‘Well, lucky old you. And for the record, Star, I was teasing you.’
‘Oh.’ I hated that he’d read my mind.
‘Please, I know my sense of humour is confusing, but I promise I was joking. Defence mechanism, n’est-ce pas? To keep people at bay. We all have one. Look at you. You’re very hard to read . . . Occasionally I feel I know what you’re thinking from the expression in those blue eyes of yours . . . but most of the time, I haven’t got a clue.’
I immediately looked away from him, and he gave a chuckle before taking another sip of his beer. ‘Anyway, I was rather hoping that while you were here, you’d find something that I haven’t seen for a long, long time.’
‘What is that?’
‘As you’ve already gathered, Flora MacNichol was a prolific diarist for much of her life. Her journals – forty or fifty of them – sat on a bookshelf in the study at Home Farm for years. My father found them in a trunk in the attic when he was cleaning out the house after his parents died. That’s how he knew of the . . . anomaly he told me about when he was dying.’
‘What “anomaly”?’
‘It was to do with the inheritance when High Weald was divided in the forties. Putting it simply, he felt our line – i.e. the Forbes – had been cheated out of what was rightfully ours.’
‘I see.’
‘Naturally, when I came to research our family history, I pulled them down and started working through them. But I’ve come to a grinding halt – all her journals from 1910 onwards are missing. Star, I know that there were far more than there are now on that bookshelf. They used to take up two shelves and now it’s less than one.’ He shrugged. ‘The problem is, those missing years may contain the proof of my father’s theory. Not that I can do anything about it now, but I’d like to know for sure, one way or the other.’
‘I understand,’ I said.
‘By the way, have you found your figurine?’
‘I have.’ I decided there was little point in lying further.
‘Thought you would. Can I see it?’
I dug into my jean pocket, and drew out the box. ‘Here.’ I passed it across the table to him.
He opened the little box solemnly, then reached into the top pocket of his shirt for a pair of reading glasses, and studied the figurine carefully.
‘Well, well,’ he muttered, then drew the glasses off his nose. ‘Can I borrow this for a week or so?’
‘Why?’
‘I want to have it authenticated.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘Don’t you trust me, Star?’
‘Yes, I mean . . .’
‘Either you do or you don’t,’ he said with a smile. ‘So, Asterope, Star . . . it seems we are playing a game of cat—’
‘And Mouse.’ With that, we both laughed and it broke the tension between us. ‘You can take the figurine, if you swear to return it. It’s very precious to me,’ I said.
‘I promise. Oh, and by the way, Marguerite called and said she won’t be back until late tomorrow evening.’
‘That’s okay. I’ll stay until Thursday morning and go straight to work in London.’
‘Thanks. Right,’ he said, as he took a gulp of his beer, ‘I’m afraid I must go. I have to get the accounts together tonight to show Orlando everything he doesn’t want to see tomorrow.’
‘Treat him gently, won’t you?’ I begged as I handed him the figurine.
‘Orlando or this?’ he joked as he stowed the box in the pocket of his Barbour. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He stood up and walked to the back door. ‘But sometimes the truth hurts.’ He paused. ‘I’ve enjoyed tonight. Thank you.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘We’ll talk soon. Goodnight, Star.’
‘Goodnight.’
22
The following day, a woman arrived at the back door and announced she was there to collect Rory for his riding lesson. I grilled my charge on whether this was normal, but the warm hug and kiss he gave her proved she wasn’t here to kidnap him. He returned red-cheeked from cold and exhilaration, and as we sat together at the kitchen table I asked him to paint a picture of himself for me. He told me not to look while he painted, so I made him a couple of batches of brownies – one for the freezer, and one to eat now.
I watched his copper-coloured head studiously bent over the picture, and felt a wave of protective love for this little boy who had somehow managed to creep inside my heart. Who knew what the future held for him, given what Mouse had told me. Would High Weald still be his when he was old enough to preside over it? The good news was, he hardly seemed aware of adult troubles, and had an optimistic, open nature that people were drawn to.
He trusts in humanity . . .
‘For you, Star.’ Rory nudged me as he proudly handed me the painting.
I took it from him and studied it. And found a lump in my throat. Rory had painted a picture of the two of us together in the garden: him holding my hand as I bent over to study some flowers. He had managed to catch the way that I stood, how my hair fell across my cheeks, and even the long fingers that currently held the picture.
‘Rory, it’s wonderful. Thank you.’
‘Love you, Star. Come back soon.’
‘I will treasure it forever,’ I told him, as I did my best to pull myself together. ‘Now, how about a brownie and some Superman?’
He gave me an eager thumbs up, and we walked hand in hand towards the sitting room.
After the last bedtime story, I packed my holdall ready to leave early the following day, hoping that Marguerite wouldn’t mind giving me a lift to the station so I could be on time at the bookshop. I tried not to think of the conversation that had almost certainly ensued between the two brothers during the course of today. As I walked back downstairs, I touched the banister and tried to engrain its solid beauty in my memory to last me until next time I was here.
I saw the lights of a car flash up the drive at ten o’clock. The front door slammed a few seconds later and I went to greet the current chatelaine of High Weald.
‘Darling Star.’ Marguerite flung her arms around me. ‘Is Rory okay? Thank you so much for being here with him. Mouse tells me you’ve been wonderful. Is there anything to eat? I’m starving,’ she managed all in one breath.
‘Yes, Rory’s fine. Fast asleep but excited to see you. And yes, there’s something keeping warm in the range.’
‘Great. God, I need a glass of wine. You?’ Marguerite said as she headed for the fridge in the pantry.
‘No thank you.’
She proceeded to pour herself a hefty glass of wine and immediately slugged back a mouthful. ‘I feel as though I’ve been on the road all day. The chateau is in the middle of nowhere. And then, of course, the plane was delayed.’
Despite Marguerite’s protestations, she looked amazing. There was a light in her eyes and a flush to her skin that told me that wherever she had been and however long it had taken her to return, she was happy.
‘How is it going in France?’