Rosie Thomas 3-Book Collection

by Rosie Thomas

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shall I show you?’

  ‘No. I might tear the cloth.’

  Darcy frowned, then said vaguely, ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that.’ At once another idea occurred to him. ‘Look, now we know each other, would you like to dance?’

  Helen peered around, bewildered. ‘Here?’

  ‘Well, no. I meant in the ballroom. We needn’t talk to anyone else.’

  Helen was laughing again, surprised by the agreeable bizarreness of their encounter. After a moment of looking puzzled, Darcy laughed with her.

  Then they left the billiard room and slipped through the crowded rooms to the ballroom. The party was at its height and the floor was packed with dancers. In an inconspicuous corner Darcy held out his arms and Helen came into them. She saw that his face was serious, concentrating as he danced. He did it well enough, but with none of the instinctive fluidity that she had glimpsed in Oliver at the beginning of the evening. But their movements suited each other and Helen let the music carry her, closing her eyes on the crowded room. They drifted unthinkingly from dance to dance. Sometimes, with his cheek against her hair, Darcy would say something inconsequential about the band or the dancers around them. Helen would answer equally inconsequentially and then they settled back into comfortable silence again.

  She was amazed when, with a final flourish, the band stopped playing. There was a patter of applause and Helen looked around her. The floor was almost empty and the musicians were putting their instruments away. She turned Darcy’s wrist to look at his watch. There were fine bleached hairs on the back of his hand, she noticed, and darker ones at his wrist.

  ‘Ten to three.’ She became aware of his hand in hers and dropped it at once.

  ‘I enjoyed that,’ he said seriously.

  ‘Me too.’ Helen stretched a little and realised at once that she was exhausted. Then she remembered Oliver, and Tom. ‘I should go to bed now,’ she said sadly.

  ‘May I see you home?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m staying in the house.’

  Darcy looked mildly surprised. Then he said, ‘In that case, I’ll walk you to the stairs.’

  At the foot of the great sweeping curve, he paused and looked upwards for a second.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you. You made an impossible evening enjoyable.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Helen told him, ‘because you did the same for me.’

  She turned and began to climb up the marble steps. If she had hoped that he might want to know more about her, perhaps ask to see her again, then she was disappointed. When she glanced back, Darcy was walking slowly away across the mosaic floor.

  Helen came down late to her last breakfast at Montcalm. She had a blurred impression that the room was full of people, house guests staying over from last night, she supposed. The first face that she saw clearly was Oliver’s. He stood up when he saw her. He was pale and the bright blue eyes were bloodshot but otherwise he looked none the worse.

  ‘Apparently I was really bloody last night,’ he greeted her, his smile as irresistible as ever. ‘Not that I remember anything about it. Should I be apologising to you for anything?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ she said uncertainly.

  His smile broadened. ‘Well, thank God there’s somebody I didn’t insult. Come and sit by me. No-one else will speak to me. Hart has cut me dead.’

  Helen looked and saw Tom at the end of the table. He was wearing a very bright blue shirt and a narrow scarlet tie. Theatrical again, Helen thought. He must be leaving Montcalm too. Their eyes met for a second and then slid past each other. Helen felt a little, uncomfortable stab of self-dislike.

  Oliver settled her beside him and poured her coffee from the ornate silver pot.

  ‘Eggs? Bacon?’

  ‘No, thank you. Just …’ Helen looked up and her voice faltered. Sitting immediately opposite her was Darcy. He was wearing an old, darned pullover and a frayed shirt open at the neck.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  Oliver looked from one to the other.

  ‘D’you know my brother?’

  Oliver’s brother? The realisation took her breath away. Darcy? The quiet, solid man who had helped her to enjoy last night in the face of everything else was no local farmer or hard-working vet.

  He was Viscount Darcy. That was his title, not his Christian name. And this great house was his home even more than it was Oliver’s. Helen looked back at the pleasant face with new eyes. Now there was something in the set of the features, the play of expression, that reminded her of Oliver. There was none of the clear-cut beauty that had mesmerised her for so long, but nonetheless she saw that they were alike.

  Perhaps, she thought, that’s even why I warmed to him so quickly. He was already familiar.

  ‘Last night … I didn’t know you were Oliver’s brother.’

  ‘I guessed not,’ Darcy said equably.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Was it important?’

  Helen felt a slow, hot flush spreading across her face. Oliver’s faintly raised eyebrows made her collect herself and summon up a smile.

  ‘Not at all.’

  As soon as breakfast was over, Helen went back to her room and hurriedly packed her belongings. She wanted to leave Montcalm now, and go back to the unconfusing tranquillity of Oxford.

  Just as she was finishing, Pansy came in. Hobbs was coming to collect her to take her to London, and she had insisted that she could perfectly well make the little detour necessary to drop Helen off in Oxford.

  ‘Enjoy the Ball?’ Pansy asked.

  ‘Yes, in the end. I met Oliver’s brother.’

  Pansy brushed the fine hair back from her forehead in a weary gesture. ‘My head. Did you? It seems a pity, really.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, that they weren’t born the other way round. He’s not exactly a match for Oliver, is he?’

  Helen chose not to pursue that.

  ‘Did you have a good time?’

  Pansy shrugged. ‘Oliver set out to be impossible, and duly was. But there were other people who weren’t just country hearties, and it was nice to be with Tom.’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen said a little shortly. ‘I’m sure.’

  Friends, she thought grimly, we hardly seem to speak the same language.

  Pansy was going. ‘Hobbs is already here. I’m ready to leave when you are.’

  Their bags were carried down and stowed in the white Rolls. Hobbs was standing at the door in his peaked cap.

  Helen was amused by the finely gauged difference in the farewells which Lord and Lady Montcalm gave to herself and Pansy. Helen was dismissed with the briefest handshake and the suggestion of a smile. For Pansy there was almost an embrace, and a cordial invitation to come and stay again. She winked at Helen from the cover of the door.

  Oliver and Tom were standing on the steps. Oliver wrapped his arms round Pansy and rubbed his cheek against her hair.

  ‘Forgiven?’ he murmured. Pansy looked faintly impatient.

  ‘Sure thing.’

  He kissed her and she smiled at him, but Helen had the impression that her mind was somewhere else.

  Helen turned to Tom. She wanted to murmur ‘sorry,’ but he was watching Pansy too. In the end, when he did look at her, she simply said, ‘Goodbye,’ surprised at the coolness in her voice. Their eyes didn’t meet.

  Hobbs was holding the door open and Helen was almost into the car when Darcy ran down the steps. His hand touched her arm.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked abruptly. Helen paused, half in and half out of the Rolls. Darcy’s homely, stolid face was almost eager. Behind him she could see Tom, imperviously ironic, and Oliver’s amused stare.

  Deliberately, she said, ‘At Follies House. Beside the river in Oxford.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I know it. I’ll … come and see you.’

  Helen ducked into the car and the door closed.

  In a moment they were whispering down th
e drive. Helen glanced back at the towering house and the little group on the steps. Then she sank back into the padded upholstery and suppressed a sudden giggle by staring hard at the back of Hobbs’s neck.

  Follies, she thought. Follies dragged me into all this, and here I am.

  The car turned out of the gates by the lodge and Helen saw a man in an overall taking the shutters down from the hut beside the turnstile.

  Then Montcalm was out of sight and they were on the Oxford road.

  Hilary Term

  Seven

  Chloe tapped her fingers absently on her sheaf of notes. She tensed her neck muscles to stop herself looking round again to where the EXIT sign glowed over the curtained door.

  Stephen was late. He had promised to be at this rehearsal and she had rushed to the theatre, too early, in her eagerness to see him. Chloe knew that she was coming to need Stephen more and more, and the knowledge disturbed her. Shrewdly, she hid her need from Stephen himself. When she was with him she managed to stay teasingly non-committal, provocative and amusing, but it was turning into a struggle and a pretence. She wanted more of him, the security of a real place in his life, but however closely she watched him she saw no sign that Stephen wanted anything more from her than he already had.

  They saw each other often enough, stealing afternoons and evenings from Stephen’s teaching schedules and, she imagined, from Beatrice. They had even, in the Christmas vacation, managed four days away together when Stephen was supposed to be at a conference. But Stephen never spoke of his wife or his children and Chloe knew that he was deliberately not admitting her to his thoughts and feelings about them. She was nagged by a sense of being on the periphery of his life, in spite of the passion of their hours together, and she was at a loss to know what to do to change that. She knew quite well that to turn demanding and possessive could be fatal. But what then?

  Perhaps she should try another tack. Be less the responsive and good-company Chloe that Stephen had come to enjoy as his right. Perhaps she should make herself less available. Perhaps even needle him a little with a little healthy jealousy. Jealous? she thought. Now, who could I … Chloe stared down the aisle towards the stage. Tom Hart was standing centre front, rubbing at his black hair with the towel draped round his neck. In his grey tracksuit he looked more like a dancer or an actor than the director of the show. He had been taking his cast through a movement workout before beginning the rehearsal and he had shown himself to be fitter than any of them.

  Now, even after the strenuous workout, he was issuing instructions in a clear voice that didn’t betray even a quickening of breath.

  ‘You’re stiff, Pansy, and it shows. Go through the basic programmes on your own every day.’

  ‘Oh God, all this bend-stretch is so boring.’ Chloe smiled at Pansy’s clear voice.

  Tom didn’t even look at her. ‘Too bad. Now let’s get on.’ Cocky bastard, Chloe thought, not for the first time. But she saw the dark hair at the throat of his unzipped tracksuit top and the cool authority in his face and thought, yes, he’s attractive. But there was something detached in Tom’s response to her that told Chloe that he did not find her as interesting as she would have expected. Her gaze shifted to Oliver’s windblown hair and Plantagenet features.

  Yes, Chloe thought, and then No. There was something wrong about beautiful Oliver, something minutely off-key that warned her away. And anyway, just now he belonged to Pansy.

  There was a slight movement behind her and she looked round. Stephen was sliding into the seat next to hers.

  ‘Sorry,’ he murmured with his mouth close to her hair. Then, safe in the darkness against the blaze of lights on stage, he kissed her. Chloe’s eyes closed and warmth flooded through her as it always did when she was with him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Stephen drew back and nodded towards the stage. Oliver’s and Tom’s heads were close together, light and dark, opposites in the spotlight.

  ‘Not much. Look at those two together. Almost good enough to eat.’

  As soon as she had said it, Chloe realised that Stephen was not going to be jealous. He shrugged. ‘Depends on your particular appetite.’ Then his fingers touched her thigh. ‘Come back with me afterwards.’

  Chloe knew that he meant to his College rooms where they would bolt the door and reach avidly for each other. She nodded, all thought of making herself unavailable chased out of her head.

  But when at last Tom left his seat in the front row and shouted, ‘Okay everyone, that’s it for today,’ Pansy jumped down from the stage and came towards them.

  ‘It all sounds too exciting,’ Pansy had said when Chloe, needing to talk about her new love, had described her snatched hours with Stephen. ‘But why does he lurk in the shadows so much at rehearsals? Is he afraid that we won’t be discreet about you two? Bring him to Follies so that the rest of us can get to know him too.’

  But Chloe had hugged her times with Stephen closer to herself, and she was glad that they spent the hours he could spare for her alone together.

  Now Pansy was kneeling on the seats in front of them, smiling at Stephen. Her hair was freshly washed and her face was bare of make-up. She looked very pretty and very young. Suddenly Chloe was aware of the difference in their ages and the two or three fine lines, still invisible to everyone but herself, that were showing at the corners of her eyes. ‘Come back to supper at Follies, won’t you, Stephen? Everyone else is. Bring him, Chloe.’

  ‘Well, no …’ Chloe began, but Stephen cut her short.

  ‘Why not? Thank you, Pansy.’

  Chloe felt a protest rising in her throat but she bit it back.

  ‘Wonderful.’ Pansy’s smile was for Stephen alone, and his eyes followed her as she ran back to the stage. He saw nothing of the irritation and the quick flicker of anxiety that showed in Chloe’s face.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked easily.

  Yes. Yes, she longed to say. I can’t bear to share you with anyone. But she only said, ‘I suppose not,’ and knew that her sulky expression didn’t suit her.

  Pansy’s elegant little flat in Follies House was crowded with people. The scene was familiar to Chloe. Pansy hated to be alone and it reassured her to fill empty rooms with noisy people. Almost invariably she prevailed on someone else to do the cooking in her compact little kitchen, and tonight it was Rose. Her bulk was pressed against the oven as she stirred a bubbling pot of goulash.

  Chloe had often joined in these informal suppers but tonight the atmosphere grated on her. Stephen didn’t belong in this free-for-all.

  Pansy jumped up as soon as she saw them. In her jeans and striped sweatshirt, she looked like an excited boy.

  ‘She’s perfect for Rosalind,’ Stephen murmured. ‘Hart’s luckier than he knows.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ Pansy told him simply as soon as she reached them. Her vivid face was serious for an instant and Stephen’s conventional greeting died in his throat. He saw the unblemished apricot skin and the exotic palette of blues in her eyes. She was perfect. Unthinkingly he leaned forward and kissed her cheek and for an instant he could have bitten into her as if she was a ripe summer fruit.

  Beside them Chloe went stiff and cold. Her careful, expert make-up felt like a mask and her expensive suede tunic weighed on her like a vulgar declaration.

  Pansy took Stephen’s arm to lead him away but Chloe cut in, her voice unnaturally sharp.

  ‘I’ll look after him, Pansy. We can’t stay long anyway.’

  Pansy half turned and the two women looked at each other. The complicity that Helen had once seen and envied evaporated. In the new appraisal there was a challenge, and defiance.

  ‘Of course,’ Pansy said very softly. Then she was gone, and Chloe shivered as she saw that Stephen was still watching her across the room.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she heard him say. At once he was the Stephen she knew again, faintly smiling and with one eyebrow raised. Love for him hammered in her head like an affliction and a panick
y desperation made her mumble, ‘Stephen. Let’s not stay here. Let’s go back to your rooms.’

  His hand touched her sleeve.

  ‘Chloe, we don’t own each other, you know. We can’t. Don’t we have enough together to make you happy?’

  ‘No. I love you. I need you.’

  She could have bitten out her tongue, but it was too late. Stephen’s face changed. He looked sad, but not before Chloe had glimpsed the irritation too.

  ‘I thought we understood each other,’ he said, very gently. Longingly she waited for him to say something else, something to convince her of her own importance to him, but there was nothing. At last he made a tiny gesture. ‘I think we’re making ourselves a little conspicuous here. Shall we find somewhere to sit down?’ He glanced around the room and Chloe knew that he was looking to see where Pansy had gone. Her own gaze travelled across the blur of people. Then, like a film camera focusing to pull one face out of a crowd, she saw Oliver. He was staring at Stephen as if he wanted to hit him. For some reason the memory of the uncomfortable lunch at Stephen’s home came back to her.

  It was Beatrice she had been jealous of then, Chloe recalled. Why? she asked herself bitterly. Why can’t it be simple, this time? I’m tired. The others hadn’t mattered, not like this. Even Leo. But Stephen …

  He was already moving away from her, threading his way across the room.

  ‘Find us somewhere,’ she managed to call after him, not wanting to admit the feeling that he was abandoning her. ‘I just want to talk to Oliver.’

  Chloe sat down on a fat velvet floor cushion beside Oliver. He nodded her a brief greeting and then went on staring over to where Pansy was beaming up at Stephen. Her hand was resting lightly on his arm.

  Chloe felt little cold fingers of anxiety pressing at her. There was something in Stephen’s expression, fascination mingled with a kind of awe, that Chloe had never seen before. He’s practically old enough to be her father, she thought. Perhaps that’s what she wants. A Masefield-figure that she can actually go to bed with, as well. Hurriedly she put the thought out of her head. The thought of Stephen touching, kissing Pansy’s glowing skin made Chloe feel physically sick.