“I’m sorry,” she said. “I feel an awful fool barging in like this.”
“You’re not.”
“It’s just that I didn’t know where else to go.” She hesitated. “The thing is, I’ve had a bit of a shock, and I need time to think about what to do. I don’t want to go to Bleeding Heart Square.”
“Has Mr. Langstone-”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing to do with Marcus. If you don’t mind, I-I don’t want to talk about it.”
“When did you last eat?”
She shrugged. “I can’t remember.”
“I’m going to forage in the kitchen. There is a bit of tinned ham left and some bread and one or two apples.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are, you just haven’t noticed.” He smiled at her. “And then we’ll have some more whisky.”
“I can’t stay here.”
“Where do you think you’re going then?”
“I don’t know. A hotel, I suppose.”
“Don’t be silly. You haven’t any luggage. Besides, the weather’s foul, and you can’t go out dressed like that. You can have the bedroom. I’ll sleep in here.”
“I can’t let you do that. Anyway-”
“I’m sure Dawlish wouldn’t mind. You’re fagged out, the weather’s beastly and you’ve had a shock. Damn it, I won’t let you go. I’ll take away your shoes if you try.”
She looked at him and he noticed her eyes narrowing, as they sometimes did when she was amused. “Then it looks as if I haven’t got much choice.”
That evening they ate an unpleasant scratch supper in front of the electric fire. They drank Dawlish’s whisky and smoked Lydia’s cigarettes. Lydia asked him questions. She wanted to hear about his parents and his sisters. She wanted to hear about what it was like to live in the manager’s accommodation over a bank. She wanted to hear about grammar school and university and India. While he talked, she sat there, eyes half closed, glass in hand, with a dreamy expression on her face.
Had someone tried to rape her? Or robbed her?
Gradually they ran out of words. It was very quiet in the basement flat. Mecklenburgh Square had only three sides because to the west lay the children’s playground, once the site of the Foundling Hospital, so Dawlish’s house was effectively near the end of a cul-de-sac.
Rory felt his eyelids drooping. He wasn’t used to whisky. The room was warm and stuffy. He was glad not to be alone in this big house. No, it was more than that: he was glad Lydia was here.
The next thing he knew, he was fully awake. He wasn’t sure how long he had been dozing. Lydia was on her feet and folding one of the blankets. For an instant he didn’t recognize her, and a shiver of lust flickered through him. She looked down at him and smiled.
“I think I’ll turn in.”
He yawned. “Sorry-I must have dropped off.” He noticed that his article was beside the whisky bottle.
Lydia had followed the direction of his eyes. “I hope you don’t mind. I read it. It’s very good.”
“I wondered whether it was rather personal in tone.”
“Don’t change a word. They deserve every last one of them.”
He stood up. “Thank you. I’ll show you where everything is.”
She didn’t move. “You’ve been very kind. I think I can cope now.”
“What will you do tomorrow?”
She picked up her skirt and felt the hem. “The first thing I have to do is see my mother.”
25
YOU TURN OVER the page and read the last lines. Philippa Penhow never wrote anything else in there, and the rest of the diary is as blank as oblivion.
Wednesday, 23 April 1930 (continued)…go back. I’ll leave the diary in the barn on the way. Blast & botheration. Find some money. Try again. He can’t stop me. I’ve made up my mind. Car on drive. Say I was caught in rain & took shelter. Jacko barking.
Oh Joseph, Joseph.
“Good morning, Fripp.”
“Good morning, Miss Lydia.” Fripp’s eyes flickered. He opened the door wide and stood back, ushering Lydia into the hall. “Her ladyship is still upstairs, and Miss Pamela has gone out. His lordship is in the library, though.”
“Thank you.” Lydia allowed him to take her hat and coat. “And how are you?”
“As well as can be expected, thank you, miss.” Fripp was innately conservative: in his eyes she would always be “miss,” never “madam,” however many husbands she acquired. “I hope you are keeping well yourself.”
“Yes, thanks. Do you know where my sister went?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say.”
The library door opened and the little figure of Lord Cassington hurried out. He was carrying the morning’s Times and struggling to prevent part of it slipping to the floor. His eyes fell on Lydia. “Lydia, my dear.” Automatically he held up his cheek for a kiss. “Splendid-come to see your mother, eh? You’ll find her in her bedroom, I believe.” He looked up at her, his face a mass of wrinkles like a sun-dried sultana, and tapped the newspaper. “You’ve heard Pammy’s news, I suppose?”
Lydia said she had. Lord Cassington said that Fisher was a splendid chap and Lydia smiled but did not reply.
“Must dash,” he said. “Stay to lunch if you can.”
He bustled away. He was a man of routine. For as long as Lydia could remember, he had liked to spend between ten and fifteen minutes at this time of the morning locked in the lavatory with The Times.
Lydia went upstairs. Her mother’s bedroom was on the second floor. She tapped on the door and went in without waiting for an answer. Lady Cassington was still in bed. Her maid was doing her nails. A large notebook lay open beside her on the eiderdown, and the remains of breakfast were on a table beside the bed. Seen like this, with a scarf over her hair and her face devoid of makeup, she looked her age. When she saw Lydia, she waved her free hand and said, “Hello, darling, so there you are,” as if she had been expecting Lydia to call at Upper Mount Street. Her maid was less adept at hiding her reaction: she gave a visible start and pursed her lips in a puckered circle.
“Matthews, run away now. I want to talk to Miss Lydia,” Lady Cassington said. “I’ll ring when I want you.”
When they were alone, Lydia walked over to the window and looked down on the street below.
“Stop prowling about and come and sit on the bed where I can see you,” her mother said. “Have you seen Fin?”
“Briefly.” Lydia sat on the chair beside the bed, the one the maid had been using. “He seems pleased about Pammy and Rex Fisher.”
“We all are. So you saw The Times?”
“Pammy told me about the engagement on Saturday.”
Lady Cassington arched her eyebrows, which suggested, Lydia thought, that she hadn’t known that Pammy had seen Lydia; that in itself was interesting. Her mother tapped the notebook. “I’m making lists. There’s not a moment to lose. Pammy should be back for lunch if you want to see her. She was going to Regent Street, the Aquascutum sale, I think.” She went on without any change of tone, “You will come to the wedding, won’t you?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“But, darling, she’d be frightfully disappointed if you weren’t there. You of all people.”
“I mean, I don’t think the wedding itself is a good idea. I don’t like what I’ve seen of Fisher and I don’t like his politics either.”
“Of course there may be implications for you and Marcus. I quite understand that.”
“That’s partly what I came to talk about,” Lydia said.
Lady Cassington helped herself to a cigarette from the box on the bedside table. She looked warily at Lydia. “I know things have been very difficult,” she said cautiously. “Sometimes, though, one just has to look forward.”