She didn’t know if she would, but she did likehim. Like many of the British, he was full of arrogant confidence, but in his case it was rather attractive.
‘Robert Beresford,’ he said and smiled.
Something told her this man was going to play a significant part in her life, so she smiled back and tried out hernew name again. So far, she had only used it once when she’d met Charlotte on the boat.
‘Riva,’ she said, turning to him and extending a hand. ‘Riva Janvier.’
Goodbye, Rosalie, she thought.
CHAPTER 14
Florence
Devonshire, 1944
While Florence was preparing supper, Belinda came into the kitchen then began pacing the room and muttering.
Florence looked up, her eyes stinging from slicing onions. ‘What is it?’ You’re making me nervous.’
Belinda bit her lip.
Florence sighed. ‘Look, I’m cooking, and I need to concentrate or I’ll cut my finger or burn myself. If you’ve got something to say, just say it. If not, could you please sit down.’
‘You think you know everything about Jack, don’t you?’ Belinda eventually said.
Florence frowned. ‘Of course not. Why would you say that?’
Belinda tilted her head to one side with a curious look on her face. ‘He told you everything did he, on that cosy little walk you had?’
Florence shrugged, not wanting to get into this.
‘So, he’s told you about Charlie then?’
‘Who’s Charlie?’
‘Just as I thought,’ Belinda said, her voice scornful, and then she left the room.
Puzzled, Florence threw her hands up in the air. What was that all about? Did it even mean anything? Through the window she spotted the pheasants running for the hills for no apparent reason and felt a stirring of unease. Their capers were usually funny but not tonight. She turned back to slide the onions into the frying pan and couldn’t help wondering who Charlie was. Somebody significant? If not, why had Belinda mentioned him? Maybe Charlie was a girl. A girlfriend of Jack’s perhaps? But then, Jack would have said something, wouldn’t he? Then again, maybe not. After all he hadn’t mentioned having a wife, so what else might he be concealing?
Later she sat looking out of the sitting room window as the setting sun turned the sky red and gold. She felt awkward being alone with Jack as he lit the fire and couldn’t settle to her book. Belinda was now striding around upstairs, and she knew they were both listening to her footsteps. She recalled the closeness she and Jack had shared during those weeks crossing the mountains and sighed deeply. Nobody here really understood – or wanted to know – what they’d been through. The war was dragging painfully on, and it seemed everyone had a story to tell.
‘That sounded heartfelt,’ he said. ‘You okay?’
She nodded, but as a distraction counted the panes on each of the three triple casement windows. Each one had pretty arches at the top. The one at the back had twelve panes, another facing the front had eighteen panes and the little one at the side had just nine. She stood up to close the heavily lined floral curtains against the oncoming night. Weighted with lead pellets at the hems, they kept out the worst of the cold.
Just as she was closing the final curtain, Belinda waltzed in wearing a low-cut, clingy crepe dress, with ridiculously high heels. The dress was black and she wore it with panache, accessorised only by a single string of pearls. But her eyes were red from crying, or too much alcohol – Florence couldn’t tell which – and she held a full glass of whisky in her shaking hand. She was too thin but still incredibly beautiful.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Belinda, give me the glass and sit down. You’re spilling it,’ Jack said as he got to his feet.
Belinda settled into a wooden Windsor chair by the back window and pulled back the curtains to peer out. ‘I like it better with the curtains open. All that darkness approaching, you know. I like to see it. In London I never close them, do I darling?’
Jack snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Belinda. You have blackout curtains in London.’
Belinda’s words hadn’t been slurred, so maybe shehadbeen crying, not drinking, Florence thought. As she picked up the book she’d been trying to read, the woman spoke again. ‘Well, you two are very chummy, but Florence, Iwonder if you could give us some privacy. I rather need to talk to Jack.’
Jack started to object but Florence was already on her feet. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, raising her shoulders in a shrug of feigned indifference. ‘I’ve things to get on with in the kitchen.’
‘Just like the proper little housewife that you are,’ Belinda said in a sickeningly syrupy voice. ‘Didn’t think that was your cup of tea, Jack.’
