"I'll come with you," I exclaimed, moving toward the door. "To help."
Diana looked at me curiously but made no comment, and we left the parlor together.
Of course later in the evening, after Gwendolyn Reece-Jones left and went on her way to Leeds, we held a little postmortem on her. It was only natural, I suppose, given the circumstances.
"She has such an odd way of speaking," I said to Diana, shaking my head. "It's sort of staccato."
"I know, she talks in little sharp bursts, and she has a predilection for using one-word sentences. But she's a good sort, awfully kind and considerate, and she doesn't have a bad word for anybody, or a bad bone in her body, for that matter," Diana answered.
"I liked her very much," I murmured.
"And she liked you," Diana replied. "Furthermore, she was rather relieved that you know about her relationship with your father."
"I hope I didn't embarrass her, I just wanted to level with her, let her know I knew." I gave Diana one of my piercing looks. "Did she say anything when you went out to the car with her, Diana?"
"Only that you'd taken her by surprise when you'd mentioned Edward, and what a lovely young woman you were, so pretty. She was very admiring of your beautiful red hair."
"I thought she was rather attractive, too, and I can just see her and Daddy together. I approve; she is very nice."
"But as eccentric as hell!" Andrew exclaimed. "A genuine character. And whenever I hear the name Gwendolyn, I think of scarves. She's always worn masses of them, rain or shine, all kinds of weather, and as far as I remember they've been made of every type of fabric. Gwenny's a regular Isadora Duncan, if you ask me." He laughed and stood up. "Would you like another glass of wine, Ma?"
"Not at the moment, darling," Diana said, "I've still got half of this one left."
"I think I will," he said and walked across the parlor to the skirted table in the corner, where Parky had put a tray holding a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket and a syphon of soda water. "How about you, Mal?"
"I'm fine, Andrew, and listen, you two, before we have supper I want to show you my finds."
"Finds? What do you mean?" Andrew asked, turning around and smiling at me fondly.
"I was poking around in the library this afternoon, and I found a diary by one of your ancestors, Lettice Keswick, which she wrote in the seventeenth century. Actually, what I found was a copy of the original, and it was in the most beautiful copperplate handwriting. It was done by Clarissa Keswick, who copied it in 1893 in order to preserve it."
"Good Lord! So that's what you were doing all afternoon, digging around amongst those moldy old books. Better you than me, my love." Andrew squeezed my shoulder as he came back to the fireplace, bent over me, and kissed the top of my head. "And trust you to come across something unusual."
Diana cut in, "But you said finds, Mal, in the plural. What else did you unearth?" She had a puzzled expression in her eyes as she looked at me across the room.
"I actually found the real diary, as well as Clarissa's copy of it," I said, and I went on to explain what I had done earlier in the day. Then, standing up, walking toward the door, I finished, "Let me go and get them; they're in the library. Once you see both books, you'll understand what I'm talking about."
Firelight danced on the walls and across the ceiling, filling our bedroom with a rosy glow. There was no other light in the room, and I felt relaxed, drowsy, encased in a cocoon of warmth and love as I lay within the circle of Andrew's arms.
Earlier, a high wind had blown up, and now I could hear it howling over the moors. In the distance was the sound of thunder, and lightning flashed spasmodically, illuminating the bedroom with a bright white brilliance for a moment or two.
I shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the bed, and put my arm around my husband, drew closer to him. "I'm glad we're not out in that. Quite a storm's blown up since we came upstairs."
He chuckled. "Yes, it has, and we're in the best place, you and I. Snug as two bugs in a rug. But you know what? When I was little I always wanted to be out in it, in the rain and the wind and the hail, don't ask me why. I just loved storms. Maybe the inherent drama of such dreadful weather appealed to something in me. And once, when I was about seven, my father told me that it was our ancestors in their armor crashing about up there in the heavens, that their ghosts were riding out to conquer their enemies, as they had done centuries ago. I'm certain that must've sparked my imagination when I was a kid."
"And did you go out in the storm when you were a boy?"
"Sometimes I managed to sneak out of the house, but not if Ma could help it. She was always a bit overprotective."
"What mother isn't? Anyway, I don't blame her; storms can be dangerous. People have been struck by lightning-"
"Like I was, when I first met you!" he interrupted, putting his hand under my chin and turning my face to his. He kissed me softly, tenderly on the mouth, then broke away. "The French call it a coup de foudre, that instantaneous falling in love just like that." He snapped his thumb and a finger together. "In other words, struck by lightning."
I smiled against his chest. "I know what it means."
There was a small silence. We were content to lie together like this, so at peace with each other.
After a few minutes I said, "It's been such a lovely weekend, Andrew, I'm glad we came to Yorkshire, aren't you?"
"I am, and anyway, it's not over yet. We still have Sunday here. We can go riding tomorrow morning if you like, up on the gallops as I promised. And then we can' take it easy for the rest of the day, be lazy. We'll have a good Sunday lunch, read the newspapers, watch television."
"You're not going to do any work?" I asked, my voice rising a fraction in my surprise.
"Certainly not. Anyway, I've done as much as I can. Now I've got to wait for Jack to come in from New York next week."
"I have a feeling you've discovered something about Malcolm Stainley, something awful."
When he was silent, I went on, "Something… unpleasant, unsavory, perhaps?"
His answer was simply a long, drawn-out sigh.
"What is it? What's he done?" I pressed, riddled with curiosity. I turned my face to look at his in the firelight, but it betrayed nothing.
"I don't want to go into it now, darling, honestly I don't." He sighed again. "But always remember: Beware of guys selling snake oil."
"He's crooked, Andrew! That's what you mean, isn't it?"
Pushing himself up on one elbow, he bent over me, smoothed the hair away from my face, and kissed me full on the mouth. Then he stopped and stared deeply into my eyes. "I don't want to discuss it. I've got other, more important things on my mind right now."
"Such as what?" I teased.
"You know what, Mrs. Keswick," he murmured, a half smile playing around his mouth.
I looked up into his face, that beloved face which was so dear to me. His expression was intense, and his extraordinary blue eyes had turned darker, almost navy in the firelight; they overpowered me.
"You," he said at last. "I've got you on my mind. I love you so much, Mal. You're my whole reason for being."
"I love you, too." I stroked his face. "Make love to me."
Bending over me, he brought his mouth down to mine and kissed me for a long time, gently at first. But his desire overtook him, and his kisses became wilder, more passionate.
"Oh, Mal, oh, my darling," he said between his hot kisses. Then pulling the bedcovers away, he slipped off the straps of my nightgown and released my breasts, stroking them. "Oh, look at you, darling, you're so beautiful, my beautiful wife." Lowering his head, he kissed my nipples, and his hand slid down my thigh, along the silky length of my nightgown until he caught the hem of it in his fingers. He raised it to my waist, began to kiss my stomach, then my inner thighs. And all the while his hand stroked my body in long caresses, and I trembled under his touch.