‘But he left us Drew. And he was very ill – you know he was, dearest – and often in pain from his wounds. Don’t let’s be too sad?’
‘You are right. This is a good day and we will start it by giving Miss Clitherow Alice’s news.’
‘I agree. Best she should be the first to know. But let’s both tell her? Then I’ll go to the kitchen and tell them exactly the same story – and let them know how glad about it we both are.’
‘Tell the same story? Don’t you think that sounds as if we are being a little underhanded?’
‘Telling lies about Tom having been a prisoner of war and Alice leaving Rowangarth to be with Aunt Sutton, you mean, when all the time she was with Tom in Hampshire? Yes, it is underhanded, but sometimes you have to stretch the truth a little.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Helen sighed, comforted. ‘But first you must tell Reuben. He’s known about Alice and Tom all along – it’s only right we should put him in the picture. And don’t you think Miss Clitherow should be the one to tell staff about it?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Julia’s reply allowed for no compromise. ‘It’s such lovely news that I want to be the one to tell them. Besides, Miss Clitherow might tell it her way. She never quite approved of Alice becoming Lady Sutton.’
‘But she did, Julia! She was extremely correct about it and insisted that Alice was given the respect due to her.’
‘She overdid it. Alice didn’t know where she stood. All right – so she had been your sewing-maid, then came back from France mistress of this house, though she never once exerted her authority. She was still Alice, and staff should not have been barred, entirely, from showing her kindness. And it was Miss Clitherow at the bottom of it!’
‘Did Alice complain? I never once thought she wasn’t happy.’
‘She was happy as she could be. But she and Giles didn’t live a normal married life – we both know it – yet for all that, she nursed him and cared fondly for him – and she gave Rowangarth a son.
‘But I want to tell staff about Alice and Tom. When Miss Clitherow has been told I shall go downstairs at once and take Drew with me if he isn’t asleep. I’ll have tea with them – like I used to.’
She called back staff teatime, with bread and jam and cake and sometimes, on special days, cherry scones. So long ago. So much water under so many bridges. So much heartache.
‘I remember. Cook spoiled you, just as she spoils Drew. You were always her favourite. And you are right. I’ll leave it to you to tell staff.’
‘Fine! I’ll put Drew in his pushchair and walk to the village. I intended calling on Reuben, anyway, to tell him about the christening and take his piece of cake. Now I’ll be able to tell him that Alice plans to visit. He’ll be so pleased.’
‘But not a word about the adoption, mind!’
‘Of course not.’ Not until they had seen the Carvers, old and young, and the legalities were set in motion. ‘Do you know, dearest, for all I was glad to be home again, I still had a sad feeling, leaving Alice. But now I’m so glad. Drew will be ours completely and Alice and Daisy will soon be coming to stay.’ She lifted the small boy from his high chair, throwing him into the air so he laughed with delight and demanded more. ‘Come on, young Sutton – let’s get you cleaned up. There isn’t a child anywhere who can get himself so sticky at breakfast! You’ve even got jam in your ear! Say ’bye to grandmother!’
Child on hip, she slammed out of the room, almost like the Julia of old, Helen thought. Almost …
Clementina Sutton, feeling quite splendid in a rose-red calf-length silk costume and toning bell-shaped hat, brought the knocker down three times, then took a deep breath.
It was all most exciting. She had never before met a Russian, much less been received by a countess who had one thing above all in her favour. She, Clementina, did not have the cut crystal voice of a true aristocrat – she knew it. Even her expensive schooling had not entirely removed her Yorkshire accent. No! She had never had that, exactly; more undertones of northness, perhaps. Yet she still had to pause, she admitted, before saying butter, government, and good luck. It was the way with northern vowels. They could give one away, no matter how very rich one might be. But the countess, being foreign, would have no ear for English dialects. It would be quite relaxing to sip tea from a samovar and not have to watch every word she said.
The door was opened by the same black-clad servant, who took the offered card, indicating with a graceful movement of her hand that the caller was to sit. Then she walked down the hall to announce the visitor. And she didn’t walk, Clementina pondered; rather she placed one foot before the other with the haughty, considered precision of a ballet dancer so that her long, full skirt swirled as she moved. Far more pleasing, Clementina thought nastily, than the pompous plodding of the flat feet of Pendenys’ butler.
‘Plis?’ Again the delicate movement of the hand, the indication she was to be followed.
A middle-aged woman, also dressed in black – even her beads and eardrops were of jet – rose to her feet, her hand extended.
‘Olga Maria Petrovska,’ she said softly, inclining her head.
‘Clementina Sutton of Pendenys,’ came the prompt reply. ‘It is kind of you to receive me.’
‘Please to sit down. Tea will be brought – or coffee?’
‘Tea is most satisfactory. You will realize that I live next door to you – when in London, of course.’ She spoke carefully, slowly, shaping her mouth like a mill girl in her eagerness to be understood.
‘Ah, yes. Karl – he is our coachman and houseman – keeps me informed of what happens in the world outside. I am little interested in it at the moment. I am in mourning. I rarely receive visitors.’
‘I am sorry. Might I ask for whom?’ The woman’s English was good – very good – for a foreigner. ‘That dreadful war – will we ever forget it?’
‘The war – yes. But for me my bête noire is the uprising, the Bolsheviks. My husband and elder son were killed by the rabble; Igor is still in Russia – though I would beg you not to speak of it outside this house. They have their spies everywhere. And I mourn for my country, also.’
‘But they will be defeated and punished, those terrible people. You will go home to Russia …’
‘No. Perhaps Igor and Anna, but not me.’
‘Your children?’ Clementina was enjoying herself immensely.
‘Igor is my younger boy; Anna my only daughter. Basil, our firstborn, died at his father’s side, defending our home. Igor tries to – to find things we left behind us,’ she hesitated, ‘but please not to talk of it until he is safely back?’
‘Not a word,’ Clementina breathed. ‘I have sons of my own. You have my sympathy and understanding …’
The door opened without sound and the servant in black placed a tray on the table at the countess’s side. Then, dropping a deep, graceful curtsey, she left on feet that seemed scarcely to touch the floor.
‘Please – something we have done wrongly?’ The countess challenged her caller’s inquisitive, roaming eyes.
‘N-no. Foolish of me, but I had expected a samovar. And your furniture …’ she faltered.
‘You expected us to be very Russian? You thought to see oriental carpets, silk hangings and rare paintings? And it surprises you that I use so English a teapot?’
‘I didn’t know what to expect,’ Clementina said with complete candour. ‘I had thought that –’
‘That you would have wealthy people living next to you? Then you