When I’d finished as much of the meal as I could manage, Swann took the tray back to the kitchen and returned with a pot of Sir Poppet’s tea.
“This is wonderful stuff,” he told me. “Goes down a treat after a large meal.”
“And stays down,” I commented wryly. “I’ve got a trunkful of it. I’ll give you a supply first thing in the morning. I have a feeling that large meals are the rule around here. You’re a brilliant cook.”
“Swann is a treasure,” Lucy agreed. “I put on at least a stone every time I come to visit.”
“Which isn’t often enough,” said Anthea.
Lucy rested her chin on her fist. “It’s not easy to get away, Mother, particularly now, with—”
“With the girls at home having babies and only that great oaf Arthur to lend a hand.” Anthea nodded. “I understand, Lucy, but it’s no use running yourself ragged.”
Nell smoothed Bertie’s cape and suggested innocently, “You could ask Gerald to help.”
The effect of her words was quite startling. Lucy flinched, as though she’d been slapped; then her face crumpled and she ran from the room without speaking. I stared after her, stunned, and for a few moments no one spoke.
“Poor girl,” said Anthea, making no move to follow her daughter. “She’s exhausted.”
Swann snorted. “Nonsense. She’s heartbroken and you know it. Gerald is, too, but he won’t admit it.” His blue eyes flashed in my direction. “Did you speak with Gerald when you visited him in Surrey? Did he happen to mention why he left London?”
I shrugged noncommittally. “He said he made some mistakes and had to leave, for the good of the firm.”
“Utter nonsense,” Swann declared.
“Swann ...” Anthea murmured.
“Sorry, darling, but I’m sick unto death of all of you tiptoeing around the subject. Lucy’s miserable, and when she’s miserable you’re miserable, and that makes me miserable as well.” He returned his attention to me. “Gerald, unlike that great oaf Arthur, is a gifted solicitor. He’s intelligent, charming, discreet, and he loved what he was doing. I simply don’t believe that he decided to leave the firm because of one easily remedied mistake.”
I looked uncertainly at Anthea. “I thought Lucy asked him to leave.”
“Lucy?” Anthea said, her eyes widening. “Ask Gerald to leave?” She gave her teacup to Swann and got up to retrieve a framed photograph from the mantelpiece. After glancing briefly at the picture, she brought it over and handed it to me.
The photograph showed five children, three girls and two boys, decked out in riding gear and posed in the open doorway of the stable. Although it was a group portrait, the two oldest children, a dark-haired girl and a boy with chestnut hair, had pulled slightly apart from the rest and were smiling at each other instead of at the camera.
“Swann is quite right,” Anthea said. “Those two have been in love with each other ever since they first conceived the idea of being in love. They never talked of marriage. It was simply understood. I don’t know why Gerald decided to leave the firm, but I can assure you that it wasn’t because my daughter asked him to.”
The fire crackled and a gust of wind rattled the windows. Anthea returned the photograph to the mantelpiece, resumed her place on the couch, and took her teacup back from Swann. I thought about Lucy, crying her heart out upstairs, and Gerald, eating his heart out in Haslemere. It made no sense whatsoever.
Nell broke the silence. “Then why did Gerald leave the firm?”
I closed my eyes, wishing that she’d given us a few more minutes to recover from the effects of her first bombshell before dropping another, but Anthea took the question in stride.
“God knows,” she said. “If Gerald can lie to himself about his love for my daughter, he can lie to anyone about anything.”
“Anthea’s an expert on liars,” Swann put in.
“I should be,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I was married to one.” She leaned into Swann’s side and gazed at the fire meditatively. “I must admit that there’s an odd similarity between my late husband and Gerald.”
“It must be extremely odd,” Swann commented. “Gerald’s a decent bloke, whereas Douglas was a swine.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t always like that,” said Anthea. “Douglas was basically a decent bloke until he got involved with that doctor....”
“Sally the Slut,” said Swann, with a reminiscent smile. “The ferret-faced physician with the bottomless pill bottle.”
“Dreadful woman.” Anthea shook her head and spoke to me. “She had a husband of her own at one time, but he fled in horror when he realized what he’d married.”
Swann gave an approving nod. “Clever fellow.”