A Hopeless Romantic (49 page)

She loved the dress. She had bought it, rashly, excitedly, in a little shop in Hampstead the previous weekend, biting her nails at the bill, smiling nervously with Jo at the indulgence of it. It was claret-colored, heavy silk, with wide shoulder straps plunging diagonally and twisting over the empire waistline. It hung just below the knee. She had spent ages choosing it—she wanted to look elegant, sophisticated, but she didn’t want to look like, well, a tweedy dowager. She had picked out that dress thinking of Nick, wondering if he would like it, hoping he would, wondering why he’d invited her, looking forward so much to seeing him again, being able to tell him how stupid she’d been, how stupid they’d both been…. Laura’s stomach lurched as she shook it out and held it up to show Mary, who fingered the fabric lovingly.

“Silk, beautiful.” Mary nodded her approval. “It’s perfect. Really. He’s a fool if he doesn’t think so.” She glanced at her wrist. “You know, darling—”

“I should go.” Laura stood up resolutely, suddenly filled with happy, nervous excitement, like a child before its birthday party. “Oh, Gran. Thank you. Bless you. I’m so glad—”

Mary made to stand up, and sat back abruptly. “Oh,” she said. “Damn it.”

Alarmed, Laura crouched beside her. “Granny?” she said. “Are you all right?”

A small smile crossed Mary’s face. “Ha! I’m fine. You’ll miss the train, come on now. Just a bit of indigestion—I let Jasper and Cedric take me out to that new steak place for lunch today.” She stood up this time, clutching Laura’s arm. Laura felt pain with the pressure, but she said nothing. Mary walked to the door. “Go away. I order you,” she said.

“Gran—I’m going to get Jasper.”

“He’s out. I just want a little nap,” said Mary. She smiled brightly at Laura, and suddenly Laura felt stupid. Mary looked full of beans, alive, her eyes sparkling again. “Don’t treat me like a child, Laura, I’m fine!” she said. She caught Laura’s arm at the door. “Darling, have a wonderful time, won’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said Laura. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Yes,” said Mary firmly. “Good grief, the fuss. Now, enjoy yourself.”

“I hope so,” said Laura. “I’ll call you tomorrow, come and see you on Sunday, maybe?”

“That,” said Mary, “would be heaven.”

And she kissed her, and shut the door gently. Laura turned to watch her as the door closed and her face disappeared.

She was late for the train and almost missed it; racing up the platform, Laura flung herself into a first-class carriage, then had to scrabble unhappily, clutching her bag, her knuckles grazing the plastic seats as she passed, through two more first-class carriages, a buffet car, and a goods compartment before she reached a standard-class carriage. It was mercifully thin of fellow passengers. She tucked her suitcase into the luggage bay and curled into a seat, tucking her feet up under her. As the train pulled out of North London into Hertfordshire, she gazed blankly out the window at the gently undulating autumnal landscape, the neat garden cities, the strange, dark sky.

It was autumn now—late autumn. She had failed to notice it, tucked up in the landscape of the city; but here, out in the countryside opening up before her as the train sped on, she could see the seasonal change. The velvety orange and red of the trees, pulsing across the landscape; the empty, churned fields. The thin, pure sun, its rays weaker and weaker in the late October afternoon.

Charles was meeting her at the station. He had rung her to confirm the time, just as she was leaving the office. She wished it had been Nick calling to confirm, but no; trusty Charles, yet again, to the rescue—Laura shuddered when she remembered all the very many ways in which, over the past couple of months, Charles had seen her at her absolute worst.

And now here she was, on her way to Chartley, trying not to get too excited, but also simply happy that he’d been the one to do something about it, and that she was going to see him again. One part of her said:
It’s great, he knows you’ve both made mistakes, and he wants to start fresh.
The other part, the part she wished didn’t keep beating on the door of the first part, said:
This is weird. He hasn’t spoken to you, he just sends you abrupt e-mails; he can’t even be bothered to come and pick you up at the station. If he does still feel something, why can’t he just say so, or invite you down for a normal weekend? Why this dinner-dance thing?

Laura pulled her jacket closer around her, shivering slightly. She felt uneasy, and she didn’t know why. So she picked up her book and tried to read, but she found she couldn’t concentrate.

Her mind wandered. How funny that she was here and no one, apart from Mary, knew she was here. She hadn’t wanted to explain it to anyone; she’d told Yorky simply that she was going to stay with her parents for the night. What would her mum say if she knew? Or Jo? Jo would worry that Laura hadn’t packed the right things, had left something behind. And her mum would say, “That’s nice, dear.”

The truth was, she knew she was doing the right thing; whatever happened this evening, she was glad to be going, glad he had asked her to come see him. She was also glad it was at Chartley; she loved it, but she feared it, and she had to get over it. Mary’s voice echoed in her ear: “You know your own mind. And so does he.” Laura smiled to herself.

“Laura.” Charles greeted her at the station, bending forward to kiss her. He took her bag. “It’s lovely to have you here. Thank you so much for coming.”

Laura always expected to feel awkward in Charles’s company, until she was with him and remembered how easygoing and kind he was. He shut her into her seat, then climbed in next to her and said, “I’m glad you came.”

Laura wasn’t sure how much Charles knew; but then, she wasn’t sure what
she
knew either, so it was all really the same thing. She said cautiously, “Well, it’s lovely to be here.”

Charles pulled out onto the road. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead. In a toneless voice, he said, “Nick’s going to be chuffed, too.”

“I should bloody hope so, since it was his idea in the first place,” Laura wanted to say, but she didn’t. She sat in silence for a while as they turned down narrow roads, banked on each side with hedgerows, and above them the huge Norfolk sky opened out above the flat landscape.

She felt nervous; she let the feeling slide through her, enjoying the sensation. She felt as if she had been numb ever since she left Norfolk, and that little by little over the past couple of weeks, that layer of cotton wool was coming away. It wasn’t because of Nick, she realized. It was because she’d finally recognized that she needed a balance, the balance between being hopelessly head-in-the-clouds about everything, and being Mrs. Danvers for the rest of her life, dour and dressed in black and frowning on anything enjoyable.

So as they went along, Laura was torn between the desire to clutch Charles’s arm and say, “Take me back to the train station,” so she could go back to London and spend the evening with Mary, finishing off the wine and talking to her about everything under the sun, and the desire to clutch Charles’s arm and say, “Go faster,” so that she could be there, at Chartley, see Nick waiting on the huge front staircase for the car, watch his face light up as he saw her in the front seat. She was torn between wanting it to be over, wanting to know the outcome, the resolution to this weekend, and wanting this feeling of excitement and anticipation never to end.

“Who else will be there this evening, then?” she asked Charles.

“Let me see…various people from Chartley, and from the village. Some cronies of Lady Rose’s, on some committee of hers, something to do with pheasants or game or something. And some bods from London, some of them to do with this ownership scheme we’re running for the estate workers. Nick’s being given an award for it.”

“What?” said Laura.

“Kind of like a right-to-buy scheme,” said Charles, steering carefully past another car on the road. “Most of the people who live on the estate and in Chartley village, they don’t own. They’re Nick’s tenants. Their families have been for generations. Nick’s started this scheme to help them buy their houses themselves.”

“Oh,” said Laura, “really? Wow. That’s amazing.” She looked down at her nails.

“Absolutely,” said Charles with enthusiasm. “It’s been fantastic. Take-up rate is huge. Very popular. Of course, it’s not popular with the trustees and so on. He’s had a battle on his hands there.”

“Why?” said Laura.

“Well, think about it,” said Charles. “He’s giving away his property, bit by bit. Breaking up one of the last great estates in the country. They’re furious. So’s—well.”

He paused. “Who else?” asked Laura encouragingly.

“Lady Rose. Very cross with him, I’m afraid. Well, she—there you go, anyway,” said Charles, and Laura knew that was all she’d get out of him.

“So, he’s getting an award tonight?” said Laura.

“Not really, no,” said Charles. “They’re coming down, the charity committee, to see the effects of it. They want to give him an award, but of course Nick’s said no. Hates that kind of thing. Stupid idiot. He doesn’t realize—well, once again, there you go.”

“That’s amazing,” said Laura. “I didn’t realize he…he could do that.”

“Of course he can,” said Charles. They reached a T junction. He stopped the car and looked at her. “Laura, I don’t mean to pry, but can I ask one thing?”

“Yes,” said Laura, not knowing what the question would be, slightly nervous.

“I don’t understand something. About you and…and Nick. Please—he doesn’t know I’m asking you this.”

“Yes,” said Laura. “Go on, what?”

Charles put the car into gear, but he carried on looking at her. “Did you honestly not realize who he was?”

“When?” said Laura stupidly.

“This summer, Laura. When you met him. And you thought I was Lord Ranelagh, not him. Did you—seriously, did you not think it was him?”

“No!” said Laura. “He told me you were. Why would I think any differently?”

“He didn’t,” said Charles. “You assumed. He never actually lied, did he?”

“Well, no,” Laura conceded. “But why do you find it so weird? I just didn’t realize.”

“That’s what I find so strange,” said Charles, starting through the intersection. He was silent for a moment; then he said, “I just—I always think of him as…as this person.”

“What person?”

“A—a lord, a grand personage. You know. We’re friends, have been for most of our lives. I see the real Nick more than most people do. But part of me always sees him as the Marquis of Ranelagh. Can’t help it, just do. Owner of this beautiful estate.” He waved an arm, encompassing the fields around him. “Descended from generations of Danverses and Needhams. The lord of all he surveys. He’s an incredibly important person, not just because he’s famous or whatever, but because he’s in charge of hundreds of lives, looks after millions of pounds’ worth of wealth. It’s funny. I can’t ever forget that.”

“Well,” said Laura. She thought of the Nick she’d known that summer, the Nick she still knew who missed his mother, who snored in his sleep. “He wasn’t being that when I met him, was he?”

“No,” said Charles, and his smile was sad. “That’s why you’re special.”

Charles grew more nervous as they approached the house, Laura could tell, though she didn’t know why. Afterward, it made complete sense, of course; but as they drove through the Chartley lands and then onto the estate, turned into the driveway, saw the sign, now freshly painted, Laura had seen all those months ago with her parents, she had no idea what lay ahead.

“Right, right, we’re nearly there,” said Charles. The car crawled slowly up the driveway. The autumn sunset had begun, and the light filtered through the leaves. The view was carpeted with trees of all different colors, red, gold, orange, green. A light mist sat in the valley sloping away to the left; the park itself was ablaze with color. Laura craned her neck eagerly for that first glimpse of the house, to see what it would look like in this light, at this time of year.

Gradually, the hall slid into view, section by monumental section, as the drive curved toward it. Laura had forgotten how huge it was, just how imposing. She looked up to the East Wing, to make out Nick’s room. It gave her a context, a sense of familiarity in this bewildering, vast landscape that she knew, yet felt so alien in.

“Look,” said Charles as they reached the house. He turned off the engine. “I’ll go in. I may be a minute or two. Stay here, okay?”

“In the car?” said Laura.

“Yes,” said Charles. “I have to—to check something. And I’ll—I’ll find Nick. Don’t want you wandering around the house getting lost, and all that.”

“Er,” said Laura, confused. “Okay, of course.”

“Great,” said Charles. He opened his door and got out, then looked back in at her. “I really won’t be long, honestly. I just have to find Nick and explain something to him, and find out—er, what your room is, yes, that’s it, what your—”

“Charles?” came a voice from behind him, and Charles spun around. Appearing through the fast-falling dusk was an unmistakable figure.

“Nick!” Charles said, his voice rather high. “My God, hello.”

Laura sat still, not knowing what to do. Something wasn’t right; she couldn’t make it out.

“Hello,” said Nick. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you. You’ve been ages. You said you were—hello. Is that someone in there? Have you got someone in the car, Charles? Well, I never. Hello?”

He bent down, his arm on the roof of the car, and looked in. His expression froze. “Laura?” he said, his voice soft, hoarse almost.

“Hello,” said Laura, suddenly shy. She clambered out of the car and stood across the bonnet from him and Charles.

Nick stared blankly at her. “Sorry. What on earth are you doing here?”

“Er…” Laura said, not sure if he was joking or not. “Am I early?”

“Nick,” said Charles, putting his hand on Nick’s shoulder.

Nick turned to Charles. “Laura—here. You’re here,” he said, turning back to her. He looked at her almost desperately. “Why have you come back? Why now?”

“You invited me!” said Laura, half laughing, trying to keep her voice light. “You can’t change your mind.”