Bobby Fitzgerald stood on the cement platform at Glynde rail station in the state of disequilibrium that comes when you’re motionless after prolonged, rhythmic motion. He had been the only passenger to disembark at Glynde from the Network Southeast train. While he was hardly more than forty miles from his starting point—Victoria Station in London—Bobby felt like he’d traveled a continent to get to Glynde. The gray, gritty, depressed landscape that surrounded London rail routes always depressed him, but never more than on this trip.
He had agreed to spend the weekend at his friend’s family estate in East Sussex because he desperately needed the solace of green space and fresh air the English countryside offered. London had been filled with din and disappointment. His seminar had not gone well. The students had been uninterested, anxious to be done with ideas and words and out on the streets of London, full of themselves and pints of warm English beer. Bobby had always felt a sense of camaraderie with his students, but for the first time their blind enthusiasms and bottomless self-confidence made him feel separate and older.
He knew himself well enough to know that bad students weren’t enough to spoil a trip to London. What really weighed him down was guilt. Guilt at having left the States
with his sister’s murder unresolved, with his father in a nursing home. And with his mother sitting alone, day after day, in an unlighted room with sunglasses covering her eyes and a mug of gin within easy reach of her right hand.
In London, the guilt had dogged him. But he had no sooner put foot on the station platform at Glynde than he felt the prospect of relief. He took a deep breath. Glynde was idyllic. East Sussex might not be the most spectacular scenery England had to offer, but its beauty was classically English. The rolling hills were a brilliant green, vines rambled on centuries-old stone and brick, and the quiet was profound.
His friend had warned him that while trains stopped at Glynde, the station itself had been closed for some years. But he’d promised Bobby a car would meet the four-thirty train at Glynde. Bobby looked around. He had his father’s need for precise information: where would the car meet him? Walking a few steps down the platform, he discovered a Way Out sign partially obscured by shrubs. He followed a path around the old brick stationhouse, passing through two creaking gates. He came out into a deserted car park. This had to be it. He looked at his watch. The train had been on time; it was now 4:35. He forced himself to ignore the anxiety that always rose when he faced uncertain circumstances. Worse come to worst, he could always walk into the village and find a phone. He had been about to find shade from the warm sunshine when he saw—and heard—a station wagon roar over the bridge that crossed the rail tracks. The car made a sharp turn at the bottom of the bridge and rolled into the car park at a clip.
A tall boy with tousled blond hair bounded out of the car. “You’re Mr. Fitzgerald, then?” He came toward Bobby at a quick jog, snatched up his weekend bag before Bobby had thought to pick it up himself, and started back to the car. He opened the back door of the station wagon for Bobby, but Bobby shook his head, entering the front seat instead.
“Yes. I’m Robert Fitzgerald. You’re? …”
“William, sir. Sorry to be late. There was some confusion about the cars, there was. Mr. Owen Cook, he was going to come along to meet you. But him and Miss Amundsen went out for a walk earlier, and hadn’t come back. I waited a bit, then started off in the Bentley. Then Mr. Pack says, ‘No, the Bentley was needed to pick up Mr. Neville Cook at the station in Lewes.’ So then I get the estate car here and am finally off … .”
“I’d only just arrived, William. I’d say you were right on time.”
William grinned broadly. “Glad to hear that, sir. Would appreciate your saying as much to Mr. Cook, if he asks. He’d have my head, he would, if he knew no one was waiting when you arrived.”
Bobby was surprised. “Owen would be angry over something like that? Doesn’t sound like him at all.”
“Oh, not Mr. Owen Cook, sir. Not him. Easy as anything is Mr. Owen. It’s Mr. Neville Cook that likes things done just so. Keeps track of everything, does Mr. Neville Cook. We’re all in terror of Mr. Neville Cook. Miss Cook’s just the same, maybe worse. But Mr. Owen, well, he’s an easy man to please.”
Bobby had met Neville Cook only once. Owen and Neville had been in Minneapolis on a real estate investment deal the previous Thanksgiving. Bobby had been in Minneapolis over the Thanksgiving weekend, and as he had been Owen’s guest more than once in Boston and in London on several occasions, he had invited the brothers to join his family for Thanksgiving dinner. Owen had been charming, but Neville, while polite, had left them all with the clear impression that family dinners bored him. Bobby had little difficulty believing that Mr. Neville Cook would be a difficult taskmaster.
He was curious about William’s reference to a Miss Amundsen. He hadn’t realized that Owen had invited a girlfriend
for the weekend. “You said Owen has another guest here, a Miss Amundsen?”
William shook his head. “Wrong Mr. Cook again, sir. Miss Amundsen is Mr. Neville Cook’s friend. But Mr. Cook goes into the city every day, and as Mr. Owen is at his leisure, so to speak, he’s been entertaining Miss Amundsen.” William gave Bobby a sharp look. “Easy duty that is, if you ask me. A real looker is Miss Amundsen.”
Bobby smiled. He was beginning to realize that by choosing to sit up front rather than in the back, he’d given William a signal that personal observations on the Cook family were in order. He could only guess what Mr. Neville Cook would have to say about William’s candor. For himself, as long as the comments weren’t critical of Owen, he rather enjoyed the below-stairs gossip.
They drove for about ten minutes before taking a turn at a gravel drive. The drive wound through a wood, came out on a broad meadow, turned sharply across a clear, fast-moving stream, and then ran through yet another wooded area. Finally, on the far side of the wood, the road straightened and ran directly, for perhaps half a mile, toward a large, stone house.
Bobby had expected something rather grand, but his expectations were exceeded. The house was centered at the end of the road, with a massive double stone staircase to the entrance. Large windows paned with old glass shone against the mellowing light of the summer afternoon. Behind the house, low wooded hills rose.
William brought the station wagon to a halt on the gravel driveway at the front entrance. “I’ll see your bag gets up to your room, sir.” He looked around. “Looks like Mr. Owen’s not back from his walk yet, or I’m sure he’d be here to greet you.”
Just then the front double doors opened, and a severe man in a formal black suit and stiff, white shirt came down the steps. To Bobby he conveyed a sense of authority rather than welcome.
“Mr. Fitzgerald. Welcome to Charhill. I’m Mr. Pack, head butler. I apologize that no one from the house is here to greet you, but Mr. Owen will be back shortly. Do come in. I’m sure you’d like a drink?”
Bobby slipped out of his sports coat, handing it to William. “Tell you what. After spending a couple hours on the train, I’d like to take a quick walk around the grounds … .” He reached over, retrieving his weekend bag from William. “Just let me get my camera. If it’s all right, I’d like to take a few pictures of the house.”
“Very good, sir.” Mr. Pack gave some sort of signal to William, who, taking back Bobby’s bag, trotted off toward the house. “Just come in the front door when you’re ready, sir, and we’ll see to it that you get something to drink.”
The air was absolutely still, the gravel drive crunched under Bobby’s feet as he walked, and the late afternoon sun was benevolent, without the biting heat of earlier in the day. The sense of well-being that Bobby had felt at the train station came back. He turned slowly in a complete circle; at every point there was an ordered beauty. He was tempted to head off into the wooded hills behind the house for a longer walk, but uncertain as to when Owen would return and when dinner would be served, decided against it. Instead, turning off the road, he found a path that led toward the stream they’d crossed coming to the house.
He had walked about fifteen minutes when he saw a large black car coming down the road toward the house. This, no doubt, was the Bentley bringing Neville Cook home. Bobby turned back on the path to the house. When he came to the
road, with the house straight ahead, he saw three people standing by the Bentley. He recognized Owen and Neville; the woman had to be Miss Amundsen.
At fifty paces it was clear that William had not overstated Miss Amundsen’s attractions. She was rather too tall and too thin for Bobby’s taste, but she was strikingly elegant. Most unusual was her coloring. Bobby would have described her as being uniformly beige. Her smooth, midlength, pale brown hair hung partially over her face. When she pulled it back with a nervous, repetitive gesture, she looked out with taupecolored eyes. Her skin was a pale tan. She was dressed in a white cotton shirt and khakis.
Owen raised an arm in greeting as Bobby approached. “Glad to see you’ve been amusing yourself. I’m afraid I’ve been a derelict host. Ann and I were walking and lost track of time.” As Bobby joined them, Owen said, “Ann Amundsen, Bobby Fitzgerald. You’re neighbors, you know—Ann lives in Boston, too.”
Ann Amundsen dropped her head slightly to acknowledge the introduction. Casually, but with the clear purpose of avoiding a handshake, she put her hands into her pants pocket. “Hello,” she said in a soft, neutral voice. Her voice, Bobby thought, matched everything about her appearance.
Before Bobby could say anything to Ann, Neville Cook moved forward, holding out his hand. “I’m Neville Cook. Owen’s elder brother.”
Bobby was embarrassed. He took Cook’s hand, and as casually as he could, said, “Good to see you again. We met last Thanksgiving in Minneapolis … .”
Quickly, Neville said, “Yes. Of course. How is your family?”
It was a question Bobby wanted to avoid at all costs. He had never spoken to Owen about Mary Pat’s death and now was not the moment for candor. Instead, he lifted his camera.
“Please, the three of you. A picture in front of the house. I only have a couple of shots left. Ann, in the middle …”
Ann shook her head and moved back. Neville Cook had quickly stepped aside. “No need for me to be in the picture, I’m sure. Ann and Owen, go ahead—or, if you like, the three of you together, and I’ll take the picture.”
Bobby shook his head. “I don’t want a picture of myself. This will take just a minute … . C’mon—Ann, if you would just move … .”
Ann moved reluctantly between the brothers. Barely moving her lips, she said in an impatient voice, “Let’s just get this over with.”
Bobby held the camera up, focusing on them where they stood. Neville stepped slightly to the side, moving away from rather than toward Ann and Owen. In the viewfinder, Bobby saw Owen put his hand on Ann’s shoulder, almost as a gesture of comfort. Bobby could also see that Neville’s drawing away from Ann had upset her. Bobby quickly clicked the shutter, and at the sound, the tenuous trio instantly broke apart.
What was that all about? Bobby wondered as he flipped the film-forward lever. Behind him, he heard the sharp step of someone approaching from the side of the house.
Neville and Owen bore a resemblance to each other. Jocelyn Cook looked nothing like her brothers. While both Neville and Owen were handsome men, Jocelyn was not an attractive woman. Hers was a face which even pleasure did not grace. The broad smile with which she greeted her guests—a smile that seemed genuine only when resting on Neville—gave an awkward emphasis to her strong nose and teeth and added an unattractive ruddiness to a complexion that had naturally high color.
“Sorry to be late getting back.” Jocelyn spoke generally, but she looked to Neville for forgiveness. “We have a problem with the herd down at Mill Pond.”
To Bobby, Owen said, “Before you leave you must have a look at my sister’s pet cows. Most amusing. Jocelyn, my friend Bobby Fitzgerald.”
Jocelyn’s hand shot out, giving Bobby a quick, unfriendly shake. “They’re not cows, Mr. Fitzgerald. We’re doing very important work on herd genetics. Britain’s cattle industry has undergone devastation in the past—”
It was Neville who interrupted her, saying, “Why don’t we go in. I think a drink is in order. I’m sure Jocelyn’s dissertation on herd genetics will be infinitely more palatable with a dollop of gin.”
Jocelyn’s face fell at Neville’s subtle ridicule. Recovering herself, she said, “I’ll have Pack bring drinks to the library. And you will be spared further facts regarding the herd. I’m afraid it’s a subject that doesn’t lend itself to cocktail chatter.”
“A truer word was never spoken,” Owen said, being the first to make for the house.
The weekend, Bobby thought, was showing some dramatic potential.
Charhill’s interior was cavernous, impressive, and uncomfortable. The stone floors echoed with voices and footsteps, the wood floors creaked. All of the wall hangings, furnishings, light fixtures, and portraits gave the impression of having been in the house forever, but bore no relationship to the current occupants. And, while it had been warm all week, the house was damp and cold—a circumstance that became relevant to an altercation between Ann and Jocelyn.
They had been sitting in silence in the library, nursing their drinks with the careful attention people pay when they can think of nothing to say to one another. Then Jocelyn said, “I meant to mention, Ann—and this is a bit awkward—but I understand from Pack that you asked Marjorie to lay a fire in your room last night?”
Ann looked up at Jocelyn sharply. It was clear that she took this question as a call to battle. With a challenge in the single word, she said, “Yes?”
Jocelyn settled herself a little in her chair and affected a look of friendly concern. “The thing is, it makes quite a lot of extra work for Marjorie—going all the way down to the back hall and bringing up wood to that wing of the house. It’s not really something she should be expected to do, is it?”
Ann looked back at Jocelyn without blinking. “I’m not understanding you, Jocelyn. For the first week I was here you criticized me for doing things the servants should do for me. Now you’re telling me I’ve asked something they shouldn’t be expected to do. You’ll forgive me for not being sure what it is I should or shouldn’t ask.”
Color had risen on Jocelyn’s neck. Then, finding her tack, she said, “I should have anticipated your being confused. My mistake entirely. I keep forgetting that you really haven’t been brought up … that you’re not used to … well, that a house run like Charhill is something of a mystery to a girl like yourself. The thing is, we haven’t had the chimneys in that wing of the house done out in ever so long, and I think as easily as not you could have run into a considerable bit of trouble … .”
“So, it’s the chimneys I should have thought of, not Marjorie’s labors?” Ann wasn’t giving ground.
The color in Jocelyn’s neck now suffused her face. She stood abruptly. “I’m sorry to say these things aren’t written in a book for every-savage to read and ape. A little common sense, Miss Amundsen, is what I should rely on if I were you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to dinner. At eight o’clock, then.”
The scene amazed Bobby on a number of counts. That it had taken place at all was surprising. That it had taken place with a virtual stranger in company was amazing. And that it
had taken place without Neville interceding on his guest’s behalf was almost beyond belief. Bobby stole a glance at Owen, to find Owen looking back at him with an expression of amused smugness. Owen’s look said more clearly than words could, “Now do you believe the stories I’ve told you about my family?”
What was most surprising was that the argument between Jocelyn and Ann had revealed a side of Ann Bobby would not have anticipated from their first meeting. He had seen her as reticent. But what he had just seen revealed Ann as an effective hand-to-hand combatant. With few words and no visible expenditure of emotion, she had vanquished the formidable Jocelyn—and on Jocelyn’s home turf.
The battles continued at dinner, but the antagonists changed. Ann Amundsen, almost transparent in a floor-length, camelcolored cashmere sheath, entered the dining room after Neville had arrived. Neville had glanced at her as she came in, then, with a critical expression, looked again. Bobby was near enough to hear him say quietly, “You’ve forgotten your pearls. I particularly bought you this dress as I thought it would show the pearls I gave you to advantage. You’ve time before dinner is served—why don’t you go back upstairs—”
Ann had made a small gesture of dismissal with her hand and moved to the table. Neville had not moved; Bobby had the distinct impression that Neville was not used to being dismissed by anyone and most particularly not used to being dismissed by Ann. Bobby saw something tighten in Neville’s face before Neville turned to take his place at the table.
The dinner table brought out impulses of the hostess in Jocelyn. She carefully addressed each dinner guest with attentive, if impersonal, questions. To Bobby she said, “Tell us, Mr. Fitzgerald, how it is you and Owen came to know one another?
Am I remembering correctly … it was something to do with Owen’s publishing venture?”
“Yes,” Bobby said, glancing first at Owen, whose expression was neutral. “I gave a lecture at Durham University that Owen attended … .”
“I was on a scouting expedition, don’t you see,” Owen said. “And I knew immediately that I’d like Bobby to do something on Henry James for my as-yet-unborn press. I still would, but it seems I’m not very convincing—” Owen glanced at Neville with an expression that combined resentment and trepidation. “With Mr. Fitzgerald or my brother.”
Neville said, “Speaking only for myself, I would agree with that conclusion.”
The subject broached, Owen couldn’t resist carrying his point forward. “Now, cows on the other hand. For cows there seem to be unlimited family funds … .”
Jocelyn broke in. “You persist, Owen, in referring to the herd as if it were a hobby. It is, may I remind you once again, a business venture—”
“Oh, really, Jocelyn. I’m not a fool. Your cows have infinitely less chance of being a paying proposition than does my publishing venture. You forget: I see the annual statement for the trust. Not only do your cows fail to produce a profit in the estate’s interest, they’ve become a bloody sink hole for capital.” Owen turned full face to Neville. “I can’t imagine why you allow it to go on. And at the same time you refuse me the bit of capital that I need for my press. Unfair hardly does justice to the situation.”
“This is neither the time nor place.” Neville’s voice was flat, unruffled.
“I’ve yet to find a time or place you did find suitable. You’ve only to say to say where and when.” Owen stopped and seemed to regain his composure, but the remembrance of
a final injustice curdled his temper. “Moreover, not only am I not given the capital I need, I’m required to spend most of my time on the real estate development side of the business … .”
“Not a requirement,” Neville said quietly but firmly. “Your choice, Owen.”
“A choice only to the extent that I could otherwise choose to live like a pauper on the trust’s income.”
“You have the same income from the trust as do Jocelyn and I—please, Owen. This is most inconsiderate to our guests … .”
Owen was silent for a moment before he said, “You know the flaw in that logic better than I. The arrangement as is simply isn’t fair. I leave it at that.”
Owen’s case was one Bobby had heard directly from Owen. In previous conversations on the subject with Owen, Bobby had always been skeptical that the injustices Owen suffered were quite as one-sided as claimed. He did not know Owen well. Their acquaintance had been more professional than personal, but Bobby had opportunity to observe Owen’s sybaritic lifestyle in some detail. He had been inclined to discount Owen’s complaints as at least partially the ranting of a spoiled child. But mere hours in the company of Neville and Jocelyn had brought Bobby completely over to Owen’s side.
The rest of the dinner was comparatively uneventful, interesting only to the extent to which Neville concerned himself with Ann’s eating habits. Neville’s eyes went often to her plate, and he urged her to eat whatever was untouched. There was a brief skirmish over red meat, with Ann’s resistance taking the form of silence and a refusal to meet Neville’s stare. Bobby saw the same expression of tightening across Neville’s face that he’d noticed when Ann had refused to fetch her pearls.
It was a relief to all when dinner ended. There was a
brief gathering for after-dinner drinks in the library, with Ann excusing herself first to “make an early night of it.” Soon after, Neville and Jocelyn pleaded business to be attended to and made off to their respective studies, leaving Bobby and Owen alone, a decanter of brandy between them.
With an impish smile, Owen said to Bobby, “So. You’ve had a front-row seat. Have I in past conversations exaggerated my family’s foibles?”
Bobby laughed. “It was what I was thinking at dinner. I had rather wondered if you didn’t protest your circumstances too much. But that doubt has been laid to rest. You are, incontestably, the wronged party. One thing I didn’t quite follow—how is it that Neville and Jocelyn live as well as they do if you all have equal shares of the trust?”
Owen shifted down into the leather club chair, lifting his feet to the low table in front of them. “Two answers to that question. First, Neville does benefit as chairman of Cook Limited with a substantially larger salary than I. I don’t grudge him that. He works damn hard—harder than I do, truth to be told. And he’s good at it. I do just fine crunching numbers and performing due diligence examinations on prospective acquisitions, but the enterprise is successful because of Neville. The difference is, it’s an enterprise that Neville would choose to do, even if money were no object. My involvement is solely based on the need for additional income.
“Neville’s other advantage is that as chairman of Cook Limited, he has a very liberal expense allowance. My expenses are limited to those incurred directly in the line of duty, so to speak. As for Jocelyn, she lives free of charge at Charhill. More to the point, she has no real interest in money. You saw what she had on at dinner? The long plaid skirt with a silk blouse she’s had since I was a child? She’s only interested in her cows and that because it creates the illusion that she’s a fully vested member of the landed gentry. If we were to do
nothing other than to sell the herd, my income from the trust would double—that’s how much it’s costing to sustain her illusions.”
“Why on earth does Neville allow it?”
Owen looked into his globe of brandy, then drank deep. He sighed, put the glass down, and said, “It all goes back to the terms of my father’s will. On the face of it, they are wholly reasonable. All the interests of the estate are in trust, with the beneficiaries—Neville, Jocelyn, myself—sharing an equal annual percentage of estate income. Beneficiaries may, by majority vote, alter the distribution and dispose of assets. For as long as the trust has been in effect, Neville and Jocelyn have constituted a majority against my minority. My theory is that Neville doesn’t challenge Jocelyn’s prerogatives so as to preserve their alliance against me.”
“What difference should it make to Neville if he gives money to Jocelyn for the herd or to you to establish a publishing imprint?”
Owen smiled again. “Ah. And now we come to the heart of the matter. No difference financially—in fact, as I suggested—Jocelyn’s cows cost the estate a damn sight more than would my publishing venture.” Owen sat up in the chair and looked squarely at Bobby. He spoke in almost a whisper, as if what he were about to say was too important to be heard beyond the two of them. “But it’s a matter of control, don’t you see. More than money, more than anything, Neville needs to be in control. And in the dynamic of our family, Jocelyn has always sided with Neville, always been his ally—and I have always been the outsider. I have always been the one who needed to be controlled.”
“And there’s nothing in the will that provides for any arbitration against a—what would you call it—self-interested majority?”
Owen shook his head with the weariness of someone who
had exhausted all consideration of the question at hand. “Oh, there’s the standard, boiler-plate language regarding moral turpitude—meaning that if Neville shat upon the steps of Buckingham Palace, he could be excluded as a beneficiary of the trust—” Owen shrugged. “We both know I’m more likely to breach that clause than is our Neville.”
Bobby smiled, paused, then said, “What’s Ann Amundsen’s story? I can’t figure out her relationship with your brother.”
Owen rolled his head sideways on the back of the chair and looked at Bobby with a devilish grin. “Oh, good. I rather hoped you’d take to her. It will make Neville utterly mad. She is something of a stunner, isn’t she?”
“Agreed that she is a stunner. But my question wasn’t selfish. I am genuinely curious about what she’s doing with him.”
“It is curious, I admit. I have an idea what’s going on—but only an idea. Actually, when we walked today we talked about it a good deal. I suppose I’m breaching a confidence, but I can’t see that it matters … .”
“Please, do.”
“I really didn’t know Ann well before she came to Charhill with Neville. She’s a consultant with one of the big accounting firms, based in Boston. I met her only once there—Neville’s never been inclined to share the possessions he values.”
The word “possessions” triggered Bobby’s recollection of what he had witnessed between Neville and Ann that night. The notion that Neville viewed Ann as his possession struck Bobby as exactly right.
“Anyway, I had dinner with Ann and Neville at her apartment in Boston once. My impression then—and this was, oh, sometime last fall—was that the interest was all on Neville’s side. I was surprised to hear she was coming with him to England, I’d rather expected she’d break off with him.
When I saw her here a few weeks ago, I was surprised. She was greatly changed. Thinner, subdued—and completely under Neville’s thumb. She’d moved into his apartment in Boston—something Neville had not bothered to mention to me—and is on leave from her job. To be frank, I was confounded. When we walked today, she said that there had been—” Owen hesitated. “There had been a family tragedy. I don’t think I should say more than that. Neville had been extremely supportive and that she’d allowed herself to become more and more dependent on him in recent months. This of course, is precisely the sort of scenario Neville looks for in relationships. Indeed, he doesn’t really want a relationship at all. He wants an object to control, a victim, if you will … .”
Owen stopped again and grinned. “This next bit is really quite funny. Do you know what more or less snapped Ann out of her state of somnolence?”
“Not a clue.”
“Jocelyn. Jocelyn has been unspeakably rude to Ann ever since she’s arrived. Jocelyn, of course, is pathologically jealous of Neville’s relationship with Ann, and is doing all she can to make Ann unwelcome—all under the guise, of course, of being the perfect hostess. The way Ann puts it, the energy she used to stand her ground against Jocelyn more or less woke her up. She started seeing her relationship with Neville in a different light. I think she may well make a run for it. I think in his own limited way, Neville is really attached to Ann. It will hurt him very much if she does leave. And I shall enjoy seeing him lose something he wants—maybe almost as much as I want my press.”
Ann lay in bed thinking, her thoughts not much different from those of Owen’s and Bobby’s in the library below. She had come to Charhill with the expectation that she did so as Neville Cook’s prospective wife. And only weeks ago, that
was what she wanted. Now she was only sure that she no longer knew what she wanted.
What kept her awake was not only uncertainty but the uncomfortable realization that in the space of less than a year she had allowed herself to descend from being an independent woman into being wholly dependent on Neville Cook. The initial comfort she had taken in his control and authority had outlived any useful purpose in her life. More than that—her dependence on Neville had evolved into a powerful malignant force that had robbed her of emotional, intellectual, and physical freedom. Knowing how that had happened did not justify allowing the dependence to continue. The question became, was a relationship with Neville possible without dependence?
Jocelyn’s reception had forced Ann to think realistically about what a permanent relationship with Neville would be like. And while Neville’s control of her life had for several months been a source of comfort, it was increasingly a source of irritation. She dimly recognized that the irritation represented the return of her old spirit.
Small things—things that had happened only today—were having an impact on how she felt about Neville as well. As she and Owen had started their walk earlier in the afternoon, they had passed through a courtyard at the rear of the house. The area had once been a stable yard, the stables long since converted to garages. As they passed through, Ann noticed a young man and woman standing just inside one of the garages. Ann recognized the young man as William, the boy who drove the estate cars on occasion. The girl she didn’t recognize. What she did recognize—with a force that caused a sharp pain of recognition—was the profound sense of intimacy between the pair. William stood straight above the girl, looking down at her, without touching, but with a tenderness that was visible even at a distance. What caused Ann pain
was the realization that the intimacy between this young boy and girl was more intense than anything she had experienced in the whole of her relationship with Neville.
She had talked about Neville with Owen as they’d walked. Of everything that Owen had said about Neville, the thing that rang truest was when Owen said Neville had no soul. How could you marry a man without a soul? Then, as they returned to the house to find Neville back from town and Bobby Fitzgerald arrived, there had been Neville’s response to having their picture taken. She remembered Neville moving—almost imperceptibly—away from her. It was a brief moment, a small gesture, but it was the sort of moment when, in the space of perhaps four or five seconds, lives change.
Deep in those thoughts and finally drifting toward sleep, Ann was startled by a quick knock at the door. The door opened before she could answer, and Neville stepped into the room. He was in his pajamas and a dressing gown.
So complete was his dominance of her that Ann’s first response to his presence was of guilt at the disloyal thoughts she had been thinking. Caught off guard, she welcomed him with more friendliness than she felt.
He stopped beside her, untying his robe and hanging it on the bedstead. From the first, Ann had been fascinated by Neville’s lack of declared or demonstrated emotion. It had taken her completely by surprise when, after their third dinner date, he’d returned without invitation to her apartment. As they’d entered the foyer, he’d kissed her artfully, then taken her to bed. His lovemaking was confident and silent. He did not break even a dew of perspiration. Nor did he make any gesture of real affection.
This night his lovemaking was no different from any other night, except that it was different for Ann. Something in her was beginning or ending. She couldn’t have said which, nor could she have said why.
She lay awake long after he had fallen asleep. In her mind’s eye, she was seeing herself with Neville over the past several months. It was like a silent movie, in which she was a robotic image, going through the motions of a life that was safe but empty.
Resolved to sleep, Ann rose silently and went into the bathroom for a drink of water. As she walked carefully and silently back to the bed, Neville’s voice rose toward her in the dark.
“It’s not like you to be up during the night.”
A chill swept through Ann. How did he know if it was or wasn’t like her to be up during the night? Did he lie in a half sleep, night after night, with a Cyclops eye fixed on her in constant observation?
She didn’t answer him, but she answered her own silent question. Did she want to stay with this man for the rest of her life? The answer was no.
The next morning, Saturday, before going down to breakfast, Ann thought through the timing of when she would speak to Neville. She would say nothing until Sunday night. Fitzgerald would be leaving Monday morning, so he would be spared the aftermath of her announcement—should there be an aftermath. But first, she wanted to tell Owen what she’d decided. After breakfast, she asked him to walk toward the river with her.
Their path was through the property at the front of the house, down the main road, then a turn to the river. Not a word was spoken between them as they walked. Reaching the river, they sat.
Ann said, “I’ve decided. I’m going back to Boston ahead of Neville. Before I go I’m going to end our relationship.”
Owen stared at her without speaking.
She was impatient with his reticence. “Well? Is it or is it not what you thought best?”
Owen’s face and his voice were serious when he spoke. “I suppose I’m feeling a little guilty—have I been too much of an influence in your decision?”
She shook her head. “No. Not at all. You helped me—definitely helped me—see Neville more objectively. But even if you hadn’t, I would have come to this decision. As things stand now, I can’t imagine how I’ve allowed myself to continue with Neville as long as I have.”
“When do you intend to tell him?”
Ann made a face. “Making the decision was the easy part. I won’t pretend I look forward to telling Neville. I think maybe after dinner tomorrow evening. Your friend leaves Monday morning, so by waiting until after dinner tomorrow there won’t be any need to involve him in any unpleasantness.”
Owen frowned. “You’ll think I’m being unnecessarily cautious—but I think you should tell Neville Monday morning. Then he’ll have the day in the City to let the news settle.”
“But that’s exactly what I wanted to avoid—his leaving upset, having to deal with business all day having just been—”
“I can’t tell you why I think it best. It’s just something I feel very strongly.” Owen hesitated. He looked genuinely upset. “I don’t want to be overly dramatic, but sometimes I feel I don’t know Neville—or what he’s capable of—at all. I’m quite serious about this. I want you to promise me you’ll wait until Monday morning to tell Neville. When you come downstairs ask to speak to him in the library. Quite simply, I don’t want you to be away from others in the house when you tell him. Promise me that, Ann.”
Ann was moved by Owen’s concern. It even touched an ill-defined fear she felt herself.
“All right,” she said. “Monday morning it is.”
The remaining two days of the weekend were uncomfortable for everyone. Ann was tense and self-conscious. Knowing
what he did of Ann’s plans, Owen avoided being with Ann and Neville as much as possible. And Bobby, unaware of the pending drama, was more than usually perplexed at the interplay between Ann and Neville and Owen’s sudden withdrawal from the social scene.
On Monday morning, Ann felt something like relief at being able to end the suspense. She waited inside her room on Monday morning to hear Neville’s door unlatch. When she heard the latch, she opened her own door. Meeting Neville in the hallway, she said, “Before you leave, Neville—could we talk a bit, just the two of us, in the library?”
He hadn’t looked at her as he said, “I’m a bit rushed this morning. Perhaps this evening.” Without waiting for her to respond, Neville turned and started down the hallway.
It was hard to explain why the single word—“perhaps”—made Ann as angry as it did. But Neville’s unwillingness to talk this morning, or to make a definite commitment to talk in the evening, made Ann grind her teeth. Perhaps this evening! All right, then. If a talk didn’t fit his schedule, Ann would suit her own schedule.
She was relieved on entering the dining room to see that Bobby Fitzgerald wasn’t down. With a quick, warning glance at Owen, Ann said, “I’ve been thinking I should go back to Boston next Tuesday. I haven’t checked flights, but there shouldn’t be a problem.”
The room went completely silent. Ann glanced up at Jocelyn, rather than looking directly at Neville. Jocelyn was transfixed. Her eyes glittered, her skin was brilliant with suppressed exhilaration. Owen immediately leaped up to fill his plate at the sideboard.
Feigning a calm she did not feel, Ann looked at Neville. His expression was frozen in neutrality so rigid that his lips had gone white.
He spoke almost without moving his lips. “I don’t believe this is something we’ve discussed.”
“I’m not sure what there is to discuss. And I’m not leaving till Tuesday. So if there’s anything before then … perhaps this evening?”
Neville dabbed at his mouth with the white linen napkin. He rose, his bearing more regimental than usual. “Owen, if you’re going into town with me, you’ll need to be at the car in fifteen minutes.”
Owen stood with a plate heaped with breakfast. “Yes, of course,” he said.
Ann excused herself and went to her room. It had not been easy, but it was done. Somehow she had to get through the next week, then she’d be free. She stood at her window thinking about the prospect of being on her own again. And then, without having heard him come in, something made her turn to see Neville standing behind her. She visibly started.
“Neville. You frightened me.”
“I must say, that was damned awkward of you. Do you mind telling me what you’re up to?”
She hesitated, wondering how far to go. Given her belief that beginning was the hardest part of doing something and that she had in fact already gotten past the beginning, she decided to go ahead.
“It’s what I said downstairs. I’ve decided to go back to Boston.” She paused. Then, reaching for Neville’s arm—which he immediately drew back—“Look, Neville. I don’t belong, do I? I decided that for both of us it would be best if I got my own place. Of course I’ll always want to be able to—”
“You’ve decided? You’ve decided?” His voice was equal parts rage and contempt. The whiteness of his face was now broken by two intense red spots on each cheekbone. His eyes had gone black.
Ann saw Neville’s hand coming toward her without an idea that he meant to hit her. So when the flat of his hand banged against her jaw, surprise, not pain, was her first reaction. Surprise was quickly replaced by embarrassment. The force of the blow caused her to stumble and, illogically, she was embarrassed at having Neville see her fall. She managed to check her fall by grabbing the bedpost, and it was while she was in that position, almost on her knees, hanging from a bedpost, that Neville spoke his final words to her.
“I want you out of Charhill by the time I return from London tonight. I’ll leave it to you to sort out how you manage that.” He turned sharply and left the room, taking care to close the door quietly behind him. His self-control in shutting the door was more frightening to her than the bang of a slammed door would have been.
Ann could not have said how long she remained huddled on the floor, afraid to move for fear that movement would bring Neville back. As time passed, she felt the numbness on her face turn warm with pain. When she did stand, she walked to the dressing table to examine herself in the mirror. Her face was already swelling and growing red. She could see the image of Neville’s open hand beginning to glow across the left side of her face.
How to get away? Jocelyn would already be out of the house—not that Ann would have asked her to help. Owen was out of the question—he had probably already left with Neville in any event, and his relationship with Neville would be hopelessly compromised if she involved him now. Pack was her only hope. She rang for him without having thought through what she would say, and he appeared before she had time to construct her story. Which turned out to be a good thing. Of necessity, she kept it simple.
“Pack, my plans have changed and I need to get to the airport. Could I ask you to arrange a car?”
“Very good, miss. What time will your flight be departing?”
Hesitating, Ann said, “I’m going to be taking the first available flight. I just want to get to the airport as quickly as possible.”
It was Pack’s turn to hesitate. “May I suggest, miss, that we take you to Gatwick. Mr. Fitzgerald is leaving within the hour and I’m sure we can book you on the same flight. I’m sorry to say if that doesn’t work we might have to delay your departure until the car returns from taking Mr. Fitzgerald, as Mr. Neville and Mr. Owen have just left in the Bentley. And as you don’t have a reservation, I do think the earlier we get you to the airport, the better.”
Ann thought about it. She did not welcome the prospect of sharing a car to the airport—and a flight back to Boston—with Fitzgerald. What she wanted now was to be alone. But when she contemplated staying at Charhill for several more hours, the choice was easy.
“That would be fine. And Pack, I won’t need any help packing my things. Circumstances being what they are, I’m going to be traveling light. I’ll just take a carry-on bag. I’ll leave instructions with Miss Cook as to what to do with my other things.”
“Very good, miss.” Pack hesitated for a moment. “May I say, miss, that we’ll be sorry to see you go. We’ve enjoyed having you here.”
Pack’s simple act of courtesy almost broke Ann’s thin emotional control. She turned from him as she said, “My thanks to the staff, Pack. You’ve all been very kind.” Remembering her manners, Ann said, “Has Miss Cook left the house yet, Pack?”
“Yes, miss. Directly after breakfast.”
“I would appreciate your expressing my regret at not being able to say a proper good-bye and thank-you … .”
Pack and Ann looked at each other for a moment. There was understanding between them. He said only, “Very good, miss.”
Ann’s snap decision to leave everything but what she could carry herself offered a number of advantages, not the least of which was that she could be gone within the half hour. As she opened the armoire, she realized that Neville had given her almost everything she’d brought. She wanted none of it, and could think of nothing better to do than to abandon it at Charhill.
When she left, she was dressed in jeans and a sweater, with a light jacket. She carried only her purse and a garment bag. Pack stood on the front drive, holding the rear door of the estate car open for her. William was at the wheel, Bobby Fitzgerald sat in the backseat. Ann shifted her bag to shake Pack’s hand, shrugging off his effort to take her bag. Thanking him for his courtesy, she dumped the bag into the backseat next to Fitzgerald. Then she went around to the passenger side of the front seat. No longer a prospective mistress of the house, the front passenger seat was the position of choice.
She kept her eyes on the rearview mirror as they drove down the drive. Now that she was almost safely away, small shudders of relief shook her in waves.
William looked at her with curiosity, uncertain of what he could or could not ask of this unpredictable young woman. Finally he spoke. “You’ll not be coming back, then, miss?”
They had just passed from the front drive into the first woods beyond the house. “No, William,” she said. “I’ll not be coming back.”