1

Autumn was the most beautiful time of the year at Beaumont. In late October the leaves had not finished falling, and the massive beech trees round the house were still in full colour. When Isabel Cunningham came to work as Charles Schriber’s secretary three years earlier, it had been in the middle of a blazing Kentucky summer. By the time September came, she was his wife.

It was four o’clock and she had been out walking with her husband’s favourite terrier; they had gone through the wood at the north side of the grounds. The little dog had scampered through the leaves, barking and bustling round, looking for rabbit holes, Isabel following slowly after him. The wood was dim and peaceful, with lovely paths which in April were full of spring flowers. The sunlight filtered through the trees, making bright patterns at her feet. Charles loved to walk there with her, and to go on and inspect the rolling paddocks where the mares and foals were out at grass. It was too late to see them that afternoon; they would have been brought in for the night. She called the dog and came out into the sunlight, taking the way round through the large formal gardens at the rear of the house. Her husband hadn’t been interested in the gardens; he was content to have a neat, conventional frame for his house, and the house itself was the centre of the all-important stud. Isabel had taken charge of the gardens, planting out beds in the front to provide colour against the stark Georgian white of Beaumont itself and the harsh brilliance of the rolling green paddocks that surrounded it.

It was a beautiful house, built in the late 1780s by a wealthy merchant whose family had emigrated from England; the style was semi-classical, with a central block supported by massive white pillars and two wings that curved outwards. She came round to the front and saw Andrew Graham’s car. The terrier was walking quietly at her side; he stopped as she did, and looked up at her, with the bright intelligence of his breed. He seemed to sense that there was something wrong.

She hadn’t expected Andrew to come round. He had promised to telephone the results. The fact that he had come in person could only mean one thing. She hurried to the front door, always left open in Kentucky fashion, and glanced up quickly at the first-floor windows.

It was two months since Charles Schriber became ill. The summer cold had turned into an ugly cough, the cough into a persistent chest infection which did not respond satisfactorily to drugs. For the past two weeks he had been too ill to come downstairs. He was a big man, as tough mentally as he was strong physically. He had a profound contempt for illness and a disregard of his own health. It often seemed strange to Isabel, that a man so lustily alive should choose his doctor as his greatest friend. His resistance to suggestions that he should call in Andrew Graham at the beginning of his illness, coupled with his refusal to rest or go to bed, had delayed proper diagnosis. Summer colds were always hell in the hot weather, he insisted, while the cough went on and on and the temperature refused to settle. By the time she over-ruled him and sent for Andrew he was already very ill.

She found the doctor in the study; it was Charles’s favourite room, panelled in the original pine, one whole wall covered in his racing trophies. Andrew got up as she came in; he was the physical opposite of Charles. Of medium height, rather slightly built, with receding sandy hair and a diffident manner. He walked with a horseman’s gait; he had been a gifted amateur jockey in his youth. He was a typical Kentuckian, courteous, somewhat old-fashioned, ultra conservative, slow to give his trust. It had taken a long time before she felt he had accepted her after the marriage. He came and held out his hand and took both of hers.

‘Andrew?’ she couldn’t keep her voice quite steady.

‘Sit down, Isabel,’ he said. She did so and he placed himself beside her. ‘I’ve had the X-ray results,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it’s very bad news. The left lung has been completely invaded and there are signs that the cancer has gotten a hold generally.’

‘Oh God –’ She didn’t cry; there was a sick, empty feeling that increased as he talked. He used technical terms which she didn’t really understand, trying to explain that the condition was inoperable; the dreadful tentacles had crept too far and surgery would release more. There was nothing to be done for Charles, but keep the pain at bay and wait with him till the end came.

‘He won’t accept it,’ Isabel said slowly. ‘He keeps threatening to get up. He won’t take the medicines – you know he’s living for going to England next year. Isn’t there any hope even of that –’

‘None,’ Andrew shook his head. ‘He’ll last a month or so, if he stays bedridden. He’ll be too weak to do anything else.’ He turned away and she saw there were tears in his eyes.

‘It’s a bastard,’ he said. ‘He’s the best man I know. It shouldn’t happen to him, Isabel.’ He blew his nose and cleared his throat.

‘I’m not going to tell him,’ Isabel said slowly. ‘He’s not to know. We’ll go upstairs and see him together, and you can tell him the X-ray showed something trivial like an infection. I’m going to go on as if nothing was wrong.’ She looked at the doctor, and her own tears fell. ‘I’ve loved him so much,’ she said. ‘I’m going to lie to him now and I want you to do the same.’

Graham glanced at her, and shook his head.

‘He knows,’ he said. ‘He wanted me to keep the truth from you. Charles has never ducked out of anything. He won’t be afraid of this. He told me so. We’ve talked about it, Isabel. I’ve already been up to see him.’

She didn’t know what to say to him. There was his twenty years of friendship and his medical position, ranged alongside her three-year marriage. He hadn’t consulted her. At this the crucial moment in Charles Schriber’s life, he had acted as if she were not there.

She got up, and after a moment he did the same. She stood facing him.

‘You had no right to do that, Andrew. You had no right to tell Charles without first talking to me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘But all along he’s been worried about the effect this would have on you. He told me to give him the results first. I had to do as he asked.’

She turned away from him then, but he went on talking, explaining patiently. ‘You mustn’t feel shut out, Isabel. Charles wanted to keep it from you. I wouldn’t agree. I persuaded him you ought to know the truth. He’s upstairs waiting for you, and he’s very cheerful. Don’t let him see you crying. It won’t help him. I’ll get you a drink.’

He went to the trolley by the sofa, and poured out a measure of Scotch for her, and one for himself. He came up and made her take it.

‘Come on now,’ he said. ‘This is doctor’s orders. Drink this and take a good pull on yourself. Think of him.’

She did as he suggested; she drank the whisky and forced herself to be calm, to suppress the agony that wanted to express itself in a torrent of crying in a private place. Three years. Three years of being happy, of living with a man she loved and upon whom she totally relied. Strong and safe and indestructible. And now dying of a loathsome creeping illness that was eating away at his strength, wasting the powerful body, frustrating the courageous will. He had known all along that he was mortally ill. His only thought had been to save her pain. Andrew Graham was right. This was no time for petty feelings, for personal quibblings between the people he loved.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m better now. I’m sorry I said that, Andrew. I didn’t mean it. I was just so shocked –’

He smiled at her and patted her shoulder. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’

‘What about Richard?’

She saw him stiffen. His shoulders went back and his head turned quickly, at the mention of Charles Schriber’s son.

‘Richard – what about Richard?’

‘He ought to know,’ Isabel said. ‘His father’s dying and he ought to be told.’ He relaxed as visibly as he had tensed up. He shook his head, slowly, with an air of patience. It made her feel like a child instead of a woman of twenty-seven. With a husband thirty years older than she was.

‘Charles wouldn’t want it,’ he said carefully, his tone the slow explanatory one she knew so well. ‘It wouldn’t be in his best interests at this moment. You don’t want to upset him, Isabel. They never did get along.’

‘I know,’ she said, ‘or at least I don’t know, because Charles never wanted to talk about it, but this is different. This is the time to end a quarrel! Surely Richard should be given the chance.…’

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to Charles about it if you like, but I know he won’t want any part –’

‘No thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll talk to him. It’s my job to make peace between them, if I can. I’ll go up and see him now. You’ll see yourself out, Andrew?’

‘Of course. I’ll call by tomorrow and see him. Tell him that.’

She went out of the room and across the spacious marble floored hall to the sweeping staircase that led to the two upper storeys, paused for a moment to collect herself, and heard the study door open behind her and the doctor walking out to the front door as she began to go up the steps to her bedroom and her husband.

It was one of the biggest rooms in the house, built above the drawing room, with magnificent views over the paddocks. Charles was propped up in the double bed on a throne of pillows. He loved to look out during the day and see his beloved mares and foals. It was weeks since he had been well enough to go down and visit them. He turned as she came in; his thick hair, so full of life, was visibly whiter, and there was a faint sheen of sweat over his forehead and the ridge of cheekbone, which now stood out from loss of weight. It was a distinctive face, handsome in a rough-cut way, with dark eyes that were always penetrating. He smiled as soon as he saw her, and held out his hand.

The voice was deep, with the Kentucky drawl very pronounced. It was the first thing that had attracted her, that beautiful male voice, full of power.

‘Come here, my darling. I’ve been waiting for you. Where’s Andy?’

‘Gone,’ she said. She came and sat with him; their hands clasped tight.

‘I should have been here,’ she said. ‘I took Sam for a walk.’

‘Damn little dog,’ he said and smiled. ‘Sits by the bed here and as good as says to me, come on you lazy old bastard, get up and take me out – did he catch anything?’

‘No. We went through the woods and he raced around looking. It was lovely today. We both missed you.’

‘I guess Andy’s told you,’ he said.

She faced him without hesitating. ‘Yes, darling. He did.’ She felt him shrug beside her; the grip of her hand increased for a moment.

‘It wasn’t any surprise to me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t need any damned X-rays. I could’ve told them what they’d find. It doesn’t bother me, Isabel. I want you to know that. I’m not scared.’

‘I know,’ she said gently. ‘That’s what Andrew said. And you needn’t be, darling. They could even be wrong. It’s happened before.’

‘No chance,’ he said. ‘I want you to face that. No chance at all. Do you have any idea how much I love you?’

It was dangerous for her to answer. She only shook her head.

‘I was saying to Andy,’ he said. ‘I’ve done two things in my life that I’m really proud of – I bred the Falcon and I had the good sense to run you off your feet and marry you. I’ve had three very wonderful years with you, Isabel. You made me young again.’

She put her arms round him and kissed him; her cheeks were wet and there was nothing she could do. He whispered to her.

‘It was good with us, wasn’t it – the age didn’t make a damned bit of difference.…’

‘It was wonderful,’ she said. ‘I wish I’d had a child. I wanted so much to give you something – you’d given me so much.’

‘I didn’t want children,’ he said. ‘I told you that, right at the start. Just you and me. Kiss me, Isabel.’

He leaned his head back against the pillows. He was holding her hand in both of his. The room was very still.

‘I’m going to miss the Derby,’ he said suddenly. ‘That really cuts me up. If I could buy time I’d give a million dollars to last out till June – I know he’ll win.’ He turned and looked at her. ‘To win every major Classic in the States – but never an English Derby. I’ve planned and worked towards this for the last four years. And now I’m not going to live to see the goddamned race. That hurts, Isabel. That really hurts.’

‘You might,’ she started to say, and then stopped. There was no hope of deceiving him. Nobody had ever fooled Charles Schriber. And it was typical of him that his only regret in the face of death was that he would miss the race which he had set his heart on winning. He had bred the colt himself, and from the day it was foaled, it became an obsession with him. He was one of the best known breeders in the world, a millionaire many times over who had built up a famous stud in the thirty years he had been at Beaumont. He was an owner breeder, keeping what he considered the best stock to race for himself. A man of power and influence in his community and in the international world of racing.

Isabel’s meeting with him had been pure chance. In three short years he had changed her outlook, her interests and her life. Sitting beside him, watching him in the moments when he closed his eyes and rested, it seemed impossible to believe that he was going to die. The personality, even in sickness, was still so strong, the willpower like a current, touching the nerve endings of anyone in contact with him. Isabel had only felt its beneficial influence; protecting, guiding, spoiling her. But it was known that he was a dangerous man to cross, a tough businessman, and an exacting employer. There were no second-raters at Beaumont. They didn’t last more than a day or two before he found them out. Isabel had never been afraid of him, but a lot of people were.

‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t I let Richard know about this?’ He opened his eyes slowly; there was no expression in them.

‘No.’

‘Why not,’ she persisted. ‘He’s your son. He has a right to know.’

‘He has no rights so far as I’m concerned. The day I die he’ll throw a party.’

‘Why did you fall out?’ Isabel asked him. ‘I’ve never asked you because it was obvious that you didn’t want to talk about it, but how can you feel so bitter – what’s he done to you, darling? If you could tell me, I might be able to understand.’

He squeezed her hand and let it go. ‘There’s no mystery,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to talk about him because there wasn’t a good word I could say. He was a trouble as soon as he could walk. His mother spoiled him rotten, and when he inherited her money he took off. He’s dragged my name in the dirt. Drink, women, gambling; never a day’s work. You talk about having children. One was enough for me. Forget it, sweetheart. The last person in the world I want standing round my bed is Richard.’

He smiled at her; he looked drawn and very tired. ‘Now you put it out of your head. Put a call through to Tim and tell him to come on up here. I want a report on the horses.’

‘It’ll tire you out,’ she protested. ‘He can come in tomorrow.’

‘I want him tonight,’ her husband said. ‘Make the call, sweetheart. And don’t fuss over me. If I’m dying, I’m going to do it in my own damned way.’

Tim Ryan arrived some twenty minutes later; she went downstairs, leaving them together. Charles liked to talk over the day’s progress without any interruption. She went back to the study and waited for Tim to come down. He had been one of her first friends when she came to Beaumont. He was in his thirties, and he had held the post of racing manager to the Schriber stable for almost five years.

She lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly; she felt a sense of profound unreality. It seemed impossible that the conversation with Andrew had taken place. The room was full of her husband’s presence; his armchair loomed opposite to her, a chair where no one else ever sat, even when he wasn’t in the room. The picture above the fireplace was his Christmas present to her, a magnificent Stubbs of a grey stallion. He had bought it because he said it reminded him of his colt, the Silver Falcon. The wall of silver trophies glittered in the lamplight; he refused to lock them away in spite of the insurance company’s protests. What the hell was the good of keeping something in the bank; they were made to look at and to remember their significance. Life, as he said forcefully, was for living. The capacity to extract the maximum out of every moment, good or bad, was part of his magnetism; she had never met anyone like him in England or even in the States, where personal dynamism was far more common. And now that singular spirit was going to be extinguished. A matter of a few weeks, two months at the most; that was the verdict. Christmas. She closed her eyes, fighting the tears. Christmas at Beaumont was the highlight of their year; Charles loved entertaining, and he kept open house for the week before and over the holiday. There were presents for every member of the staff and a huge Christmas tree which they decorated themselves. Neighbours dropped in to see them in a constant stream, bringing presents, children and friends. It had been the greatest imaginable contrast to the austere university festivities of her own home. The polite sherry parties and compulsory attendances at the glorious services were no preparation for the roaring hospitality of Beaumont, presided over by Charles. Their first Christmas, soon after their marriage, he had given her a mink coat wrapped up in a gigantic tinsel cracker. In three years he had given her more furs and jewellery, the Stubbs painting, a custom-made Rolls-Royce and a dress allowance that she couldn’t begin to spend. But he knew every item in the household accounts and nobody got away with overcharging him a cent. It seemed to please him to spoil and indulge her as if she were more like a daughter than a wife; and then the mood would change and he would be a man, wanting her urgently in his bed.

When they first married, Isabel had tried to become as much a partner as a wife; her attempts to share his early life had been skilfully frustrated, her questions turned aside. The subject of his first wife was never mentioned. Remembering his reaction to her the one time she asked him about Frances, chilled her even now. He was a very private man in some ways, as secretive and resentful of intrusion as he was open-handed and extroverted in the normal way. There was a hint of despotism in his relationship with her which she had resolutely ignored.

Then immediately he would do something loving and generous, so that she felt ashamed, and anxious to make up for the fleeting criticism. And it was fleeting. Now, sadly for such a powerful man, his dependence in the last stages of the fatal illness had reversed the roles. It had made her deeply grateful for the chance to give him back the love he had so lavishly given to her.

She heard the door open and sat up quickly. Tim Ryan came in. She touched the sofa seat beside her. ‘Get us both a drink, Tim, and sit down.’

He sat holding the glass in his hand, making the ice float from side to side. ‘He was in great spirits,’ he said. ‘Full of plans for next season. He seemed to get tired, though. How is he, Isabel?’

And then she told him. He looked down for a moment, not saying anything. He had a narrow, Celtic face, with deeply set blue eyes, and thick dark hair.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said slowly. ‘He’s a grand man. I’m going to miss him. Is there anything I can do for you – you know if there’s anything at all –’

‘Just keep him happy,’ Isabel said. ‘Come and see him every night, just as usual and cheer him up. He’s very fond of you.’

‘We’ve always got along,’ Tim said. ‘Right from the start. And he’s been very good to me. Does he know?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He may tell you himself when he’s ready. I can’t believe it, Tim. I can’t imagine life without him.’

He reached over and took her hand. ‘Don’t think about it,’ he said. ‘Close your mind. And when the time comes I want you to know something. I’ll be right with you. We all will.’

He had been in love with her since she first arrived to work for Charles as a temporary secretary. He had liked the quiet young English girl immediately and set out to gain her confidence. Tim knew as much about women as he did about horses, and this was not the type to be rushed. She had quality, and quality was worth waiting for. But he hadn’t calculated on his employer. Charles Schriber had adopted a very different technique. Not for him the patient pursuit of a shy quarry. She hadn’t been at Beaumont more than a fortnight before he set out to rush her off her feet. Tim had stood aside, reluctantly and in silence. One hint of competition and he would lose his job. Charles Schriber didn’t give away anything he wanted. And he wanted Isabel Cunningham.

Tim had stood by at the wedding, toasted them along with the hundreds of guests, listened to the whispers among the neighbours about how much younger she was, and seen his employer, proud as an old stallion, standing beside his new wife, slim and dark, in a long cream dress. And now it was ending. Sooner, much sooner than he could ever have expected. Or hoped. He went on holding Isabel’s hand.

‘We’ll see him through it,’ he said. ‘He was fretting because he couldn’t get down to the yard and see the Falcon. I told him I’d bring the box up here and unload him in front. If he can be moved to the window he’ll be able to see him from upstairs.’

Isabel turned to him. ‘Thank you, Tim – that would really please him! I know how much he loves the colt. He was saying to me tonight that he minded missing the Derby more than anything. If only he could have lived till June!’

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Tim Ryan said, ‘I’m going to act as if he will.’

‘Would you do me a favour?’ she asked him.

He nodded. ‘Anything.’

‘Stay and have dinner with me tonight. We can go up and sit with him afterwards. He sleeps very early. I don’t want to be alone. Do you mind –’

He was careful not to look at her.

‘I’d be happy to stay,’ he said.

The next weeks went by very quickly. It seemed to Isabel and everyone in the house and on the stud that the days of Charles Schriber’s life were flying past. Nothing changed outwardly. The great occasion was the morning Tim Ryan kept his promise and brought the Silver Falcon up to the front of Beaumont in a horse box. Isabel, Rogers the coloured butler, and the nurse lifted Charles out of bed and into a wheelchair. He was brought to the window, and the colt was unloaded and walked up and down below where he could see it.

Everyone from the youngest stable lad, to Geoffrey Oliver the stud manager, turned up to see it, and when the horse walked down the ramp, and Charles was seen at the window, there was a spontaneous cheer.

Isabel was beside him; he caught hold of her in his excitement and his grip was surprisingly strong.

‘Look at him – doesn’t he look great! Look at that walk – and the quarters he’s got on him! He’s better than ever, my darling. He’ll murder them.…’ He had looked at her, and his haggard face was flushed with excitement; the flash of fire was in his sunken eyes. For a moment, watching his horse circle below him, Charles Schriber seemed ready to hold death at bay. Then the coughing began, rending him in a brutal spasm that robbed him of all strength. He had been taken back to bed, exhausted and almost too weak to speak. It was a whisper as Isabel bent over him, terrified by the effect of the outburst.

‘He’ll win … even if I can’t live to see him … he’ll win the Derby for me.…’ He had lost consciousness then, and when Andrew Graham was sent for he said that there had been a serious deterioration. He hadn’t blamed Tim or Isabel; he asked, in his slow, measured way, what had brought on the attack and then looked at both of them.

‘He wanted to see him,’ Isabel had heard herself excusing what they had done. ‘He fretted about the colt. Tim and I thought it would make him happy.’

‘I’m sure you had the best of motives,’ Andrew said. ‘But you should have asked me. The excitement has been too much for him. I hate to say this –’ he was looking at Isabel as he spoke – ‘but you may have hastened his end.’

Since she told Tim about Charles’s illness they had drawn very close. He seemed to understand and to respect her grief. She transferred some of her dependence upon her dying husband to the young and healthy man who seemed so eager to support her. And he loved Charles; Isabel never doubted that. And because she trusted him and had learned to rely on him, she said something when Andrew had gone that she had hardly said to herself.

‘It was cruel of him to say that! He knows I wouldn’t do anything to shorten Charles’s time by a single second and yet he tried to blame me.’ She looked up at him. ‘He’s never liked me. He’s hidden it in front of Charles but I can feel it!’

‘Don’t take any notice,’ Tim said. ‘He’s just emotional himself and taking it out on you. Forget it. If you ask me, he’s too involved with Charles to doctor him. You should have called in someone else. He was damned near breaking down when he came in today.’

She had sounded more bitter than she realized.

‘Call someone else – you don’t know Charles! He and Andrew are like twins – he’s always calling here. They play golf together, they go off to town together, they shut themselves up in the study for hours. I’ve always felt that Andrew criticized me. He makes me feel I’ve got to justify myself; whatever I do where Charles is concerned, it’s somehow wrong. I’m too young, I don’t understand, it’s always done this way – Charles wouldn’t like it! He goes on, sounding so damned reasonable and trying to be kind, when I feel underneath he hated it when Charles married me!’

‘Maybe,’ Tim was soothing; ‘Maybe he’s jealous.’ He was more concerned with calming the overwrought emotions than with analysing Andrew Graham. ‘Maybe, but don’t let it rile you. He’s possessive of an old friend, and he can’t save him; that probably means he’s suffering a lot in his own way. And he isn’t hostile to you, Isabel. I’m sure of that. He’s a pedantic old bastard and a bit of a mule, but no more than that. Don’t let anything he said upset you. You go up and lie down now. I’ll call round after evening stables and see how you are. Charles will be all right. And you can believe this.’ He lifted her face and made her look at him.

‘If he died tonight you did the right thing. He’d rather go thinking about the Falcon winning at Epsom than any other way. Go on upstairs now. I’ll tell Rogers you’re not to be disturbed.’

The next morning Charles had rallied; he seemed cheerful and alert, but talking tired him; Isabel sat beside him and read the newspapers aloud. Often he fell asleep, and then she laid the paper aside and just sat quietly with him. He didn’t sleep that morning; his eyes were open and he moved in sudden restlessness. He touched her on the arm.

‘No more –’ it was said with an effort. ‘Don’t read any more.’ She bent over him in alarm. His colour had changed; there was a blue shade round his mouth.

The dark eyes looked up at her, intelligence and determination still made them burn.

‘Get Andy, darling. Right away.’

She never stayed in the bedroom when he was being examined; Charles didn’t like her watching. She waited downstairs, and it seemed as if Andrew Graham was upstairs with him for hours. She lit a cigarette and then another and wondered whether to call for Tim. She didn’t want to see Andrew Graham alone. She waited close to the door and when she heard him coming down the stairs she stepped out into the hall. His face was solemn; he started when she came up to him.

‘Andrew? Is he worse –’

Andrew Graham nodded. She saw that his mouth was quivering slightly. As Tim had said, he was too emotionally involved with this particular patient. He must have seen countless patients die, many of them friends. But there was no hiding the extent of his personal grief for Charles Schriber.

‘I’m afraid so. You must be ready, Isabel. He’ll go at any moment. I’ve given him something and he’ll sleep. I’ve told the nurse to stay with him till he wakes and then call you. I’ll be back this afternoon.’ He walked on down the hall, his shoulders sagging, his head bent. Isabel hurried after him. There was something unbearably forlorn about him as he left the house. She caught him by the arm.

‘Andy – you’ve done everything you could – please – try not to be so upset.’

He shook his head. ‘I didn’t do enough. If I’d known earlier maybe we could have operated.… You should have called me, Isabel. Whatever he said, you should have called me at the first sign.’ He walked away from her, and slowly got into his car and drove away.

Isabel went back inside. Rogers the butler met her in the hall. He was a tall, dignified Negro, who had worked at Beaumont for twenty years, and he had taken some months to accept her after the marriage. She had won first his respect and then his loyalty. He would know, through the strange telegraph that operated among Negro servants, that his master was close to death.

‘Ah saw Doctor Graham come runnin’, Mis Schriber – Ah hope nuthin’s gone worse with Mista Schriber –’

‘I’m afraid he’s dying, Rogers,’ Isabel said. ‘Doctor Graham says it can be any time. But he’s not in any pain.’

‘Is there anythin’ yuh want – anythin’ Ah can do for yuh?’

Isabel shook her head. ‘Nothing, thank you, Rogers. We just have to wait with him, that’s all. Will you tell the staff for me – I’ll be in the study if I’m wanted. Thank you.’

She closed the door, and went over to her husband’s desk. There was a big leather address book, and she began to read through it under the letter S. Schriber, Richard. The address was in London. Isabel closed the book and sat still for some time.

Charles had refused to see his son. Andrew Graham had advised her against contacting him. He was never mentioned in the house; there wasn’t a photograph of him or evidence of his existence anywhere at Beaumont. Nor of his mother. There was a half-length portrait of Charles in the dining room on one side of the fireplace. On the other was a superb Herring of hunters and a groom. It was obvious that it had replaced the companion portrait of Frances Schriber. She had only asked him about his first wife once. It was the day before their wedding, which was to take place at Beaumont. Her parents had been flown over at his expense, and her mother had expressed surprise that Isabel knew so little about her predecessor. ‘Hasn’t he ever talked about her – how very odd. Why don’t you ask him, dear? It seems so unnatural not to mention a first wife at all – it’s not as if she ran off or anything. The poor thing only died.…’

And so Isabel had asked Charles about Frances. She could remember the incident very clearly, because it was the first time she had seen him angry, and with his anger there had been a sharp withdrawal from her. They were in the drawing room, all gold and white and banked with masses of yellow and white flowers. Charles had decided to get married in his own home, rather than the Episcopalian church, and to throw the house open for a huge reception afterwards.

‘Tell me something, darling,’ Isabel had asked him. ‘Were you unhappy with Frances? You never mention her.’

He had stiffened; his arm had been round her shoulders and they were standing together looking at the setting for the ceremony that was to unite them for life. His arm had slipped away.

‘There’s nothing to mention,’ he said. ‘Why ask about her tonight – it’s not exactly appropriate before our wedding.’

Isabel persisted. ‘Yes it is. I’m just about to take her place. I’d like to know something about her. If you were unhappy with her, then I want to know what she did wrong. It might be a help to me.’

‘She did everything wrong,’ he said abruptly. ‘And you’ve got nothing to learn from her. I don’t know why the hell you suddenly turn curious. You’ve never talked about her before.’

‘I didn’t want to pry,’ Isabel said. ‘But there were hints in the newspapers about a tragic death. I hoped you’d tell me yourself.’

There had been widespread coverage of their engagement. Not all the comments had been kind. There were snide references to the difference in their ages. And one New York columnist had used exactly those words about the first Mrs Schriber. A tragic death. ‘How did she die?’ Isabel asked. He had stepped back from her, and there was an expression on his face that shocked her. Not just angry, but cold and hostile, as if she had stepped over a forbidden line.

‘She killed herself,’ he said. ‘It was the last thing she could do to try and wreck my life. So now you know, and don’t ever ask me about her again. I hope your curiosity is satisfied.’ He had turned and walked out of the room. When he came to her room before dinner he brought her a diamond heart-shaped pendant on a platinum chain.

‘My wedding present,’ he had said, and taken her in his arms. It was also his way of apologizing. Isabel felt such a sense of guilt for having opened an old wound that she had never mentioned his first wife again.

He had been equally reticent about his son. A trouble from the start. No damned good for anything. There had been a paternity suit in New York, with an internationally famous model claiming that Richard Schriber was the father of her baby daughter, which Isabel remembered reading about, before she ever came to Beaumont. The suit had been dismissed, but it exposed an unattractive lifestyle in which money and sex played the main parts. Richard was a disappointment, and a waster. But he was still Charles Schriber’s only son.

Isabel was also an only child; her circumstances couldn’t have been less similar, except that her parents were disappointed in her, and in their way, equally distant. Her father was a remote, but pleasant man, so immersed in his academic life that he scarcely noticed his daughter; her mother was equally absorbed by the university, its politics, its staff and its students. She had more time to spare for some shy first-year student than for Isabel. Intellectually she had been their inferior; intelligent without being academic, she was less interesting to her parents than other people’s clever children. She had grown up shy, but independent, sensing that she was tolerated rather than loved. Even her first love affair, with a young don in her father’s college, had gone unnoticed by either of them. They had seen her married to Charles, whom they didn’t pretend to understand, and hurried back to Oxford to live their own lives. An occasional duty letter and a present at Christmas was all the contact Isabel had had with them since. And yet if she had been ignored in a time of crisis, much less mortal illness, she could imagine her own sense of personal hurt. It was easy for Andrew Graham, who obviously disliked the younger man, to dismiss Richard Schriber as having no right to know about his father’s illness.

Less understandable but excusable for Charles himself to reject him; Isabel knew him well enough to suspect that pride could play a major role in his decision not to see his son. There was no possible excuse for her to listen to either of them and deprive Charles’s son of the chance to make peace with his father before he died.

She picked up the telephone and sent the cable to the London address. Very short and direct. ‘Your father is dying. Please come immediately. Your stepmother, Isabel.’

She decided not to tell anyone, not even Tim Ryan, what she had done. The hours passed; Andrew Graham came again. They stood by Charles’s bed and the nurse reported that he hadn’t woken since the morning. Andrew didn’t disturb him.

‘He’s sleeping peacefully,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by rousing him. This may be the way he’ll go.’ He went downstairs and Isabel took over the nurse’s vigil. She sent a message to Tim Ryan not to come up that night. She wanted to be alone with Charles.

She had decided to leave England after her second love affair. Her father cultivated writers. It was one of his friends, a self-important intellectual nearing forty, who persuaded Isabel at twenty-two, that what she needed to make life interesting was a mature lover like himself. The relationship had been as bogus as the writer’s books. Isabel had gone to America, less to escape than to find some direction in her life. She had worked in New York for six months and then drifted southwards with a girl she had met. The job as a temporary secretary to Charles Schriber came through an agency in Freemont.

She had never seen a stud before; the thriving business side was fascinating enough, but from the beginning her employer had involved her with the horses. Isabel hadn’t learned to ride as a child; her parents despised the purely physical activities and had no rapport with animals. It was Charles’s suggestion that she should learn, and one of his lads was given the job of teaching her. She had worked very hard for him in the first weeks, but it didn’t seem to matter how many hours she stayed in the office, because he took her with him round the stud, came to watch her riding lessons, criticized and praised her when she began to make real progress and inexorably involved her with every aspect of his horses. Isabel discovered two things about herself in those first weeks at Beaumont. She was physically brave and she was more at home in the new world of men and horses than she had ever been in the cloisters of Oxford.

People seemed to like her; she responded to the friendliness of the staff at the stud. She wasn’t sure when Charles’s courtship actually began. She was invited to sit in with Tim and Geoffrey Oliver, who managed the stud, in the evening drinking session, and found herself playing hostess to his friends. There was no suggestion that he was fatherly towards her; no greater contrast to her own desiccated parent could be imagined than the dynamic, powerful, older man, with his exuberant masculinity. When he asked her to marry him she had been at Beaumont for less than three months. For a man of such personal pride that it bordered on arrogance, his proposal had been touching. If she could accept someone so much older, and trust him to make her happy, he would spend the rest of his life in doing exactly that. When he kissed her, the two men who had come and gone in her life were less substantial than shadows. She loved him and she felt in the most poignant way that she had found her home.

Three happy years. Marred perhaps by twinges of uncertainty, because there was so much about him that she didn’t know, and there was a sense of disappointment which she suppressed because he didn’t want her to have children. It was soon sublimated in her devotion to him. It was a warm, secure world, presided over by her husband. She moved her chair closer to his bed, and took his hand in hers. It had wasted like his body; the veins stood out like cords above the pallid skin; his hands were the epitome of him. Large and strong, with a thick powerful wrist: they could be gentle with her and at the same time hold the strongest horse. She stayed by his bedside in the chair, from the evening through the night, sleeping in fits, but mostly awake and quietly waiting. Although he didn’t show any sign of consciousness, she felt that he knew she was near.

She saw the dawn come up, creeping above the grey window panes, turning the glass rosy until the pink became suffused with gold as the sun rose. She had left the curtains open; it was Charles’s habit to sleep like that. He disliked the dark; he liked to wake to the sight of his own green fields. Isabel felt stiff and tired; she went into the big marble bathroom which led off their bedroom, and washed in cold water. Her reflection looked hollow-eyed and weary. It was six thirty; the household would be stirring soon. As she turned to come back into the bedroom she saw that Charles Schriber was awake.

She stroked his forehead; it was cold, as cold as his cheek when she kissed him. ‘I’ll get the nurse, darling,’ she whispered. ‘She’ll help me make you comfortable.’ Slowly he shook his head. He was breathing with slow, laboured breaths and he caught at her with his hand, drawing her down to him.

‘No nurse … I want you, Isabel. Only you. Stay with me.’ The eyes were dull, the hand fell away, slack and powerless to keep hold of her.

‘I’m here,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t worry. I’m with you.’ She put her arms around him, resting his head against her breast.

‘You’ve been here all night,’ he said. ‘I felt you.’

‘Don’t talk,’ Isabel soothed him. ‘Stay quiet, darling, don’t tire yourself.…’

‘I’ve left you everything,’ he said. ‘The stud, the horses, everything. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.… I want you to have it all. And the Falcon –’ He made an effort to raise himself and failed. She could see that every word was a tremendous effort, and she tried to quiet him, but he went on, driving himself by the force of an indomitable will.

‘The Falcon … he’ll win the Derby. I want you to race him for me. I want you to promise me – promise me you’ll send him over. Carry my colours … even if I don’t see it. Promise me!’

‘I promise,’ Isabel said. ‘I promise you, darling. I’ll do just what you want.’

‘I wanted to win that damned race.…’ For a moment his voice sank to a mumble, repeating the words again and again. ‘I bred him for it. Just for the Derby. He’ll do it. I know he will … you do this for me, Isabel. The last thing …’

‘Nothing will stop me,’ she said. ‘I give you my promise.’ He sighed as if a burden had been lifted from him; for a moment his eyes closed. Isabel knew that death was very near; she held him close and tight against her.

‘Richard …’ She could hardly hear him. It was a hoarse, slow whisper.

‘Don’t have him round after I’ve gone. Don’t ever trust him … he’ll try and stop you running the Falcon … he knows how much it means.… Don’t let him near you, Isabel.… I won’t be here to take care …’ He didn’t finish the sentence; his breathing deepened, a harsh choking sound came in his throat. She knew its significance, and her tears fell. She was holding him against her like a child when a few minutes later he died.

There were no arrangements for Isabel to make; Charles had thought of everything. He had planned his funeral; he wanted a service in the Episcopalian church and a private burial in the grounds of his home, near his beloved horses. He had left a list specifying the close friends who were to be invited to the final ceremony.

The day of his death passed in a curious blur for Isabel. From the time she left his bedroom the sense of unreality grew stronger. It couldn’t have happened. It wasn’t possible that the long sad weeks of waiting had culminated that morning. She saw Rogers, who gathered the old black cook, weeping copiously, the three indoor maids and a young boy who had run general errands round the house, into the drawing room, and told them that Charles was dead. There was a silence, broken by the butler clearing his throat; there were tears in his eyes.

‘He was a fine man, Mis Schriber. We’re surely going to miss him. We want yuh to know we’ll do anythin’ we can for you. Just like it was for him.’

She thanked them; when they went out, closing the door, she was alone in the room where she had been married. She had never felt more lonely in her life, nor more determined not to fail him in the smallest detail.

And the most important was five miles away in his private trainer’s yard. His last wish, wrung from his sinking body with such effort, was for the grey colt, Silver Falcon. Promise me … the words whispered again in her mind, and then the others followed them. Richard … don’t ever trust him.… She shut them out. To be so implacable even in the moment before death – and now it was too late. She hadn’t sent the cable in time. There would be no reconciliation now.

She went round to the back of the house; the hours had fled by and it was late afternoon. She took the Range Rover out of the garage and drove round to the back gates.

A few minutes later she drove through the entrance to the training yard, and pulled up outside Tim Ryan’s bungalow.

The stables for Charles’s two-and three-year-olds were part of a handsome complex, and included the bungalows occupied by Harry Grogan and his wife, and Tim Ryan. Each was bordered by a low white paling fence, with a small well-kept garden. The staff quarters were a modern, brick-built building, backing on to the two-year-old fillies’ yard, which was sheltered on three sides to protect the more delicate female stock.

Tim opened the door as she got out. He came towards her, and she knew that he had heard the news. He held out his hand and took both of hers.

‘Andy telephoned,’ he said. ‘I’m terribly sorry. He was a grand man. Come inside.’

‘No,’ Isabel said. ‘I’d like to see the Falcon first. It’ll help me, Tim.’

‘If you say so, of course. We’ll walk round. Do you want me to get Grogan?’

She shook her head. Grogan was a talkative, tough professional; she had never got on to close terms with him or his wife.

‘No, I’d rather see him with you,’ she said. They walked down towards the rectangular yard where the horses’ boxes stood. It was a clear evening, but chill with the approach of winter. The unmistakable odour of horseflesh was stronger than usual. As soon as they approached the first line of boxes a Security guard approached them; he held a German Shepherd dog on a chain leash. When he saw Ryan and Isabel he saluted and went back to his post.

Ever since a neighbour had lost three valuable two-year-olds, every stud and private stable had its nightwatchman, some of them armed or with guard dogs. The three colts had been found with their front tendons cut, and had to be destroyed. It was never proved, but there was a rumour that their trainer had resisted pressure to pull an odds-on favourite in a five-furlong race at Saratoga. The bookmaking syndicate had taken their revenge. As Charles told Isabel, soon after she arrived there were aspects of racing which had nothing to do with sport.

Tim Ryan stopped at a big box situated at the end of the line, close to the covered school, where the horses were exercised in bad weather. He switched on the outside light, unlatched the top door and Isabel came up beside him. The horse was resting. He stood in one corner, near the bulging haynet, his off hind leg at rest; when the light came on he turned his head and looked at them. His ears had gone flat back.

‘I’ll go in first,’ Ryan said. ‘You don’t come in till I’ve got hold of him.’

The colt watched him come across the straw; there was a malevolent look in the big bold eye. Ryan was talking to him; he had a way with horses, especially with the more difficult ones, and he was a genius with fillies. Even the most temperamental responded to him. He slipped a head collar over the colt’s neck and buckled it on. He hooked his fingers in the strap, and called to Isabel.

‘Come on in; mind you don’t get too near his quarters. He’s been a real bastard today. I’ll tie him up and then strip him off for you.’ He attached the head collar to a piece of twine, which was fastened in turn to a chain hooked into a ring in the wall. It was just strong enough to let the animal know he was tethered, but a sudden backward jerk would break it without damage to the horse’s neck muscles. Isabel stood some feet away, near to the colt’s head. Ryan, still murmuring and patting his neck, unbuckled the surcingle that held his rugs in place, and slipped them off.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t he look great?’

The dark, iron-grey coat was gleaming with health, and the loins and quarters were broad and tight with muscle. He stood all of sixteen-two hands high, his mane and tail were black. He had a proud head set on a magnificent full neck. Isabel stood watching him in silence. The living result of Charles Schriber’s years of careful planning, a horse bred with one specific prize in mind. The most prestigious of them all. The Epsom Derby.

He had explained it all to her one night, tracing the cross breeding to the great Derby winner Hyperion and Nearco on the male line and the Phalaris blood from the dam’s side. The dam, Silvia, had won two American Classics for Charles; she was a beautiful, sweet-natured filly who went on to become a very successful brood mare. He had mated her with his best Classic stallion Silver Dancer. Her first two foals were fillies. The final result of that third mating stood in front of her, the embodiment of one man’s ambition. A superb, beautifully bred Classic colt. He had raced as a two-year-old, winning the Champagne Stakes at Belmont by three lengths and the Futurity at Laurel Park, again by a comfortable margin. He turned his eye to look at her; a rim of white showed round it. His dam had loved being handled and trusted human beings. She hadn’t passed the characteristics on to her son. From the time he was foaled, he had resented being touched by anyone. His temper was notorious; his ferocity with the stable lads made him unpopular, but by contrast it seemed to amuse Charles.

‘Just high spirited, that’s all he is – won’t stand any goddamned messing around –’ she could remember him saying it and laughing. He had almost taken pride in the colt’s temperament; he spoke of it as if it were in a way an extension of himself. And he refused to approach him with caution, as Tim and Grogan advised. He would march up to him in his box, grab him by the head collar to restrain the colt from snapping at him, pat him on the neck and exult out loud.

Isabel looked at Tim.

‘He looks marvellous. Thank you, Tim.’

‘I’ll rug him up again; we don’t want him catching cold.’ She left the box as he slipped off the colt’s head collar. He swung round and came towards them as Tim shut and fastened both upper and lower doors. Tim switched out the light. It was quite dark outside. He did something he had never done before. He put his arm round her.

‘It may sound funny,’ he said, ‘but I felt he was in there with us.’

‘So did I,’ Isabel said. ‘And I believe he was.’

‘I’m going to take you back to the bungalow and get a brandy inside you,’ Tim said. ‘And then I’m going to make us both something to eat. You’re not going up to that house tonight until you step into your bed.’

He grilled two steaks and made a salad; she wasn’t allowed to help. And she hadn’t realized that she was hungry; he had given her a brandy and followed it with a full-bodied red wine. Some of the raw sensibilities were dulled and she found herself at peace, sitting opposite to him. And then she told him what Charles had said.

‘He’s left me the stud,’ she said. ‘And he wants me to carry on exactly as he did. More than anything, he wants the Falcon to run in the Derby next year. I promised him I’d go ahead with all his plans. And I’m going to keep that promise. I hope you’ll help me, Tim.’

‘You know I will. I’ll be right behind you, every step of the way. And I’m glad, Isabel – I’m glad you’re going to carry on. We have a great tradition here. Nobody’s said anything around the place, because they all trusted Charles to take care of them, but they’re going to be very relieved you’re taking it on. And you’ll make a success of it. We’ll all see to that.’

‘It won’t be easy,’ she said. She sipped the wine. ‘In a way I’m scared of the responsibility. But in another way I’m glad of it. I’m glad he gave it to me. I’ve got something to work for. And I’m going to win that race for him. Carrying his colours.’

‘He loved that colt,’ Tim said. ‘I’ve never known a man so obsessed as he was. You remember the night he was foaled?’

‘I’d just arrived,’ she said. ‘He took me along to watch.’

‘When it looked as if the mare was in difficulties, I had to hold him back from going in to her – remember that? And then the little fellow came through and he was beside himself, he was so excited. He was determined she’d have a colt, and there it was. After two matings, both producing fillies by the Dancer, she’d given him his Derby colt. God, we got through the champagne that night!’

Isabel didn’t need to be reminded. It had almost been her introduction to life at Beaumont, that night when she was rung through on the house telephone and told to come downstairs because Mr Schriber wanted to show her something important. It was two in the morning. The viewing box, filled with Grogan, Tim Ryan, Geoffrey Oliver and Charles, a fire burning to keep out the cold, a table with whisky and glasses, everyone peering through the window into the foaling box, where the mare was in labour. The anxiety, Charles swearing and arguing with the vet when things looked complicated, and then the moment when the little foal was thrown, and Charles had dragged her forward to the window to look. A leggy, wet, bedraggled little creature, struggling to get up, slipping and stumbling and then finally straddled on his four feet.

‘There he is –’ Charles had hugged her. ‘Look at him, Miss Cunningham – that’s my Derby winner!’ They had gone back to the house and drunk champagne, until she slipped away to her room, leaving them to celebrate till the morning.

‘You’ve brought me luck,’ he told her that day. ‘We’ll get through these letters and then we’ll go look at the little fellow. And damn it, Miss Cunningham’s too much of a mouthful. I’m going to call you Isabel.’ It had all begun after that.

It was eleven o’clock when she got up to go.

‘You’re sure you’ll be all right? You can stay here if you don’t want to sleep at Beaumont tonight,’ Tim suggested. ‘I can go over there and leave you the bungalow.’

‘No thanks, Tim. I’m very tired. I don’t mind going home now. I feel so much better, you’ve been a great help.’

He saw her into the Range Rover. ‘Any time,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll come up tomorrow. And don’t worry about anything.’

‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘Good night.’

There was no sign of what he was thinking as he waved her out of sight. It was a popular misconception that the Irish showed their feelings. They could be very secretive and very patient. Tim Ryan had never admitted to himself that since he knew Charles Schriber had cancer he had been quietly waiting for him to die. He went back into his bungalow and poured himself another drink. It was a luxurious open-plan room, furnished to his own choice. And the style betrayed the background of gentility which he preferred to hide. The family were old and, like so many of the Irish upper classes, beset by lack of money. The Georgian mansion where he had been born was empty and for sale; his father, with an unmarried sister and his grandmother, who was ninety and senile, lived in a modest house on the estate. There was no money and no prospect of any. At twenty-seven, Tim had found himself a well-known amateur jockey with a host of well-connected friends, but without a penny to his name. It was chance that introduced him to Charles Schriber. They met at Punchestown races, where a mutual friend brought them together. He mentioned to Tim before the meeting that he was entertaining a very rich American who needed a racing manager, having sacked the previous incumbent.

‘There’s a chance for some lucky fellow. He’s a tough nut, but he’s got more money than he knows what to do with, and some of the best horses in the States.’

By six o’clock that evening, Tim had got himself the job. He couldn’t and wouldn’t have worked for an ignorant or vulgar man whose only interest was making money. There had to be something more. He respected Charles more than he liked him; he had seen men who showed up well so long as they were in the winner’s enclosure, but Charles Schriber knew how to accept defeat with equal grace. He was a hard man, who knew what he wanted and made certain that he got it, but he was generous and completely fair. Breeding top-quality horses was not just his hobby, but a highly successful business, netting him millions of dollars a year.

He had been just as shrewd in choosing his second wife. She was a rare woman, Isabel Schriber. It couldn’t have been easy to be his secretary then his wife, inside a year. Tim had seen her gradually overcome the suspicion of her husband’s friends and the reserve of his staff, who were ready to resent the slightest show of arrogance from someone who had so recently been one of themselves. She had acquitted herself with modesty and dignity; she hadn’t fawned on local society in order to be accepted. She filled her role as Charles’s wife and left public opinion to decide for itself. He wondered how so much money and the power that went with it would affect her. Most women would be frightened, casting about for support. She had asked him to help her carry out her husband’s wishes. But he felt sure she would have gone on whatever his answer had been.

As Isabel drove up to the house she was surprised to see the lights burning in the study window. Instinctively she glanced up to the first floor. Her bedroom was shuttered and dark. Charles was resting there overnight. Rogers had told the maid to get a guest room ready for her. She had slept in her husband’s dressing room since he became seriously ill.

She knew that Andrew Graham had been waiting for her; even before he opened the study door and came out, she sensed his presence in the house.

‘Isabel? Where have you been – I came along after dinner and nobody knew where you were?’

‘I went down to see Tim,’ she said. ‘Rogers knew that perfectly well.’

‘I didn’t think you’d have stayed on so late,’ the slow voice reproached her. ‘I thought maybe you’d gone calling somewhere else.’

Isabel came into the room; she didn’t sit down. The feeling of calm had gone; she was on the defensive and she didn’t know how he had managed to put her there. She remembered Tim’s remark. ‘Andy telephoned.’ He had usurped her role yet again, and given the news of Charles’s death without reference to her.

‘I brought you these,’ Andrew said. ‘I thought you ought to have a proper night’s sleep. It’s been a rough day for you.’

It was a plastic phial, full of tablets.

‘You should take two of them,’ he said. He sounded very tired himself. ‘They don’t leave any hangover in the morning. If you wake in the night you can take two more. Jane has one occasionally.’

‘No thank you,’ Isabel said. ‘I’ve never taken a sleeping pill in my life. Charles hated anything like that. It’s very kind of you, but I don’t need anything.’

The eyes were sad, and ringed with fatigue. He looked much older than she had realized. ‘Please take my advice. You’ll have more of a reaction to all this than you expect. You’ll have a lot to cope with now.’

She felt suddenly guilty; there had been no need for him to come or wait so long, except that he was trying to help her. She had been hostile and rude. She took his arm and walked with him to the door. ‘Andrew,’ she said. ‘I want to thank you for all you did for Charles. You’ve been the most wonderful friend. You meant a great deal to him.’

‘We saw some good times together,’ he said quietly. ‘And some bad. I can’t believe he’s gone. I hope you’ll feel you can come to me, Isabel. If ever you need advice or help – and don’t be bullheaded about those pills – get some sleep –’

‘I will,’ Isabel said. She held out her hand and he took it. ‘I won’t forget.’ She closed the door behind him, outside she heard his car start up. It must have been parked at an angle in the courtyard. She hadn’t seen it when she drove up from the yard. The house was heavy, silent. He had left the sleeping pills on the hall table. Charles had been obsessive in his dislike of any kind of drug. Listening to his angry denunciation of their friends for taking tranquillizers or appetite suppressants, she had wondered whether Frances Schriber had chosen that way to take her life. She didn’t touch the plastic phial. She went upstairs to the guest room.

The funeral was due to take place at ten thirty in the morning, two days later. Isabel woke early. She had been sleeping very badly, waking at intervals during the night. Andrew Graham’s sleeping pills had been left in the bathroom by the maid Ellie. Isabel had meant to throw them away and then forgotten. If she were patient and emptied her mind, sleep would come. When it did, it was so deep that it took Ellie some minutes to wake her. She had drawn the curtains and the room was full of the morning sunshine. She had put a breakfast tray beside the bed, and was standing by it. There was an anxious look on her face.

‘Mis Schriber? Mis Schriber it’s past nine o’clock.’

Isabel sat up. ‘Oh, thank you, Ellie –’ She pushed her hair back, dragged up her pillows behind her and reached for the cup of coffee which the maid had poured out. ‘It’s a beautiful day. I’m glad. Run the bath, will you please?’

There was something about the way the girl was waiting, twisting her hands in front of her, the look of anxiety still on her black face.

‘Ellie? What is it – what’s the matter?’

‘Mis Schriber – downstairs in de study – Mista Richard is here! He says to tell yuh he’s come for de funeral. Man, whatever would Mista Charles say!’

Isabel threw back the bedcovers. I’ll run the bath, Ellie. You go and tell Mister Richard I’ll be down in a few minutes.’

It didn’t take her long to bathe and dress. At the study door she hesitated. Almost the last words Charles said before he lost consciousness were a warning to her. ‘Don’t trust him, Isabel. Don’t ever trust him.’ Her hand was on the door handle and she still hesitated. Then she turned it and walked in. He had his back to her; he was standing by the window looking out over the lush green pastures. He turned round, and she saw that he was holding a glass full of whisky. It was a little past nine thirty.

He walked towards her and held out the hand which was free.

‘You must be Isabel. I’m Richard, the prodigal son.’

He had red hair and blue eyes; he didn’t resemble his father. His voice was gentle, with only a trace of American accent. He was the most striking man she had seen in her life.