Mrs Bloom glanced over her shoulder at Vicky, and chuckled.
Vicky hurried out and walked across the hall and into the dining room. It was cosy and welcoming with the fire burning brightly in the grate, and there was the smell of beeswax and pine cones, intermingled with the hint of smoke and the faint scent of ripening apples in the air. It was a mixture of those unique and lovely country smells which never failed to remind Vicky of Compton Hall, the Hasling family seat where she and Will had grown up. That lovely old manor house had always been redolent with the perfume of burning wood, mellow fruit, baking bread, and the sweet scent of homemade honey. She thought of their late mother with a rush of affection, a woman who had turned that ancient pile of stones into a welcoming home where children were loved and cosseted.
Slowly Vicky began to set the table for lunch, selecting a linen cloth with embroidered edges, crystal water tumblers, knives and forks and linen napkins, and as she moved around she thought of her dear friend Lily Overton.
Lily had been very brave earlier that morning when she had discussed her plans, explained what she would do if she was pregnant after all. She did have only three choices, Vicky was acutely aware of this. Lily could try to get a termination, a risky business, in more ways than one; she could have the child and give it up for adoption immediately, a miserable, heartbreaking prospect; or she could keep it and bring it up herself.
Lily had elected to do the latter, and Vicky couldn’t blame her. She would manage very well, in Vicky’s opinion, because she was practical by nature, a good organizer, and fortunately she had her own money, was not dependent on anyone.
That was the key, the money. It protected her and the child.
Having a child out of wedlock was like committing suicide for most women who found themselves in that terrible situation in this day and age. An enormous stigma was attached to illegitimacy, and unless a woman was protected by the man involved she was doomed. Even in this new Edwardian era, which was more relaxed than in Queen Victoria’s time, the stigma remained. Despite the fun-loving antics of the aristocracy and the licentiousness which was so prevalent today, beneath that carefree, glittering façade there remained prudery, snobbery, discrimination, class distinction and—
‘I shocked you earlier, didn’t I?’
Vicky almost jumped out of her skin. Swinging around, she exclaimed, ‘Goodness, Lily! You did give me a start. I didn’t hear you coming down the hall.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lily apologized. ‘But I did shock you, didn’t I?’
‘No, you didn’t, actually. Surprised me, yes.’
‘I’ve made up my mind not to think about it, for the moment at least…it could be a false alarm, you know.’
Vicky nodded. ‘That’s a wise decision.’ She fell silent as Lily came to stand next to the fireplace. Vicky couldn’t help thinking what a beautiful woman she was, with her perfect pink-and-white complexion, green eyes and blonde hair. Her features were sculpted, very even and smooth, and she looked much younger than her years. No wonder Edward Deravenel was so smitten with her…what man wouldn’t be?
Margot Grant came in from the garden, and took off her coat, hung it in the armoire, and went into the dining room. She stopped dead in her tracks, staring at the room in horror. What had happened here? Mon Dieu! The mahogany dining table had been pushed up against one of the end walls, the twelve antique dining chairs arranged in four rows of three, like the pews in a church, and the table itself had been transformed into some strange homemade altar. And above the table, hanging on the wall, was the crucifixion of Christ. How had Henry managed to nail it up there? she asked herself.
A terrible dismay swept over her, and she did not move for a moment, her mind churning. Henry was off on one of his mad jaunts again, filled with religious fervour, revelling in the belief that he was a monk, and that he had his own church where he preached to a congregation. That there wasn’t one present never seemed to bother him at all.
But he wasn’t here preaching to the empty chairs now. So where was he? Terrified that he might have wandered out of the garden of their Ascot home, gone onto the main road, she swung around and rushed out into the garden. Shading her eyes from the sunlight, she looked around frantically, calling his name, ‘Henry! Henry! Where are you?’
He did not respond to her calls, and she began to search for him. Within the space of a few minutes she saw him flitting through the trees in a small copse at the end of the lawn. Her heart sank. He was wearing the dark brown monk’s robe again, and carrying a wooden cross. As she drew closer, she heard him singing, off key as usual.
Margot felt nauseous. He was stark raving mad, there was no question about that. What if someone found out how truly crazy he was? And that he had been in asylums? She might have to put him there again. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!
‘Henry, Henry, chéri!’ she exclaimed as she moved into the copse of trees. ‘Come along, let us go inside. It is cool today.’
He turned around, gaping at her, his eyes vacant. ‘Daughter in Christ,’ he mumbled. ‘Daughter in Christ, good morrow to you.’
Swallowing her distaste, pushing her spiralling anger to one side, Margot took hold of his arm, and murmuring cajoling words she led him out of the copse, across the lawn and into the house.
Once she had manoeuvred him into his bedroom, she swung on her heels, left his room and locked the door behind her. What a pious, mentally disturbed old fool he was. One thing was absolutely essential. She now had to keep him hidden from the world until he became himself again.
Margot Grant shook her head as she went downstairs. It was better when he went into catatonic shock. At least then he sat in a chair all day not moving, not speaking.
Edward Deravenel came striding into the library of Neville’s Chelsea house, bringing with him a rush of energy, vitality and the most obvious exuberance. Ned’s feeling better, Neville thought, putting the grief behind him. He’s ready and able to move forward. He was pleased for his young cousin, and relieved at the change in his demeanour.
There was a smile on Edward’s face, an apology on his lips. ‘Sorry to be late. I’m afraid I had trouble finding a hansom cab this morning.’
‘There’s no problem, Edward,’ Neville murmured, coming forward to greet his cousin. After they had quickly embraced, Neville stepped away, seated himself in a chair near the fireplace.
Edward chose to stand, propped himself against the mantelpiece, and asked, ‘What time are the others due to arrive?’
‘Alfredo Oliveri will be here in about ten minutes, Amos Finnister fifteen minutes after that.’
‘You haven’t really explained who Amos Finnister is,’ Edward remarked, looking across at Neville, an eager expression settling on his face. ‘All you said is that he has worked for you for some years, that you trust him implicitly, and that he will be invaluable to me.’
‘He will indeed, I’ve no doubt. But you’ll soon understand about Finnister. Before they arrive please tell me about the past week. Your notes were rather enigmatic, and you were not at all forthcoming when you telephoned.’
Edward nodded, explained, ‘There wasn’t a lot to tell you, and quite frankly it was