Still, grateful as Julian was for Sam's help, he wished his cousin hadn't assumed so much. He'd felt guilty about the amount of work she was doing purely from the goodness of her heart, and he'd been casting about aimlessly for some form of repayment. He had no available money to offer her, not that she would have needed or accepted it had he done so, but he did have his dogs as well as his knowledge of and enthusiasm for Derbyshire. And wanting to make her feel welcome for as long as possible at Broughton Manor, he'd offered her the only thing he had: occasional activities with the harriers as well as conversation. And it was a conversation about the eclipse that she had misunderstood.
“I hadn't thought …” He kicked at a bare patch in the gravel where a dandelion was shooting up a furry stalk. “I'm sorry, I'm heading over to Maiden Hall.”
“Oh.”
Funny, Julian thought, how a single syllable could carry the weight of everything from condemnation to delight.
“Stupid me,” she said. “I can't think how I got the impression that you wanted to … Well, anyway …”
“I'll make it up to you.” He hoped he sounded earnest. “If I hadn't already planned … You know how it is.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Mustn't disappoint your Nicola, Julian.”
She offered him a brief, cool smile and ducked into the hollow of the wisteria vine. She hooked a basket over her arm.
“Another time?” Julian said.
“Whatever.” She didn't look at him as she walked past, slipped through the gateway, and disappeared into the inner courtyard of Broughton Manor.
He felt the breath leave him in a gusty sigh. He hadn't realised he'd been holding it back. “Sorry,” he said quietly to her absence. “But this is important. If you knew how important, you'd understand.”
He made the drive to Padley Gorge swiftly, heading northwest towards Bakewell, where he spun across the old mediaeval bridge that spanned the River Wye. He used the journey for a final rehearsal of his remarks, and by the time he'd reached the sloping drive to Maiden Hall, he was fairly assured that before the evening was out, his plans would bear the fruit he wanted.
Maiden Hall sat midway up a slope of woodland. Here the land was thick with sessile oaks, and the incline leading up to the Hall was canopied with chestnuts and limes. Julian cruised up this drive, negotiated the serpentine turns with the skill of long practise, and chugged to a stop next to a Mercedes sports car in the graveled enclosure that was reserved for guests.
He skirted the main entrance and went in through the kitchen, where Andy Maiden was watching his chef put the flame to a tray of créme brulée. The chef—one Christian-Louis Ferrer—had been brought on board from France some five years previously to enhance the solid if not inspired reputation of Maiden Hall's food. At the moment, however, with culinary blow lamp in hand, Ferrer looked more like an arsonist than un grand artiste de la cuisine. The expression on Andy's face suggested that he was sharing Julian's thoughts. Only when Christian-Louis had successfully turned the coating into a perfect, thin shell of glaze, saying, “Et la voila, Andee” with the sort of condescending smile one gives to a doubting Thomas who's once again had his doubts proven groundless, did Andy look up and see Julian watching.
“I've never liked flame throwing in the kitchen,” he admitted with an embarrassed smile. “Hello, Julian. What's the news from Broughton and regions beyond?”
This constituted his usual greeting. Julian made his usual response.
“All's well with the righteous. But as for the rest of mankind … Forget it.”
Andy smoothed down the hairs of his greying moustache and observed the younger man in a friendly fashion while Christian-Louis slid the tray of créme br?lée through a service hatch to the dining room. He said, “Maintenant, on en a fini pour ce soir” and began removing the white apron that was stained with the evenings sauces. As the Frenchman disappeared into a small changing room, Andy said, “Vive la France” wryly and rolled his eyes. Then to Julian, “Join us for a coffee? We've one group left in the dining room and everyone else in the lounge for the after-dinners.”
“Any residents tonight?” Julian asked. An old Victorian lodge once used as a hunting retreat by a branch of the Saxe-Coburg family, Maiden Hall had ten bedrooms. All had been individually decorated by Andy's wife when the Maidens had made their escape from London a decade previously; eight were let out to discerning travelers who wanted the privacy of a hotel combined with the intimacy of a home.
“Fully booked,” Andy replied. “We've had a record summer, what with the fine weather. So what's it to be? Coffee? Brandy? How's your dad, by the way?”
Julian winced inwardly at the mental association implied in Andy's words. Doubtless the whole blasted county paired his father with one type of booze or another. “Nothing for me,” he said. “I've come for Nicola.”
“Nicola? Why, she isn't here, Julian.”
“Not here? She's not left Derbyshire already, has she? Because she said—”
“No, no.” Andy began storing the kitchen knives in a wooden stand, sliding them into slots with a neat snick as he continued talking. “She's gone camping. Didn't she tell you? She set out mid-morning yesterday.”
“But I spoke to her …” Julian thought back, reaching for a time. “Early yesterday morning. She wouldn't have forgotten that quickly.”
“Looks like she has. Women, you know. What did you two have on?”
Julian sidestepped the question. “Did she go alone?”