‘Not recalcitrant fingers and thumbs, Mr Kempsey?’ Mary smiled at him.343
‘Well, those generally do as I command them, ma’am, so the blame has to lie with the muslin. Has my brother shown you his new picture? He is very pleased with it, at least I am pretty sure he is, for he asks me to admire it every time I walk past it.’
‘I am not sure you deserve mulled wine, Tom,’ remarked Sir Rowland, ‘though at least you arrived before the fire is lit. You will take a glass, Lady Damerham?’
‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’
‘But what painting, Sir Rowland? I am intrigued.’ Mary, ignoring refreshment, looked at him.
‘I will show you. It is on the wall in the yellow saloon. Would you care to see it also, Lady Damerham?’
To his great relief, her ladyship, denying all knowledge of art, said she would be very comfortable with her wine, and Mr Kempsey to entertain her, thereby giving the couple carte blanche to be alone for a few minutes. She had a feeling it might be ‘useful’. Sir Rowland therefore led Mary to the yellow saloon, where he studied her while she studied the picture.
‘I like it very much,’ she said, after careful inspection.
‘Mmmm.’
‘I have never seen a painting using moonlight before. You would think it would make things indistinct in places, but he has used the play of it to such good effect. What is the name of the artist?’
‘Artist?’ He had been thinking how well she carried herself, the way she kept her chin raised.
‘Yes, sir, the person who painted the picture.’ She344turned and saw him looking at her in such a way that she felt warm all over. ‘You were not paying attention to me.’
‘I was, I promise. Just … not to what you actually said. How could I look at mere art when you are so close to me?’
‘Have you been thinking up nice things to say all afternoon, Sir Rowland?’
‘No. It is just that at this moment I feel free to say them. It has not previously been the right time, or the right place. It is now, in this house that still feels yours, on Christmas Eve.’ He reached for her hand, and his fingers entwined with hers. ‘We have a few precious moments alone. Mary I …’
She stepped so close their bodies touched, and placed a finger to his lips for an instant, then removed it and lifted her face to his.
‘Then no time for words,’ she whispered, and, with great daring, she offered herself for his kiss. There was no rush, no indecent haste of passion. His lips met hers and his free hand went to her cheek. It was as if all five senses colluded in that kiss, for he could taste her, touch her, smell her, see her through half-closed eyes, hear the soft sound she made that was part sigh, part sob. It was everything he wanted, and yet but the tip of the iceberg. They lingered, savouring, committing every sensation to memory, for since the season meant that they must perforce meet indoors, being completely alone together would be rare and345had to be treasured. They parted, slowly, and stared at each other. There was silence, silence in which he thought he could hear as well as feel his own heartbeat as they descended from a private alt.
‘Moments well spent,’ he murmured, and she nodded. ‘You asked me a question.’
‘The artist? It would be embarrassing to be asked and not know.’
‘Van der Neer. I like the picture even more now, by its association.’
‘We ought to return to the hall.’
‘Yes,’ his hand slid from hers, ‘we ought.’
When they entered the hall, Lady Damerham was disappointed, for she expected an announcement and tears and smiles. It was a remarkably composed couple who came in, discussing landscape painting. What was the point, she thought, of giving them time together if they did not use it profitably?
Tom Kempsey, who was rather more astute at reading people, and especially his brother, did not think for one moment that it had not been ‘profitable’.
Sir Rowland went to the fireplace and took a piece of wood from the mantelshelf. He had got the head gardener to find a branchlet and turn the end into a feather stick that would catch easily and could be applied to several points beneath the great log. Mary thought there was an almost schoolboy excitement to him. He handed Mary the feather stick and struck flint and steel and lit it for her.
‘There, Miss Lound, you embody the history of this346house, so you lighting the yule log is the continuity we need.’
‘I am here to bring good luck, Sir Rowland?’
‘I think you are good luck,’ he answered, quietly, and smiled at her.
Blushing, she pushed the burning feather-stick into the kindling, and Sir Rowland set the footman to watch the fire and ensure it was kept alight long enough for the log to begin to burn.
‘And now, Miss Lound, I have something to show you that I think will surprise you.’ He drew from his pocket a box, but it was not the velvet case for a jewel. He removed the lid. ‘Show me your palm.’ She obeyed, and he withdrew something small and oval from tissue paper and laid it on her extended hand. ‘He is home, Miss Lound.’
