sounds rather disgusting, somehow!’
‘Of course it’s disgusting, darling! You’ll probably get terribly bored and blasé by and by. In the meantime, enjoy the triumphal progress in the golden car. Only I wonder, I really do wonder, what will happen when you want to go down a street which has a board saying “No Thoroughfare”.’
‘Don’t be idiotic, Joanna.’ As Lord Windlesham joined them, Linnet said, turning to him: ‘Joanna is saying the nastiest things to me.’
‘All spite, darling, all spite,’ said Joanna vaguely as she got up from her seat.
She made no apology for leaving them. She had caught the glint in Windlesham’s eye.
He was silent for a minute or two. Then he went straight to the point.
‘Have you come to a decision, Linnet?’
Linnet said slowly: ‘Am I being a brute? I suppose, if I’m not sure, I ought to say “No”–’
He interrupted her:
‘Don’t say it. You shall have time–as much time as you want. But I think, you know, we should be happy together.’
‘You see,’ Linnet’s tone was apologetic, almost childish, ‘I’m enjoying myself so much–especially with all this.’ She waved a hand. ‘I wanted to make Wode Hall into my real ideal of a country house, and I do think I’ve got it nice, don’t you?’
‘It’s beautiful. Beautifully planned. Everything perfect. You’re very clever, Linnet.’
He paused a minute and went on: ‘And you like Charltonbury, don’t you? Of course it wants modernizing and all that–but you’re so clever at that sort of thing. You enjoy it.’
‘Why, of course, Charltonbury’s divine.’
She spoke with ready enthusiasm, but inwardly she was conscious of a sudden chill. An alien note had sounded, disturbing her complete satisfaction with life. She did not analyse the feeling at the moment, but later, when Windlesham had left her, she tried to probe the recesses of her mind.
Charltonbury–yes, that was it–she had resented the mention of Charltonbury. But why? Charltonbury was modestly famous. Windlesham’s ancestors had held it since the time of Elizabeth. To be mistress of Charltonbury was a position unsurpassed in society. Windlesham was one of the most desirable peers in England.
Naturally he couldn’t take Wode seriously…It was not in any way to be compared with Charltonbury.
Ah, but Wode was hers! She had seen it, acquired it, rebuilt and re-dressed it, lavished money on it. It was her own possession–her kingdom.
But in a sense it wouldn’t count if she married Windlesham. What would they want with two country places? And of the two, naturally Wode Hall would be the one to be given up.
She, Linnet Ridgeway, wouldn’t exist any longer. She would be Countess of Windlesham, bringing a fine dowry to Charltonbury and its master. She would be queen consort, not queen any longer.
‘I’m being ridiculous,’ said Linnet to herself.
But it was curious how she did hate the idea of abandoning Wode…
And wasn’t there something else nagging at her?
Jackie’s voice with that queer blurred note in it saying: ‘I shall die if I can’t marry him! I shall die. I shall die…’
So positive, so earnest. Did she, Linnet, feel like that about Windlesham? Assuredly she didn’t. Perhaps she could never feel like that about anyone. It must be–rather wonderful–to feel like that…
The sound of a car came through the open window.
Linnet shook herself impatiently. That must be Jackie and her young man. She’d go out and meet them.
She was standing in the open doorway as Jacqueline and Simon Doyle got out of the car.
‘Linnet!’ Jackie ran to her. ‘This is Simon. Simon, here’s Linnet. She’s just the most wonderful person in the world.’
Linnet saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with very dark blue eyes, crisply curling brown hair, a square chin, and a boyish, appealing, simple smile…
She stretched out a hand. The hand that clasped hers was firm and warm…She liked the way he looked at her, the naïve genuine admiration.
Jackie had told him she was wonderful, and he clearly thought that she was wonderful…
A warm sweet feeling of intoxication ran through her veins.
‘Isn’t this all lovely?’ she said. ‘Come in, Simon, and let me welcome my new land agent properly.’
And as she turned to lead the way she thought: ‘I’m frightfully–frightfully happy. I like Jackie’s young man…I like him enormously…’
And then a sudden pang: ‘Lucky Jackie…’
VIII
Tim Allerton leant back in his wicker chair and yawned as he looked out over the sea. He shot a quick sidelong glance at his mother.
Mrs Allerton was a good-looking, white-haired woman of fifty. By imparting an expression of pinched severity to her mouth every time she looked at her son, she sought to disguise the fact of her intense affection for him. Even total strangers were seldom deceived by this device and Tim himself saw through it perfectly.
He said: ‘Do you really like Majorca, Mother?’
‘Well,’ Mrs Allerton considered, ‘it’s cheap.’
‘And cold,’ said Tim with a slight shiver.
He was a tall, thin young man, with dark hair and a rather narrow chest. His mouth had a very sweet expression: his eyes were sad and his chin was indecisive. He had long delicate hands.
Threatened by consumption some years ago, he had never displayed a really robust physique. He was popularly supposed ‘to write,’ but it was understood among his friends that inquiries as to literary output were not encouraged.
‘What are you thinking of, Tim?’
Mrs Allerton was alert. Her bright, dark-brown eyes looked suspicious.
Tim Allerton grinned at her:
‘I was thinking of Egypt.’
‘Egypt?’ Mrs Allerton sounded doubtful.
‘Real warmth, darling. Lazy golden sands. The Nile. I’d like to go up the Nile, wouldn’t you?’
‘Oh, I’d like it.’ Her tone was dry. ‘But Egypt’s expensive, my dear. Not for those who have to count the pennies.’
Tim laughed. He rose, stretched himself. Suddenly he looked alive and eager. There was an excited note in his voice.
‘The
