Paying Guests (37 page)

It was at this self-pitying point in her thinking that the door of
her morning room opened, without so much as a preliminary scratch on the panels, and she lifted her head, startled, to see Silas standing in the doorway.

He came in, closing it carefully behind him and came to stand beside her chair, smiling down at her.

‘Good morning, Tilly,’ he said. ‘Or should it be good day, since the morning is so far advanced? I’ve been looking for you –’

‘I’ve been here,’ she said as colourlessly as she could, although her pulse speeded up with his closeness. This was absurd. She should be angry with him, not so ridiculously glad to see him.

‘I haven’t come to apologize for making love to you last night,’ he said then and crouched beside her chair. ‘Did you think I had? Did you think I should?’

‘I would rather you sat in a chair properly than squatted there like – like a –’

‘Like a puppy dog begging favours at your feet,’ he said cheerfully and stood up, and brushed down the knees of his trousers. He had, she thought, after a swift glance, gone to some trouble when he dressed this morning, for his checked cheviot trousers were crisply pressed, and his shirt blinding in its perfection under a handsome checked waistcoat and grey cutaway university coat. He smelled of bay rum and his hair had been most elegantly brushed. Oddly enough this circumstance made her feel more relaxed rather than the reverse; if he had taken such trouble over his appearance did this not mean that he felt uneasy about their meeting even if his manner at the moment did not suggest any discomfort?

‘Well?’ he said and she glanced at him and then away at the floor.

‘Well, what?’ she managed.

‘What do you expect me to say to you this morning?’

‘It is not up to me to teach you how to behave,’ she said.

‘It is, my dear Tilly, indeed it is! It is up to you to teach me everything from now on, just as I must teach you, for I must tell you that I am determined that we shall never be apart again. Last night it was my privilege to – to help you in a dilemma, and afterwards it was my delight to hold you in my arms.’

‘I would prefer you not to speak of it, sir,’ she cried, and he frowned.

‘Sir? Why so formal? Are you telling me that you are angry?’

‘I – well, I am not precisely – I mean, why should I not be? Or rather, why –’ She stopped. She had to admit it now; there was no avoiding it though she had been trying to, she now realized, ever since she had woken this morning. She had been as much at fault, if fault there was, as he had. She had liked being kissed. She had liked it a great deal, and only when his caresses had begun to be a little more urgent had she made any effort to stop him. And as soon as she had shown that she was less than willing he had desisted immediately. He had behaved like a gentleman in every way, and she couldn’t deny it. If anyone had been outrageous it was she, Tilly Quentin.

And that, she knew with a sudden rush of insight was why she had been unable to be as angry with Duff as she was entitled to be. Why, she had blamed Sophie for seducing her Duff, rather than the other way about, which was what most people, given the circumstances, would have done. Tilly knew how she had felt herself, and been only too aware of the power of feminine desire. It was she who had been in control of what had occurred last night between herself and Silas, and she had no doubt that same situation had obtained with Sophie and Duff.

‘I think it is I who should express regret,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I did not behave as a lady should and I can only put my lapse down to the strain of the moment, the lateness of the hour and my undoubted fatigue. I’m sure you will be wishing to seek other accommodation, since it will be a matter of considerable embarrassment to us both to continue under the same roof.’

He laughed aloud at that. ‘Oh, dear Tilly, have you learned nothing about me? I am one of the new people, remember? I don’t regard it as in any way at all shocking that a woman should have needs and desires of her own and that she should express them. Have you not listened to what I have said about the way people behave, or should? Have you not understood me at all? In common with most of the members of my Society and the people whose
opinion I most value, I regard the relationship between the sexes as one that should be free and untrammelled by conventional ideas! There’s no need at all for you to be ashamed of what passed between us last night any more than there is for me. We should glorify the fact that we have found each other and can together explore the –’

‘I have no wish to explore anything!’ she cried and he stopped and stared at her.

‘Do you mean that? Truly? Look at me and tell me whether you mean that or whether you are being – well, conventional and making pointless protests you don’t in truth mean?’

She lifted her chin and looked at him, stung by the accusation that she was behaving missishly and opened her mouth to speak. And couldn’t. The sensations that had crawled in her belly last night when he kissed her were conjured up again just by looking at him; she felt her face get hot as she found it was not just her belly that was feeling the sensations, but her breasts, the small of her back and her thighs, and indeed the most intimate parts of her body. She was bursting with desire and though at one level she recognized it as a delightful feeling on another she was deeply, desperately ashamed of it.

‘Oh, dear,’ was all she could say, and he smiled a wide triumphant sort of grin and stepped forward and pulled her to her feet and kissed her again. And just as she had last night, she cooperated with every atom of strength she had and enjoyed it hugely.

SHE WAS GRATEFUL for the peace that succeeded those few days of upheaval. The first week after Sophie and Duff departed was not an easy one; the other guests clearly missed the company of the young people, notably Sophie, and there were a few flares of irritable temper due to the resultant boredom from Miss Knapp, from whom it was only to be expected, and from Mrs Grayling, from whom it was rather surprising. But Tilly managed to soothe them with a flash of inspiration when she purchased one of Charlie Harrod’s newest ideas, an exceedingly large and varied compendium of games. There were dominoes and cribbage, chess and bezique, Pope Joan and Nine Men’s Morris as well as a wickedly exciting racing game and, of course, draughts. In no time the drawing room after dinner rattled with the sound of dice rolling or counters clicking and the cries of exultant – or disappointed – players. The gap left in their social life by the loss of Sophie and her singing and general sparkling charm slowly closed over and calm and contentment returned to Quentin’s.

Or it did for the guests. For the proprietor things were not quite so easy. She went about the business of her day looking as serene and purposeful as she always had, ensuring that every one of her guests had all they required for their comfort, that Eliza was able to run the kitchen economically and the maids were able to keep the house thoroughly clean with the maximum of efficiency. No one seemed aware of the fact that behind her smooth exterior a great deal of confusion swirled; not even Silas, though he spent a good
deal of time with her – or at least as much as he was able, allowing for her busyness.

He tried to persuade her to spend the evenings in her morning room in his sole company, but she was adamant that she owed it to her guests to be with them and insisted in such a way that he could not see it as anything but the thoroughgoing concern of a hardworking businesslike lady trying to run her establishment in the best possible manner. For Tilly it was enough always to see Silas in the company of other people; the last thing she wanted was to be alone with him.

His presence continued to make her body react with a degree of excitement that alarmed her; she was continually aware of the hunger that lurked inside her, which only he could assuage, but was determined to maintain complete self-control. She was not going to let anything, anything at all, spoil the life she had built for herself and her son, she would tell herself night after night as she prepared for bed and thought of Silas doing the same in his room along the hallway; allowing loose rein to her feelings for Silas would do just that. It could not be.

And a wicked little inner Tilly would quiz her, asking her if she was
quite
sure? And she knew she wasn’t, but still managed, somehow, to maintain her façade. But it was far from easy.

At least all was peaceful below stairs. With the departure of Dora, Eliza had relaxed considerably and looked blooming and happy. That she was fattening was obvious, but oddly no one seemed to be all that surprised by the fact or to draw any embarrassing conclusions from it. Eliza was a cook, and cooks were supposed to be large and comfortable – or the best of them were. All Eliza was doing as far as the maids – and the guests, when they saw her – were concerned was ensuring that she fitted her role properly.

That she was happy was undoubted. She would hum cheerfully beneath her breath as she worked and sit comfortably sewing in her rocking chair in the kitchen or reading one of her beloved magazines, as solid and secure as a lighthouse and giving off the same sense of security to all around her who could bask in her light. She made
Tilly in particular feel better than she would have thought possible, under the circumstances, and certainly the whole house seemed to be in a particularly tranquil mood.

Until the letter came from Duff that removed any possibility of tranquillity for Tilly.

It arrived by the third post one dull afternoon, thick and heavy with many sheets of closely written paper, with a certain amount of scratchings out and heavy underlinings that showed how anxiously it had been written. Tilly, recognizing the hand as soon as Rosie gave it to her, escaped to her morning room with it, and sat down on the sofa to read it.

But she did not read it for a considerable time, finding it easier to sit turning it over and over in her hands, for she was filled with a sense of unease. What was he going to tell her? What horrid news did this thick missive contain? She had no doubt at all that it was horrid; she had been fearful ever since he had gone away, her dear Duff, that he might not come back to her, and now, she told herself, almost in tears at the prospect, that it had happened just as she had feared. Around her the pale walls seemed to leap and dance as the flames that burned so high and briskly in the grate threw light against them and there were glints of rich light reflected back from the curving legs of her pretty fruitwood chairs and tables. After a moment she got to her feet and fetched herself a glass of Madeira wine from the decanter on the corner whatnot. There was always some there, although she rarely drank any. Why she kept it she was not quite sure; perhaps in memory of her mother, whose room this once had been and who had been very partial to Madeira. Too partial, in fact.

With the glass on the small table beside her, she at last smoothed out the pages. And read, slowly and carefully, Duff’s effusion.

‘Dearest Mamma,’ he wrote. ‘This is such a difficult letter to write, even though it contains some excellent news because it also brings some that may dismay you, as you will see.

‘But let me tell you first that all is well with me here. I arrived in some Trepidation, since I was in advance of my invitation, even though I had sent a letter to Patrick to tell him I was coming a little
earlier than planned, but the Dear Old Fellow did not object in the Least, but professed himself Most Delighted to see me, and assured me that he had been deep in Ennui until we arrived.

‘I say we, for the same Welcome was extended to Sophie, not that I am surprised by that, since she is so Charming. Patrick’s papa, the duke, seems particularly to like her, and spends much time talking with her and laughing at her Witty Comments. Patrick’s Sisters seem to be happy to have her company also, although Lady Euphonia, who is the eldest, is a shade waspish at times. But Patrick says she has always been thus, since she is the Eldest Child and feels Bitter that she cannot inherit the dukedom, which is a comical notion, is it not?

‘Patrick and I have spent much time about the Estate, and he has shewn me much of country Life, which I find most Agreeable. He says I have a Natural Aptitude for such matters as the Keeping of Game and the Care of Horses, or rather the supervision of those who have such care, and is most most impressed, he is kind enough to say, by my ability with matters pertaining to money. He was always the worst in the school at Arithmetical matters and I often did his Preparation for him when we were boys there together.

‘Which brings me to the Excellent news I mentioned. I hope you will regard it as I do, with Approval. In talking one afternoon, I said that I wished I could always live in the country amongst such Agreeable People and with my Friends about me, as here at Paton, and he said in the most casual manner imaginable that perhaps I should learn to be an Agent! I have to confess to you as I did to him that at this stage I had no Notion of the work of an Agent, but he laughed and explained that all he does is oversee the running of the Estate of a Gentleman and take the burdens from the Landowner and see to it that the Income runs well and that the Tenants are Happy and the Hunting and Shooting interests are well protected. He says their present Agent who is a great friend to the duke, Patrick’s papa, dislikes Patrick excessively and when his papa dies and he succeeds to the Title, he fully intends to be rid of him. And he said then that I should take his place!