voice, and Jude shrugged his shoulders rather mockingly as he bent to pick up the luggage.
‘Come along, dear.’ Harriet patted Sara’s hand and urged her towards the house. ‘It’s still cold, despite the sunshine. But I think you’ll find you’ll be comfortable here.’
‘I’m sure I shall.’ Sara wanted to say something, some words of gratitude, but it was difficult with Jude’s sardonic presence right behind them, and she waited until they had entered the spacious entrance hall before offering her awkward thanks.
‘My dear, don’t think of it.’ Harriet cast a thoughtful glance at Jude’s back as he strode vigorously up the stairs with two of the cases, and then gestured towards a door across the hall. ‘Come along. We’ll have tea in here. I told Janet to make it, as soon as I heard the car.’
Sara looked about her in some bemusement as they crossed the hall and entered a warm, attractive sitting room. Whereas the hall had been oak-panelled and a little dark, despite the rich red pile of the carpet, the room Harriet showed her into was light and airy, with long french doors that opened on to the garden at the back of the house. A low stone balustrade surrounded a flagged terrace, which in turn gave on to the gardens, and beyond them, the river.
The room itself was decorated in a bright, cheerful style, with chintz-covered armchairs and a long sofa. There were cabinets against the walls, housing a variety of china and ornaments, a kneehole desk liberally covered with papers, and bookshelves flanking the open fireplace, where a real log fire spluttered in the grate.
Harriet closed the door and then looked happily at her guest. ‘There now,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this cosy? Come along, take off your coat. I’m sure you won’t need it in here.’
Sara was sure, too. As well as the open fire, there were also radiators, and she guessed the crackling logs were just an attractive adjunct to the real heating system. Smiling, she unfastened the buttons of the warm suede jacket she had worn with corded pants, and revealed the cream woollen jersey she had worn underneath.
Harriet helped her off with her jacket, dropping it carelessly over the back of a chair before gesturing that Sara should take one of the armchairs that faced one another across the hearth. Sara did as she suggested, holding out her cold hands to the blaze, and Harriet came to sit opposite, smiling her satisfaction.
‘So, Sara,’ she said, resting her arms along the arms of the chair, long fingers with painted nails hanging over the end. ‘How was your journey? Not too arduous, I hope. Trains can be so unreliable, and whenever possible I use the car.’
‘It was all right.’ Sara spoke rather nervously. ‘The trains were quite punctual, actually.’
‘But we were not, is that what you’re saying?’ asked Harriet perceptively. ‘My dear, you must blame me. I simply wasn’t ready.’
‘Oh, no.’ Sara had no wish that Aunt Harriet should think her words were meant as a criticism. ‘I mean—I’d only been there about five minutes when Mr—er—Mr Jude arrived. I—I was very grateful to see him.’
‘Were you?’ Harriet’s lips tightened once more, as they had done outside, but she made no comment about her chauffeur. Only he wasn’t her chauffeur, Sara reminded herself tensely, realising she had still not discovered his real designation.
A tap at the door heralded the arrival of the maid with the tea. An elderly woman, with dour Scots features, wheeled a laden trolley across the patterned carpet, and set it firmly in front of her mistress.
‘This is Janet,’ Harriet announced, smiling up at the woman disarmingly. ‘Janet, this is my niece, Sara Shelley. Isn’t she lovely?’
If Sara was embarrassed by her method of introduction, Janet seemed unaware of it. ‘Pleased to meet you, miss,’ she declared, her tone belying the greeting, and in an accent unimpaired by however long she had lived in England. Then, without waiting for any response, she marched out of the room again, leaving Sara with the distinct impression that she did not approve.
‘Don’t mind Janet,’ Harriet said quickly, drawing the trolley towards her and taking charge of the teapot. ‘She’s been with me too long, I’m afraid, and familiarity breeds contempt, don’t they say?’ She smiled, and resumed setting out the teacups. ‘Now, what will you have? Cream and sugar? Or are you like me, and prefer your tea with lemon?’
‘Just cream, please.’ Sara had never acquired a taste for English tea served with lemon. No matter what the country of its origin, it did not taste like the tea she and her father used to enjoy in Nagpur, or perhaps it was the surroundings that made that drink so distinctive.
The trolley also had plates of small sandwiches, scones and a rich madeira cake, and a variety of biscuits. Sara reflected, as she munched a smoked salmon sandwich, that anyone with a weight problem would have to be careful here, and although she had never been troubled that way, she had never treated food as a ritual before. Except when Aunt Harriet had taken her out to tea, she amended, brushing a crumb from her lips, as visions of thick clotted cream and Cornish strawberry jam floated before her eyes.
As she took another sandwich she wondered apprehensively if the man Jude would join them for tea. His attitude had been quite familiar, but there were only two cups, and as the minutes stretched Sara started to relax.
‘You were in India when it happened, weren’t you?’ Harriet said, after pouring herself a second cup of tea. She looked at Sara sympathetically. ‘You don’t mind me asking, do you, dear? Only I think it’s best if we get it out of the way first, don’t you?’
‘Right.’ Sara nodded. ‘Yes. We were in Calcutta, actually.’ Her throat tightened. ‘He was covering the elections.’
‘So I heard.’ Harriet’s tongue appeared, to moisten her upper lip. ‘It must have been terrible for you—not knowing anyone, not knowing the language …’
‘Oh, I knew people.’ Sara steeled herself to talk of it. ‘We had a number of friends there. And I knew a little of the language. We’d been there before, you see.’
‘Yes, but—–’ Harriet sought for words, ‘it’s not like your own country, is it? Not like England.’
‘As a matter of fact, I was glad,’ Sara confessed huskily. ‘The formalities were over so much sooner there. They have to be. The climate, you know—–’
‘Of course.’
‘As soon as the cause of death had been disclosed—they conducted a post-mortem, you see—the—the body—had to be disposed of. I chose cremation. It was what he would have wanted.’
‘My child, how awful for you! Having a funeral without any mourners!’
Sara shook her head. ‘There were mourners. The—the officials who—who knew him, and other press men—–’
‘All the same—–’ Harriet sighed. ‘There was no question of bringing his body back to England, I suppose?’
Sara pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘I don’t think he would have wanted that. He—he never regarded England as his home, not really. He was a nomad.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think he probably subscribed to the theory that his life was like the arc of an arrow. He wanted to remain where it rested.’
Harriet nodded. ‘What
