The big bowed window had seats round it scattered with cushions, and with the door securely fastened in order to keep Dolly out she sank down on to them, her back against the side of the bay, her feet tucked under her. She looked down the long gravel drive to where Tom, Nessie’s husband, was dead-heading the roses in the border. She thought she might pick some later and take them to her mother and father who lay in the same grave in Holy Trinity Churchyard, then, her eyes unfocused, her head on her knees, she wondered how far Harry – she was determined to call him Harry now – had got.
A knock on the door brought her from her reverie.
‘What?’ she snapped irritably, reluctant to let go of her thoughts.
‘Miss Davenport ses dinner’s on’t table, Miss Rose.’
With a sigh she stood up and moved back into the world she had got up to that morning.
4
J ust before Christmas Sir George Summers breathed his last and his elder son, now Sir Harry Summers, though he had been fond of his father, was relieved. He had done his duty but now he was free to join his brother on the battlefields of France. The doctor had gone an hour since and Harry lay back in the deep leather armchair in his study, his long legs stretched out to the fire that blazed in the hearth. There was one thing they had in abundance on the Summer Place estate and that was firewood. A golden retriever in a basket lay beside him suckling two puppies, four having not survived. Of the two, one was a pure gold, the other a mixture of brown, gold and grey and Harry was of the opinion that one of Dan Herbert’s collie dogs had climbed the wall when Bess was on heat. Still, they were, as most puppies are, very appealing as they now left their mother and did their best to climb out of the basket. They should by rights be free to roam a little now, for they were seven weeks old but Bess was his dog and fretted if she was not near him so, to the disapproval of Mrs Philips, his cook, and Mary the housemaid, the only servants he had left, he kept her basket beside him.
‘Them dogs should be in the stable, Mr Harry,’ Mrs Philips had said with a sniff. ‘It’s not right for them to be in the house. It only makes more work for Mary and I don’t care for the smell in here, really I don’t. Your mother, God rest her, would not have allowed it, I can tell you.’
‘Yes, I believe you have, Mrs Philips, several times, but since Charlie went I have been—’
‘Ah, yes, I’m speaking out of turn. You must miss Mr – or should I say Captain Summers and . . .’ Her voice changed instantly to one of sympathy. ‘And then with Sir George so poorly . . .’
She had left quietly and the next day, today, in fact, his father had gone.
He did not hear the front doorbell ringing but Bess did, lifting her head to look at him. A discreet knock at the study door brought him from his reverie and Mary appeared, her face still showing signs of recent weeping for, despite his wild ways, Sir George had been liked by all his servants.
‘There’s a lady to see you, sir. Shall I show her in?’
‘Sweet Jesus, can I not get a bit of peace even on the day my father dies? Who the hell is it?’
‘Miss Rose Beechworth, sir. Come to pay her respects.’ Mary’s eyes welled with tears but before he could remove the mask of astonishment from his face there she was, dressed almost as she had been when last he saw her except over her shirt she wore a belted woollen cardigan in a rich mix of emerald and navy with a scarf of the same colours tied about her neck. Her hair stood up around her head, reminding him of a bright, tawny chrysanthemum bloom and her cheeks were flushed to peach since it was a frosty day.
He stood up, alarmed at the way his heart jumped in his chest. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said to the maid who withdrew discreetly.
‘Miss Beechworth . . .’ he stammered.
‘Rose, please. I thought we had settled that. I came to say how sorry I was to hear
A knock on the door brought her from her reverie.
‘What?’ she snapped irritably, reluctant to let go of her thoughts.
‘Miss Davenport ses dinner’s on’t table, Miss Rose.’
With a sigh she stood up and moved back into the world she had got up to that morning.
4
J ust before Christmas Sir George Summers breathed his last and his elder son, now Sir Harry Summers, though he had been fond of his father, was relieved. He had done his duty but now he was free to join his brother on the battlefields of France. The doctor had gone an hour since and Harry lay back in the deep leather armchair in his study, his long legs stretched out to the fire that blazed in the hearth. There was one thing they had in abundance on the Summer Place estate and that was firewood. A golden retriever in a basket lay beside him suckling two puppies, four having not survived. Of the two, one was a pure gold, the other a mixture of brown, gold and grey and Harry was of the opinion that one of Dan Herbert’s collie dogs had climbed the wall when Bess was on heat. Still, they were, as most puppies are, very appealing as they now left their mother and did their best to climb out of the basket. They should by rights be free to roam a little now, for they were seven weeks old but Bess was his dog and fretted if she was not near him so, to the disapproval of Mrs Philips, his cook, and Mary the housemaid, the only servants he had left, he kept her basket beside him.
‘Them dogs should be in the stable, Mr Harry,’ Mrs Philips had said with a sniff. ‘It’s not right for them to be in the house. It only makes more work for Mary and I don’t care for the smell in here, really I don’t. Your mother, God rest her, would not have allowed it, I can tell you.’
‘Yes, I believe you have, Mrs Philips, several times, but since Charlie went I have been—’
‘Ah, yes, I’m speaking out of turn. You must miss Mr – or should I say Captain Summers and . . .’ Her voice changed instantly to one of sympathy. ‘And then with Sir George so poorly . . .’
She had left quietly and the next day, today, in fact, his father had gone.
He did not hear the front doorbell ringing but Bess did, lifting her head to look at him. A discreet knock at the study door brought him from his reverie and Mary appeared, her face still showing signs of recent weeping for, despite his wild ways, Sir George had been liked by all his servants.
‘There’s a lady to see you, sir. Shall I show her in?’
‘Sweet Jesus, can I not get a bit of peace even on the day my father dies? Who the hell is it?’
‘Miss Rose Beechworth, sir. Come to pay her respects.’ Mary’s eyes welled with tears but before he could remove the mask of astonishment from his face there she was, dressed almost as she had been when last he saw her except over her shirt she wore a belted woollen cardigan in a rich mix of emerald and navy with a scarf of the same colours tied about her neck. Her hair stood up around her head, reminding him of a bright, tawny chrysanthemum bloom and her cheeks were flushed to peach since it was a frosty day.
He stood up, alarmed at the way his heart jumped in his chest. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said to the maid who withdrew discreetly.
‘Miss Beechworth . . .’ he stammered.
‘Rose, please. I thought we had settled that. I came to say how sorry I was to hear
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