And all the time she talked. How she talked!
She told him about how she had always needed to move from job to job, so no one could pin her down. She wandered through Ashbarrow’s impressive china cupboards in his bathrobe, fingering gold-edged antique crockery, and told him without bitterness about her mother’s economies when they were children. She drifted round the panelled music room with him and admitted her failure with the piano concerto in spite of her valiant self-improvement programme.
‘And opera is turning out to be a real struggle too,’ she said gloomily.
When Philip stopped laughing he played her a CD of such unearthly beauty that Kit was moved almost to tears.
‘Opera?’ she said as the pure notes died away at last.
Philip’s face was inscrutable for a moment. ‘Opera. Handel, actually. Not fashionable but I like him.’
‘What does it mean?’ said Kit softly.
He hesitated for a moment. ‘Something like, “Where are you, my darling? You are the only who stands between me and despair.”’
There was a little silence. Kit sat very still. She found she was holding her breath. She did not know why.
Then he seemed to come out of a reverie and said in quite a different tone, ‘Rodelinda. Seriously melodramatic stuff. But the music is exquisite.’
And the moment, whatever it was, passed. She even forgot about it.
Until the next morning. Kit was sitting with him in the library, where a sixteenth-century Hardesty ancestor had composed a blueprint for a just society. Later an eighteenth-century one had written poems at the very desk that stood in the corner. Kit found she had even read one.
‘He was the black sheep,’ said Philip lazily, drawing her hair through his fingers and holding it up to the morning sun.
They were sitting in the window seat together, drinking instant coffee from kitchen mugs. They had twenty minutes left with the house to themselves before Sandy arrived. They were making the most of it. Kit was wearing his shirt and nothing else. She felt wonderful.
‘A black sheep? Why?’
He pulled a face. ‘Poetry? Pure self-indulgence! Hardestys were soldiers. They were supposed to do their duty, not mess about writing wimpy poetry.’
Kit pulled his arm a little tighter round her waist. ‘You mean like you do,’ she said soberly.
There was the faintest pause before he said, ‘I suppose so.’
There it was again. That faint note of withdrawal. She frowned, not knowing what to do.
This is where it would help to be an experienced woman. Instead of someone who has only just given up avoiding mirrors.
The thought reminded her of something.
She said, ‘I ought to go and see my godmother. She can’t be that far away from here.’
His arm tensed at once. It was almost as if he was flinching away from the idea. Kit corkscrewed round to look up at him.
‘Philip?’
He was smiling. Not the warm, intimate smile that she had thought she would always get from him now, but a tighter, cooler expression altogether. Kit was chilled.
‘Philip?’ she said again. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ he said at once. ‘You want to go and see your godmother. Of course.’
He’s jealous, she thought on a little rush of relief. She put up a hand to touch his face.
‘Not on my own, stupid. I want us to go together.’
He hesitated infinitesimally.
‘Don’t you want to?’ she said, suddenly alarmed and not sure why.
To her inexpressible relief, his smile got real again. He bent forward and kissed her lightly.
‘I’d really like to,’ she said, still not quite reassured.
‘Then we will.’
But the lovely, careless closeness was gone.
It happened again and again, over the day.
First, Kit saw the morning sun refracting into a thousand colours out of a dewdrop on a leaf just outside the kitchen window. She turned to Philip to share it. He was supposed to be slicing bread for their breakfast toast, but he had stopped mid action. He was staring into space with an expression so grim that it struck her to the heart. She closed the window quietly. He did not notice.
It was the same when she asked about one of the modern portraits. It was in the big dining room, which they had not used. It showed a queenly woman in three-quarter profile. Her dark hair was swept up into a coronet and she wore a tiara and magnificent jewels. But what caught Kit’s attention was her expression. She looked as if she was wound so tight, she was about to break.
‘That one?’ said Philip neutrally. ‘That’s a Bosco. Before he got into his modernist phase, of course. Still very collectible, I’m told.’
Kit shook her head. ‘You’re labelling again,’ she teased. ‘I don’t care about the painter. Who is she?’
‘My mother,’ said Philip, even more neutral.
Kit stared up at the painting. ‘She doesn’t look happy,’ she said slowly.
He shrugged. ‘Shows what a good painter Bosco was. She wasn’t.’
‘But she was so beautiful,’ said Kit slowly. ‘And that necklace! What made her so unhappy that she couldn’t enjoy it?’
He hesitated. ‘My father’s job.’
Kit frowned. ‘Diplomat?’
‘And soldier. You never really leave the army behind, even when you’re military attaché at an embassy. She grew to hate it.’
‘Why?’
He went closer to the picture and looked up at it, frowning slightly.
‘I suppose it was more dangerous than she expected,’ he said slowly. ‘They met in Cambridge. No assassination attempts there. By the time this was painted they had been in Africa and the Gulf and he had survived two car bombs and kidnap at knifepoint. She couldn’t cope.’
Kit did not quite know why, but she sensed a deep despair in him. She stepped closer and nudged him with her shoulder.
‘Well, she got to wear some pretty good dresses,’ she said cheerfully. ‘She looks as if she’s going to be crowned.’
Philip gave a crack of laughter. ‘My father’s regimental ball, actually. There’s a companion portrait of him in the study. All scarlet coat and medals.’
Kit looked up at him. ‘That’s your father? I thought he was another Victorian.’
‘Well spotted,’ said Philip, darkly amused. ‘Neither he nor my grandfather had much truck with the twentieth century. Men did their duty. Women were grateful. Children were seen and not heard.’ His amusement died. ‘It broke my mother. Party dresses and diamonds didn’t begin to compensate.’
Kit shrank closer. ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ she said compassionately. ‘But she loved him?’
His arm fell, leaving her bereft. Their shoulders no longer touched.
‘Oh, yes, she loved him,’ he said heavily.
‘Then that would have been enough.’
He looked down at her unsmilingly. ‘Didn’t seem to be. But then, what do I know?’
And the grim expression was back.
Kit shivered. She did not know why.
And then he was charm itself to Aunt Flora. And remote as the Atlas Mountains. Kit could see her godmother getting more and more uneasy as they sat in her tiny, crowded sitting room. It made Kit uneasy herself. She tried to get reassurance from Philip but he seemed to avoid her eyes.
What’s wrong? Has he decided I’m not good enough for Ashbarrow now he’s seen Flora’s cottage?
It was an unsettling thought. She didn’t believe it but—Why else was there that distance between them? Why wouldn’t he look at her?
In the end she couldn’t bear the tension any longer. She said, ‘I think I’ll just ring Tatiana. Just to make sure she isn’t turning the hose on my visiting cat.’
Perhaps Philip would be himself again if he didn’t feel she was watching him perform for her godmother, she thought. She escaped to the hall, where Flora’s old-fashioned telephone was tucked into an alcove.
&
nbsp; Left alone, Flora let Philip make fluent small talk for a few minutes. Then she looked up and said abruptly, ‘Kit has told you about her problems, hasn’t she?’ She made no apology for interrupting him.
Philip stiffened. ‘I know about the anorexia, if that’s what you mean.’
Flora nodded, sad and satisfied at the same time. ‘I thought she would. She’s a chivalrous girl. Tell you it’s over, did she?’
Philip said gently, ‘You can’t expect that I would repeat our private conversations to you.’
Flora stared at him for silent moments from under her fierce eyebrows. In the end she seemed to be satisfied with what she saw. She gave a jerky nod.
‘Well, maybe she is. I don’t know. I do know that she’s too tender-hearted for her own good.’
Philip watched her calmly. He did not answer.
Flora did not seem to expect him to. She said reminiscently, ‘She was always like that, even as a child. She used to stay here, you know. Well, I was glad to give her mother a break. I felt sorry for Joanne. An extra mouth to feed only two weeks after her husband walked out!’
Philip’s brows knit hard at that.
Flora did not notice. ‘Lisa and Kit used to come and stay together. But it was always Kit who used to bring wounded things home. Birds with broken wings. A badger hit by a car. We were always trailing off to the vet. Cost me a fortune. But, to be fair, she always nursed them herself when we got them back here.’ She looked at him very straightly. ‘She’s always wanted to heal things, my Kit.’
He drew a sharp breath.
But whatever he was going to say was overtaken by Kit exploding back into the room. She looked distraught. Philip leaped to his feet, the remote look utterly banished.
‘What is it?’ he said, taking her hands.
She returned the grip instinctively.
‘It’s Lisa. Tatiana says—Oh, I can’t believe it.’
‘Then tell us and see if we believe it,’ said Flora practically.
‘Tatiana says that Lisa is leaving Nikolai.’ Kit’s voice shook.
Philip frowned.
Kit’s eyes were full of tears. ‘I’m really afraid it’s all my fault.’
‘Oh, please!’ Flora was crisp.
But Philip said in his most neutral, reasonable voice, ‘Have you any evidence for that?’
Kit gave him an edgy look and pulled her hands away. ‘Don’t do the professional-negotiator bit on me,’ she said with sudden sharpness. ‘She told me. They were having a difficult time in Coral Cove. But they made up. And then they had a row about me just before she came back to London. About me. I must go to her.’
‘People don’t end a marriage over their sister-in-law,’ Flora announced.
‘I’m bound to agree,’ said Philip, still maddeningly logical. ‘Did you speak to Lisa yourself?’
‘No—’
‘Then don’t you think you’d better? Maybe this Tatiana has got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘More than likely,’ muttered Flora.
‘I haven’t got Lisa’s number,’ said Kit. She looked sick. ‘She’s in Zurich. I don’t know her number at work.’
‘I do,’ said Philip calmly.
They both stared at him.
He said to Flora, ‘When I was looking for Kit I tried everyone I could think of. I never managed to catch up with her. But I certainly have the number of the Zurich office in my laptop at home.’
‘Then let’s go,’ said Kit.
She kissed her godmother distractedly and nearly forgot her coat. She sat on the edge of her seat all the way back in the car.
Philip said levelly, ‘I’m with your godmother on this. Don’t highjack Lisa’s problems.’
Kit bounced round on the seat. ‘What?’
‘It’s nothing to do with you—’
She said between her teeth, ‘My sister has never let me down. I’m not going to walk away from her now.’
Philip’s mouth tightened. He said nothing for a moment. Then—in his coolest, calmest voice— ‘Let’s look at this logically—’
Kit exploded.
She told him her sister’s disaster was not a matter of logic. She told him that he knew nothing about family. Nothing about feelings. Nothing about sticking to the people who loved you.
‘You sit on the fence for a living,’ she ended up, panting a little.
Philip was white round the mouth.
But he was still very much master of himself. ‘I think we’d better put off further discussion until we’re home.’
‘Home!’ raged Kit. ‘Ancient monument, more like. You don’t know one thing about—’
‘Enough!’ said Philip with such icy force that she was silenced.
But she did not forgive him. As soon as they pulled up outside the house she leaped out and ran for the door, without waiting for him. He followed and found her in the library, turning his computer on with frenzied jabbing movements.
‘Find me Lisa’s phone number,’ she commanded.
Quietly he showed her his address list. There were hundreds of entries, Kit saw as he scrolled down. The office of President This. The international secretariat of that. It told its own story, all too clearly.
It wasn’t Ashbarrow she wasn’t good enough for. It was Philip Hardesty, mentor of presidents. It chilled her to the bone. If she hadn’t been so agitated about Lisa she would have wept.
She gave an unsmiling nod to acknowledge his help and picked up the phone.
‘I’ll get you a coffee,’ he said, quite as if he did not have the world to run.
Kit swallowed wretchedly. But she did not say anything.
When he came back with two mugs she was sitting at Sir Oliver Hardesty’s fine walnut kneehole desk, with the telephone restored to its cradle. She looked stunned.
He put the coffee down on a mat in front of her. She shook her head as if to clear it.
‘She’s coming home.’
‘So you spoke to her?’
‘Yes.’ Kit swallowed. ‘I must go back to London. Be with her.’
‘Leave them to sort out their own business,’ Philip advised.
She stared at him as if she did not know who he was.
He said, ‘I wasn’t going to tell you but—I have to go back at the end of the week. We only have three more days together.’
‘Go back?’
‘I got an email this morning. I’m needed in Pelanang. I leave on Friday.’
Kit was blank. ‘You agreed to go back without even mentioning it to me?’
He smiled faintly. ‘They’re not used to my taking holiday. My office didn’t think they needed to check with me first. They never have before.’
‘Of course not,’ said Kit in a thin little voice. ‘And why should they now?’
She lifted her head and met his eyes straightly. ‘Why should they?’ she repeated harshly. ‘What’s changed, after all?’
There was an infinitesimal pause. Then he said roughly, ‘I knew this would happen.’
Kit was shaking. ‘Of course you did.’ She was angry, she told herself. More than angry. She was furious. ‘What else can you expect from a girl who thinks people are more important than labels?’
‘Kit—’
‘I expect it comes from a lack of illustrious ancestors.’ It was a very good imitation of his own analytical manner. ‘Yes, that would account for it. No sense of duty.’
‘Kit!’
She looked round the beautiful room with its panelling and its leather-bound books.
Philip saw her anger, her hurt and did not know what to do. All his training was no use here. He was lost.
‘What has that got to do with anything?’ He sounded exasperated, which was not what he meant at all.
But she gave him no time to retrieve his error.
‘You didn’t want me to get the wrong idea, did you?’ Kit flung at him. ‘Girls from the wrong side of the tracks are only allowed in on day passes.’
‘You’ve had a lot more th
an a day pass,’ he protested on a reflex he immediately regretted.
She pounced. ‘Had? So I’m on my way out now, am I?’
‘Of course not.’ Philip strove to calm the atmosphere. ‘Look at the facts for a moment. You were the one saying you had to go.’
She glared, mutinous.
He tried again. ‘Be fair. I was begging you to stay, if you remember.’
Kit took a deep breath. ‘For how long?’
He did not answer. But he flinched. It was all the answer she needed.
The silence stretched, horrifying them both.
She said, almost inaudibly, ‘I’d like to go now, please.’
Philip was very pale. But all he said was, ‘There’s no need.’ And then, with fatal politeness, ‘You’re welcome to stay at Ashbarrow as long as you like.’
Kit’s eyes flashed.
He said wretchedly, ‘No, I didn’t meant that. Well, not the way it sounded. Kit, please—’
But she was turning away. She was icy now.
‘I’m sure there must be a train. Could you order me a taxi, please? I’d like to go to the nearest station as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll take you.’
That got through the ice all right.
‘No!’
But Philip was adamant. ‘I brought you down here. I’ll drive you back.’
She gave up.
They did not speak in the car. But he kept putting his hand up to his left eye as if he were trying to brush a cobweb or something away from it.
Eventually Kit said, ‘Is your eye hurting?’
‘Hurting?’ He was curt. ‘No.’
‘Then you can’t see out of it,’ she deduced. ‘You’d better stop the car and let me drive.’
To her astonishment, he did.
When they were on the road again he said in a low voice, ‘Kit, I never meant to mislead you.’
She did not speak. She was too new a driver to concentrate on anything but the road. And anyway, what was there to say?
He went on, ‘My job is—well, you’ve seen it.’ He gave an abrupt, unamused laugh. ‘I always promised my mother I wouldn’t go into the army. So I end up with a job that’s even worse!’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t ask a woman to share a life like that.’
Englishman's Bride (9781460366332) Page 17