Читать книгу Haunted Dreams - CHARLOTTE LAMB - Страница 7

EMILIE woke up early on Tuesday to a calm, quiet winter morning, the sun hidden behind cloud, a pale lavender light drifting over the walls of her bedroom.

She yawned, thought drowsily, Something special is happening today, and then she remembered. Ambrose Kerr was coming to dinner.

Somewhere there was a rapid noise, a drumming beat. For a second she couldn’t think what it was, then she realised that it was her heart, beating faster than the speed of light.

She jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to have a shower. In the mirror on the wall she saw her reflection: over-bright eyes, flushed face, a pink, parted mouth breathing fast.

What’s the matter with you? she accused herself, then looked away, hurriedly pulled her nightie over her head, the movement tightening her slender body, making her breasts lift, their pink nipples harden and darken against the creamy flesh surrounding them. My breasts are too small! she thought, staring at them. I wish I had a better figure. I wish I had blonde hair—or jet-black? Anything but brown. I wish my hair was naturally curly, too, instead of straight. And oh! I wish I had bigger breasts…

She stepped under the warm jets of water, closing her eyes, and began washing, smoothly lathering her body. Her truant mind kept conjuring up disturbing images. How would it feel to have a man touching her like this? Male hands stroking her shoulders, her throat, her breasts. No, not just any man…Ambrose Kerr. Ever since Saturday night she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Her nipples ached, her mouth was dry.

Are you crazy? she asked herself, even pinker now, and breathing twice as fast. He’s almost twice your age, sophisticated, very experienced…he wouldn’t even look at you!

‘How old is he?’ she had asked her grandfather as they drove back from Ambrose’s home on Saturday, and Grandpa had shrugged indifferently.

‘Must be getting on for forty now, I suppose.’

She had realised he must be much older than she was, but…forty? She had sighed. Her father wasn’t much older than that!

‘Late thirties, anyway,’ Grandpa had said, and that sounded much better. Her spirits had lifted.

She had let a minute pass before asking, in what she hoped was an idle, offhand way, ‘Has he got children? I suppose there is a Mrs Kerr?’

‘I’ve never heard of one. Plenty of women in his life, though, if you believe the gossips. Sophie was one of them, I gather.’

Emilie had felt a stab of shock. ‘Sophie?’

Sophie? Sophie and him? she had thought, shaken and dismayed. She had had no idea. Sophie had never said a word to her about him, but then Sophie never said much about her private life to Emilie.

‘They were seen around together for a few months,’ George Rendell had said. ‘Then it fizzled out, and I would put money on it that it wasn’t Sophie who backed off.’

Emilie had stared out of the window, biting her lip. ‘Do you think she’s in love with him?’

Grandpa’s voice had been dry. ‘I think she fancied being Mrs Kerr.’ He could be quite cynical at times, and Emilie had frowned. Grandpa had continued, ‘Sophie takes after her mother, my cousin Rosa. They use their heads, not their hearts, those two women. So sharp they could cut themselves, both of them.’

‘I like them both,’ Emilie had said quietly, and her grandfather had given her a very different look, his face softening. She’d smiled at him and said, ‘Sophie and her mother have been very kind to me.’

She would always be grateful to them for their friendliness when she had first arrived in England.

Her father’s family had never been very interested in her and, now that he had sons, neither was her father. A hardbitten journalist, he had never spent much time at home even before her mother died. He had remarried shockingly soon after that.

Emilie suspected that he had been having an affair with Marie-Claude while her mother was alive. Had her mother known about it? She flinched at the thought.

Maman had never said a word to her, if she had known—but when she hadn’t known you were looking, the sadness in her face could have wrung your heart. Her mother had had so much to bear: a long, painful illness, which she knew would end in death, made harder by loneliness because her husband was never at home. Emilie hated to think that she might have been hiding the anguish of knowing that her husband was betraying her too.

Maman had wanted to send Emilie away to England in those last months, when she could no longer hide what was happening to her, but Emilie had clung to her, refusing to leave. They had been close; in those last two years even closer than mother and daughter usually were, just because they had both known their time together was going to be short. Emilie still missed her.

Her father’s remarriage had been a shock of a different sort. Marie-Claude had worked on his newspaper; they had known each other for years, Emilie realised. Marie-Claude was in her early thirties, very French, sophisticated, elegant in that French way, understated and witty. Marie-Claude’s clothes reflected Marie-Claude’s mind. It would have been easier if she had been openly hostile—but Marie-Claude was far too clever for that.

She was very polite and gracious whenever she saw Emilie. She bought her new clothes, she suggested a change of hairstyle—as if they were going to be friends. But there was no warmth in her. As soon as she was pregnant with her first child she sent Emilie off to boarding-school. Her visits to her father’s new home were always brief; after a week or so she would be sent off on some activity holiday—skiing in winter, horseriding in summer. After leaving school she was despatched to a residential college in England, to take business studies. When she completed her two-year course Emilie began working for her grandfather at the paper-mill in Kent. She knew she would never live with her father again.

She had accepted it, yet there was always a sadness at the back of her mind. She tried to bury it by concentrating on her new life, on her grandfather and her job.

Emilie was learning the business by moving around the departments; she had spent some months on the most important process—production—moved on to a brief spell in packing and despatch, and was now working in sales.

She was at a very low level, of course. All she did was sit at a desk doing paperwork. Her grandfather didn’t employ any women on the actual sales team; he didn’t think it was a woman’s job, travelling the roads across the country alone by car, staying at cheap hotels. He certainly wasn’t prepared to let Emilie do it. She had to learn all about sales from processing orders as they came in from the salesmen and answering the phone, coping with enquiries.

She enjoyed dealing with people, she liked the other girls she worked with, and she was beginning to be very interested in their product, in the history of the paper-mill, in her mother’s family. After a rather lonely period of her life she felt she had come home, she belonged here, and Sophie Grant and her mother were family too, as well as being the first people she had got to know here, except her grandfather. She would never want to hurt either of them, especially Sophie.

She frowned. Why was Grandpa so cynical about Aunt Rosa and Sophie? They seemed so fond of him.

Emilie hadn’t seen Sophie since Saturday, since that party, in fact. When she did, she could hardly ask her if she was in love with Ambrose!

I’d better not mention him, in fact, she thought, getting dressed. It would be tactless to say much to Sophie about him. She might have been badly hurt when they broke up.

Why had they broken up, anyway? Had Ambrose ever been in love with Sophie?

She stopped brushing her hair, bit her lip, then glared at herself in the mirror. What’s it got to do with you what happened? Stop thinking about him—he’s twice your age, he probably has another woman now, a man like him isn’t going to be alone for long—I bet he’s forgotten he ever met you!

She ran downstairs to breakfast at a quarter to eight, and found her grandfather already at the table, in his faintly old-fashioned dark suit, with a stiff red-striped white shirt and maroon silk tie, eating toast and marmalade and drinking coffee, his normal weekday breakfast.

He looked up and smiled, his eyes approving of her crisp cream cotton blouse and dark grey pleated skirt, of the way her sleek brown hair swirled around her face, the brightness of her eyes and smile.

George Rendell had lived alone for years; loneliness had been engrained in his mind, had got under his skin. He had almost forgotten how it felt to live with someone else, to have someone running up and down the stairs, talking on the phone, watching television. He had forgotten what it was like to look across the breakfast-table each morning and see another face, meet a warm smile.

Emilie had changed his life. He had wondered at first if it would work for her to live with him, if he would be irritated and bored having a young girl around all day, but within a week it was as if she had always been there.

More than that, he felt a strange new happiness welling up inside him. He wasn’t the type to show his feelings, but the sun came out whenever he saw her come into a room. She called out all his protective instincts—she was young and small and helpless, and George would have killed anyone who hurt her.

Emilie kissed him on the top of his head. ‘Isn’t it a nice day?’

He looked at the window, saw the leafless trees in his garden, the chilly sky. Almost Christmas—he hated winter more each year. ‘At least it isn’t raining.’ He watched her slide bread into the toaster, pour herself orange juice and coffee and sit down to eat opposite him.

‘Everything OK for tonight?’ he asked, and she nodded, spreading thick, chunky marmalade on her toast.

‘We’re having broccoli soup—at this time of year a hot soup is a good starter—then poached salmon in hollandaise sauce, which is light and simple, followed by a sweet omelette…I thought I’d fill it with hot purée of fruit, probably redcurrants or raspberries.’

She had learnt to cook from her mother, first, and one of the activity holidays forced upon her by her stepmother had been a summer at a cordon bleu cooking school on the Loire. Her grandfather had been astonished and delighted by this unexpected skill; he was used to eating dull food plainly cooked by his housekeepers, and he had eagerly begun giving dinner parties to show off Emilie’s talent.

‘Sounds delicious, mouth-watering,’ he said fondly. ‘Is Mary coming in to help you?’

‘Oh, that’s all arranged—there’s no problem, Grandpa, don’t worry. I’ll make the soup in advance. The salmon is easy, it will only take me a quarter of an hour to cook it and make the sauce. The omelettes will take longer, but they aren’t difficult. I shall cook them at the table on a spirit-stove—people always enjoy watching!’

‘Watching other people work is always fun,’ George grunted, smiling. He loved to watch her do anything; she endlessly fascinated him. ‘I’ve never heard of omelettes filled with fruit.’

‘It’s really easy. I’ll have prepared the fruit beforehand, it will be reheated in the microwave and brought to the table in a jug, so that I can pour it into the omelette just before I fold and serve it.’

‘You’re a marvel!’ George Rendell said, and Emilie gave him a glowing look. Knowing he loved her made her feel she could do anything.

They drove to work at the paper-mill in Kent together, and that evening they drove home again, leaving on the dot of five o’clock. Her grandfather no longer worked the long hours he once had, she gathered. He had been a workaholic; now he preferred to be home with her.

It took them an hour to reach the house in Chelsea, and Emilie went straight into the kitchen. Their guests were not due for an hour and a half, which gave her just enough time to prepare most of the food before she went upstairs to dress for dinner.

The woman who came in every day to clean the house always helped with dinner parties. Emilie had left her instructions and Mary had already done some of the work—the vegetables were all prepared, the table laid, the ingredients ready.

Emilie rapidly made the broccoli soup and then puréed, separately, the raspberries and oranges she had decided on for the omelette-filling, then she went upstairs to shower and change. She couldn’t make up her mind what to wear and wasted time putting on first one dress then another, hating herself in all of them. She wanted to look different. Older, more sophisticated. In the end she despairingly settled on a simple black dress her stepmother had bought her. Marie-Claude’s taste was always perfect.

She did her hair and make-up and looked at herself in the mirror, and was startled by her reflection. The black dress certainly made her look different.

She dithered—should she wear it? Would it make Ambrose notice her, realise she wasn’t the little girl he had seemed to think she was?

She looked again, making a face. Notice me? Not a chance. He was kind to me the other night because I was crying, but a man like him isn’t interested in girls my age!

Should she change again, into something familiar? She looked at her watch and gave a cry of panic—there was no time! She had to hurry downstairs. Her grandfather met her at the foot of the stairs, his jaw dropping at the sight of her.

‘Where did that dress come from? Bit old for you, isn’t it?’ His voice was dubious.

Her colour rose. ‘Marie-Claude gave it to me,’ she whispered.

‘Who? Oh, your stepmother. Ah. French, is it?’ Again that doubtful glance. ‘Yes. Looks it.’

He hates it, she thought. If I rush I might have time to change; we can have dinner a few minutes late. But just then the doorbell went and the first of the guests arrived, and after that she had no chance to go and change.

They were all middle-aged or older, George Rendell’s friends, kind to Emilie but way out of her age-group. She took their coats, with Mary hovering to take them away, poured them drinks, handed round plates of horsd’oeuvres: sausages or prunes wrapped in crisp bacon, her own home-made cheese straws dipped in paprika, triangles of toast on which she had arranged caviare.

Ambrose was the last to arrive. At Emilie’s first glimpse of him, her heart gave such a heavy thud that she felt almost sick.

‘I’m sorry, I got caught in a traffic jam in Trafalgar Square,’ he said as she opened the door to him, and then his eyes moved down over her and he frowned.

Shaken by that look, Emilie huskily asked, ‘May I take your coat?’ He hates my dress too, she thought, her heart sinking. Grandpa didn’t like it, neither does Ambrose! Oh, why did I put it on?

Still staring, he shouldered out of the black cashmere, which was lined with dark red silk. Emilie reverently took it over her arm, unable to resist stroking it with one hand, thinking how soft and smooth it was—it must have cost a bomb!—and yet absorbing at the same time the fact that under the coat he was wearing a dark grey suit which was equally elegant and expensive. Made by the same tailor, no doubt; his clothes had an exclusive gloss. Her grandfather said that a man was judged by other men from how he dressed; Ambrose Kerr probably bought his clothes to impress his bank’s clients. Did he always dress so formally? she wondered.

Tonight there was a gold watch-chain gleaming across his waistcoat, gold cufflinks in the cuffs of his white shirt, and he wore a dove-grey silk tie.

On any other man she would have thought the clothes stuffy and boring, but he made them sexy and exciting.

As if aware of her staring, he said, ‘I came straight from work.’ Then, abruptly, he said, ‘You look different tonight—older, somehow. It’s that dress.’

Tears prickled stupidly in her eyes, and she lowered them, gesturing to the open door nearby, from which came the sound of talking, laughter. ‘Do go in,’ she muttered. ‘I must hang up your coat.’

As she turned stumblingly away Ambrose caught her shoulder to stop her, put a hand under her chin and lifted her face towards him, his grey eyes searching hers.

‘You aren’t upset, are you? The dress is very chic, and you’re lovely in it. It’s just that I had this idea of you from the other night—you were wearing a blue dress that made you look like Alice in Wonderland. Black makes you look much older, that’s all.’

He hated her dress, he thought she was a little girl… Alice in Wonderland! She broke away without a word and fled, taking his coat with her, and heard her grandfather greeting him behind her.

‘Come and meet some people…What will you have to drink, Ambrose?’

It was a relief to have work to do, an excuse for not returning to the others yet. She went to the kitchen to reheat the broccoli soup, poured it into a tureen, and got Mary to take it to the dining-room.

Emilie put the vegetables on to cook, made the sauce to accompany the poached salmon, and slid the fish into the water, then she hurried through into the dining-room after setting the timer so that Mary would have a warning when the salmon was ready.

Mary had served the soup by the time Emilie took her seat; Ambrose was sitting opposite her.

‘Your grandfather tells me you cooked the entire meal,’ he said, his spoon poised.

Faces turned to smile at her. ‘She’s a wonderful cook,’ one of the other guests, a frequent visitor, assured him.

‘I’ve asked her to come and cook for me when I have dinner parties; she’s wasted working at the mill,’ another woman said. ‘But she refuses to turn professional, says she’s just an amateur. But I can’t get any so-called professionals who can cook as well as Emilie.’

‘It’s just a hobby,’ Emilie said, shyly pink.

Ambrose tasted the soup; everyone watched him, smiling.

He lowered his spoon. ‘Delicious. They’re right, you are good.’

Her blush deepened. Everyone laughed and began to eat, the tide of conversation rising along the table.

‘If I invited you to cook for me, would you turn me down too?’ he murmured, and she laughed but didn’t answer.

Her grandfather spoke to him and Emilie was able to concentrate on her soup, her head lowered. She listened to everything they said, though, absorbing the sound of Ambrose’s voice through every pore, memorising every intonation, the warm sound of his laughter when Grandpa told him a joke.

When she began cooking the omelettes at the table he insisted on helping her, adjusting the spirit-stove, holding the jug of fruit she would pour into the omelettes before serving.

Feeling his stare riveted on her made her very nervous, which was silly. She had cooked at the table beforemade crepes Suzette with Grand Marnier—but this time she was shaking a little and breathless, because Ambrose Kerr was standing beside her, watching her.

Somehow, though, she got through without making a mistake. Ambrose held out a warmed plate on to which she slid the finished omelette.

When he tasted the golden semicircle he sat with eyes half closed for a moment while the other guests all watched him, then said, ‘Magnificent!’ and everyone laughed.

‘You are an amazing cook,’ he told her over coffee. ‘Your grandfather tells me you’re working in the paper-mill. It seems a waste for someone who can cook as well as you can!’

Seriously, she said, ‘Cooking is fun, but I love working in the mill far more. Our family have owned it for a century, you know, and it is a fascinating process, making paper.’ She paused. ‘Sorry, I mustn’t bore you.’

‘If you bored me I wouldn’t be here,’ he said, and Emilie drew a sharp, shaken breath. What did he mean by that?

Their eyes met across the table; her skin was burning, she was trembling. Was he flirting with her? If only she understood more about men!

‘How is paper made?’ Ambrose said, after a pause that seemed to last forever.

‘I’m sure you already know!’ Was he patronising her now? She prickled at the idea and he shot her an amused look, his mouth curling at one side.

‘I have a hazy idea, but I’ve never studied the process in detail. I realise it comes from wood, of course.’

Emilie decided to take him at his word; if that bored him it would be his own fault! She told him how paper was made today, how it had been made in the past and how slight was the difference, merely a matter of more efficient machinery rather than a change in the actual process. Once she was over her intense awareness of him her eyes began to glow with the light of an enthusiasm close to passion.

That is how she would look in love, Ambrose thought, his eyes moving from her warm, softly full little mouth to her wide, bright blue eyes, roaming over her high cheekbones, her delicate temples, the fall of silky brown hair framing her face, and then going back to that mouth. It had passion and sweetness and sensitivity, only waiting for the right man to set fire to it.

After dinner George Rendell persuaded Emilie to play the piano for them; the guests all sat at one end of a long, panelled room, the lights dimmed as if in an auditorium, and Emilie sat at the piano at the other end.

‘What are you going to play?’ Ambrose asked, and then insisted on glancing through the music-books she produced. He picked a piece of Chopin she said she knew and sat beside her while she played, turning the music for her, leaning forward every so often to flip the page over. Emilie was deeply conscious of him there, his strong fingers moving just at the periphery of her sight, his gold cufflinks glittering.

‘You’re good,’ he said later, when she had finished playing and everyone was talking again. ‘Did you ever think of doing that professionally?’

She shook her head, bright-eyed from his praise.

‘Another hobby?’ he teased.

‘I’m not serious enough about either cooking or playing the piano to do either of them professionally. You need to be totally committed for that. I suppose I’m too lazy.’ Under her offhand tone Emilie felt guilty about not having the sort of ambition and drive she knew she ought to have. She had been given talents she wasn’t using; she could make a career with either cooking or the piano, no doubt, if she worked at them, but at the time when she should have been giving all of herself to studying she had been too intent on her dying mother to have the energy to spare, and after her mother finally died Emilie had not felt she wanted to do anything at all.

But she couldn’t explain that to him; it was too personal, involved telling him too much, so she changed the subject, asking him, ‘What about you? Don’t you have any hobbies?’

He made a wry face. ‘I paint, with a knife or my hands—just splash oil-paints on in thick blobs. It helps with aggressive feelings, I’m told. I’m not very good. It’s more therapy than art.’

‘It sounds fun to me. I haven’t painted since I left school, and then we just did water-colours, very neat, pale water-colours. I’d like to try oil-painting, especially the way you just described.’ She laughed, and said lightly, ‘Maybe I need therapy!’

He didn’t take her seriously. She couldn’t need help of that kind, this wide-eyed girl barely out of childhood and spoiled by a doting grandfather! What problems could she have?

His voice very casual, he said, ‘I usually paint at my place in the country. I have a house in the Cotswolds, with great views of the Malvern Hills—why don’t you and your grandfather come for the weekend, and I’ll show you what I laughingly call my technique? If you enjoy painting that way, you could start having professional lessons.’

Emilie hadn’t expected that. Her breath caught, there was a beat of time before she could talk, then she huskily said, ‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’

‘Shall we check with your grandfather and see if he is free?’ asked Ambrose, steering her over to where George Rendell was talking to some departing guests.

George was taken aback by the invitation. He had never been invited to Ambrose’s country home before—their relationship was strictly a business one in London—but he accepted.

‘Lovely part of the country, the Cotswolds,’ he added. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing it again. I shan’t be joining your painting class, though, Ambrose, not one for splashing paint around. I’ll just relax by the fire and read the Sunday papers, I expect!’

Ambrose gravely said, ‘You’re coming for the weekend to relax, George. Do just whatever you like.’ To Emilie he said, ‘If it’s cold, in winter, I paint in a conservatory—it gives all the light you need but it is warmer than being outside!’

‘I don’t mind cold weather,’ she said.

‘She doesn’t feel the cold, lucky child,’ said her grandfather, and Ambrose’s eyes darkened.

He looked at her with sombre intensity. Child, he thought; she is a child, he’s right. I’m out of my mind. What the hell do I think I’m going to do with her? I couldn’t marry her, she’s far too young. And if I seduce her, George will take a gun to me. Then his gaze drifted down to that soft, inviting pink mouth again. Come off it, you know what you’d like to do with her! he derisively told himself.

When Ambrose got home that evening he rang Gavin, who was in bed, but was immediately alert at the sound of the familiar voice.

‘Ambrose? Anything wrong?’

‘About the Rendell project,’ Ambrose said curtly. Tve decided to deal with that myself from now on. You can leave it entirely to me.’

Gavin’s voice held suspicion, wariness. ‘Why? Has something happened that I don’t know about? A problem come up?’

Ambrose ignored the questions. ‘You can draw up a new analysis of our manufacturing clients and their current positions.’

‘Anyone could do that for you!’ Gavin muttered. ‘You had an analysis done only six months ago.’

‘And now I want a new one, OK? Just drop the Rendell project, forget all about it.’

‘You can’t——’ began Gavin, anger in his voice.

‘Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do!’

Gavin audibly drew breath, shaken by the crack of Ambrose’s voice. ‘No, of course not, I wouldn’t…didn’t mean…Ambrose, I’ve run myself ragged to get them all to agree to your plans. Some of that board are old friends of his and needed a hell of a lot of persuading. Why are you taking me off the case?’

‘That’s my business. Just do what you’re told, will you?’

Ambrose slammed the phone down, got into bed and sat up against his banked pillows staring at nothing, his face tense and pale.

A child, he reminded himself again. She was just a child. It was crazy. He couldn’t. Shouldn’t. She still had so much to learn about life, about herself, about men—especially men like him. She was gentle, sweet, innocent…He had no right to go anywhere near her.

He had years of experience behind him, in every sense of the word. Other women had taught him what he knew about her sex, not all of them very nice women, some of them not women he would even want her to meet.

She was a sheet of pure white paper on which life had not yet written a word. Heat burned deep inside him, though, at the thought of teaching her, being the first. There was something about that purity, that innocence, that he found exciting.

She might be sexually unawakened, but all his male instincts told him there was passion waiting inside her to be kindled. That full, soft mouth invited exploration.

By someone her own age, he told himself scathingly, not someone like me!

There were parts of his life he hated to remember, a darkness he sometimes met in his nightmares and which made him wake up in sweating misery. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what his life had been like; did he have any right to let that darkness touch her, even remotely?

Her grandfather would certainly object; he didn’t know Ambrose very well. Ambrose had made sure that nobody knew anything about his origins. His life had begun when he arrived in London, when he was twenty, much the age of this girl.

He had suppressed his background, buried the darkness where nobody could ever find it, but George Rendell was no fool. He would have no more luck in tracing Ambrose to his roots than anyone else had done during the past fifteen years, that distant past was too well hidden, but he would still have a good idea that Ambrose wasn’t a suitable man to be in his granddaughter’s life.

He’s right, too, thought Ambrose. I should stop this now. Before someone gets hurt. I’d hate to hurt her. I’d hate myself if I did. If I seduce her, sooner or later she’ll get hurt, when it’s all over.

His love affairs had never lasted long. There was no room for a full-time commitment in his life; he was too busy, his sex drive had to fit in with his over-busy schedule and women always wanted more than he could give them. They wanted stability, marriage, children.

He had always just wanted sex.

No, he couldn’t do it; an innocent like that needed someone of her own generation, a boy whose experience matched her own.

Sholto Cory? mocked a cold, inner voice—and, at the very idea of them together, jealousy hit him like an arrow in the dark. He shuddered. No, he’s too young; he wouldn’t appreciate her mixture of unaware sensuality and shining innocence the way an older man would. He would rush at her greedily and bruise that sweetness.

A girl like her needed gentler handling: patience, a slow introduction to the pleasure of sex, not to be grabbed and…

He groaned, flinging an arm across his face. Who was he kidding? The truth was, he couldn’t bear the idea of Sholto laying a hand on her. He wanted her for himself.

He called a florist next morning and sent Emilie roses; he wanted white ones but the girl ruefully assured him she could only manage either red or pale pink.

‘Pink, then,’ Ambrose said. ‘Two dozen.’

They arrived while Emilie was at work, and Mary put them into green glass vases for her and arranged them in the sitting-room.

‘That’s nice of him,’ her grandfather said, staring at them. ‘He certainly knows how to make a gesture.’

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ Emilie said dreamily, touching a rose with gentle fingers. The petals were like cool velvet, their colour the delicate pale pink of mother-of-pearl.

The doorbell rang, Mary went to answer it; they heard her talking and then a male voice replying.

‘Sholto!’ Emilie said, and George Rendell grimaced.

‘That young man…What is he doing here at this hour? Have you asked him to dinner?’

‘No, I wouldn’t, without asking you first. You know that!’

‘If he stays long, we shall have to ask him, I suppose!’ George muttered, and stamped off to get himself a drink. He liked Sholto well enough, but the dinner party had used up all his hospitable feelings; he had been looking forward to an evening spent quietly at home with just Emilie for company.

Sholto came in, bringing a rush of cold air with him, and gave her a hopeful look. ‘Hi, I thought you might like to come and see a film—there’s a terrific thriller on at the moment.’

She sighed, wishing he hadn’t come. She was trying to avoid him at the moment; she still hadn’t got over that proposal during Ambrose Kerr’s Christmas party. Sholto had been far too insistent; he had scared her off.

‘I’m sorry, Sholto, I’m too tired tonight. I had a lot to do at work today.’

‘Oh, come on, Em,’ he said, his mouth sulky.

She had given in before when he looked like that, because she had felt guilty about refusing, but not this time. She firmly shook her head.

‘I want to get an early night; I have another busy day tomorrow.’

As she turned away her sleeve caught a small card which had been resting against one of the vases of roses; it fluttered to the ground and Sholto bent to pick it up.

Before she could stop him he had read it. He looked at the roses, scowling. ‘He sent you those? How many are there? There must be a couple of dozen…Pink roses in December? They must have cost an arm and a leg! Why did he send them? What the hell is going on, Emilie?’