"To the prospective horseman all things are forgiven, are they?" the Rector said, mocking mildly.
"Doesn't La Parslow get any better?" Simon asked.
"She will never get any better. She skates about in the saddle like a block of ice on a plate. I could weep for the horse all the time we are out. Luckily Cherrypicker has an indestructible frame and practically no feelings."
The move from the dining-room to the living-room produced an anti-climax. The talk ceased to flow and ran into aimless trickles. Brat was suddenly so tired that he could hardly stand up. He hoped that no one would spring anything on him now; his normally hard head was muzzy with unaccustomed wine, and his thoughts fumbled and stuck. The twins said good night and went upstairs. Bee poured the coffee which had been placed in readiness for them on a low table by the fire, and it was not as hot as it should have been. Bee made despairing grimaces at Nancy.
"Our Lana, is it?" Nancy asked, sympathetic.
"Yes. I suppose she had to meet our Arthur and couldn't wait another ten minutes."
Simon, too, fell silent, as if the effort he had been making seemed suddenly not worth while. Only Eleanor seemed to have brought from the dining-room the warmth and happiness that had made dinner a success. In the moments of silence between the slow spurts of talk the rain fell against the tall windows with a soft shush.
"You were right about the weather, Aunt Bee," Eleanor said. "She said this morning that it was that too-bright kind that would bring rain before night."
"Bee is perennially right," the Rector said, giving her a look that was half a smile, half a benediction.
"It sounds loathsome," Bee said.
Nancy waited until they had lingered properly over their coffee and then said: "It has been a very full day for Brat, Bee; and I expect you are all tired. We won't stay now, but you'll come over and see us when you can crawl out from under the crush, won't you, Brat?"
Simon fetched her wraps and they all went out to the doorstep to see their guests off. On the doorstep Nancy took off her evening shoes, tucked them under her arm, and stepped into a pair of Wellingtons that she had left behind the door. Then she tucked her other arm under her husband's, huddled close to him under their single umbrella, and walked away with him into the night.
"Good old Nancy," Simon said. "You can't keep a Ledingham down." He sounded just a little drunk.
"Dear Nan," Bee said softly. She moved into the living-room and surveyed it in an absent fashion.
"I think Nan is right," she said. "It is time we all went to bed. It has been an exciting day for all of us."
"We don't want it to end so soon, do we?" Eleanor said.
"You have La Parslow at nine-thirty to-morrow," Simon reminded her. "I saw it in the book."
"What were you doing with the riding book?"
"I like to see that you're not cheating on your income tax."
"Oh, yes, let's go to bed," Eleanor said, with a wide happy yawn. "It's been a wonderful day."
She turned to Brat to say good night, became suddenly shy, gave him her hand and said: "Good night then, Brat. Sleep well," and went away upstairs.
Brat turned to Bee, but she said: "I shall come in to see you on my way up." So he turned back to face Simon.
"Good night, Simon." He met the clear cold eyes levelly.
"Good night to you-Patrick," Simon said, looking faintly amused. He had managed to make the name sound like a provocation.
"Are you coming up now?" Brat heard Bee ask him as he climbed the stairs.
"Not quite yet."
"Will you see that the lights are out, then? And make sure of the locks?"
"Yes, of course I'll do that. Good night, Bee darling."
As Brat turned on to the landing he saw Bee's arms go round Simon. And he was stabbed by a hot despairing jealousy that shocked him. What had it to do with him?
Bee followed him into the old night nursery in a few moments. She looked with a practised eye at the bed and said: "That moron promised to put in a hot-water bottle and she has forgotten to do it."
"Don't worry," Brat said. "I'd only have put it out again. I don't use the things."
"You must think us a crowd of soft-livers," she said.
"I think you're a nice crowd," he said.
She looked at him and smiled.
"Tired?"
"Yes."
"Too tired for breakfast at eight-thirty?"
"That sounds luxuriously late to me."
"Did you enjoy it, that hard life-Brat?"
"Sure."
"I think you're nice too," she said, and kissed him lightly. "I wish you hadn't stayed away from us so long, but we are glad to have you back. Good night, my dear." And as she went out: "It's no use ringing a bell, of course, because no one will answer. But if you have a mad desire for fried shrimps, or iced water, or a copy of the Pilgrim's Progress or something, come along to my room. It is still the right-hand one in front."
"Good night," he said.
She stood for a moment outside his room, the door-knob still in her hand, and then moved away to Eleanor's door. She knocked and went in. For the last year or so Eleanor had been a great comfort to her. She had been so long alone in her need for judgment and resolution that it was refreshing to have the companionship of her own kind; to have Eleanor's unemotional good sense on tap when she wanted it.
"Hullo, Bee," Eleanor said, looking up through the hair she was brushing. She was beginning to drop the "aunt," as Simon did.
Bee sank into a chair and said: "Well, that's over."
"It turned out to be quite a success, didn't it," Eleanor said. "Simon behaved beautifully. Poor Simon."
"Yes. Poor Simon."
"Perhaps Brat-Patrick-will offer him some kind of partnership. Do you think? After all, Simon helped to make the stable. It wouldn't be fair to walk in and grab the lot after taking no interest for years and years."
"No. I don't know. I hope so."
"You sound tired."
"Aren't we all?"
"D'you know, Bee, I must confess I have the greatest difficulty in connecting the two."
"The two? Simon and Patrick?"
"No. Patrick and Brat."
There was a moment's silence, filled with the soft sound of the rain and the strokes of Eleanor's brush.
"You mean you-don't think he is Patrick?"
Eleanor stopped brushing and looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. "Of course he's Patrick," she said, astonished. "Who else would he be?" She put down the brush and began to tie up her hair in a blue ribbon. "It's just that I have no feeling of ever having met him before. Odd, isn't it? When we spent nearly twelve years of our lives together. I like him; don't you?"
"Yes," Bee said. "I like him." She, too, had no feeling of ever having met him before, and she too did not see "who else he could be."
"Did Patrick not smile very often?"
"No; he was a serious child."
"When Brat smiles I want to cry."
"Good heavens, Eleanor."
"You can 'good heavens' all you like, but I expect you know what I mean."
Bee thought that she did.
"Did he tell you why he didn't write to us all those years?"
"No. There wasn't much opportunity for confidences."
"I thought you might have asked him when you were going round the paddocks with him this evening."
"No. He was too interested in the horses."
"Why do you think he didn't take any interest in us after he left?"
"Perhaps he took what old Nannie used to call a 'scunner' to us. It's not so surprising, in a way, as the fact that he ran away in the first place. The urge to put Latchetts behind him must have been overwhelming."
"Yes. I suppose so. But he was such a kind person: Pat. And so fond of us all. He mightn't have wanted to come back, but you would have thought he'd want to let us know that he was safe."