This Cold Country by Annabel Davis-Goff Page A

to bed,” James said easily.
    Daisy turned a little; Patrick was now in the room.
    â€œHello, Daisy,” he said, his tone pleasant, but without a smile. He made for the fire, turned his back to it, and addressed James. “I was in the billiards room. Driven out by lack of opponents and incipient frostbite.”
    â€œDrink?” James asked, again as casually as though moments before Daisy had not held her blouse open for him to admire the way her neck sat on her shoulders.
    Patrick poured himself a glass of brandy and with a silent gesture ascertained that James wanted one, too. Neither offered Daisy another drink and after a moment she rose and said good night.
    The bedroom seemed even colder than before; she put on a heavier pullover to unpack and hang up her evening dress. In the bathroom, the chill from the uncovered tiles rose through the soles of her bedroom slippers; she washed her face, brushed her teeth, set her hair for the night and postponed washing and further unpacking until morning. The same pullover on top of her nightdress, her feet tucked up and the fabric wrapped closely around them, Daisy curled up in bed and waited to become warm.
    She wondered what else James might have said if Patrick had not come into the room. Patrick had seemed older than she remembered him. Older, tired, and grown-up. Perhaps it was just that he had seemed silently to convey disapproval. He had quite a nerve; her behavior had been completely innocent. But how delicately and skillfully James had handled the awkwardness of the moment. Her fingers, tucked between her arms and her breasts, relaxed although her toes were still cold as she fell asleep.
    She was warm when she woke. The room was completely dark. Daisy was not disconcerted by the darkness; the blackout was faithfully adhered to at Aberneth Farm, the bombing of the oil tanks fresh in everyone’s memory. Nor did she wonder where she was. Daisy woke every morning with a clear sense of where she had gone to sleep and what had happened the day before. She lay still and tried to work out what had awakened her. It was a feeling similar to that she had had after her mother’s cat died. The old tortoiseshell had been in the habit of sleeping on Daisy’s bed and, for some time after its death, Daisy used to wake up in the night sensing the absence of its inert weight at her feet. Now she was aware of a presence although the room in which she now lay was dark and silent; nothing stirred but somebody or something was close to her. Although James had been charmed by the drawings of the cats that evening, Daisy had seen no signs of a household pet. Without a sense of fear, she considered the possibility of a ghost. But a slight shift of weight at the foot of the bed and a faint smell of whisky suggested the presence was human—and most likely male. The probable maleness of her unseen companion did not add to Daisy’s very mild alarm; she had no reason to consider James, or even Patrick, more alarming than a so-far-unmet, night-walking, whisky-drinking female alternative.
    â€œJames,” she said tentatively.
    â€œYou’re awake. I was listening to you sleep.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Daisy sat up.
    â€œI didn’t say good night to you properly downstairs.”
    And James came closer and took her in his arms. He did not move quickly or aggressively and Daisy allowed him to hold her for a moment while she thought about what she should do. Wryly aware of her famed common sense—she didn’t think it the most admirable or romantic attribute for a twenty-year-old girl—she quickly considered the proper reaction to the presence of an attractive young man in her bedroom, sitting on her bed. A slightly drunken young man who was not only her host but her connection to the rest of the household. As a young unmarried woman, a virgin, what was the proper manner in which to deal with this unforeseen complication? Slightly to