‘Oh not “clever” for they are fishes, but they have an animal’s fine sense of self-preservation, and it is the nature of things that it is the “foolish” trouts who end upon the dining table, because they have fallen for my pretend fly.’
‘Do you make your own flies?’
Lady Damerham groaned at the question.
‘Sir Rowland, please, do not pursue this conversation. When most ladies are hemming handkerchiefs or putting new ribands upon their hats, my daughter is to be found with an enlarging glass, scraps of fur, feathers and I dare not ask what else, and peering at illustrations of ghastly little insects.’
It was Mary who laughed this time.
‘Mea culpa. I will answer you, Sir Rowland, despite Mama. I usually purchase my flies, especially the ones I use the most, for it is more than frustrating when one loses the last of a particular fly that has been proving successful. However, I do like to make some of my own100also. There is a fly local to this area not quite like those in the book, and I have endeavoured to replicate it, with my “secret” addition of a specific-coloured silk thread wound about it like stripes. I have found it very good in its season, which is the spring, when one recommences fishing.’
‘And have you named it?’
‘Of course. It proudly bears the name “Lound’s Lucky”.’ She gave him a smile so genuine and from deep within that he was taken aback.
‘Alternatively, it must therefore be “Trouts’ Misfortune”,’ quipped Mr Kempsey, as Mrs Peplow entered and announced that dinner was served.
It was a very thoughtful Mary Lound who sat before her looking glass and carefully removed her earrings before she went to bed. She had enjoyed the evening, at least for the most part, having dreaded sitting in the dining room of her old home as a mere guest. In the event, she had forgotten that in the first few minutes, and settled into an easy conversation with Mr Tom Kempsey while her host listened to her mother with apparently rapt interest, but which was probably complete mystification. It took time to learn to follow Mama’s train of thought.
She thought Tom Kempsey a nice boy, with a quick mind and a ready smile. He had expressed a desire to go into politics, or rather into the business of governance, and had aspirations within the Foreign Office. If his personable nature and high intelligence were anything101to go by, he ought to do very well. He admired his elder brother, and had talked happily about his three older sisters, now married and living in Kent, Berkshire and Shropshire, respectively, and the mothers of enchanting infants, though this was their description of their progeny, not their uncle’s view.
‘To be frank, ma’am, babies are all squalling brats to me, and I cannot for the life of me discern the resemblances they claim to either side of the family.’
‘I think with babies, Mr Kempsey, it is rather a case of “beauty lies in the eye of the beholder”, and parental doting is part of nature. I am sure every cat with kittens thinks no other kittens were ever half so fine.’
He had laughed and agreed. Shortly afterwards, by the mutual ‘dance moves’ of dinner conversation, he transferred his attention to Lady Damerham, and Mary found herself engaged with Sir Rowland. For no good reason, she found it harder to be relaxed with him, and felt self-conscious. He had spoken of general topics, which had moved to art and his liking for paintings.
‘Though I favour landscape, which is currently, according to the periodicals, not at all in favour among the experts.’
‘So you do not account yourself an expert, Sir Rowland?’
‘No, that would be presumptuous. I appreciate good painting, and by that I mean painting which represents the physicality of the scene, or thing, but also a sense of feeling.’102
‘Did you study art in any formal way, or has it been by your own interest and experience?’
‘Oh, mostly the latter, though one of my tutors at Merton happened to also love pictorial art, and I learnt a little from him about what to see in a painting. I was at least spared the Grand Tour of my grandfather’s day; the thought of being dragged about Italian frescos and Greek statuary in poor repair fills me with horror. The one good thing I will say about Bonaparte is he has made the Grand Tour impossible. Personally, I am more than content with “this sceptr’d isle”. This shows that I am undoubtedly a philistine underneath, but there. It has meant a war, but …’
‘My brother was killed at Sabugal,’ announced Miss Lound, flatly, and though her voice held no tremor, an expression crossed her face that needed no explanation.
‘Forgive me.’ Sir Rowland’s light-hearted manner had gone in an instant. ‘I did not know … did not mean …’ He had frowned, angered by his own clumsiness. It was as if a great stone had been thrown into a pool and its mirror surface had been broken by the ripples. Mary had fought with a sudden wave of loss, which she still felt sometimes as a physical thing, as if the breath had been knocked from her, as Sir Rowland tried desperately to think of something to say that would not sound crass or trite. When he did speak, his voice was quiet and low. ‘Unlike most of Europe, we are spared the reality of war in our towns and countryside, and our army, being small in number103by comparison with many, is in some ways forgotten by all who do not have loved ones within its ranks. What happens in the Peninsula is reported, but not “felt”. I am truly and genuinely sorry, Miss Lound.’
‘You did not know, could not have known.’
‘You were close.’ It was not a question.
‘Very. Sir Harry Penwood, whom I am sure you will meet, has lately returned from Spain and sold out upon the death of his father. He and James and I, we were a childhood trio with James, the eldest, at its head.’ She had looked at him, and in her eyes he saw a depth of sorrow that made him want to take her hand and reassure her. Yet to do so would have been impertinent, and there was no reassurance. One could not make such a thing better, by word or deed.
‘Forgive me,’ he said again, and then there had been silence between them for some minutes, neither knowing how to recommence the conversation without it feeling false. Eventually it had been he who broke it and asked, hesitantly, ‘Are you still prepared to come here tomorrow, and show me about the house?’
The humility won her in an instant. He had not presumed that it would not upset her in such a way that returning when the memory had been so actively stirred would hurt, or that she might wish to keep from him. She shook her head.
‘No, Sir Rowland. I said that I would come, and so I shall – not as a martyr, either. It is you who ought to forgive me. Some losses can be borne with surprising104ease, some memories blur to nothing, but some wounds stay raw and open and nearly unbearable for so very long. It is not something that can be explained. That wound, for me, is one such, and you touched it without knowing. I cannot blame you, do not blame you, but I hurt.’ She finished upon a whisper that held pain as acute as if it were physical.
‘Then tell me something, anything, that might in any way take your thoughts from it. Tell me something unimportant, frivolous even; a like, or a dislike.’
She had pondered for a moment.
‘I have an illogical fear of spiders.’
