The Debutante (33 page)

She sat down next to him on the grass. ‘You’re pretty fierce with that gavel.’

‘Ah, the power and the glory! My favourite bit is slamming it down.’

‘Very impressive.’ Cate turned over onto her side, plucking at a bit of grass. ‘Are you heading home tonight?’

‘No. I’m going to drive up to Melton Mowbray. My mum has a cottage there and I’d like to visit my dad. He’s just gone into a nursing home nearby and it’s been a while since I’ve seen him.’

‘And then what? Any more big houses on the horizon?’

‘Actually—’ he opened his eyes, staring up at the canopy of thick green boughs above him—‘this may be my last one.’

‘Really? What do you mean?’

He paused a moment. ‘I think it’s time I moved on.’

‘What? Leave Deveraux and Diplock?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Does Rachel know?’

‘Not yet. I haven’t been thinking about it for very long.’

‘I see. And … you think she’ll be all right without you?’ Her tone was strangely accusatory.

He looked across at her. ‘She’ll be fine. She has you now.’

‘I’m not here to replace you,’ she pointed out, suddenly irritated. ‘There’s no need for you to leave. I don’t even know what I’m doing!’

He sat up, propping himself on his elbows. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just it’s time. I’ve been there far too long.’

She frowned, knotting the long green leaves together. ‘But what are you going to do?’

‘I’m not sure. I have some money set aside. Enough to keep me going, at any rate. What about you?’

‘What about me?’ For no real reason, she felt as if she were being attacked. It came out far too sharp.

He laughed, which was even more disconcerting. ‘Well, aren’t you going back to New York?’

‘I don’t know.’ She stared at the clump of grass balled up in her fist. ‘I’m really not sure any more.’

‘So, you’re thinking of staying here?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said again.

They were quiet a moment.

She was being unreasonable and was afraid to look at him. Her reaction confused him.

‘You know …’ He hesitated. It probably wasn’t the right moment but if he didn’t say it now, he might never. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the conversation we had—’ he smiled—‘if you can call it a conversation. At Rachel’s. Do you remember? You were angry with me.’

She nodded.

‘You accused me of wanting to think well of you, and of finding it difficult.’

‘Yes.’

He shifted, leaning in a bit. ‘You were right to be angry. It was none of my business.’

She stared at him. His frankness frightened her. It felt as if he were letting her go. Yet his transparency touched her too.

‘I was angry at myself,’ she said at last, deciding that his honesty deserved to be reciprocated in kind. ‘I was angry that I’d been such a … that I’d done any of it. I regret it. My time in New York.’ Her eyes met his. ‘All of it.’

She didn’t shy away from his gaze, but looked squarely at him.

‘Why did you tell me?’

‘Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t you know who I am?’

‘But that’s not who you are.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘It’s not who you are,’ he insisted.

‘It’s some of it. Think of it as a service. At least now, you always have an excuse.’

‘An excuse for what?’

She seemed small and vulnerable, with light grey circles under her eyes and pale, translucent skin. ‘To walk away.’

The wind blew her hair. It fell across her mouth. Reaching over, he brushed it away, his fingers lingering against the warm curve of her cheek. ‘Do you want me to walk away?’

She closed her eyes, leaning into the pressure of his hand against her face. ‘I don’t know. What would happen, Mr Coates, if you … lingered?’

‘I don’t know, Katie.’ He opened his palm, his voice was soft. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Hey, Jack! Jack?’ Rachel was calling from the terrace. ‘I’ve been looking for you! Do you have the other set of keys?’

Cate opened her eyes. ‘Good luck with your father.’

Rachel started across the lawn. ‘Mr Syms is about to leave and we need to sort this out. Also, do you know where I put those transport receipts? I can’t find them anywhere.’

Cate stood up.

He took her hand. ‘Katie…’

She smiled and pressed his fingers to her lips, softly, before letting go. ‘Good luck with everything, Jack.’

And turning, she walked away.

The next day, back in London, Rachel was leafing through the post. ‘These are for you,’ she said, handing Cate a couple of envelopes.

The first one was official-looking. It was from the records department at HMS Drake Barracks.

She sat down and opened it.

Dear Miss Albion,

Thank you for your letter requesting any information on an officer under the name of Nicholas Warburton stationed at HMS Vivid, now HMS Drake, any time before or during the First World War. We do have a record of a young officer who was, for a brief time, on tour as part of the HMS Mercy, engaged in landmine sweeping during the period of 1917-18 in the Scottish Sea. I regret to inform you that unfortunately our records show that he was disgracefully discharged after being ‘found engaging in actions unbecoming to an officer’. Although facts are vague on this matter, it appears that only the intervention of his family, most notably of his father, Lord Warburton, prevented the case from reaching a full trial. The other midshipman involved was also dismissed and was later sentenced for his conduct, serving time in Portsmouth Prison. It is a sad legacy that the navy operated on these terms, as did the rest of the country at the time, and I am pleased to point out that this is no longer the case and, in addition to the rest of the armed services, we are now fully dedicated to eliminating sexual discrimination and to protecting the private rights of our servicemen and women.

I hope this has been helpful to you.

Sincerely,

Captain A. S. Hamler

Cate reread the letter, frowning.

Was Nicholas Warburton gay? That was the gist of it. A photograph of a handsome stepbrother, a cocaine vial, a secret fascist badge, an expensive bracelet … what did it all mean? She sighed. The objects in the shoebox seemed more disjointed now than ever.

The second letter was from the Richard Green Gallery. She tore it open.

It was a postcard, advertising the Private Auction of the Munroe Collection.

Across the back was written,

Suddenly she felt unbalanced, as if her legs were about to give way. Heart thundering, she tore it up, tossing it quickly into the kitchen bin.

Rachel caught her eye. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘It’s nothing,’ Cate lied. ‘A circular, that’s all.’

‘For you?’

‘Some cosmetic offer,’ she said, flashing a rather unconvincing smile. ‘You know how these department store make-up women are. You pause for one second…’

‘True.’ Rachel agreed, taking her reading glasses out of handbag and settling down at the kitchen table to go through her own post. ‘They’re very persistent.’

‘Yes. That’s it exactly. Very persistent.’

Endsleigh
Devon

February 18
1941

Darling,
I do so ache to hear from you, my love! One word is all I require. Do not forget me. I can assure you that I do not forget you. Have been fighting off a terrible Black. Spent all yesterday in bed. It is so cold in this house. Oh I do so regret my actions! Please believe me. And every day I don’t hear from you, I regret them more. I don’t know what I shall do or how to fix it. I want to go back, to before this all began. The burden of my own consciousness is more than I can bear.

B

Cate looked at her watch and then back at her reflection in the mirror. It was 6.23 on Friday evening. She was wearing a dress, hair curled softly back from her face, lipstick, perfume. This was not a woman about to end an affair. This was a woman wavering, one foot in, one foot out; waiting to see if maybe this time things would be different. She thought of her mother, the trip to the hospital, and yet here she was, curling her eyelashes, putting on blusher. Rinsing her mouth out with Listerine.

She shouldn’t go. She should ignore the whole thing. Put it behind her. Then she thought of Jack, of his hand on her cheek, and felt stupid and confused.

She had nothing. Nothing to lose and nothing to gain. Nothing.

She took off the dress. Put on jeans and flat sandals.

She wasn’t going. She would stay in with Rachel. Watch TV.

There was no point going. Nothing to say.

Rachel was reading the newspaper in the living room when she came downstairs. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘Nowhere. I just need …’ She twisted her watch round her wrist, agitated. What was the time, anyway? ‘I just need some cigarettes, actually.’

Rachel took off her glasses. ‘Why don’t I come with you?’ She folded the paper up. ‘I could do with a walk.’

‘No.’ Cate shook her head adamantly, her hand already reaching for the doorknob. ‘I’ll only be a minute. I just need to clear my head.’

It was inevitable, heading down the steps, onto the street. There wasn’t even an internal debate any more. She knew where she was going. She’d always known.

When she arrived, the gallery was closed. She pressed the bell. A man’s voice came out of the video intercom.

‘Cate Albion?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

The door buzzed open. ‘Please come through.’

For a moment she thought she was going to laugh out loud from excitement, the sheer release of seeing him again. Would he look the same? He’d come all this way. What would they say to one another?

She walked into the main gallery, with its wooden floor and dim lights. So dim, in fact, that at first she didn’t see her.

In the far corner, next to a small table, sat a woman of very upright bearing. Her face was turned away towards the window, but her long dark hair spilled over her slim shoulders.

Behind her stood a tall man in a dark suit with sandy hair and glasses, his hand resting lightly, protectively, on the back of her chair.

It was Anne Marie.

‘Please forgive me if I don’t get up,’ she said, without bothering to turn round.

Cate tried to speak, but no words would come out. It was meant to be him, not her. After all this time, it was meant to be him. And yet, the fascinating details of Anne Marie came flooding in, the tawny thinness of her arms,
her long fingers, with short, tapered nails and the large opal ring she wore, the way the light fell across her face, and the lines, deep around her eyes, which nonetheless didn’t diminish the effect of her features. She was smaller, more beautiful, older and far more real.

‘You must think it strange that I contacted you,’ Anne Marie continued, her voice steady, measured; devoid of any emotion. ‘But I noticed a grave oversight of my husband’s. I wanted to make sure that I rectified it as soon as possible. My lawyer here, Mr Trask—’ she inclined her head slightly, indicating the tall man with the glasses—‘was unfortunately unable to elicit a response from you. So I thought a more informal invitation might persuade you to join us. You really are quite a recluse,’ she said, turning, meeting Cate’s eyes for the first time. The sureness of her gaze was chilling and at the same time mesmerising. Cate found she couldn’t match it, and yet still couldn’t quite bring herself to look away. Never in her life had anyone regarded her with such unguarded hatred.