A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(20)
Faced with the concrete, undeniable reality that was Tommy’s home—no longer an illusory setting for the weekend house parties she had overheard discussed by St. James and Lady Helen for so many years—Deborah’s mind became taken up with the risible notion of herself—Deborah Cotter, the child of a servant—moving blithely into the life of this estate as if it were Manderley with Max de Winter brooding somewhere within its walls, waiting to be rejuvenated by the love of a simple woman. Hardly an act in her line, she thought.
What on earth am I doing here? The entire situation felt like a dream, with chimerical elements stacking one upon the other. The flight down in the plane, the first viewing of Howenstow, the limousine and uniformed chauffeur waiting on the air strip. Even Lady Helen’s lighthearted greeting of this man—“Jasper, my God! So sartorially splendid! The last time I was here, you hadn’t even bothered to shave.”—did little to allay Deborah’s qualms.
At least nothing was expected of her on the drive to Howenstow other than to admire Cornwall, and she had. It was a wild part of the country, comprising desolate moors, stony hillsides, sandy coves whose hidden caves had long been used as smugglers’ caches, sudden lush woodlands where the countryside dipped into a combe, and everywhere tangles of celandine, poppy, and periwinkle that dominated the narrow lanes.
The main drive to Howenstow shot off from one of these, canopied by sycamores and edged by rhododendrons. It passed a lodge, skirted the park, dipped beneath an ornate Tudor gatehouse, circled a rose garden, and ended before a massive front door above which a hound and a lion battled resplendently in the Asherton coat of arms.
They got out of the car with the usual jumble that accompanies an arrival. Deborah favoured the building with a single, fleeting look. It appeared to be deserted. She wished that were the case.
“Ah. Here’s Mother,” Lynley said.
Turning, Deborah found him looking not towards the front door, where she had expected to see an excessively well-dressed Countess of Asherton standing with one white hand extended limply in welcome, but towards the southeast corner of the house where a tall, slender woman was striding towards them through the shrubbery.
Deborah could not have been more surprised at the sight of Lady Asherton. She was wearing old tennis clothes, with a faded blue towel flung round her shoulders. This she used vigorously to wipe perspiration from her face, arms, and neck. Three large wolfhounds and a gangling young retriever bounded at her heels, and she paused, wrested a ball from one of them, and threw it with the skill of a bowler to the far side of the garden. She laughed as they disappeared in frantic chase after it, watching them for a moment before joining the party by the front door.
“Tommy.” She spoke pleasantly. “You’ve had your hair cut a bit differently, haven’t you? I like it. Very much.” She didn’t touch him. Instead, she gave her embraces to Lady Helen and St. James before turning to Deborah and continuing to speak with a rueful gesture at her tennis clothes. “Forgive my appearance, Deborah. I don’t always greet guests so decidedly un-turned out, but frankly, I’m lazy, and if I don’t take my exercise at the same hour every day, I manage to find a thousand excuses for not taking it at all. Tell me you’re not one of those dreadful health fiends who jog every morning at dawn.”
It was certainly not a welcome-to-our-family salutation. But on the other hand, it wasn’t the sort of clever greeting that managed to mix requisite courtesy with unmistakable disapproval. Deborah wasn’t sure what to make of it.
As if she understood and wanted to get them through the first moments as smoothly as possible, Lady Asherton merely smiled, squeezed Deborah’s hand, and turned to her father. Throughout the exchange Cotter had been standing to one side. In the heat, sweat sheened his face. He was managing to make his clothes look as if they’d been made for a man several inches taller and much heavier than he.
“Mr. Cotter,” Lady Asherton said. “May I call you Joseph? I’m only too delighted that you and Deborah shall be part of our family.”
So here was the standard welcome. Wisely, Lynley’s mother had saved it for the person she had intuitively known would most need to hear it.
“Thank you, m’lady.” Cotter clasped his hands behind him as if in the fear that one might jump out and begin pumping Lady Asherton’s arm of its own volition.
Lady Asherton smiled. It was a duplicate of Tommy’s crooked smile. “It’s Dorothy, actually, although for some reason that I’ve never quite understood, my family and friends have always called me Daze. Which is better than Diz, I suppose, since that suggests dizzy, and I’m afraid I should have to draw the line at something that comes so perilously close to describing my personality.”
Cotter looked rather dumbfounded at what was clearly an invitation to address the widow of an earl by her Christian name. Nonetheless, after a moment for thought, he nodded sharply and replied, “Daze it is.”
“Good,” Lady Asherton responded. “Lovely. We’ve a beautiful weekend for a visit, haven’t we? It’s been a bit hot, of course—today’s quite warm, isn’t it?—but I expect we’ll have a breeze this afternoon. Sidney’s already arrived, by the way. And she’s brought the most interesting young man with her. Rather dark and melancholy.”
“Brooke?” St. James asked sharply. He didn’t look pleased.