26

‘IS IT REALLY a dead end?’ asked Charlotte. ‘To your research, I mean?’ She had driven Emerson back to Swans’ Meadow and they were standing together by the bank of the river, while behind them on the lawn Samantha lay prostrate on a sun-lounger, insulated against the world with dark glasses and Walkman.

‘Looks that way.’

‘But it seems so … unsatisfactory.’

‘It is, Charlie. You’re right. But what can we do? Your Uncle Jack’s reminiscences are intriguing, but they lead us nowhere. Beatrix seemingly didn’t want anybody to read Tristram’s letters. Well, Frank Griffith has made sure nobody will. And we don’t have any way of knowing what was in them.’

Charlotte was suddenly tempted to contradict Emerson and tell him she was not sure Frank Griffith had destroyed the letters. But she knew why she was tempted, as well. Because, if Emerson’s research was at an end, so was all hope of their acquaintance blossoming into something more. To betray Frank’s trust on an emotional whim would be unforgivable. Therefore she must hold her tongue. ‘When will you go back to Harvard?’ she asked lamely.

‘Why? Do you want to get rid of me?’

‘Of course not.’ She blushed. ‘You know I don’t.’

‘I’ve been one hell of a nuisance since I arrived, haven’t I? Dragging you all over the country. Cross-questioning you at every turn.’

‘I’ve enjoyed it. Really.’

‘So have I.’ He smiled. ‘Matter of fact, I was wondering whether I could persuade you to join me on a couple more trips while I’m here.’

‘What sort of trips?’

‘No more research, I promise.’ He let his gaze engage hers for a playful instant. ‘Purely for pleasure, this time.’

Charlotte’s own smile was as much one of relief as of eagerness. ‘I’d love to,’ she said.

‘Then why don’t we start with dinner this evening? Restaurant of your choice.’

‘It sounds wonderful.’

‘Great.’ He lowered his voice and nodded towards Samantha’s recumbent form. ‘But don’t tell Sam, eh? It’s possible she might feel jealous.’

Derek did not return to Tunbridge Wells that afternoon. Instead, he drove on to the motorway and headed towards Wales, intent on pursuing the hope Maurice Abberley had planted in his mind. Their second encounter had been infinitely more encouraging than their first. Maurice struck Derek as a man willing to confront unpalatable facts even when they flew in the face of his own prejudices. Derek did not delude himself into believing there was any real affinity between them. All that united them was a desire to learn the truth, in Maurice’s case in order to avenge his aunt, in Derek’s in order to exonerate his brother.

He stopped for the night at a pub near Abergavenny and sat alone in a corner of the bar, plotting how best to approach the unapproachable Frank Griffith. To plead? To demand? To reason? His choice might be crucial, yet it could not be made until he had met and taken stock of the man. Even then, it might be in vain. Griffith could easily prove immovable or genuinely unable to help. He could—

There Derek stifled the last of his speculations. They were as pointless as they were dispiriting. And, tomorrow, he would have no need of them.

Charlotte dined in vastly different circumstances at an award-winning restaurant beside the Thames. She was a stranger to such extravagance, not because she could not afford it, but because she had never seen any purpose in spoiling herself. Her boyfriends – such as they had been – would not have displayed any of Emerson McKitrick’s social accomplishment, nor would they have attracted – as he did – admiring glances from ladies at other tables. Charlotte was elated by the thought of being envied on his account, by the host of unspoken possibilities that clustered around their ever greater familiarity with each other.

‘How come you’ve never married, Charlie?’

‘I’ve never been asked.’

‘I can’t believe that.’

‘It’s true. What’s your excuse?’

‘Indecisiveness, I guess.’

‘I can’t believe that either.’

‘Well, it doesn’t necessarily mean not being able to make up your mind. It can also mean not taking risks with your emotions.’

‘In that case, I know the feeling.’

‘I thought you might. It doesn’t pay in the long run, does it?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Don’t wait to be sure, Charlie. Not every time. If you do, you’ll just go on waiting.’

‘Will I?’ Their hands touched and briefly engaged. And Emerson’s only answer was a smile.

* * *

Later, with their meal over and the restaurant emptying, they strolled down to the river’s edge and watched the dining room lights shimmer on the black surface of the water while a restless moorhen splashed and clucked among the reeds on the opposite bank. Charlotte was to sleep at Swans’ Meadow that night, but she was reluctant for them to return there, knowing that, once they had done so, Emerson’s company would no longer be exclusively hers. She was reluctant, indeed, to break in any way the spell under which she had fallen. The silk of her dress felt cool against her skin, the clasp of his arm warm around her waist. When he kissed her, she was neither prepared nor surprised. It had been bound to happen. Only her self-doubt had made her think it might not.

‘Nothing’s ever wasted, Charlie,’ he whispered. ‘On a wild goose chase, you may find a swan.’

‘Don’t flatter me too much. I might come to expect it.’

‘Why shouldn’t you – when you deserve it?’

‘But I don’t.’ She was going to tell him. She knew that now. It was too late not to. ‘I’ve deceived you.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true.’ Too many years of loneliness and vulnerability were stored within her for judgement or deliberation to stand a chance. She wanted to surrender herself to Emerson, body, soul, secrets and all. She did not want to be alone any more. ‘I don’t think Frank Griffith really destroyed those letters. I think he still has them at Hendre Gorfelen.’

‘So do I.’

‘What?’

‘So do I, Charlie.’ She made out his smile in the darkness. ‘I just wanted to hear you say it.’

‘You’ve known all along?’

‘Suspected.’

‘He won’t give them up. I’m sure of that.’

‘So am I.’

‘Then what—’

Another kiss silenced her. ‘Then it doesn’t matter, does it?’ he murmured. ‘We’ll keep Frank Griffith’s secret. You and I. Together.’

‘Together?’

‘Don’t you want to take one of those emotional risks we were talking about?’

‘Yes.’ She lowered her head against his shoulder. ‘I do.’