handed out useless gifts. Well, he’d be long enough gone by the time that particular fiasco started. He’d make some excuse and clear off before the fun got under way.
He walked towards the dining room, his heart made heavy by the prospect of the next hour or two. Eat, drink, play with the children. After which happy sequence he would be allowed to read while Beatrice did petit point or tapestry in an overheated drawing room where they must remain together for the whole day. This was the law at Christmas and he dared not break it. Yes, he did! By God, he did!
In spite of his heavy leg, he spent the afternoon in the grounds, declaring to his shocked wife that he needed to walk off the meal. He watched her flitting about in the drawing room window, her mouth narrowed into that familiar thin line. After nine years of marriage, he had broken some holy tradition and by his calculations, this would merit a month or two of vapours and headaches. Ah well, to hell with her, he’d sooner bed down with the dogs and horses in the stables.
He sat on a low wall at the end of the terrace and surveyed his domain. Not quite as grand as Smithills Hall, but it was a fair enough statement of his wealth and success. The front of the house was of grey stone, very wide and imposing, six broad steps up to double front doors, six tallish windows to each side, pleasing in its symmetry. Ten bedrooms, two modern bathrooms, enough space to get lost in when avoiding a vinegary wife. Chase Farm at the back was also Swainbank property, tenanted and supervised by a dependable family. He should be happy with his lot in life, should rejoice in all this comfort and splendour. He leaned heavily on his cane as he struggled to rise. Happy? How could any man be happy while so damned lonely? This was Christmas, a time for merriment and togetherness, for fun and laughter. He inhaled deeply and turned to look at his vast garden, feeling even more isolated among its frost-crisped expanse of lawn and shrub. No man should be alone at Christmas. No man should reach the age of forty-four and still feel so desolate. Aye well. He had better go in and do his duty by the children. If only they would hurry and grow up! He’d little time for infant games, took no interest in the tedious milestones of childhood, teething, crawling, walking, speaking.
Beatrice looked up as he entered the stifling room. Her narrow face was grim. Even on this special day, the one time in the year when she tried to make some sort of effort, her bitterness shone through the thin veneer of bonhommie. To think that he would go outside alone on Christmas day! Whatever would the servants make of that?
He looked long and hard at her. To be as fair as he could manage, he had to admit feeling slightly sorry for Beatrice. He wasn’t the best husband, wasn’t often home when needed. She’d come from a country estate in Cheshire, born of a good but impoverished family with some remote connection to nobility. And he’d taken her on because the rest of the females had been good breeders. Aye. He dropped into an armchair. He’d bought carefully, chosen her just as he’d have picked a good brood mare. She’d not been bitter then, had she? His head drooped slightly as he tried to remember. But no, there remained no image, no concept of the girl he had led up the aisle such a comparatively short time ago.
‘I’m a bit rough and ready for you, Beatrice, aren’t I?’
She dropped her needlework, a look of astonishment invading her pallid features. ‘Pardon?’
‘I was just thinking while I walked – we’re not really suited, you and I.’
She swallowed delicately, a hand to her thin throat. He’d never talked like this before, never a word about suitability. Or love. ‘What are you trying to say, Richard?’ Nervous fingers plucked at the threads in her lap.
‘We should never have married. I don’t like seeing anybody so downcast, let alone my own wife. It’s with me being trade and you
He walked towards the dining room, his heart made heavy by the prospect of the next hour or two. Eat, drink, play with the children. After which happy sequence he would be allowed to read while Beatrice did petit point or tapestry in an overheated drawing room where they must remain together for the whole day. This was the law at Christmas and he dared not break it. Yes, he did! By God, he did!
In spite of his heavy leg, he spent the afternoon in the grounds, declaring to his shocked wife that he needed to walk off the meal. He watched her flitting about in the drawing room window, her mouth narrowed into that familiar thin line. After nine years of marriage, he had broken some holy tradition and by his calculations, this would merit a month or two of vapours and headaches. Ah well, to hell with her, he’d sooner bed down with the dogs and horses in the stables.
He sat on a low wall at the end of the terrace and surveyed his domain. Not quite as grand as Smithills Hall, but it was a fair enough statement of his wealth and success. The front of the house was of grey stone, very wide and imposing, six broad steps up to double front doors, six tallish windows to each side, pleasing in its symmetry. Ten bedrooms, two modern bathrooms, enough space to get lost in when avoiding a vinegary wife. Chase Farm at the back was also Swainbank property, tenanted and supervised by a dependable family. He should be happy with his lot in life, should rejoice in all this comfort and splendour. He leaned heavily on his cane as he struggled to rise. Happy? How could any man be happy while so damned lonely? This was Christmas, a time for merriment and togetherness, for fun and laughter. He inhaled deeply and turned to look at his vast garden, feeling even more isolated among its frost-crisped expanse of lawn and shrub. No man should be alone at Christmas. No man should reach the age of forty-four and still feel so desolate. Aye well. He had better go in and do his duty by the children. If only they would hurry and grow up! He’d little time for infant games, took no interest in the tedious milestones of childhood, teething, crawling, walking, speaking.
Beatrice looked up as he entered the stifling room. Her narrow face was grim. Even on this special day, the one time in the year when she tried to make some sort of effort, her bitterness shone through the thin veneer of bonhommie. To think that he would go outside alone on Christmas day! Whatever would the servants make of that?
He looked long and hard at her. To be as fair as he could manage, he had to admit feeling slightly sorry for Beatrice. He wasn’t the best husband, wasn’t often home when needed. She’d come from a country estate in Cheshire, born of a good but impoverished family with some remote connection to nobility. And he’d taken her on because the rest of the females had been good breeders. Aye. He dropped into an armchair. He’d bought carefully, chosen her just as he’d have picked a good brood mare. She’d not been bitter then, had she? His head drooped slightly as he tried to remember. But no, there remained no image, no concept of the girl he had led up the aisle such a comparatively short time ago.
‘I’m a bit rough and ready for you, Beatrice, aren’t I?’
She dropped her needlework, a look of astonishment invading her pallid features. ‘Pardon?’
‘I was just thinking while I walked – we’re not really suited, you and I.’
She swallowed delicately, a hand to her thin throat. He’d never talked like this before, never a word about suitability. Or love. ‘What are you trying to say, Richard?’ Nervous fingers plucked at the threads in her lap.
‘We should never have married. I don’t like seeing anybody so downcast, let alone my own wife. It’s with me being trade and you
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