she directed, as Morgan came in with a tray of tea. ‘Talk to him for half an hour. I shall speak to you later.’
Tom’s hesitation was minute, and although Rafe was tempted to countermand the order, he didn’t. But talking to old Lord Penwyth could be a trying business. His father had lapses of memory, a symptom of the disease that had stricken him down five years before, and he was poor company for a small boy.
Still, Tom went obediently out of the room, and Rafe moved to the drinks cabinet. He guessed his guests would prefer something stronger than tea to ward off the chills of the late September afternoon, and he ignored Lucy’s tightening lips when both Marland and Norman accepted Scotch.
With their glasses full, Rafe seated himself opposite his wife, long legs splayed carelessly, considering the mud on his boots with a critical eye. Lucy, as usual, presented an impeccable appearance, and he supposed he ought to be grateful she had her own allowance. Without it, Tom could not have attended his public school—however reluctantly he remained there—or Lucy herself been able to maintain her wardrobe in the manner to which she had become accusomed. This afternoon, her plain mushroom-coloured dress, of fine woollen jersey, proclaimed its exclusiveness in the simple elegance of its lines, and the chestnut darkness of her hair curved softly into her nape, styled by an expert hand. He knew she would not approve of his own informal attire of moleskin breeches and roll-necked sweater, but she would not say so, not in so many words. Like everything else, it would be implied, alluded to, and only aired if his own patience gave out and he brought the subject up.
Realising a conversation was going on around him, Rafe made an effort to pay attention to what was being said. But his thoughts were with his son upstairs, and he longed to go after him and find out why he persisted in disobeying orders like this. So far, all they had been able to get out of him was that he didn’t like the school or being away from home, but Rafe was convinced there was more to it than that. He had not liked boarding school either, but the comradeship and the facilities for sports had gradually compensated for the loneliness he had initially experienced. Of course, he had been older than Tom—twelve, before he left home for the first time—but Lucy found the boy so trying, he had eventually been obliged to consider boarding school as a solution.
‘Rafe! Rafe, did you hear what Sir George said?’
He lifted his head rather blankly to discover Lucy staring at him with scarcely-concealed disapproval. He hadn’t the faintest idea what Marland had said, and she knew it, and with some compunction he made his apologies.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the blue eyes which could change so swiftly from sapphire to steely-grey warming in conciliation. ‘I was miles away. What were you saying, Sir George?’
Marland’s sniff was expressive, but Glyndower’s Scotch was good, and he was feeling considerably more mellow. ‘I was just telling your wife, and Norman here, how much I admire this house. Ever thought of selling? I’d guess it would make a tidy sum on the open market.’
‘I think not.’ Rafe had no intention of being rude, but selling Penwyth was never on the cards. ‘Besides, you’re too generous, Sir George. No one in his right mind would want to buy this white elephant. Woodworm, dry rot, a leaking roof—you name it, we’ve got it. Penwyth needs a small fortune spending on it, and even then, of what use is a house as large as this to anyone?’
Marland’s eyes flickered. ‘It’s a show-piece, and you know it, Glyndower. Dry rot and all. With a few thousands invested, it could rival the stateliest homes in the country.’
‘You’re not suggesting I should put it into the hands of the National Trust, are you, Sir George?’ Rafe enquired shortly, and Lucy cast him an impatient look before hurrying into speech.
‘I’m afraid you’ve touched on rather a sore point with us, Sir George,’ she declared. ‘Penwyth is my husband’s one weakness; nothing and no one will induce him to leave this house voluntarily.’ She made an expressive gesture. ‘I can’t imagine why.’
‘Can’t you?’
The challenge was unexpected, and she gave her husband another disapproving stare before offering their guests another drink.
John Norman chose to intervene at this point, turning the conversation into less explosive channels, and for a while there was no contention between them. But Sir George was not a patient man, and soon he returned to the subject which had brought him to the valley.
‘You will let us have your decision soon, Glyndower,’ he remarked, making it more a statement than a question, and Rafe inclined his head. ‘You do realise there’s the possibility of a public enquiry if the scheme is mounted, and that could delay us even further?’
Rafe frowned. ‘A public inquiry?’
‘Of course.’ Marland sighed. ‘Norman, didn’t you explain all this?’
‘Until Mr Glyndower agrees to a test bore, I see no reason to anticipate the worst, Sir George.’
‘In my experience, it pays to anticipate the worst. Then one is never disappointed, Norman.’ Marland shook his head. ‘You do appreciate my position, Glyndower? I need a decision to take back to the Minister.’
‘And you shall have it. Tomorrow,’ Rafe assured him briefly, rising to his feet, decisively ending the meeting.
John Norman hastily finished his drink and rose, too, but Sir George was less enthusiastic. However, he had little choice in the matter, and Rafe saw Lucy’s pained expression as Marland offered her his thanks for their hospitality.
‘We hope to see you again, Sir George,’ she demurred, accompanying them to the door, but Rafe cast an impatient look upstairs as he put on his jacket once more. He had still to drive the two men back to the helicopter, and again, Tom would have to wait.
It was getting dark when he got back to the house. This time Rufus accompanied him indoors, bounding off towards the kitchen for his supper at his master’s command. Removing his jacket again, Rafe hesitated in the hall, torn between the desire to speak to Tom and the awareness of Lucy’s disapproval emanating from behind the closed door of the library.
Stifling a curse, he turned towards the library, throwing open the door and entering the room with little regard for its occupant. As expected, Lucy was still sitting beside the tray of tea, gazing throughtfully into the glowing embers of the fire. With her shoulders hunched, and her head turned away from him, she had a delicate air of helplessness, and his conscience stirring within him, he closed the door with more consideration. She did not stir, and on impulse he crossed the room towards her, and bent to bestow a light kiss on the curving nape of her neck.
‘Don’t touch me!’
Her harsh words froze the spark of emotion that had prompted his action. With a jack-knifing movement she put the length of the couch between them, to sit regarding him with angry, resentful eyes.
Rafe needed no reminder of the uselessness of appealing to Lucy in this mood. She could suppress her emotions without effort, so successfully, in fact, that at times he suspected they were as counterfeit as the fragile appearance she presented to the world. It was not in her nature to compromise, and right now, she was in danger of losing everything she had worked for.
Pulling the case of cheroots out of his pocket, Rafe ignored the sound of distaste she made, and bent to light his cigar with a taper from the fire. Then, straightening, he said: ‘I might as well go and speak to Tom, if you’ve got nothing to say.’
It
