Margot walked slowly up the expansive lawn toward the manor house. There was barely a breeze stirring the towering beeches above her. Many of the trees were centuries old. The house itself appeared to have been standing here for more than its three hundred years. It had been home to generations of the Wyndham family. It was beautiful, but far more than that, it was comfortable in its feel, as if many people had been happy here, and safe.
“I always like coming in this way,” Geoffrey Baden said, smiling, walking beside her, matching her step as they crossed the lawn.
He did not touch her, but she was acutely aware of his presence. She wondered if he could possibly sense the intense pleasure she was feeling. She did not wish to look at him in case he took all this for granted, and perhaps would find her a little unsophisticated, especially if he realized how overwhelmed she was. It was not the house, or the magnificent gardens, or even the lush beauty of the surrounding countryside that stirred her. It was the knowledge of sharing it with him, and this realization wrapped her in warmth.
As if aware of her thoughts, Geoffrey took her hand, not tightly, just a touch, but it said everything she needed so much to know. Her husband, Paul, had been killed sixteen years ago. Since then, she had had many admirers, and once or twice she had hoped that a man would become more, but one never had. Of course, she was not the only war widow. Heaven knew there were hundreds of thousands of them. And there were even more women like Elena, women who would probably never marry because the men who would have been their husbands were dead.
She needed to break this emotional tension. “Thank you for being so kind about my sister coming.”
His smile lit his face and was completely charming. His expression was full of life and intelligence. He was smiling now, as if something she’d said amused him.
“What?” she asked, searching his face for meaning.
“I want to meet your sister,” he replied. “You’ve made something of a mystery of her. She’s a photographer, and yet you said she took classics at Cambridge and did very well, even brilliantly.”
Margot hesitated for only a second. Elena’s disastrous love affair with Aiden Strother was a family secret. Of course, the Foreign Office knew about it, but no one else, because it was also embarrassing to them. But it would be a kind of betrayal for Margot to tell Geoffrey, especially if he became part of her family, as she would of his. “She discovered she was pretty good at photography,” she said carefully. “It was a lot more interesting than working for the government.” That was less than the truth, but it was far more tactful, for now. “And it has taken her to some very interesting places. She took wonderful pictures of Trieste a while ago.”
“She must be pretty good if she can make a living at that.” There was no criticism in his voice, only interest.
Margot gave a little shrug. “Endless pictures of debutantes, brides, family groups, and so on. Some pictures are more interesting, and she does create beautiful work.”
“I suppose she meets some unusual and important people.” He gave a very slight shrug. “I would rather meet them on equal footing.” He smiled at the memory, and she knew exactly what it was.
“Like the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Simpson? She was fascinating, don’t you think?” They had shared many views on this one party in particular, talking about the fashions, the witty conversation, the easy style of the guests. Despite these frequent discussions, they rarely spoke of Wallis Simpson by name.
“Fascinating,” he repeated, speaking the word slowly, as if tasting it. “I suppose you can be fascinated by things you don’t even like.”
“You don’t like her?” Margot raised her eyebrows. It was not an idle question. She wanted to know what he thought of that unique woman, the mistress of Edward, Prince of Wales, their future king. Margot thought of Wallis Simpson as someone with her foot on the first stair of history. There were women who admired her and those who feared the power she appeared to have over not only the prince, but other men as well. “Different” was a word that came to Margot’s mind. Was she intentionally so? Did she magnify what was a natural gift? There was a nervous energy about the woman, not in movement, but emanating from within.
Was Wallis Simpson beautiful? No. That was not even a sensible question. But what was beauty, really? Something you looked at. An agreeable form, one that you studied with pleasure. Margot tried to think of beautiful women she had seen and then forgotten. The only real beauty that remained was something inside, a sense of character, of intelligence, of inward peace. Shining hair, radiant skin, a smile that illuminated the face—these were gifts of many in their youth. But true beauty was surely ageless.
Margot felt none of these things with Mrs. Simpson. In her face, she saw interest, amusement, sharp wit. There was a fascination about what she might do or say next. She was intensely alive and unpredictable. She made others seem boring by comparison, a real person among a window of mannequins.
Did Wallis Simpson love the Prince of Wales? Was love even the same thing for everyone? Did Margot love Geoffrey as she had loved Paul? She had been young. She had come to adulthood toward the end of the most terrible war in history. Nothing was the same now as it had been then.
She glanced at Geoffrey, and he smiled back at her, his eyes warm, gentle. As dark as her own. She felt herself blush with pleasure.
“Actually, I think she’s quite ugly,” he answered. “All angles. A woman you would listen to rather than ever be at peace with. She is uncomfortable.” He thought for a moment. They were within yards of the garden door. “I would go out to look at her, listen to her, but I would never want to take her home. Yes, she is…uncomfortable.”
It was the answer she wanted to hear: He was interested by her, but not swept off his feet either. She wanted to put out a hand and take his again without seeming too intimate, too possessive.
Geoffrey stopped just short of the paved terrace outside the large sitting room. “Did you like meeting her?” he asked quite seriously.
“Of course,” Margot replied immediately. “She was captivating. I suppose scandalous people always are! We attach all sorts of our own ideas to them. Perhaps it’s part of their magic that they give us that possibility. Being predictable suddenly becomes boring. She is thin, with none of the curves or grace of traditional beauty. She is the same height as the prince, and yet she commands attention.”
“Not mine,” he said fervently. “Slender is fine. But she doesn’t have your grace. She looks…”
“Prickly?” Margot suggested.
“Precisely.” He smiled. “You are very clever. I like that about you. Very much.” He did not seem to notice her smile, a slight warmth in her cheeks. “You hit it exactly on the head,” he continued. “That’s it. She’s the sort of person you could believe anything about because all we know is that she is different from the usual, and she is wise enough to leave us wondering. We can love or hate her, admire or fear her, but the one thing we cannot do is ignore her.”
“Do you think she loves the Prince of Wales?” Margot asked. That sounded easy, almost trivial. Wit, glamour, and elegance were interesting, but love was all that mattered in the end, when the party was over and people went home. Either alone or with someone they cared about. It was important to have someone who mattered passionately and would always matter. Someone who listened to what one said and understood what one meant. That person did not have to agree with everything, but they had to understand.
Margot was waiting for Geoffrey’s reply. She studied his face, now so familiar to her: the angle of his cheekbones, his smile, the sweep of his thick hair. But more than that, he was intelligent, charming, quick to understand. And he had beautiful hands. That was one of the first things she had noticed about him, the strength and grace of his hands.
“Yes,” he finally replied. “I think she does love him, definitely. Whether she loves the man or the heir to the throne of England, that is entirely another matter. If I had to guess, I would say the only person she truly loves is Wallis Simpson.”
“That’s hard,” Margot said quietly. The prince was a charming man, but had an inner fragility that touched her.
Gentleness—that was what Margot required, but didn’t everybody, if they were honest?
“Her focus on herself is what I actually don’t like about her,” Geoffrey said quietly. “But if she becomes queen one day, I shall make a good pretense. I think she would be a bad enemy.”
Sudden weight slipped off Margot’s shoulders and then vanished, as if she could walk away from it. She gave him a dazzling smile. “Then we shall not let her be,” she said easily. “An enemy, I mean.”
He took her arm and with the other hand opened the door to the sitting room, standing back for her to go before him.
She saw Griselda inside, standing elegantly beside a Sheraton table, arranging flowers, an art at which she excelled. She was wearing a floral silk afternoon dress, made up mainly of deep pinks and lilacs, which suited her dark coloring. Her strong features and delicate eyebrows were nicely complemented by the bright yet subtle shades of the room.
She put the last rose in the arrangement and turned to face them. Margot first, then a quick glance at her brother.
He gave a nod so small it might have been an illusion that he had moved at all, then he kissed Margot lightly on the cheek, glanced at Griselda, and excused himself to leave them alone.
Griselda smiled at Margot. It was more than friendly; it was almost conspiratorial. Had Geoffrey told her about his feelings for Margot? These siblings were very close, closer than Margot now was to Elena. It made her think about how she and Elena had been such deep friends not so long ago. What had happened? Elena had become distant, even secretive. Did it go as far back as the disastrous affair with Aiden Strother? Margot knew that it had cost Elena her career, one in which everyone had expected her to succeed spectacularly. Did that still hurt her? She had never mentioned it to Margot. Margot asked herself if she was still critical of Elena. After all, she had given secret information to a man who turned out to be a traitor, and she certainly had paid the price. Not so much for the betrayal, but for being young, head over heels in love, and unwise in her trust.
That could have happened to lots of people. And in some cases, it would not have mattered. But Elena had been unlucky, caught in a trap that she could not avoid. So now she was a fashion and portrait photographer who also happened to have extensive language skills and a knowledge of classics, neither of which she could use.
Maybe it was time for Margot to take a step toward her, welcome her into this elite circle, perhaps offer her a wider and more exciting choice of friends. Elena could not go on taking pictures for the rest of her life! She was worth so much more than that.
“Aren’t they gorgeous?” Griselda said conversationally, indicating the flowers. “Quiet dinner at home tonight. I will enjoy that. And just family conversation. David’s sister and her husband will be coming tomorrow,” she said. “You’ll like Prudence, I think. She’s very easy to get along with. Landon is a bit”—she shrugged, looking for the right word—“more difficult,” she finished confidentially. “He’s brilliant at business.” She gave another elegant shrug. “And he can be a cracking bore.” She laughed. “I’m sorry, but that’s family!”
“Of course,” Margot agreed. “We all have the eccentric ones. It was very kind of you to say that my sister could come for a few days.”
Griselda laughed in response. “Is she your eccentric one?” she asked, but she was smiling, as if she knew that the answer would be positive.
“Shall we say different,” Margot said instead, suddenly feeling protective. She did not want to portray Elena as peculiar. Her mistakes, and how she rescued herself from them, did not need to be mentioned. Let Griselda meet Elena first, get to know her, her wit, her individuality. There would be time for private truths later.
“Is she much like you? That is, in her looks?”
“Not at all,” Margot answered candidly. “Apart from the fact that she and I are the same height, she’s everything opposite.”
“Excellent!” Griselda exclaimed fervently. “We shall have fun, my dear. We shall all wear our most outrageous gowns and try to see who can be more individual than even Mrs. Simpson.” She met Margot’s eyes. “That’s what does it, being individual, yes?”
Margot thought for a moment. “That certainly is one of the best things about life: Anything is possible.”
“Bless you,” Griselda replied. “You’re very good for Geoffrey, you know.” And with a smile of deep satisfaction, she walked toward the hallway, passing her husband on his way into the room. They exchanged glances without words.
“Good afternoon, David,” Margot said warmly. She had met him perhaps half a dozen times before coming to Wyndham Hall for this long, warm, lazy holiday. She had found him remarkably easy to talk to, or perhaps talk with would be more accurate. He was a natural enthusiast, interested in so many things, and he listened. His innate good manners did not allow him to interrupt.
“In from a walk in the garden?” he asked, smiling as if even the thought pleased him.
“It’s marvelous,” she gushed. “It’s so natural. Perhaps that is the result of good design. I feel comfortable in it, unaware of the work, and yet when I think about it, I realize that right from the idea to its creation and its upkeep, there must be people working at it.”
“Perhaps that is the essence of art?” he suggested. “It looks as if it has appeared naturally because the work is invisible.”
He stood near her, but he was gazing out of the glass doors at the long lawn and the trees beyond. There were one or two trees standing alone, quite close to the rhododendron walk. One was a huge oak, its skirts almost touching the ground, the other an elm standing as if at attention. Near them was the one she liked best, a statuesque beech tree with its leaves already pale here and there, ready to become gold and then bronze.
She turned to look at him. At first glance he was a mild-looking man, not as striking as Geoffrey, but there was humor in him that she appreciated.
“Do you put in anything new?” she asked.
He smiled again. “You might say I’m a caretaker.” He gestured toward the lawn, the trees, and everything beyond. “And I’m allowed to do whatever I want. If there’s any restraint, it’s internal. I love it as it is. And, of course, trees are not a one-generation affair. You must take a walk in the woods beyond the garden. You can go for several miles without leaving the property. You should see it in the spring: bluebells everywhere. I wish I could describe it for you, but I haven’t words lovely enough, gentle enough, to make you see it as I do.” He looked suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, I’ve probably said that before. It is so easy to become a bore when you love something too much.”
She smiled reassuringly. “Not to me. And I would have remembered. It’s a privilege, isn’t it?” It was not really a question, more an acknowledgment of understanding. “I like old things. Too much changes too quickly, and we grasp at it, as if afraid we’ll miss out on something.”
“And end up missing everything,” he finished the thought. “I dare you to say that at the dinner table! No, no, don’t! They would have no idea how to answer you without being rude. And if you are going to be rude, you have to be funny as well to be socially acceptable. Listen to Mrs. Simpson. She’s appallingly rude sometimes, but she’s funny with it. And if you argue with her, you can come off as spoiling a good joke. And that’s such bad taste, too.”
“Bad taste.” Margot turned the phrase over in her mind. “I suppose everything can be bad taste if it is unkind, even if it’s funny.”
“There’s a certain part of society that will put up with everything, as long as it isn’t boring. That is the unforgivable sin, isn’t it?”
“Do you think she’s going to fall off?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. How naïve she sounded! But she could not take them back. One never could.
He looked at her with gentleness and obvious humor. “Yes, I do. But the question is when, and who else will she take down with her?”
Before Margot could answer, the door opened and Griselda came back. She glanced at her husband, then at Margot. “I’ve been arranging the flowers for the dinner table. Margot, do come and tell me if you think it’s too much. You have such an excellent eye. I sometimes think the eye is the secret to everything.”
It was an invitation, but also a command, and perhaps a test. Griselda had a perfect eye for such things herself. Was she seeing if Margot had the judgment, and the courage, to tell her if she disagreed?
Margot shot a swift smile to David and followed Griselda into the huge dining room, with its mahogany table large enough to seat at least fourteen diners with ease.
There was an arrangement of autumn flowers in the center. It was too late for summer blooms. Roses tended to fall quickly now, in their second flush. And it was too early for the autumn chrysanthemums. Margot was looking at a gaudy arrangement, but it was clever in the way Griselda had used ripe husks of corn, deep gold and huge, as well as late-flowering Oriental poppies in pink and scarlet, and some kind of daisy. What on earth should she say? Think quickly, she warned herself.
Griselda was watching her, waiting.
“Purple,” Margot said with complete honesty. “That’s the color that will tie it all together, and I’ve never known it not to work. Do you have any purple Michaelmas daisies?”
Griselda let out her breath in relief, a barely audible sigh. “How clever of you!” Then she smiled, and her eyes reflected mirth. “I think you are going to be the best possible addition to our family. As you say, the daisies will be the link that ties it all together.”
Margot found herself suddenly tight-throated with emotion. The memory came sharply to her mind of her mother arranging flowers, or cushions on a deep sofa, or a silk scarf with an outfit. Would Katherine like Griselda and, even more important, Geoffrey? It mattered intensely.
She was aware that Griselda was watching her, but she could not speak. All she could do was stand there beside the beautiful table with its silver and crystal and the blaze of flowers in the middle and breathe deeply to try to control the emotion inside her. She was so close to happiness, belonging. She wanted to say something, but everything seemed trite, except for the truth.
Griselda touched her gently on the arm. “First, I’ll go to the garden and cut the daisies,” she said. “And then we’ll have afternoon tea. After that, perhaps I’ll have to show you the long gallery. That is, before we change for dinner. Some of the art is ghastly! But there are other paintings full of inner peace.”
Margot smiled. “Thank you, I’d like that very much.”
As they walked together, she reminded herself that Elena was arriving tomorrow. And this fellow, Allenby. Please heaven, her outspoken and sometimes opinionated sister would not upset anything.