Summer's End (15 page)

‘I think I love you too.' Why be shy
now?
Why did words never express what you were feeling inside? It sounded as if she were doubtful, but she had no doubt at all.

She stood there, dancing inside, as he threw back his head, cupped his hands round his mouth, and yelled to the heavens: ‘I love you.'

‘They'll hear you at the match.' She wanted to cry. No she didn't. Laugh? No, she wanted to come out of this paralysis.

‘I don't care if they hear me in Timbuctoo. I love
you
!' Reggie swung himself round several tree trunks, peering anxiously through the lower branches of the nearest: ‘You haven't vanished, have you?'

‘I'm too solid to vanish.' Still, paralysis. Passing time.

‘You're like thistledown.' He came at her in a run, swept her up into the air, put her down again, then ran his hands gently down the sides of her body. She felt them burning through the linen. Then, delicately, watching her to see if she'd object, over her breast, until suddenly shy of him she caught his hand. She held it there and at last was sharply aware of everything: a distant shout of victory on the tennis court, a furious shout (Farmer Lake's sheep from Owlers Farm had met a delivery van again in Pook's Way), a pigeon cooing continually at his mate, and that Reggie was no longer a friend. He was her lover.

‘You look happy, darling.'

Caroline hugged her bliss to her as she slipped the raspberry silk over her head. Miraculously no one had heard Reggie's shouts, so tonight was their own; tomorrow everyone could know, they had decided.

‘I enjoyed the afternoon.' She could hardly keep the grin from her face.

‘So did I.' Elizabeth paused curiously, speculated, and left it. ‘Your Aunt Tilly provided a surprise, didn't she? George is still going round boasting about
their
success. I wonder why she's kept so quiet about her skills?'

‘I suppose because Aunt Tilly is in the habit of keeping dark about everything,' Caroline said lightly.

A pause. ‘I understand.' If her mother were annoyed, she did not let it show. ‘So now you'll be expecting me to forbid you to have anything to do with those terrible women. But that would be foolish of me. You would rush away and set up house with Tilly.'

Caroline thought this over. ‘No, I wouldn't.' Inside she glowed, her mind not on the vote at all.

‘I'm glad.' Elizabeth glanced at her. ‘I want to keep you here.'

‘Unmarried, like Tilly?'

‘Good gracious no. I should have said, here in our hearts.'

‘Oh!' Caught, Caroline rushed to her mother, and threw her arms around her.

‘Would you like this frock buttoned up, darling?' Elizabeth enquired after a moment. ‘I seem to be clasping your girdle.' And what was she going to tell Laurence, Elizabeth worried, as Caroline, dutifully dressed as befitted a young woman of not quite twenty-two, bounced out of the room to find Felicia. It was quite clear that Caroline was in love, and there was no doubt at all as to with whom. Perhaps she might wait a little before telling Laurence; something told her there might be extra news to impart.

Felicia was not in her room so Caroline hurried downstairs, afraid by her tardiness she was missing part of ‘the treat', which
now
she could enjoy.

The lamps were already lit, although it was still quite light at eight-thirty. How
much
nicer the glow of the oil looked than the harsh glare of The Towers' lighting. The air was still warm, so they could dance on the terrace till midnight if they wanted, until the very last stroke of twelve told them it was Sunday and God's day. Only
Felicia was on the terrace as Caroline came out, and she turned a radiant face as her sister approached. ‘Isn't it lovely,
lovely?
' she asked fervently.

‘You are,' Caroline told her sincerely. Felicia had beauty, everyone agreed that, but Caroline had never seen her look as she did tonight. She was blazing forth in splendour, her dark eyes glowing with fire and her cheeks pink with excitement. No lily maid this, no Lady of Shalott, but a rose indeed.

‘I had a wonderful time,' she assured Caroline, the gardens, and a passing cat.

‘Do I look all right?' Phoebe bounced out to join her sisters, reassured by their company and by the knowledge that no worse awaited her this evening than the known company of Drs Jennings and Cuss. And Curate Christopher, of course.

Caroline surveyed her toilette. A low-cut pale green gown which didn't suit her in the slightest but which had been a present for her sixteenth birthday, unwillingly made by Mrs Hazel with many disparaging remarks on its suitability for a young lady. Phoebe battled her way through, won it and adored it, as a symbol, Caroline thought. Surely even Phoebe could see it didn't suit her? But naturally all she said was: ‘Apart from the pin holding your sash on, yes.'

Phoebe giggled, and Isabel, who sauntered up in her engagement ball gown, looked disapproving. Wisely she did not comment on the reappearance of the green dress.

‘Is Robert here yet?' Caroline asked.

Isabel yawned. ‘I don't think so. He's coming with his parents.'

‘What joy,' Caroline said without thinking.

Isabel pounced. ‘What a cat you are. If someone's not called Hunney, they're of no account, are they?'

No, something joyously agreed inside her, then jabbed her with a stab of doubt as she recalled Lady Hunney, the undoubted and substantial fly in her Zambuk ointment. Zambuk was the cure for everything, the Rectory considered. Insect bites, rashes, sunburn – everything could be charmed away with Zambuk. She feared Lady Hunney could prove the exception to the rule, but Reggie would take care of her, she thought happily.

Inside the house it sounded as though the whole pot of Hunneys had arrived, she realised, clad now in evening attire and complete
with Sir John and Lady Hunney. Informal or not, a Rectory event must be blessed by the Squire – rather like the blessing of the crops by the Rector in spring. Anyway, keeping them happy was Father and Mother's concern, not hers. And nor were the Swinford-Brownes her concern. Nothing, no one but Reggie. George, full of importance in his first dinner suit and white tie, was bending over the gramophone putting a new needle in, a task he always treated with as much ceremony and precision as their weekly clockwinder the old moon long-case clock in the Rectory entrance hall. Being considerably less plump than Mr Cyril Wainwright, retired soldier and clockmaker, the effect was not so impressive. ‘Alexander's Ragtime Band' blared out, and
here came Reggie.
Daniel and Eleanor too, of course, but she hardly saw them, hardly saw Felicia crossing shyly to greet Daniel.

Suppose it was a dream this afternoon, suppose he laughs and says wasn't that a fine joke, Caroline, suppose I look at him and realise it's only Reggie again. It wasn't, he didn't, she didn't. A glance at him, at the look in his eyes, and she knew it was all right. A wave of happiness engulfed her and kept her in its embrace, with only odd snatches of the evening intruding from the outside.

‘Your sister's beautiful,' Penelope nodded towards Felicia.

‘She is. She always kept some of it back, as if she was waiting, though.'

‘If so, I think she's found it …'

Daniel could not take his eyes from Felicia. The girl was beautiful; those eyes, the hair, her perfect skin and, most amazing of all, it was Felicia whom he'd known all his life. He soon got tired of dancing; he wanted to be alone with her. Not that he quite knew why. Curiosity, he supposed.

‘It's a beautiful evening,' she said as they walked by the tennis court.

‘You make it so. It could not be so presumptuous on its own.' Because the night was warm and she was beautiful, he kissed her, not as he would have done a year ago, as the Rector's daughter, but as he would any woman who intoxicated him. The thought did occur to him that he should not, for he was an honourable man, but he dismissed it. In a few weeks he would be gone; Cupid's darts would not long hurt her, and such beauty as Felicia's deserved to be reverenced. Besides, he was very fond of her.

When he drew back, because her lips were not only tender but too trusting, he picked a rose and presented it to her to break the moment. ‘For the queen of beauty,' he said seriously.

She took it in her hands, and held it until he took it from her. ‘Here, I'll fix it.' He twisted the thin stem through the lace of her fichu just above her breast, and as his fingers rested on the white skin, he wished just for a fleeting moment that she were not the Rector's daughter.

‘Oh, Caroline, take pity on Robert, will you and dance with him? I'm
exhausted
.'

Isabel tottered theatrically past her into the dining room, where the supper was laid out. She managed to revive remarkably quickly, Caroline noticed, obediently offering her own services to Robert. It was the military two-step and two minutes later she saw Isabel dancing with Martin Cuss.

Robert was a dear, Isabel was thinking as she marched up and down, but not
exciting.
She could hardly define this to herself, but she supposed she must mean someone who not only admired you but disturbed you. Like Frank Eliot. She noticed no one had suggested inviting
him
this evening. Not quite socially acceptable, she supposed. What a pity. She bestowed one of her famous smiles on Martin Cuss. ‘Isn't this exciting,' she murmured.

Martin Cuss, concentrating every muscle on trying to whirl Isabel round on a paving stone without sending her headlong into the garden, politely agreed.

‘You won't ever dance the Huggie Bear with anyone else but me, will you, Reggie?' Caroline collided with his chest and was flung back again, celebrating her release by a hop in the air.

‘Never.'

‘Will you dance
anything
with anyone else again?'

‘On my life. Never.'

‘This won't vanish, will it, Reggie?'

‘The terrace?'

‘Idiot.'

‘No, it won't.'

And then when he pulled her after him to walk in the gardens, in the ‘wilderness' which lay beyond the rhododendron bank, so that
they might not be seen,
‘You
haven't vanished, have you?'

‘No.'

‘Then you'll marry me?'

She'd always thought this should be a momentous event, but it wasn't because the answer was so obvious to both of them. ‘Yes, of course.'
Then
came the doubt. ‘It's not like before – with you, I mean?'

‘How can you ask that? All those other women seem like practice rows for the big race. I suppose,' he added with dismay, ‘that doesn't sound very romantic.'

‘It does if it's true.'

‘It is. The odd thing is I didn't need the practice. I just needed to realise that I loved you. I always will.'

‘And I you.'

‘Then what are you crying for?'

‘Because I'm going to marry you.'

They both saw the funny side at the same time, and he held her close. ‘You'll never cry again, Caroline. I promise, I promise.'

William Swinford-Browne swung Elizabeth into a lively waltz. He had had a great deal of the Rectory punch, to which he had added his own private supply of brandy, suspecting the alcoholic content of the punch to be low. He was happy with himself and happy with the world, especially with a fine woman like Elizabeth Lilley in his arms. Not too little either, he thought appreciatively.

‘I'm looking forward to our wedding,' he announced, steering Mrs Lilley down to the less public lawns. ‘Lucky young people, eh, starting life out together, making their own way. Little youngsters in due course, eh?'

‘Yes, indeed. Shall I take that glass from you, Mr Swinford-Browne?'

‘You think I'm inebriated, don't you?' He deposited it by the hedge, and wagged what he told himself was a saucy finger at her. ‘How could I be, when I'm dancing with a wonderful woman like you?' He put his right arm round her to join the left, which ostensibly had been placed behind her in the interests of the waltz, and she struggled to free herself. She tried in vain since she found her arms firmly held in place by his and to her horror felt his gloved right hand feeling the bottom of the rounded figure he had so much admired. She could not
shout, for that would call public attention to her ridiculous position, and had just determined upon drastic measures with her knee when help arrived. Outraged by all men, and Swinford-Browne in particular, Tilly cared nothing for attracting public attention. Indeed she welcomed it. Into a silence as George changed records fell Tilly's strident voice:

‘Kindly confine your sexual gropings to your housemaids, Mr Swinford-Browne. As you did with poor Ruth Horner.'

It was a long time before Caroline fell asleep that night. All five of them, even George, had gathered in Isabel's bedroom to commiserate with her tears and howls on the disgrace her drunken aunt had brought on them, and how could she ruin Isabel's life so callously. Then, without Isabel, they had hurried back to Caroline's room to chew over the shocking, exhilarating results of the evening until the candles required no snuffing, and they had to creep back to their own rooms in darkness. Caroline had been in no way sure it had been proper to include George, but George had come all the same.

‘I've never seen Father so angry,' Felicia breathed, the stars still in her eyes.

‘I think that awful man came off lightly,' declared Caroline. ‘Father and Mother will never let the story get round the village.'

‘It will, though,' George said confidently and with glee. ‘I saw Agnes listening. Anyway, Mother won't mind.' He wasn't, in fact, quite sure what all the fuss was about. Mother was old, and so was Swinford-Browne, and so how could sex come into it? With studied nonchalance he yawned, and wandered back to his own room with a long detour to Mrs Dibble's larder for leftovers en route.