Screaming Yellow by Rachel Green Page B

not with me. Since we’d known each other for so long I assumed he just thought of me as a sister or something.”
    “He certainly seems to think more of you than a sister now.” Jennifer folded Mary’s hand into the crook of her arm and led her into the sitting room. “When’s the big day?” She left Simon in the hall, aware he’d take the opportunity to look at the Victorian paintings.
    * * * *
    “There you are, Father. I thought we’d lost you.” Robert Markhew appeared from the direction of the kitchen, wiping a spot of grease from his beard with a napkin. “I saw Mary talking to Jennifer and wondered where you’d gone.”
    “I was just looking at this Pieta.” Simon indicated a large oil depicting Christ on the cross, a tearful Mary Magdalene washing his bloody feet with her tears. “Our Lady of Pity.”
    “It’s been in the family for years.” Robert put an arm around Simon’s shoulders and guided him toward the sitting room. “I’ll leave it to you in my will, if you like.”
    “Ah, I’m flattered but I couldn’t accept. Vows of poverty, remember?”
    “I’ll leave it to the church, then. Pity for St. Pity’s.”
    “Splendid. Thank you.” Simon twisted to look back at the painting. “It’ll hang in the Lady’s Chapel.”
    “As you wish.” Robert sighed. “You’ve heard the news, I suppose? Richard’s engagement?”
    “Indeed I have.” Simon smiled. “Congratulations are in order, I believe.”
    “I expect so.” Robert nudged Simon’s arm. “Sly little bugger, eh? Still, it keeps everything in the family. Shall we go in? I believe dinner is ready.”
    * * * *
    Nicole knocked softly on the door to Peter’s cottage. As the gardener and handyman he had the place to himself, a cottage built originally as an adjunct to the main house for visitors to occupy. It served Peter very well, leaving him free to work at any hour without disturbing the rest of the occupants.
    It served Nicole well, too. No noise carried from Peter’s cottage to the rest of the house, leaving them free to pursue a relationship outside that of Sir Robert and the rest of the family.
    He knew about it, naturally. Little went on at The Larches without Robert knowing the details, but as long as their activities didn’t impinge on either their work or his demands he allowed their relationship to flourish.
    After no reply to her knock, Nicole tried the handle. The cottage was empty, Peter’s coat missing from the hook on the back of the door. She kicked off her shoes and went into the bedroom, switching on the two wall lights to bathe the room in a soft glow.
    She pulled off her dress and put some music on, selecting a book from the shelves to read. Peter wasn’t one for fiction, preferring instead to acquaint himself with the intricacies of whichever cars the house owned or the complexities of maintaining a large garden for year-round color and cut flowers. Between the manuals for the lawn mowers and the Jaguar, though, was a slim volume of poetry. She took it out and sat on the bed in the uniform stockings and underwear Robert Markhew dictated his female staff should wear and began to read.
    Much of the book comprised haiku, each one a glimpse into the life of the writer. Nicole flicked back to the cover, where the author was listed as Paul Oldman. She flicked back to the page she’d just read:
     
    secretary smile.
    she takes down all he dictates–
    silk stocking, torn.
     
    Nicole frowned. It sounded like her. Could Peter have written this under a pseudonym?
    She read through several more of the poems. Here was one about Robert, one about love, one about sex between two men…
    The minutes ticked by into an hour. The CD she’d put on had begun to repeat the first song and she realized she hadn’t heard the other tracks. She’d read the entire volume by the time she heard the outer door open and Peter’s gruff baritone.
    “Who’s here?” He came into the bedroom, his smile when he saw her creasing