She smiled. ‘Of course you may. How exciting. You may have to bring out a new edition of your book.’
He laughed. ‘How accurately you read my thoughts, my dear. I’m a silly old fool, I know. I get so carried away, but it is so exciting. It’s suddenly seeing history before you – the bones of history – the actual fabric within which events took place.’
‘Would this have been a cellar then?’ Joss glanced over her shoulder.
‘Maybe. An undercroft, a storeroom, even a well chamber.’ He laughed, staring round. ‘But no well.’
‘The well is in the courtyard.’ She was edging back towards the stairs, trying to draw him away from his wall. ‘Why don’t we go up, Mr Andrews. It’s so cold down here. You can always come back.’
He was stricken. ‘How selfish of me. I’m sorry, my dear. You do look cold. Of course we must go.’ He cast one last longing glance back at his vaulting and followed her to the staircase.
Lyn and Tom were still deeply engrossed in cooking supper when at last she waved Gerald Andrews down the drive, so, reaching for her coat, Joss opened the back door and went out into the dusk. Beyond the lake a small gate in the hedge led out into the lane. A few hundred yards’ walk led up to the back of the field from where she could look down on the estuary and out towards the dark sea. She stood for several minutes, her hands in her pockets, looking down at the water then with a shiver she turned back into the lane, which with its thickly tangled hedges was more sheltered. Slowly she walked back, savouring the sweetness of the smell of spring flowers and wet earth and sodden bark after the salt sharp tang nearer the sea. From here she could see the silhouette of the church tower, and now and then, from a higher point on the bank the roofs of the Hall. In the deep shade between the hedge banks it was cold and damp and she shivered again, hurrying to get back.
As she let herself in through the wicket gate by the rowan tree she saw a boy standing by the lake. He had his back to her and he seemed to be standing staring down into the water. ‘Sammy?’ Her whisper was choked with fear. ‘Sammy!’ This time it was a shout. The boy did not turn. He did not seem to hear her. Running now, she crossed the lawn, round thickets of elder and winter dead hawthorn shrouded in ivy, and burst out on the bank of the lake near the little landing stage.
There was no one to be seen.
‘Sammy!’ Her cry put up a heron which had been standing motionless in the shallows on the far side of the water. With an angry harsh cry it lifted laboriously into the evening sky and skimmed the hedge out of sight.
‘Sammy,’ she whispered again. But he was gone. If a real child had been playing by the water the heron would have flown away long before she arrived on the scene.
She put her hand to her side with a small grimace. Her desperate run across the grass had given her a stitch. Frowning with pain she doubled over for a minute, then slowly she began to walk back towards the house.
Lyn and Tom were in the kitchen. Tom’s face, covered in chocolate, betrayed the fact that they had now reached the stage of preparing the pudding.
‘You OK?’ Lyn glanced at Joss as Tom ran to her and gave her knees a sticky hug.
Joss grimaced. ‘A bit of a stitch. Silly.’
‘Go and sit down by the fire. I’ll bring you another cup of tea.’ Lyn slid her baking tins into the oven. ‘Go on. Off with you.’
The fire in the study was almost out. Bending down wearily Joss threw on some logs and a shovel of coal, then she picked up David’s notes and sat down in the old armchair. Her back was aching now too and she felt inordinately tired.
When Lyn came in half an hour later with a cup of tea she was fast asleep. For a minute Lyn stood staring down at her, then with a shrug she turned away. She did not leave the tea.
‘Luke!’ Joss’s cry turned into a gasp as a violent cramp tore her out of her sleep. ‘Luke, the baby! Something’s wrong.’ Miserably hugging her stomach she slipped to her knees on the carpet. ‘Luke!’
There was a hand on her shoulder. Gentle, caressing, he was there. Sobbing she reached up to grip his knuckles. The lightest touch across her back, fingers rubbing her shoulders. She could smell roses. Where had Luke found roses at this time of year? Her hand groped for his. There was no one there. Shocked, she stared round, another kind of fear flooding icily through her as she realised the room was empty. ‘Luke!’ Her voice rose to a shriek.
‘Joss? Were you calling?’ The door was pushed open and Lyn put her head round it. ‘Joss? Oh God! What’s the matter?’
Luke drove her to the hospital. His face was white and Joss kept noticing the smear of oil across his left cheek. She smiled fondly. Poor Luke. He was always being dragged away from his precious car.
The pains had stopped now. All she felt was a strangely overwhelming tiredness. She could hardly move. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Even her fear for the baby couldn’t keep her awake.
She was vaguely aware of being wheeled in a chair from the car to a lift, and of being put into bed then she was lost in velvety blackness. Twice she woke up. The first time Simon Fraser was there, sitting at her bedside, holding her wrist. He smiled, his sandy hair flopping round his face, his glasses reflecting distorted images of the side ward where they had put her. ‘Hello there.’ He leaned forward. ‘Welcome back to planet Earth. How are you feeling?’
‘My baby –?’
‘Still there.’ He grinned. ‘You’re going up for a scan a bit later, just to make sure all is well. Rest now, Joss.’
When she woke again Luke was there. The smear was gone from his face and he was wearing a clean shirt, but he was as pale and strained as before. ‘Joss, darling. How are you feeling?’
‘Is the baby all right?’ Her mouth felt like sandpaper. Her voice was husky.