could tip that down the drain as well. ‘If they knew, they wouldn’t worry about me. They’d hate me. Although probably not as much as I hate myself.’
Flora walked over slowly and sat down on the floor beside him.
‘I know the truth,’ she reminded him. ‘I know about you and Lucy. And I don’t hate you.’
‘Well, you should,’ said Henry, not meeting her eye. ‘You threw me out of your house when you first found out, remember? You said it couldn’t end well and that I was as bad as George Savile. That George and I were “two selfish peas in a pod”.’
‘I’m not saying it wasn’t selfish,’ Flora clarified. ‘Affairs usually are. I’m saying I don’t hate you for it. And hating yourself won’t bring her back.’
‘Oh God!’ Henry wailed in pure anguish. Reaching out, he clung on to Flora, burying his head in her chest and sobbing like a child. Instinctively Flora started stroking his hair and making soothing, shhhhh noises. Henry was right that he didn’t deserve sympathy. But Flora couldn’t help giving it to him anyway. His remorse was so heartfelt and so all encompassing, it was hard not to. And there was another reason too, one she’d tried to deny to herself for a long time, but which refused to be silenced now as she sat here with Henry in her arms.
I love him, she realized miserably.
‘She was my friend’s wife! My best friend’s wife,’ Henry rambled on. ‘What does that make me?’
‘Human?’ said Flora. ‘Look, it was wrong. It was. But we can’t help who we fall in love with.’
Henry looked up at her. Still drunk, his pupils dilated, he reached up and touched her face. Flora felt as if she might pass out from the maelstrom of emotions she was feeling. The urge to lean down and press her lips to his was so powerful it hurt. With a superhuman effort, she resisted it.
You’re Eva’s friend, she told herself firmly. He’s grieving, and drunk, and out of his mind with guilt. None of this is real.
‘What’s done is done,’ she said, removing his hand and sitting up, extricating herself delicately from his vice-like grip. ‘All you can do now is try to make it up to Eva. And Richard. Just … be a better person.’
‘How?’ asked Henry.
‘By being one!’ said Flora, exasperated. ‘Stop all this for a start,’ she said, removing his empty glass. ‘Stop wallowing. Stop making Lucy’s death about you. The more you drink, the more likely you are to blurt out something stupid.’
Henry looked horrified. Flora was right. Sometimes the urge to come clean, to confess his sins to Richard and Eva and the world felt hopelessly strong.
‘The only person on earth who knows about you and Lucy is me,’ said Flora.
‘I know,’ Henry murmured. ‘That’s why I can talk to you. You’re the only person who sees me as I am.’
Flora half smiled. Was that a compliment? As usual with Henry, it was hard to tell.
‘I’m never going to say anything. You have my word,’ she told him. ‘But I need you to promise the same thing. For your sake and everyone else’s.’
Henry half smiled back. ‘I promise. Thank you.’
He hugged her again, less desperately this time but just as tightly, his body expressing the depth of his gratitude more eloquently than any words. Flora closed her eyes and hugged him back, allowing herself that one, brief moment.
‘Well, well.’
Georgina Savile’s voice cut through the silence like a sharpened shard of glass.
‘What have I interrupted? Perhaps you’d like me to come back another time?’
‘Not really,’ Henry drawled, reluctantly letting go of Flora. His head lolled forward as he tried to focus on George, who looked elegant and professional in a cream silk shirt and peach woollen pencil skirt from Armani’s A/W collection, her long blonde hair swept up in a businesslike chignon.
‘He had a tough night,’ explained Flora, getting up awkwardly off the floor, feeling very inelegant all of a sudden, a dumpy spinster next to George’s glamorous trophy wife.
‘I can see that,’ snapped George. ‘Unfortunately he still has responsibilities. We have a business to run.’ She dropped her briefcase on the table with a loud clatter that made Henry wince. ‘Not that I’d expect you to understand,’ she told Flora, adding rudely, ‘Don’t you have some tiles to grout or some cushions to arrange or something?’
‘George!’ Henry reprimanded her.
‘What?’ George shot back waspishly. ‘You want your little girlfriend to stay and hold your hand?’
‘She’s not—’
‘It’s OK,’ said Flora, mortified. ‘I have to get on anyway. I’ll leave you to it.’
She hurried out of the kitchen, closing the door behind her before Henry had the chance to say another word.
‘Right then,’ George said briskly, as soon as Flora had gone. ‘Shall we get down to business?’
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ said Henry, rubbing his eyes wearily. ‘There’s nothing going on. At all.’
‘I couldn’t care less about your love life,’ trilled George. ‘I’ve driven all the way from London to finalize these contracts, and that’s what we’re bloody well going to do.’
Henry was too drunk to notice the small muscle twitching uncontrollably at the top of her jaw, or the look of raw venom in her eyes. He was also far too drunk to read a contract, or make any sort of sensible business decision. He should just tell George to go. To drive back to London, and to stick her stupid contracts where the sun don’t shine. Or at least to wait until he was sober enough to know what he was signing.
But he didn’t. All the fight had gone out of him suddenly. The path of least resistance had never looked so appealing.
‘Fine,’ he slurred, holding out a shaking hand. ‘Just give me a damn pen.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lucy Smart’s funeral was held on the first Sunday in April, and drew the biggest crowds seen at St Hilda’s Church in Fittlescombe since Logan Cranley’s society wedding a couple of years earlier. While close family and friends p
acked the pews inside, well-wishers from the hunt and the local villages huddled outside in the graveyard under two specially erected awnings, spilling out onto the village green beyond.
Although officially spring, it was a grey and cold day. A light but persistent drizzle that began at dawn had yet to let up, and by mid-morning was made worse by bitter easterly winds, flattening the first few daffodils brave enough to unfurl their cheerful yellow petals, and battering the already damp mourners as they clustered together for warmth. Some enterprising young men from the cricket club had rigged up loudspeakers so that those outside the church could hear the service. But even artificially enhanced, the Reverend Clempson’s voice was soon swallowed by the wind and rain, with only a few snatched phrases and occasional strains of the organ making it through the lugubrious howl of the weather.
Slightly to her embarrassment, Flora had been given a spot inside the church next to Henry and Eva, only a few rows back from Lucy’s grieving family. On Flora’s other side, Jen Clempson, the vicar’s wife, had tears streaming down her face as she fed her baby daughter, Diana, from a bottle of formula.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered to Flora, accepting the offer of a fourth tissue. ‘I think it’s my hormones. We weren’t even that close. I just can’t bear the thought of those poor children.’
In the front row, flanking their father who looked as if he’d aged ten years, Lucy’s sons Archie and Harry stood as solemnly as soldiers, their little backs ramrod straight. Neither of them was crying. Perhaps, by this point, they had no tears left? Flora thought back to her own father’s funeral. Of course she had been much older than the Smart boys, and had already got used to life without her dad. Not that prison was remotely the same as death. Nothing was, nor could anything truly prepare you for the loss of a parent. She remembered standing beside her mother, staring at her father’s coffin, waiting for the tears to come. But they never did. She felt guilty about it for years afterwards.
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