Weyward(45)

The courtroom grew loud, the whispers from the gallery like the drone of a hundred insects.

The prosecutor was finished with Reverend Goode. He climbed down from the stand slowly, and I saw his age in his faltering movements. The intimidating figure I remembered from childhood was diminished. Soon he too would start his journey from this world to the next. I wondered what he would find there.

I was taken back to the dungeons. Night had already fallen for me.





23


VIOLET


Frederick didn’t come down for breakfast the next morning.

Violet was beginning to feel quite worried about him, until he emerged at luncheon, looking pale and green. He barely touched his food, taking only a delicate bite of Mrs Kirkby’s leftover rabbit pie before crossing his knife and fork on his plate.

‘They finished off that whole bottle of port last night,’ Graham whispered to her, as they filed out of the dining room. A rough note in Graham’s voice told Violet he was jealous. ‘Actually, I think he had more of it than Father did.’

‘Don’t be so quick to judge,’ Violet hissed. ‘He’s fighting a war. I imagine it’s been utterly exhausting. I should think he’s earned a glass or two of port.’

They hung back and watched Father and Frederick go on ahead. Father had his hand resting on Frederick’s shoulder (‘Good thing too, or he’d fall over,’ said Graham) and was pointing out various items of furniture in the entrance hall, as if he were some sort of sales merchant.

‘That’, said Father, motioning to a rather hulking side table, ‘is an original Jacobean. ‘Worth at least a thousand pounds. It was commissioned by our ancestor, the Third Viscount, in 1619. James I was on the throne then – though you knew that already, I expect, with your interest in history.’ Father beamed, and Graham rolled his eyes.

‘Strange fellow, King James,’ said Frederick. ‘Rather fancied himself a bit of a witch-hunter. He wrote a book about it, did you know?’

Father’s face darkened, and he moved away from Frederick before continuing the tour as if he hadn’t heard.

‘This clock’, he said, gesturing to an ornate gold carriage clock carved with cherubs, ‘was my mother’s, given to her by her aunt, the Duchess of Kent, for her twenty-first birthday …’

‘Never told me any of that,’ Graham muttered. ‘Anyone would think he was the son and heir.’

Later, as they played bowls on the lawn outside, Violet thought that Frederick must have forgotten his suggestion that they take a walk that evening. He had barely looked at her all day. Perhaps he had forgotten about the kiss, too. Or perhaps – worse – he regretted it. Maybe it hadn’t been a very good kiss; maybe she’d done it wrong.

She was doing a terrible job of the lawn bowls. It was very warm, and her hairline was damp with sweat. Though she wasn’t the only one – dark stains had appeared on Father’s shirt, and Graham’s face had flushed to match his hair. Even Cecil was subdued: curled up beneath the rhododendrons, pink tongue lolling from his mouth. He looked almost sweet.

Only Frederick seemed unbothered by the heat – she supposed he had got used to it, in Libya – and had perked up considerably since luncheon. He rolled his ball so that it hit the jack with a plink and grinned, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. She would have thought he looked perfectly at ease, if she hadn’t noticed that his hand kept straying to the pocket of his trousers and patting something hidden there, as if it were a talisman.

‘I’m going to go and ask Mrs Kirkby for some lemonade,’ she said.

‘Rather you than me,’ said Graham, watching his ball veer away from the jack and into a rose bush. Graham was afraid of all the servants, but especially Mrs Kirkby, who had recently caught him divesting a roast chicken of its legs. She had ardently vowed to box his ears if he ever set foot inside her kitchen again.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Frederick. ‘You might need help carrying the glasses.’

Violet’s stomach lurched.

‘Thank you,’ she said, barely pausing to wait for him as she made her way to the house. Conscious of his eyes on her, Violet moved stiffly, as if she had forgotten the correct way of walking.

He caught up with her as they entered the cool of the house. She thought how quiet it was, in the entrance hall. Although the doors had been flung open to let in the summer air, she couldn’t even hear the bees buzzing outside. Frederick took a step closer to her. Blood rushed in her ears.

‘I’m looking forward to our walk later,’ he said softly.

So he had remembered. Her pulse flared as he moved closer. Why was there this awful thrumming sensation in her veins? Sweat prickled in her armpits. She was merely excited at the prospect of asking him more questions about her mother, she told herself. That was why her heart was thudding. Suddenly, she worried that he would kiss her again. Did she – should she – want him to?

There was the sound of a door opening and closing and Frederick sprang back. They looked up to see Miss Poole at the top of the stairs, carrying a stack of French textbooks that Violet supposed she would have the joy of wading through at some point in the future.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Miss Poole, curtseying as though Frederick were King George rather than her employer’s nephew.