When that passage had been safely negotiated, she stopped and consulted her map again. “This must be the Elizabethan Library on the right. Isn’t it lovely? Look at all the tiny panes in the windows.”
“Gemma-”
“And these are the perennial beds,” she continued, pointing at the freshly turned black earth bordering the library. “It says here that they’re one of the college’s best features.”
“It looks like clumps of dead stems to me.” Kincaid gave her a withering glance. “You’ve been spending too much time with Hazel. You’re beginning to sound like a gardener.”
“They’ll be lovely in another month or two,” she said a little wistfully, with a sudden wish that she might see them then, but she knew it to be unlikely.
“Gemma-”
“All right.” She started walking again across the lawn, following the line of buildings that curved along the right-hand side of the parklike garden, ending at the wall overlooking the Cam. With the mutability Gemma was coming to expect from Cambridge weather, the clouds had again released the sun, and within the precincts of the daffodil-studded garden it felt quite like spring.
Darcy Eliot’s staircase proved to be the last in the building nearest the river. Following the porter’s instructions, they climbed to the first floor and easily found the door with ELIOT inscribed on its brass plate, but before they could knock it swung open.
“Bill rang to say you were on your way,” said Darcy Eliot, with every evidence of pleasure. “But I’d begun to think you’d fallen in the Cam.” He stepped back and gestured them inside.
“I’m afraid I was sight-seeing along the way,” said Gemma, with an apologetic wave of her map.
“And I can’t blame you. All Saints’ is rather a jewel-small enough to be accessible, don’t you think?” Eliot considered them curiously. “It’s rather refreshing to find anyone interested in architecture these days. The world is full of Philistines.” He wore a large cashmere pullover in a robin’s egg shade of blue, and looked considerably more rumpled, and more human, than when Gemma had seen him at the memorial service. “Do sit down,” he added, indicating a sofa upholstered in a velvet almost the same shade of blue as his sweater.
But Gemma was already crossing the room as he spoke, drawn by the windows in their deep stone embrasures. The men followed and stood on either side of her as she gazed out.
“That’s St. John’s you can see across the bend in the river,” said Darcy, pointing. “It’s quite lovely, isn’t it? I never tire of my view.”
One of the casements was cranked open a few inches, and Gemma felt the air move against her face, cool and fresh. “Yes, I can see that,” she said, with a glance at Kincaid beside her, still silent.
She was accustomed to a consistency on his part that allowed her to function as the volatile half of the partnership, but his behavior over the past few days had been unpredictable. He seemed to ricochet from a forced, feverish pleasantness, to a sharp-tongued sarcasm, to the withdrawn silence he exhibited now.
In that moment, she realized how much she had come to depend on him, even when she argued with him and questioned his decisions. The sense that she might no longer be able to count on his strength frightened her.
Well, I’ll carry us both, she resolved, but she had the feeling it was going to take all her wits. She turned to Darcy Eliot and smiled.
“You must feel king of the castle up here,” she said, looking about her as she let him lead her back to the sofa. The room was comfortably opulent, with much gilt in evidence on picture frames and mirrors, and a coordination of color and fabric that spoke of a professional hand in the designing. In the center of the wall opposite the windows, an ornate mahogany bookcase displayed multiple copies of Darcy Eliot’s books-some with the now-familiar Peregrine logo-and Gemma found the little vanity rather endearing.
Darcy seated himself at the other end of the sofa, carefully crossed one ankle over the other knee, revealing a colorful argyle sock, and said, “To what do I owe this visit, other than the attractions of my college?”
This had been Vic’s college, too, Gemma remembered with a quick glance at Kincaid.
He turned but didn’t come to join them. “We’ve just had a very pleasant visit with your mother,” he said. “I hadn’t met her before.”
“Please don’t tell me my mother inflicted the damage to your face.” Darcy stared with frank curiosity at Kincaid’s swollen lip and purpling cheekbone. “Her manners are usually exemplary.”
“Her manners were exemplary.” Kincaid smiled and ignored the probe. “We seem to have interrupted her meeting at the Peregrine Press, but she was quite gracious.” He crossed to the sitting area and sat in the armchair opposite Darcy.
“Ah, my mother’s other child,” said Darcy, sounding faintly amused. When Kincaid raised a questioning eyebrow, he went on. “Did she not mention she was on the board of directors?”
“She only said she’d been helping Peregrine with Henry White-cliff’s manuscript.”
“Henry was on the board as well,” said Darcy. “Both of them from the beginning. But Peregrine Press would never have seen the light of day without my mother’s considerable assistance, financial and otherwise. She and Ralph have had a long and productive relationship.” He smiled, and Gemma felt a bit shocked, wondering if he could possibly mean what she thought he meant. Dame Margery must be at least twenty-five years older than Ralph Peregrine, if not more. Surely…
“… Vic tell you that she thought some poems might have been removed from Lydia’s last manuscript?” Kincaid was saying as she picked up the conversation again.
“You’re not serious.” Darcy looked from Kincaid to Gemma, his smile fading. “You are serious. Surely you don’t think Ralph had anything to do with it? He’s as honest a chap as you could ever come across.”
“We don’t know anything at this point, except that Vic was worried about this manuscript,” said Kincaid. “I thought she might have mentioned it to you.”
Darcy smoothed the sock on his crossed ankle before lowering his foot to the floor. “No, she didn’t. And I doubt I’d have been Vic’s first choice as a confidant, I’m sorry to say. We didn’t always see eye to eye as far as Lydia’s work was concerned.”
“I remember that you weren’t an admirer of Lydia’s, Dr. Eliot. I find that interesting, in the light of the close… nature of your relationship.” Kincaid settled back in his chair, his posture more relaxed as Darcy appeared less comfortable.
“Lydia and I were friends for many years, but I’ve never considered friendship grounds for wholesale professional admiration. That sort of thing does not tend to increase one’s standing in academic circles.” Darcy sounded as though he’d expected a bit more sophistication from Kincaid.
Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean that one is required not to praise good work by friends, for fear of being thought weak and undiscriminating? That seems a sort of reverse hypocrisy.”
Darcy gave a bark of laughter. “I should have learned not to underestimate you the first time we spoke, Mr. Kincaid. And you’re right, of course, but since I genuinely did not approve of the direction of much of Lydia’s later work, I don’t think I’m guilty of hypocrisy on that count. I find the idea of the confessional voice quite revolting, regardless of the owner.”
“But perhaps I can accuse you of being less than truthful about Lydia herself, Dr. Eliot. You hinted to me about Lydia’s relationship with Daphne Morris, but you didn’t mention the fact that it was all a bit more complicated than that. According to Morgan Ashby-”