Adela was unrestrained in her joy at having me home.
‘And early, too,’ she marvelled, hugging me tightly. ‘Still three days wanting to the Feast of Saint Patrick. Oh, Roger, it is good to see you again.’
Her welcome made up for the children’s offhand greeting of, ‘What have you brought us?’ and their indifference to my return once they discovered that my pockets were empty.
‘I was lucky,’ I admitted, ‘in meeting up with several carters, who were willing to give me a ride in their carts in return for my company.’ I kissed her once more. ‘I love you,’ I said fiercely.
It was a mistake. I saw her expression grow wary and that mocking glint light the back of her eyes. But she said nothing, merely drew me to the table and plied me with food and drink. She asked no questions. She knew that I would tell her all there was to tell in my own good time. Meanwhile, I was home, in my own house. My house! A proper house with a number of different rooms; with an upstairs as well as a down. Even now, I found it difficult to believe.
Elizabeth came rushing in to show me her latest toy, a present from her grandmother. ‘It’s called morals,’ she announced importantly.
‘Morrells,’ Adela corrected her, smiling. ‘Apparently, you move these little balls around in the slots until you get three in a row. I don’t really understand it.’ She broke off, frowning. ‘Although I seem to remember, when I was a girl, that there was a version you could play using real people. Have you ever heard of that, Roger?’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it,’ I said. ‘I’ve even been in a game where I was one of the “counters”.’ And, for the last time, I thought of Rosamund Bush, then dismissed her from my mind once and for all. ‘That version of the game,’ I added, blowing my wife a kiss, ‘is called Nine Men’s Morris.’