Borrowed Time (17 page)

She was spot on. Rowena and Paul arrived a few days later and were hardly through the door before their compatibility and affection for each other—as well as Paul’s suitability as a son-in-law—became abundantly obvious. He was a young man of charm, humour and evident sincerity. Dark-haired and handsome in a fashion-poster style that clearly appealed to Bella every bit as much as Rowena, he also possessed a keen and probing intellect. Along with a disarming facility for drawing people out about their achievements and ambitions while saying remarkably little about his own. I couldn’t decide whether this was a deliberate technique or a personality trait. Nor whether it was as apparent to others as it was to me. But, strangely, it didn’t make him any less likeable. Quite the reverse. Especially where women were concerned. He was, according to Bella, “
the least vain good-looking man I’ve ever met.
” Which, coming from her, was quite a compliment. Though where it left me I didn’t like to speculate.

Something else about Paul Bryant puzzled me from the first. His amiability—his lack of the slightest hint of sarcasm—was as intriguing as it was endearing. There was either more or less to him than met the eye. But which? His manner deflected any attempt to decide. He could be naïve as well as profound, gauche as well as sensitive. He could be, it sometimes seemed, anything he judged you wanted him to be.

But his love for Rowena was genuine beyond doubt. To watch him watching her was to glimpse true devotion. And it was devotion that never threatened to smother. He knew how much support to give her and how much independence. He protected her without dominating her. He encouraged her to bloom and stepped back to study the result. He was the best friend she could hope to have. And would make the perfect husband. As she well knew. “Meeting Paul was like recovering from colour blindness,” she told me. “He’s banished the drabness from my life. Not the sadness. Not all of it, anyway. Not yet. But soon he will. With Paul I can lead a happier life than I ever expected to.”

There was never any likelihood that Sir Keith would object to the match. Since Paul worked in Bristol and already owned a home there, marriage needn’t disrupt Rowena’s studies in any way. When she revealed they’d been thinking of a September wedding, her father was almost more enthusiastic than she was. “Yes, make it September,” he urged. “It’ll be more than a wedding. It’ll be the day this family puts the past behind it and goes forward together.” Fine words. Fine sentiments. With every prospect of fulfilment.

While I was in Biarritz, there was only one occasion when I talked to Paul on his own. It was the day before I was due to leave. Sir Keith was at the golf course, while Bella had taken Rowena to experience the delights of thalasso-therapy, the latest beauty treatment with which she hoped to stave off middle age. We’d agreed to meet them afterwards for tea. Leaving the villa with plenty of time to spare, we strolled down the beaches—emptied by grey skies and a keen wind—to the old fishing port, then climbed by zig-zag paths up through the tamarisk trees to the Pointe Atalaye. At its summit, we leant against some railings and looked back along the sweep of the bay to the lighthouse and the nestling roof of L’Hivernance. And Paul suddenly answered a question I’d not had the courage to ask.

“I know about the suicide attempt, Robin. You don’t have to avoid the subject for my benefit.”

“Good. I’m glad. That you know, I mean.”

“She told me right at the start. She’s still not ready to tell her father, but . . . we’ll get there in the end.”

“I’m sure you will. You seem to be just what she needs.”

“Glad you think so. It makes it easier for me to mention something that’s been on my mind.”

“Oh yes?”

“Well, Sarah and Rowena have both told me how kind you’ve been to them since their mother’s death. How generous with your time and attention.” It was a curious choice of phrase. He kept his eyes trained on the distant lighthouse as he continued. “Sarah and I saw quite a lot of one another at Cambridge. I feel I know her almost as well as Rowena. I even met their mother once. And the infamous Oscar Bantock.”

“Really?”

“Sarah took me to an exhibition of his work in Cambridge. Pretty crappy stuff.” He chuckled. “I think I may have let Bantock realize what my opinion was. I expect I was a bit drunk. Tongue ran away with me. I’ve learned to control it better since. Anyway, Louise Paxton was there. I exchanged a few words with her. Nothing more. Like you, I suppose.” Now he did look at me. “Just a fleeting encounter. But enough to be able to imagine what losing her must have meant to her daughters.”

“They’ve suffered, no question.”

“But Sarah’s ridden it out. And, with my help, Rowena will too.”

“Good.” I smiled to cover my puzzlement. He was making some kind of point. But I couldn’t grasp what it was. “I hope you’re right.”

“Oh, I am. I’m sure of it. Surer than I’ve ever been of anything. Rowena and I are made for each other. Which means . . .” He smiled. “What I’m saying, Robin, is that you can stop worrying about her. She’s got me to look after her now.”
And she doesn’t need you any more
, his dazzling smile declared. “You’ve been a real help to her. And to Sarah. But from here on . . . Well, you can let me handle things.” I was being warned off. Politely but firmly told to keep my distance. He obviously didn’t see me as a rival for Rowena’s affections. Then what did he see me as? Somebody who knew a little too much for comfort? Somebody who might possibly know more than he did? Was that what he feared? Or did he just want rid of me for Rowena’s sake? There was nothing in his expression or tone of voice even to hint at the answer. Candour and concealment were in him almost the same thing.

I smiled back and made a calculated attempt to catch him off guard. “Tell me, Paul— Does Rowena still believe her mother went back to England that last time purely in order to buy one of Bantock’s paintings?”

The question was as much a test of Sarah as of Paul. I needed to know whether she trusted him as completely as he’d implied. His response was swift. But it didn’t quite dispel the doubt. “She believes it. And I think it’s best she should. Don’t you?”

He had me where he wanted me. The only slight advantage I could deny him was the pleasure of hearing my explicit agreement. I glanced at my watch and nodded down towards the Hôtel du Palais, a mansarded monument to Second Empire opulence that dominated the shoreline—and was the chosen venue for our tea party. “I think we ought to start back,” I said, grinning at him. “Don’t you?”

Tea amid the chandeliered splendour of the Hôtel du Palais—the Ritz-sur-mer, as Bella called it—was superficially a delightful experience. For Bella it was an opportunity to show off her possessions before an appreciative audience of
après-midi
society. Her jewellery. Her suntan. Her shapely thighs. Her pretty stepdaughter. And her stepdaughter’s handsome fiancé. Paul and Rowena played their parts so well that my own mood made no impact. When Bella did notice my lack of contribution to the sparkling banter, she attributed it to depression at the thought of returning to England. And I let her think she was right.

In a sense, I suppose she was. But it wasn’t the prospect of leaving behind the charms of Biarritz that weighed me down. It was the knowledge that Paul’s marriage to Rowena really would raise the drawbridge between us. Between me and the only other person who’d met Louise Paxton on the day of her death—and glimpsed the indecipherable truth. It shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did. It shouldn’t have mattered at all. But still, two years on, I couldn’t forget. I didn’t want Rowena to either. I didn’t want Paul Bryant to make her happy at the expense of her mother’s memory. But I knew he meant to. And I was very much afraid he would succeed.

Rowena Paxton and Paul Bryant were married at St. Kenelm’s Church, Sapperton, on Saturday the twelfth of September, 1992—a gorgeous late summer’s day of mellow sunlight and motionless air.

As I drove up across the Berkshire Downs and the Vale of the White Horse that morning, I could already picture the scene awaiting me: the Cotswold stone; the stained glass; the lace ruffs of the choristers; the silk dresses of the ladies; the grey top hats of the gentlemen; and the deep black shadows cast by ancient yews across the gravestones. The blessings of nature and the contrivances of man would weave their familiar spell and for a single afternoon we’d believe we really were witnessing the perfect union of two lives.

The reality was almost exactly that. Sapperton lay deep in
Ideal Home
country: a neat little village of restored cottages and secluded residences perched on the eastern slopes of the Golden Valley. The cars were parked two- or three-deep along the lane leading to the church. Inside, family and friends were massed in their finery. I caught a glimpse of Bella at the front before being relegated to a distant pew. From there I was happy to spectate anonymously as the bride made her entrance on her father’s arm. Rowena’s delicate features were transformed into fairy-tale beauty by a narrow-bodiced wedding dress. While Paul, slim and elegant in his morning coat, resembled her saviour prince as closely as anyone could demand. Sir Keith swelled with paternal pride as he led his daughter up the aisle, Sarah and two other bridesmaids following with the page-boys. The priest welcomed us with a nicely judged reference to the bride’s mother. Paul and Rowena recited their lines without a stumble. The marriage was pronounced. Prayers were said. Hymns were sung. Eyes were dabbed and throats cleared. And I saw such unalloyed happiness in Rowena’s expression that I rebuked myself for doubting this would turn out to be the best thing she’d ever done. Clearly, she was confident it would. So who was I to quibble?

The Old Parsonage stood so close to the church that the bride and groom’s conveyance there by pony and trap was the shortest of superfluous trots. It was a handsomely gabled house made to seem larger than it was by its lofty setting above the valley. The terraced garden led the eye towards the winding course of the river below and the wooded slopes on its other side: a ruckled blanket of green up which a tide of shadow slowly climbed as the afternoon advanced.

A marquee had been set up at the top of the garden, adjoining the house. Here, as a string quartet played and waitresses dispensed champagne with limitless generosity, I did my best to amuse the guests I shared a table with: the couple who lived next door and their daughter; an old medical colleague of Sir Keith’s; and a cousin of Paul’s who seemed to know him about as well as I did. “Smart and close, our Paul,” he remarked with a frown. “Always has been.”

I exchanged a few words and a kiss with Rowena, a handshake and garbled best wishes with Paul. I suppose I didn’t expect more. My invitation was something of a farewell gesture. I knew that and so did they. My connection with Bella meant there’d probably be the odd fleeting encounter over the years. But nothing more. Paul had become the master of Rowena’s destiny. And I didn’t feature in his plans at all.

This awareness stayed with me throughout the day. It was there when I followed the usher across the church. When I applauded the speeches and toasted the happy couple’s future. When I stood in the crowded lane and cheered them off. And it would still be there, I knew, when I made my solitary journey home. For them, this was a glorious beginning. For me, a solemn end.

“It went well,” Bella said to me as they drove away, letting me see some of the relief she would have hidden from others. She’d done the bulk of the planning and, in a sense, this was as much a celebration of her marriage as Rowena’s. The first full-scale public occasion she’d presided over as Lady Paxton. Its success was a measure of her acceptance. And it had been a success. If anybody had compared her unfavourably with the first Lady Paxton, they’d done so in the privacy of their own thoughts. Bella was safely installed.

I’d always known she would be, of course. Her dress sense might occasionally betray her. Some, for instance, would have said she shouldn’t have been showing so much cleavage at her stepdaughter’s wedding. But that wouldn’t have included any of the male guests. Her
joie de vivre
was irrepressible. And so was her social ambition. The council-house girl had become what my mother had always said she wasn’t: a lady.

Sir Keith paid her a special tribute in his speech, describing her as “the woman who’s helped me and my daughters recover better than we ever thought we could from the loss we suffered two years ago.” He was equally fulsome in his praise of his new son-in-law. “Paul is a remarkable young man. As strong as he is sensitive. As honest as he is perceptive. Rowena has found herself a fine husband.” He meant it too. The conviction in his voice was unmistakable. Sir Keith Paxton was a man well pleased with the compensations life—and death—had handed him.

And who could blame him? He’d not been married to Bella long enough to see her crueller side. While Paul was the sort of son-in-law fathers dream of. I watched him charming the aunts and chucking the page-boys. I listened to his witty well-ordered speech. I studied him long and hard as he posed with his parents and sisters for yet another photograph. Mr. and Mrs. Bryant were a gauche good-hearted couple, overawed in the company of medical grandees and Cotswold weekenders. But their son wasn’t. Paul Bryant went in awe of nobody. Metropolitan Mutual employed him as a risk analyst and it was easy to see why. Because for him risk spelt no danger. He was in smooth and complete control of his life. And now of Rowena’s too.

The party slowly broke up after the bride and groom’s departure. Some guests left promptly. Others lingered, chatting over tea and coffee in the marquee or strolling in the garden. Bella circulated among them, making new acquaintances and sealing old ones, her energy apparently inexhaustible. Sir Keith too kept up the round, paying me little heed when I said goodbye. “Delighted you could come, Robin. Delighted. It’s been a splendid day, hasn’t it?” He didn’t stay to hear my answer. But he wouldn’t have been disappointed if he had.

I’d not spoken to Sarah all afternoon, so I went in search of her before leaving. A friend of hers I vaguely recognized said she was in the house. I traced her to a small room at the front fitted out as a study, about as far from the party as she could be. There was a woman with her. Tall, fair-haired and elegant, aged somewhere in her forties. I hadn’t noticed her at the top table or close to the centre of the celebrations. But she obviously knew Sarah well. They were talking softly as I entered, almost whispering. And, whatever they were saying, they stopped as soon as they saw me.