Torilla, sipping the rich wine, felt that it took her back to happy golden days when there had been none of the pinching and saving that there was at Barrowfield.
Then her father and mother always drank wine at dinner and there had been plump chickens, well-roasted pigeons and large joints of beef to eat.
Torilla told herself that she must obey Abby and not keep thinking of what lay behind her.
But as the landlord with two mob-capped maids brought in what seemed to her a gigantic meal, she could not help remembering the children with their hollow cheeks and hungry eyes.
Resolutely she put such memories from her and enjoyed each dish that was offered, even though she could eat very little in comparison with her host.
“Tell me about yourself,” the Marquis said as they were sampling a fine turbot that the innkeeper assured them was as fresh as if it had just jumped out of the sea.
“I would much rather talk about your horses, sir,” Torilla answered. “You said you had racehorses. Are you entering for any of the Classics this year?”
The diversion was successful.
The Marquis started talking of his ambition to win the Gold Cup at Ascot and discussed which owners were likely to defeat him in this objective.
Then he found himself telling Torilla about his Arab thoroughbreds, which had come from Syria and the horses that his mother had admired from Hungary.
He talked at times almost indifferently, drawling his words while his eyelids dropped lazily, but Torilla was not deceived. She knew his horses meant a great deal to him.
“I imagine you can ride well,” he said a good deal later, bringing the conversation back to Torilla.
“I have not ridden for two years,” she answered. “Please tell me what horse you are entering for the St. Leger then, when September comes, I can look for its name in the newspapers.”
The Marquis accepted the change of subject, but he was astute enough to realise that the two years that Torilla had just mentioned had something significant about them.
At the same time, if she thought she was preventing him from questioning her, he was equally aware that she did not desire to talk about herself.
Because he had no wish to upset her, he therefore did not press the subject, but merely watched the different expressions, which succeeded each other in her large and extraordinarily beautiful eyes.
As the meal drew to a close and the Marquis sat back with a glass of port in his hand, he thought it was the first time he could remember dining alone with a woman and talking entirely about himself.
Always those with whom he had spent so many idle hours had wanted to talk about themselves – granted in connection with him – but they were never loath to express their feelings, their emotions and indeed their ambitions extremely volubly and sometimes it seemed unceasingly.
‘There is a mystery about this girl,’ he told himself.
As they moved from the table back to the fireplace and the landlord, having set the decanter of port at the side of the Marquis’s chair, withdrew from the room, he found himself curious.
“You are travelling South to be married or betrothed?” he enquired.
“No, nothing like that.”
“You sound very positive. I am sure there are many men eager to pay their addresses to you.”
Torilla smiled.
“Actually there is no one.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Are there no men where you come from? Or are they all blind?”
Torilla blushed.
The Marquis’s eyes were amused as he watched the colour rise in her face, before he said in his deep voice,
“You are very beautiful, as you must be well aware when you look in your mirror.”
Torilla looked into the fire and did not reply. But he saw her clasp and unclasp her fingers together and knew that she was apprehensive.
“Where are you staying tomorrow night?” he asked in a different tone.
Torilla thought for a moment.
“I think it is The White Hart at Eaton Socon.”
“Then I shall not be able to
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