Tall Poppies (17 page)

Now it was her turn to grimace. ‘That concoction looks dreadful. You're not out to poison us, are you?'

He laughed. ‘Actually, it's not as bad as it looks. Try to build Esmé's strength up with eggs and milk  . . . and broth made with red meat, if possible.'

‘She doesn't have much of an appetite.'

‘Then only give her small meals. Praise her when she finishes it, so she'll get a sense of achievement. Gradually increase the amount, a spoonful at a time so she doesn't notice. You'll have her eating like a horse in no time. When the medicine is finished we'll have her blood tested again.'

‘Thank you, Doctor Elliot, you couldn't have brought me better news.'

‘Talking about news, I've got something else for you.' He stooped and kissed her cheek. ‘That's from Denton. I left him a message telling him the news, and he rang me back when he was free, and asked me to tell you he's delighted to hear he was wrong and I was right. He said he's writing you a letter.'

‘That's kind of him. I'll look forward to receiving it. Is he all right?'

‘When you write to him in return, you'll be able to ask him yourself, won't you? Where's Richard, is he upstairs?'

‘Captain Sangster is in the drawing room. I was just about to bring him some tea and a custard tart. Would you like some?'

‘I most certainly would. I'll see myself in.'

‘Tell him Esmé's good news if you would.'

As the door closed behind him, Livia's smile faded. How kind everyone had been to her. And just as things were going so right  . . . She took a quick glance in the hall mirror as she went to the kitchen. The doctor was right; she did look washed out. Perhaps it wasn't what she feared, and all she needed was the iron tonic. She could only wait and see  . . .

There was a knock at the door and Richard looked up to see Doctor Elliot.

‘I hope I'm not disturbing you, Richard.'

‘Of course not.' Richard placed the paper he was writing on to one side, and smiled at him. ‘It's not my day for being poked and prodded, so to what do I owe the honour?'

‘I was visiting little Miss Carr.'

‘Livia has been looking a little off-colour lately, I thought. Is she all right, d'you think?'

‘I imagine she'll manage to consult a doctor all by herself if she isn't,' the doctor said rather drily. ‘I meant Miss Esmé Carr. No doubt you'll be pleased to learn it's not what we feared.'

‘Splendid. Perhaps Livia will stop wandering round with a long face now. Have you seen the new car? I bought an Austin tourer for Livia. Beamish is teaching her to drive it. He says she's doing well, despite being a woman and not knowing anything about cars.'

‘You bought a car for Livia?'

‘Well, not exactly. As you know, my father has returned to London, and he's taken the Rolls with him. I thought that if we had a car, Livia could take turns with Beamish driving it, then I'll be able to get out a bit once the warmer weather arrives. And we need a bit of room to fit the children in.'

The doctor gave a frown. ‘It sounds as though you've adopted the whole family.'

‘They're nice children and I like them. Hearing them play and laugh  . . .' He shrugged. ‘The war has changed my perspective towards many things. In the normal way of things I would have enjoyed having a family of my own, and a future to fit them into. Those two children would have been raised by their parents had they not died, and Livia would be living a different sort of life, not sacrificing her own youth to care for them by herself. Now I snatch little bits I can have, and I try to make them my own for the now I've been dealt. I can't change the course of my life, but I can compress inside its smallness every scrap of happiness I can glean, and perhaps be useful in making another happy. You have no idea how much joy a child's laughter can contain.'

‘Of course  . . . I'm sorry, Richard. May I now ask if you're practising for a sainthood?'

Laughter filled him. ‘Did I sound like a pontificating bore?'

‘No  . . . you've always spoken from your heart, and you haven't changed.'

‘Have you heard from Dents lately? He promised to write.'

‘He said he's about to write to Miss Carr, when he can find a moment. I think he may have taken a shine to the young woman.'

Richard tried not to allow his dismay to show. ‘Ah, so that was what the frown was about. Do you disapprove?'

‘Of Livia, no  . . . but to take on a family as well might prove to be an imposition?'

‘It might never happen. Dents would never allow his heart to completely rule his head. He has his training to complete, and besides, a letter isn't a proposal of marriage.' Though somehow Richard knew it was.

‘You're right, and I'm worrying unnecessarily. I thought he may have confided in you about her.'

‘Not a word, and neither has he shown her any undue attention, apart from indulging in some mild flirting, which we all indulge in, including you. Luckily, Livia is too sensible to take much notice of it.'

Having said that, he remembered his conversation with his father over her, and his lack of remorse over the way he'd treated her. He must make it up to her for that.

‘You'll have to ask Livia for Denton's latest news when his letter arrives.'

As if on cue a knock came at the door and Livia wheeled the tea trolley in. She offered them both a smile, but it was too wide and it lacked spontaneity. Richard wished she'd tell him what was bothering her.

‘Oh goody, custard tarts,' he said.

She laughed and placed one on a plate for him. ‘You're worse than the children for liking sweet things. Fork or fingers?'

‘Fingers.' It was safer when one had visitors. She nodded and cut the tart into quarters so he wouldn't make a fool of himself with a face full of custard if his arm jerked.

There was an irresistible little curve of red-tinted dark hair behind her ear that Richard wanted to kiss, and her jaw was a delicate sweep away from it. Usually the skin of her cheek possessed a delicate bloom, like the down of a peach-tinted rose. Now it had a shell-like translucence.

It was a long time since he'd been this aware of a woman. He seemed to have lost any manly urges he'd possessed, and in any case, he doubted if he'd have the strength to carry them through, which was a pity, since she smelled faintly of something sweet and velvety.

He drew in a breath, thinking he might marry her himself if she'd have a cripple who could guarantee nothing except an early widowhood. It would be the ultimate make-believe for him. Her family would become his the house would ring with the laughter of children, and Livia would be his wife. It wasn't make-believe that he loved her. He did.

She felt something for him too, he sensed it  . . . and even if it turned out to be pity, he would use it for his own good.

He had an estate that wasn't part of the Sinclair trust. He had to leave it to someone, and that would guarantee her an income for life.

Her perfume reminded him of his mother and he pictured the almost empty bottle on her dressing table, with its shoulders and the heart-shaped glass stopper.
Guerlain L'Heure Bleue.

‘That means the blue hour of dusk, just before the stars appear in the sky,' his mother had told him, and he'd gone off to seclude himself in the rose arbor to watch the stars come out and write a poem he'd titled less than romantically, ‘Blue Dust'. He recalled that his mother had left Livia her wardrobe. The perfume would have been part of that.

When Dr Elliot cleared his throat and said, ‘How are your driving lessons coming along, Livia?' Richard tore his eyes away from her and chuckled.

She gave a light laugh. ‘I'm enjoying it, though Mr Beamish isn't. And I do manage to steer around the puddles.'

‘You're never going to allow me to forget that dousing I gave you on the day we met.'

‘Probably not. Would you like milk in your tea, Doctor? There, I think that's all. Do ring the bell if you need anything more, though I'm sure you can manage to drive a teapot across the table without mishap.'

Now the thought of marriage to Livia had entered his head, Richard knew he'd act on it. But what about Dents? They'd always had the same taste in women and his father had said he seemed keen on her.

A small niggle of guilt beset Richard. Yet he'd made more than his fair share of sacrifices of late. Denton had time on his side. He didn't, and it wasn't as though his friend would call him out. Denton could wait!

Richard waited until Chad had been delivered to his school.

As co-sponsor, Denton came with them that day, and they sat either side of Livia, with Chad next to Beamish.

Denton gazed at Richard across Livia, and they smiled at each other, slightly challengingly, and each took one of her hands in his.

‘I thought Chad was the only schoolboy in this car,' she said as she disentangled herself. ‘Behave yourselves, gentlemen, else I'll swap seats with Beamish and do the driving.'

Chad was slightly nervous, but excited. Richard had dismissed the offer to be carried through his old school in the arms of Beamish, and the invalid chair had been left behind, so Denton took Chad to meet his housemaster.

Richard shook the boy's hand, wished him luck, and watched his friend walk into the hallowed halls with Livia and her brother. Denton smiled reassuringly at her, because she looked glum, and on the brink of crying over the parting. Chad was looking around him with interest, and by the look of his suitcase, the cook had weighed it down with goodies.

He smiled, remembering that school had usually had a feast or famine aspect to it. Denton would probably slip the boy some extra money to spend at the tuckshop, when Livia and the housemaster weren't looking.

Livia and Denton looked as if they belonged together, and his smile faded when Denton ran his fingertips across her knuckles, as if he'd entwine her fingers with his, should the occasion allow.

Livia took the passenger seat in the front on the way back, and remarked, ‘You can hold each other's hands if you get lonely.'

The next morning Denton caught the train back to London.

Richard waited a while until it was Livia's day off and Esmé was at school. Rags of clouds chased each other across the sky and the trees creaked in the wind like arthritic old men doing a Morris dance.

‘I'll wear my new lounge suit today,' he told Beamish.

‘Waistcoat?'

‘No, a pullover  . . . that fancy Fair Isle one that Livia gave me for Christmas.'

‘But you said you didn't like it?'

‘Today, I do.'

Beamish donned his suspicious face. ‘Are we going somewhere special?'

‘You can drop me off at Nutting Cottage, Beamish. Collect me in two hours.'

He intercepted a grin on Beamish's face, said, ‘Before you ask, mind your own business.'

‘Going courting, are we?'

‘We are not, I am. Now shut your clack, Beamish.'

‘Yes, Sir.'

It was a perfect day, despite the wind. The cottage had always been a pretty sight in spring, and this one was no different. The elms were dotted with white and purple blossom, the garden threaded with golden celandine, blue periwinkle and sweet violets. There was a clump of early daffodils near the door. As Richard's eyes drank in the beauty of it, a thrush opened its beak and poured out an exquisite song.

He'd found a sweet ring amongst his mother's jewellery, an oval sapphire surrounded by small white diamonds on a white-gold band. It was exquisitely flawless, like the stars in that blue dusk.

He caught a glimpse of the cat on the upstairs windowsill, gazing out, its mouth opening in a silent meow at the sight of him. The dog set up a yap at the back of the cottage. Released, he clattered to the front door and made a furious assault on it.

‘Stop it, Bertie, you bloody idiot, it's me,' he said against the door panel. ‘Go and fetch your mistress. Tell her that her knight has come on his white charger to carry her off.'

Beamish snorted.

The noise diminished to a yappy whine of excitement and he heard Livia reprimand it with: ‘Where are your manners, Bertie?'

‘Right-oh, you can go now, Beamish,' he said when he heard her footfalls, and Beamish made himself scarce.

The despair in her face when coupled with eyes red from crying couldn't be disguised by the brilliant smile she gave – one that nearly broke his heart.

‘You look a total mess, my love,' he said, by way of greeting.

‘I know.' She held out her arm for him when the car drove off. ‘Come in, Richard, I can't leave you on the doorstep. To what do I owe this pleasure?'

‘I missed you.'

‘Oh!' She gave a watery giggle as he shuffled to the settee and patted the seat next to him. ‘I'm not very good company, I'm afraid.'

‘I know.' He'd not meant to blurt it out, but he did. ‘I'm here to propose marriage to you.'

Her eyes widened. ‘Why?'

‘Because I'm madly in love with you.'

‘Oh  . . . is that all?' She drew in a shaky breath and tears began to course down her cheeks.

‘Don't cry, my darling. I know I won't be much of a husband, in fact I don't know if I
can
even be a husband to you. But if I can have you just for a little while I would die happy.'

‘I can't marry you, Richard. It wouldn't be fair. You've always done so much for me. And I don't want you to die happy – I don't want you to die at all.'

‘Just hear me out, Livia. I don't know what will happen to the Sinclair trust. In fact, the whole thing is a bloody nuisance, and it can go to charity as far as I'm concerned. If that happens, you and the children will have nowhere to go. I've got money of my own, and have nobody to leave it to except my father, and he's got enough of his own to keep him comfortable. If you marry me you'll always be secure.'