Sarah loved her kitchen in the mornings. There was an estate office, but she liked to hold her briefings round the table in here: run over any problems they’d had with visitors, talk about upcoming events, discuss any brainwaves the staff had. The kettle was on the Aga top non-stop, and there was always a tray of brownies or flapjacks or date slices sent over from the tea room. This time of year was their quietest. They always took some time in autumn to take a breath after the furore of summer and before the mayhem of Christmas.
Sarah had been auditioning Father Christmases for the grotto all week. It was more difficult than she had anticipated. Their old Father Christmas had finally decided to hang up his boots, but finding someone good-natured and jolly and bearded (she had no truck with false beards: Peasebrook Manor was all about authenticity) was a challenge. Still, it had taken her mind off the impending memorial service.
But now the day had come. The service was at twelve o’clock. No one ever questioned what Sarah was doing or where she was – she knew that from years of discreet vanishing – but today she felt self-conscious, exposed and slightly vulnerable, as if today was the day she was finally going to get caught for her transgressions, because of her emotions.
Of course, the safest thing to do would be not go. To take herself off somewhere and have her own private memorial. But she wanted to be there for him. He would want her there, she was sure. She wished she had a friend, a stalwart who could come with her, but she had never confided in anyone. It was the only way to be sure.
If she could get through today, she would have got away with it.
She felt slightly giddy with the risk. Perhaps it was better to focus on that than her grief, a little black bundle she only opened when she knew no one was around.
She also knew it was easier to get away with things if you were open. She had never pretended not to know Julius. If she was with Ralph and they bumped into each other in Peasebrook at a social function, or in the supermarket or simply in the street, she always made a point of talking to him. So it wasn’t in the least odd that she was going to pay her respects.
Ralph was reading the paper, and the two girls who worked in the office were comparing text messages.
‘Right – I’m off into Peasebrook. I’m going to Julius Nightingale’s memorial.’ Sarah said it as casually as she could. Never had three words struck such coldness into her heart.
Ralph didn’t flicker. He didn’t take his eyes away from the paper.
‘Sure. See you later.’
Sometimes, she had wondered if he knew, or suspected, but judging by his reaction, he hadn’t a clue. And now he never would know.
Sarah had never set out to be an adulteress. But like all adulteresses, she had found a way to justify her infidelity. The one thing she was glad of was that at least Julius wasn’t married, so she was only causing potential harm to her own marriage, not her lover’s. The only person who ever gave herself grief about her infidelity was herself, because no one else knew. And when she backed herself into a corner over it, Wicked Sarah told Pious Sarah that Ralph was lucky she hadn’t left him. He should be grateful that the only knock-on effect of his behaviour was her affair.
It was fifteen years ago now, but she could remember the shock as if it was yesterday.
In retrospect, Sarah supposed that it was a testament to the strength of her marriage that Ralph was able to confess the extent of his debt to her. A lesser man might have driven them to the brink of ruin. Ralph stopped short of that. Just. And for that Sarah was, if not grateful, then thankful. For she would never have forgiven him if it had meant selling Peasebrook. Never.
It was unusual for a house like Peasebrook to be passed down the distaff side, but Sarah’s parents handed it over to her when she turned thirty and scarpered off to live in the Scilly Isles, and she took on the responsibility with gusto. Ralph was working in the City as a financial analyst and making plenty of money for them to maintain the house and have a good life. But when the pressure of that became too much, he took early retirement. He claimed to have done the maths, and assured her there was enough in the coffers to keep them in Hunter wellies and replace the roof tiles when necessary. He had the rent from his bachelor flat in Kensington and he still played the stock market.