Dan was silent. He was thinking that she had never looked more beautiful than she did now, when she was slipping irrevocably from his grasp.
You must not let your bitterness over the past define you, she had told him. It was a maxim she clearly tried to live by because she was brave, she was strong. But he could see that this latest revelation was too much even for her to endure.
‘I am sorry,’ he said in a low voice.
‘I’m afraid that “sorry” isn’t enough this time.’ She lifted her head to gaze at him, and he thought he saw tears glistening in those gorgeous green-gold eyes. His fault, he thought desperately. All his. She looked around and said, ‘It’s perhaps as well this happened when it did. It puts an end to any stupid illusions I might have had that our relationship actually meantsomething to you. I’m going home now, and I don’t expect we shall meet again.’
He moved to stop her. ‘You cannot walk all the way to Clematis Villa. I shall drive you in my carriage and maybe we can talk tomorrow—’
‘Talk about what, precisely? There’s nothing really to say, is there? You did warn me about your faults. You did warn me that you don’t deserve my respect, but I refused to believe you, so I’m to blame as much as you. Whatever you choose to do with your life, it really doesn’t matter to me.’ She looked around. ‘I’m not going to walk home, because I shall take one of the hire cabs—I can see them over there. Goodbye, Dan. And I would certainly advise you to choose better friends in the future.’
She was gone, and he stood there as his world broke into pieces around him. He had hoped… What had he hoped?
He had hoped Kate was beginning to feel the same way as he did about her. After their night of intimacy, he had wondered if she was prepared to understand and maybe forgive his many faults. He was even, after years of heedless living, beginning to realise that he may have found someone worth living for.
He stood there, feeling cold in the hot sunshine as the noise of the racecourse faded into nothing. He thought,she was prepared to give me perhaps her most precious possession—her trust. And I have betrayed that trust.
It was too late for regrets. But it wasn’t too late to deal with that fool Gascoyne, who he could see hobbling back towards the crowds. Dan caught up with him, grabbed his shoulder to spin him round and grated out, ‘If you breathe one word of that stupid wager, or say anything at all about Miss Summerby, I will see you blackballed from your London clubs and personally ruined. Do you understand?’
The man blenched and wiped fresh blood from his nose. ‘I understand,’ he muttered.
Another race was underway and the cheering of the spectators filled the air. Angus Gascoyne went back to his friends—but Dan went home and started making arrangements to return to London.
He arrived at his Mayfair house three days later, in the afternoon. Oliver was out, the servants didn’t know where, so Dan changed from his travelling clothes then visited his lawyer to tell him he wanted to sell the Brighton house as swiftly as possible. After returning home he sat in his study, staring into nothingness.
He realised that he’d begun to have dreams about living in that house for good, with the scent of the salt breeze in the air rather than the city’s smoke and dust. He had dreamed of having the space to ride up on the hills or walk along the rural tracks without the endless racket of passing carriages and tradesmen’s calls. Dreamed of the chance to find himself free from the pressures of Society and its endless demands.
And always in his dream he wasn’t alone. He had a companion, a beautiful and loyal friend who never failed to speak the truth whatever the cost to herself, and who had faced the difficulties of her own life with courage and integrity. Kate, who had dealt silently with her lameness and her awful debut and who thought herself plain—when to him, she was the loveliest woman he had ever met.
He had shared one magical night with her, a night of not only making love but of getting to know her and know himself. He had been on the brink of trusting his own cynical heart enough to believe there might be a future for them both. But the dream had been shattered by Gascoyne’s sneering reminder of that scandalous wager, and he knew that he would never, for as long as he lived, forget the look of betrayal on Kate’s face.
Gascoyne had not lied, so what could Dan have said to excuse himself? Absolutely nothing. His past had caught up with him, and he could not expect Kate to forgive him.
After an hour he heard Oliver arriving. His brother marched straight into the study, took one look at Dan and said, ‘So you’re back in London. Is everything all right? No, stupid question. I see everything is not all right. You’ve made another hash-up of things with Miss Summerby, haven’t you? Honestly, what an idiot you are sometimes.’
Dan indicated a chair for his brother then poured them both brandy. ‘I would appreciate it,’ he said, ‘if for once you’d tell me something I don’t already know.’
‘That is exactly what I’m about to do.’ Oliver accepted his glass but didn’t drink. ‘Now, listen. Next week I’m starting my new job at the War Office, but meanwhile I’ve had time to look through the boxes of our father’s correspondence. Yes, I know you told me we should leave all that damned stuff alone, along with the memories of our childhood. But I’ve found something rather interesting. I’ve found letters to our father from our mother, in France.’
Letters from their mother? Already Dan felt the shadow of early loss descending to darken his world again. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘that I want to read them.’
‘I wasn’t sure either. But I did read them, and I think you should too. Will you come and take a look?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Three weeks later
It was the day of the school’s summer fete, and Tilly had asked Kate if she would come and help her with the refreshments. Kate had been into the school several times lately to hear the youngest ones read and she’d loved it, so she readily agreed to serve the cakes and scones to the parents.
Harriet, of course, came with her and helped too. It was a gorgeous day with only the occasional cloud sailing across the blue sky—quite perfect in fact for the games that had been organised for even the smallest of the pupils, with prizes for all. The vicar’s wife, Mrs Pritchard, supervised the proceedings with brisk efficiency and after the cakes and tea had been handed out she came over to Kate to say, ‘Thank you for your assistance, Miss Summerby. I very much hope you’ll continue visiting us next term, to help the children with their reading?’
‘I would love to. I love being a part of this. It means a great deal to me.’
Mrs Pritchard’s businesslike expression softened. ‘My dear, it does to all of us.’ She walked away then to organise the next game, but Kate wasn’t alone for long. ‘Miss Summerby!’ piped up a little voice. ‘I’ve made a picture for you. Do you see?’
Kate looked down to see Tilly’s seven-year-old granddaughter, Jane, holding out a drawing of a cottage withflowers all around. ‘It’s lovely, Jane. Thank you so much.’ Kate stooped to hug her.
‘It’s a happy picture,’ said Jane, ‘because I want everyone to be happy.’
