Coming Home (68 page)

She said, ‘Why Gloucestershire.’

‘Because that is where I live.’

‘Why aren't you in Northamptonshire, schooling horses?’

‘Because I'm here, and I don't have to report back until tomorrow evening. Please come.’

‘All right,’ said Athena peaceably. ‘But what shall I be expected to do?’

He misunderstood. ‘Nothing.’

‘I don't mean that. I mean what sort of clothes. You know. A clothe for a ball, a clothe for muddy walks, a tea-gown perhaps?’

‘Jodhpurs.’

‘I don't ride.’

‘Never?’

‘No, I hate horses.’

Rupert's heart had sunk, because his mother talked and thought of nothing else. But it didn't sink all that far and he persevered. ‘Something for dinner, and something for church,’ was all he could come up with.

‘Goodness, what a riotous time we're going to have. Does your mother know I'm coming?’

‘I gave her a storm warning. I said I might bring you.’

‘She won't like me. Mothers never do. I've got no conversation.’

‘My father will love you.’

‘That's no good at all. It just makes trouble.’

‘Athena, please. Let me come in, and you go and pack. There's no time to stand here arguing.’

‘I'm not arguing. I'm just warning you that I might be the most frightful failure.’

‘I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.’

Athena's visit to Gloucestershire was not a success. Rupert's family home was Taddington Hall, a vast Victorian pile set in gardens of austere formality. Beyond these lay the estates, the parklands, the Home Farm, cultivated woodland, a trout stream, and a pheasant shoot famous for the number of dead birds which came tumbling yearly from the sky. His father, Sir Henry Rycroft, was Lord Lieutenant of the County, Colonel of his old Regiment, Master of Foxhounds, and Chairman of the local Conservatives, as well as running the County Council and sitting as a JP on the bench. Lady Rycroft was just as active with her committee work, and when she wasn't organising the Girl Guides, or the Cottage Hospital, or the Local Education Board, then she fished, gardened, and rode to hounds. The appearance of Athena came as something of a shock to both parents, and when she did not turn up, on the dot, for breakfast, his mother saw fit to question Rupert.

‘What is she doing?’

‘Sleeping, I suppose.’

‘She surely heard the bell.’

‘I wouldn't know. Would you like me to go and wake her?’

‘Don't even suggest it.’

‘All right, I won't.’

His father chimed in. ‘What does the gel
do
?’

‘I don't know. Nothing, I suppose.’

‘But who
is
she?’ Lady Rycroft persisted. ‘Who are her people?’

‘You wouldn't know them. They're Cornish.’

‘I've never seen such an indolent gel. Last night, she just
sat
. She should have brought some
work
with her.’

‘You mean stitchery? I don't suppose she knows how to thread a needle.’

‘I never thought, Rupert, you'd take up with a
useless
gel.’

‘I haven't taken up with her, Mother.’

‘And she doesn't
ride
. Quite extraordinary…I must say…’

But at that moment the door opened and Athena appeared, wearing grey flannel trousers and a pale-blue angora sweater and looking pretty as a powder-puff. ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I didn't know which room I was meant to have breakfast in. It's such a huge house, I sort of got
lost
…’

No. Not a success. Rupert, being the elder of two sons, was in line to inherit Taddington, and his mother had strong and immovable ideas about the type of girl he should marry. The first priority was that she should be well born and well connected; he was, after all, a captain in the Royals, and in such a regiment, the social standing of the wives was immensely important. Then, a bit of money wouldn't go amiss, though there was, as yet, no need for him to go hunting for an heiress. And it didn't really matter what she looked like, provided she had the right sort of voice and a decent pair of hips for breeding future Rycroft males and so ensuring the continuation of the line. Good on a horse, of course, and capable, when the time came, of coping with the management of Taddington, the unwieldy, rambling house, and the acres of garden, all devised on the vast and ostentatious scale so loved by the Victorians.

Athena was the very antithesis of their dreams.

But Rupert did not care. He was not in love with Athena and he was not about to marry her. But he was enchanted by her looks, her slightly dotty conversation, her sheer unpredictability. Sometimes she maddened him; at others, he found himself touched to the heart by her childlike lack of guile. She seemed to have no idea of the effect she had upon him, and was quite likely to drift off on a weekend with some other young man, or disappear without warning to ski at Zermatt or to visit an old friend in Paris.

Finally, with August coming up, he had pinned her down. ‘I have a long leave coming up,’ he told her, without preamble, ‘and I've been asked to shoot grouse. In Perthshire. They say you can come too.’

‘Who say?’

‘The Montague-Crichtons. Jamie Montague-Crichton and I were at Sandhurst together. His parents are sweet, and they've got this wonderful shooting lodge right up at the head of Glenfreuchie. Nothing but hills and heather and peat-fires in the evening. Do say you'll come.’

‘Will I have to ride a horse?’

‘No, just walk a bit.’

‘Will it rain?’

‘With a bit of luck, it won't, and if it does, you can sit indoors and read a book.’

‘I don't mind doing anything really. I just hate being expected to do things.’

‘I know. I understand. So come. It'll be fun.’

She hesitated, biting a rosy lower lip. ‘How long will we have to stay there?’

‘A week?’

‘And at the end of the week, will you still be on leave?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I'll make a deal with you. If I come to Scotland with you, then will you come to Cornwall with me? And stay at Nancherrow, and meet Mummy and Pops and Loveday and Edward? And the darling doggies and all the people I really love?’

Rupert was both taken unawares and enormously gratified by this unsolicited invitation. So little encouragement had Athena shown him, so casually had she dealt with his pursuit of her, that he could never be certain whether she enjoyed his company or simply put up with him. The last thing he had ever expected was that she would ask him to her home.

With some effort he concealed his pleasure. Too much delight might scare her off, cause her to change her mind. He made as if to consider the proposition and then said, ‘Yes. Yes, I think I could probably do that.’

‘Oh, goody. In that case, I'll come to wherever it is with you.’

‘Glenfreuchie.’

‘Why do Scottish places always have names that sound like sneezes? Do I have to go and buy lots of scratchy tweeds?’

‘Only a good raincoat and a pair of proper shoes. And a ball gown or two for Highland dancing.’

‘Heavens, how grand. When do you want to go?’

‘Leave London on the fifteenth. It's a long drive, and we'll need a bit of time.’

‘Spending the night en route?’

‘If you like.’

‘Separate rooms, Rupert.’

‘I promise.’

‘All right, I'll come.’

Glenfreuchie was as much a success as Taddington had been a failure. The weather was perfect, the skies blue, and the hills purple with heather, and on their first day Athena cheerfully walked for miles, sat with Rupert in his butt, and kept her mouth shut when he told her to. The rest of the house party were friendly and informal, and Athena, with nothing expected of her, blossomed like a flower. At dinner that night, she wore a deep-blue gown that turned her eyes to sapphires, and all the men fell mildly in love with her. Rupert was filled with pride.

The next morning, much to his surprise, she was up bright and early, all ready for another day on the hill. Anxious that she should not overtire herself, ‘You don't need to come,’ he told her, as she sat at the dining-room table and consumed an enormous breakfast.

‘Don't you want me?’

‘More than anything. But I shan't be in the least hurt if you choose to spend the day here, or even the morning. You can join us all with the lunch baskets.’

‘Thank you very much, but I don't want to be a lunch basket. And I don't want you to treat me as though I were a wilting violet.’

‘I didn't realise I was.’

For the first drive of the day, Rupert drew the top butt, which involved a climb not far short of mountaineering, trudging up a long, daunting slope through knee-high heather. It was another glorious August morning. The clear air was filled with the sound of bees and heather linties singing their hearts out, and the splash of small peat-stained burns tumbling down the hillside to join the river at the foot of the glen. From time to time they paused to cool their wrists and douse their faces in the ice-cold torrent, but, hot and sweaty, they finally made it, and the view from the summit made it all worthwhile. A fresh breeze blew from the north-west, from the plum-blue slopes of the distant Grampians.

Later, standing in the butt with Athena beside him, he waited, silently and patiently, with the rest of the guns. From the north, hidden from the butts by a fold of hills, a line of beaters was marching in across the shimmering moor, armed with flags, sticks, and a good deal of foul language, and driving the coveys of grouse before them. The birds had not yet got up, but it was a classic moment of intense excitement, and all at once Rupert was suffused with a sensation of total, piercing happiness, the sort of reasonless ecstasy that he had not experienced since he was a very small boy.

Turning, he bent impulsively and kissed Athena's cheek.

She laughed. ‘What's that for?’

‘No idea.’

‘You should be concentrating, not kissing.’

‘The thing is…’

From down the line came a bawl of ‘Over’, and a single grouse sailed overhead, but by the time Rupert had pulled himself together, raised his gun and fired, it was too late. The bird sailed on unharmed. From down the line came a voice, clearly audible in the still air. ‘Bloody fool.’

‘I told you,’ said Athena smugly, ‘to concentrate.’

They returned to the Lodge at six o'clock that evening, sunburnt and weary. Trudging down the last stretch of the track that led from the hill, Athena said, ‘I shall get straight into a very deep, dark-brown, peaty, hot bath. And then I shall lie on my bed and probably fall asleep.’

‘I shall wake you.’

‘Do that. I should hate to miss dinner. I'm ravenous.’

‘Jamie said something about country dancing tonight.’

‘Not a
ball
?’

‘No. Just rugs rolled back and gramophone records.’

‘Heavens, what energy. The only thing is, I don't know how to do country dances.’

‘I shall teach you.’

‘Do you know how to do them?’

‘Not really.’

‘How perfectly awful. We shall spoil it for everybody.’

‘You couldn't spoil anything. And nothing could spoil today.’

Famous last words. As they went indoors, Mrs Montague-Crichton, who had not joined the party on the hill, being otherwise engaged in domestic duties, came down the stairs.

‘Athena. Oh, my dear, I am so sorry, but there's been a telephone call from your home.’ Athena stood stock-still, and Rupert saw the colour drain from her cheeks. ‘It was your father. Just to let you know that Mrs Boscawen is very ill. He explained to me that she is quite elderly. He thought, perhaps, that you might want to go home.’