More Than You Know (47 page)

“Too short, of course,” she said, glancing briefly at her mother and smiling, “but they were lucky that it was nonetheless longer than many.”

Sandra and Pete had come, Pete genuinely sad at the loss of his new friend; Anna and Piers Marchant were there, Anna surprisingly subdued, although she came over to embrace Matt and Eliza, telling Matt how marvellous it was to see him and berating Eliza for not bringing him over for dinner, and Piers pumped his hand and said he hoped the whole family realised what a lot Matt had done for Sarah.

“Lucky to have you, dear boy, that’s the fact of the matter. See you later up at the house. Share a few jars, eh? Like to know what you think of this Roy Jenkins chappie. Five bob on a bottle of Scotch indeed! Daylight robbery.”

Emmie had been left in the care of Charles and Eliza’s old nanny, who was, with her little problem, she said, unable to attend long ceremonies. “Incontinence,” whispered Eliza to Matt, “but Emmie will be fine with her; they’re going to play snakes and ladders, and the catering lady has promised to keep an eye on them both.”

But as they walked up the hill, Emmie was standing by the big gates, with large tears rolling down her cheeks.

“I was too sad to play,” she said.

It was perhaps a most fitting tribute to Adrian the family man.

Sarah had wept quite a lot at the service, but afterwards at the party at Summercourt she seemed surprisingly cheerful, sparkling her way round the room, thanking everyone for their help and generosity.

“Poor Mummy,” said Eliza to Matt, standing and looking at her, as people began to leave, “she’s still in shock. She’ll have to leave now, of course; she can’t stay here. And Charles certainly can’t afford to keep it, so it really will have to go.”

“But I thought it couldn’t be sold. Because of this trust.”

“It can’t. Not in Mummy’s lifetime. She has this power of appointment thing, which means she can appoint it out—that is, say who is to have it—but there still won’t be any money to do it up. I know you’ve
been wonderful and done the roof, but it still needs so much more spent on it. I think there are some cousins in Canada somewhere who could afford to spend money on it. Of course, the trustees would have to agree to that. Bit of a poisoned chalice, you could say. And who is to say they’d do it properly? How we’d want?”

“Now, hang on a bit,” said Matt. “If someone else has got the house and they’re pouring money into it, why should it be the way you want?”

“Because it’s Summercourt,” said Eliza. “Because it’s ours.”

“But it wouldn’t be yours.”

“Matt,” said Eliza, “Summercourt will always be ours. It’s part of us. Even if someone else was living here. I mean, suppose they decided to … oh, I don’t know, put in modern windows so it was warmer. It would be unbearable. And wrong. You don’t understand.”

“Too right I don’t understand,” said Matt. “If it was mine, I tell you, I’d put in any sort of windows I liked, and paint the door sky blue and pink if I wanted to. You people really are something else. Eliza, if my dad sold our house, do you think he’d have the right to hang about outside telling the new owner not to paint the front door green just because he liked it red? Course not. I tell you, Eliza, if you think having grown up in a house that you can’t afford anymore gives you the right to lord it over anyone who can, you’ve got real problems. Now, I’m going to get myself a drink and find someone I can have a reasonable conversation with. Where’s Emmie, anyway?”

“She’s with Nanny. Playing snap, last time I looked.”

“Eliza, the old bat’s completely immobile. Anything could have happened. I’d better go and check on her.”

“Yes, do. And don’t hurry back,” said Eliza. Tears choked her suddenly; she looked at him as he moved off in the direction of the kitchen. He could be such a bastard; he seemed to have completely forgotten she’d buried her father today.

A few weeks later, Charles rang Eliza. Could they meet?

“Charles, I’d love to see you. Come over here if you like. Emmie’s at play school now, thank God, and the mornings are wonderfully peaceful.”

“I’d like that. What about Matt?”

“Matt’s never here,” said Eliza briefly.

“The marriage is over,” he said, sitting down and sighing heavily. “Juliet’s divorcing me.”

“What?”

“Yes. She’s got someone else. Rich bugger, South African, banker. She married me largely for my nonexistent money, it seems. Oh, Eliza, I feel such a fool. We’ve had awful rows, all about money—”

“But … I don’t understand. What does she want?”

“A small fortune. Which she was mistaken in thinking she’d found with me. Summercourt, family, the stock exchange job—it all added up to a huge mistake on her part. And I … I fell for it.”

“Charles … oh, God, I’m so, so sorry. How dreadful for you.”

“The worst thing is I really did care about her. She made me feel good about myself. Stronger, more successful. I’m a bit of a disaster, really, Eliza. If anyone should make money, it’s a stockbroker. And I lost thousands. I couldn’t handle my own wife, stop her spending a ton of money we hadn’t got, just stuck my head in the sand and hoped it would be all right. Her father had to bail me out twice. I gambled money on the stock exchange, money I didn’t have, lost the lot, and then … well, I was so bloody miserable I started going to the races with clients. I’ve always loved doing that, and I started risking money with the bookies. Just to cheer myself up, really, and I did quite well sometimes. But mostly I didn’t. In the end we’d have lost the house if Geoffrey hadn’t stepped in again. But it was very much a loan and I’ve got to pay him back.”

“Even though his daughter’s leaving you for someone else? Oh, Charles. I’m so, so sorry. You should have asked Matt.”

“I couldn’t have. At least Judd knew I was a disaster. Matt respects me; God knows why. I think so, anyway.”

“Yes, he does,” said Eliza.

“Anyway, final straw, I lost my job—told I wasn’t pulling my weight. So as of the end of this month, I’m unemployed.”

“But … but …” Her mind was whirling. “Why is Juliet divorcing you, for a start? Why not the other way round?”

“Her old man insists on it, says I’ve got to do the decent thing, provide grounds. And then she won’t ask for anything in the way of a settlement. And her father will pick up the bill for the court costs. That was the deal. I couldn’t afford to argue. Oh, Eliza—” His voice broke suddenly, and tears filled his eyes. “I loved her so much, you know; I really did. That’s the worst thing, to think she didn’t love me.”

Eliza sat there, her arms round him, unable to comfort him. Finally she said, “What are you going to do about … about your job?”

“Oh,” he said, and he looked slightly more cheerful, “I’m going to try teaching. I’ve got a good degree and I can get a job in a prep school—quite easily, it seems—teaching history. I’m pretty sure I’d like it. I won’t earn much, though. Certainly can’t help with Summercourt. Matt’s been great, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, he has,” Eliza agreed soberly. She still felt stunned. Charles, her big, wonderful brother, turned into a penniless failure. It just didn’t bear thinking about. What on earth would Matt say?

Matt was characteristically brutal. “Not surprised, to be honest,” he said. “I like old Charles, but he’s too much of a gentleman; that’s his problem. No wife of mine would spend money she hadn’t got.”

“Really?” said Eliza.

Her tone was wasted on Matt. “And he should never have let old Judd take things over—”

“Matt, what else could he do?”

“Sell that poxy flat, for a start, tell Juliet she couldn’t have her bloody house, rent somewhere modest and the bank would have met him more than halfway. Well, I’m glad about this teaching lark, I tell you that.”

“Why?”

“I thought you were going to say he was going to ask me for a job. Then what would I have done?”

“Given him one,” said Eliza, “I very much hope.”

“Yeah, I would. But not the sort he’d have wanted. I don’t carry deadwood, Eliza, and Charles would have been no use to me.”

“You are so vile, you know that?” said Eliza.

But something deep in her heart forced her to admit that he was to some extent right.

It was definitely him. No doubt about it. Sitting there looking quite cheerful, smiling at the crowd of people in front of him, signing what she presumed was his name on the books being handed to him.

She would normally never have gone into Hatchards, that smartest of bookshops, but she had seen a new Margaret Drabble novel she hadn’t read in the window, and couldn’t resist getting it as soon as possible.

She had found that straightaway and then thought she might get a birthday present for Diana, and was wandering about the shop when someone said, “Are you looking for the signing?”

She’d said not really and then, in case the signer was someone famous, thought she’d just find out and … 
Well, best get out quickly, Scarlett, before he sees you
.

But it was too late; he had seen her, and his grey eyes widened with alarm. She was about to turn away and leave the shop when something very peculiar happened. She could hardly believe it and had to blink and then look again to make sure she hadn’t imagined it. But … no—no doubt about it: he was smiling at her.

She smiled carefully back, and one of the shop assistants who was managing the queue noticed that they were smiling at each other and came over.

“Did you want to get a book?” she said, indicating a pile of very large and expensive-looking volumes. “It’s Mr. Frost’s companion volume to
My Favourite Train Journeys. My Favourite Island Journeys
.”

It occurred to her that he might have included Trisos among his favourites. “I’ll just have a look,” she said, “thank you.”

“That’s all right. And then, of course, if you buy it, Mr. Frost will sign it for you.”

The book was very large and very glossy, with color photographs every few pages; Scarlett picked it up and started rather cautiously looking at the index, which was difficult, as it was so large and heavy. She glanced over her shoulder rather guiltily. Mark Frost had stopped smiling and was watching her quite closely. She quickly put the book down and saw to her horror that the assistant was coming back.