A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(61)

Lady Augusta was continuing. She was a woman wells-killed in the art of dinner table dialogue, devoting half her time to the right, the other to the left, and throwing a remark right down the centre whenever she deemed it appropriate. “It’s bad enough that Wheal Maen must be closed. But cows were actually grazing in the park when I arrived! Good heavens, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My father must be spinning in his grave. I don’t understand the reason, Mr. Penellin.”

Penellin looked up from his wine glass. “The mine’s too close to the road. The main shaft’s flooded. It’s safer to seal it.”

“Piffle!” Lady Augusta proclaimed. “Those mines are individual works of art. You know as well as I that at least two of our mines have beam-engines that are perfectly intact. People want to see that sort of thing, you know. People pay to see it.”

“Guided tours, Aunt?” Lynley asked.

“Just the thing!”

“With everyone wearing those wonderful cyclops hats with little torches attached to their foreheads,” Lady Helen said.

“Yes, of course.” Lady Augusta rapped the table sharply with her fork. “We don’t want the Trust here, sniffing round for another Lanhydrock, putting everyone out of house and home, do we? Do we?” She gave a quick nod, accepting no response as agreement. “Quite. We don’t. But what other way do we have of avoiding those little beasts than by dealing with the tourist trade ourselves, my dears? We must make repairs, we must open the mines, we must allow tours. Children love tours. They’ll be wild to go down. They’ll give their parents no peace until they’ve had a look.”

“It’s an interesting idea,” Lynley said. “But I’ll only consider it on one condition.”

“What’s that, Tommy dear?”

“That you run the tea shop.”

“That I…” Her mouth closed abruptly.

“In a white cap,” Lynley went on. “Dressed as a milkmaid.”

Lady Augusta pressed against the back of her chair and laughed with the heartiness of a woman who knew she’d been bested, if only for the moment. “You naughty boy,” she said and dipped into her soup.

Conversation ebbed and flowed through the remainder of the meal. St. James caught only snatches here and there. Lady Asherton and Cotter talking about a large brass charger, caparisoned and prancing, that hung on the room’s east wall; Lady Helen relating to Dr. Trenarrow an amusing tale of mistaken identity at a long ago house party attended by her father; Justin Brooke and Sidney laughing together over a remark Lady Augusta made about Lynley’s childhood; the Plymouth MP and the Reverend Mrs. Sweeney wandering in a maze of confusion in which he discussed the need for economic development and she responded with a dreamy reverie about bringing the film industry to Cornwall apparently in order to feature herself in a starring role; Mr. Sweeney—when his eyes were not feasting upon his spouse—murmuring vague responses to the MP’s wife, who was speaking about each of her grandchildren in turn. Only Peter and Sasha kept their voices low, their heads together, their attention on each other.

Thus the company moved smoothly towards the end of the meal. This was heralded by the presentation of the pudding, a flaming concoction that looked as if its intended purpose was to conclude the dinner by means of a conflagration. When it had been duly served and devoured, Lynley got to his feet. He brushed back his hair in a boyish gesture.

“You know this already,” he said. “But I’d like to make it official tonight by saying that Deborah and I shall marry in December.” He touched her bright hair lightly as a murmur of congratulations rose and fell. “What you don’t know, however, because we only decided late this afternoon, is that we’ll be coming home permanently to Cornwall then. To make our life here—have our children grow up here—with you.”

It was an announcement which, considering the reaction, no one had been prepared to hear. Least of all had St. James expected it. He had an impression only of a general cry of surprise and then a series of images played quickly before him: Lady Asherton saying her son’s name and nothing more; Trenarrow turning abruptly to Lynley’s mother; Deborah pressing her cheek to Lynley’s hand in a movement so quick it might have gone unnoticed; and then Cotter studying St. James with an expression whose meaning was unmistakable. He’s expected this all along, St. James thought.

There was no time to dwell upon what it would mean—how it would feel—to have Deborah nearly three hundred miles away from the home she’d known all her life. For champagne glasses had been distributed, and Mr. Sweeney was enthusiastically seizing the moment. He got to his feet, eager to be the first to embrace such welcome news. Only the Second Coming could have given him more pleasure.

“Then I must say…” Clumsily, he reached for his glass. “Do let me toast you both. To have you with us again, to have you home, to have you…” He relinquished the attempt to find an appropriate sentiment and merely raised his glass and burbled, “Simply wonderful,” before he sat down.

Other congratulations followed, and with them were voiced the inevitable questions about engagement and wedding and future life. The meal could have disintegrated at that point into one large display of bonhomie, but Peter Lynley put an end to the promise of that happening.

He stood, holding his champagne glass at arm’s length towards his brother. He waved it unevenly. Only the shape of the glass prevented the wine from sloshing out. “Then a toast,” he said, drawing out the last word. He leaned one hand on Sasha’s shoulder for support. She glanced furtively at Lynley and then said something in a low voice which Peter disregarded. “To the perfect brother,” he announced. “Who has managed somehow after searching the world over—not to mention doing a fair degree of sampling the goods as he went. Right, Tommy?—to find the perfect woman with whom he can now have the perfect life. What a damned lucky fellow Lord Asherton is.” He gulped his drink noisily and fell back into his chair.