Colin and I exchanged a look. This was just like Colin’s mother. It was always all about her.
“As long as it’s not another electric kettle,” Colin murmured. We’d gotten eight already.
“Hey, you can never have too many electric kettles.” A few more and we could have one in every room in the house, put out little packs of biscuits, and call ourselves a bed-and-breakfast.
I could hear Sheila and Peter in the hallway. There was hoisting and giggling and a clunk that caused Colin’s mother to frown and say sharply, “Careful with that!”
I prepared to hate anything that Colin’s mother had gotten us. Particularly anything large enough that it required two members of the pub staff to carry in. Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie? A pipe, a bowl, and three unhappy fiddlers?
Oh, please, I thought. Let it not be installation art.
It wasn’t. Sheila and Peter staggered into the room, each bearing one side of a painting. A very large painting.
It was a good thing Colin had a Land Rover with a lot of room in back.
Colin’s mother flicked her wrist at her minions and they dropped the dust sheet covering it.
It was Selwick Hall. I knew, without looking at the signature, who had painted it. Colin’s mother was known for intensely detailed paintings, generally of urban areas, featuring dozens of painstakingly crafted little tableaux. “A modern Canaletto,” the papers called her.
She had rendered Selwick Hall on a spring afternoon, with the sunlight slanting behind the tower, casting a long shadow across the formal gardens, towards the veranda on which Colin and I were standing, both of us with our elbows braced against the balustrade. I had one hand raised to tuck a bit of hair behind my ear. Colin had both hands in the pockets of his Barbour jacket.
She had caught both of us perfectly.
Mrs. Selwick-Alderly, Colin’s aunt Arabella, was there, too, at one of the windows, looking down at us. Pammy was standing on the gravel path by the side of the house, on her cell phone. There was a figure trotting by on horseback, looking covetously at Colin, who could only be Joan Plowden-Plugge. Serena, in the pose made famous by a Fragonard painting, was sitting on the old swing in the garden, the tails of her pashmina trailing behind her as she swung up in the air, her thin face, for once, relaxed and carefree.
It wasn’t just the living who had joined us at Selwick Hall. There was a shadowy figure in the window, next to Mrs. Selwick-Alderly, whom I guessed, from the resemblance to Colin, must be Colin’s father. A shimmer of paint in the corner of the painting, by the old Roman folly with its statue of Marcus Aurelius, gave the impression of ladies and gentlemen in Regency garb. But just an impression. If one looked too closely, squinted too hard, they seemed to dissolve back into the canvas, nothing but points of light.
Everything was done in miniature, complex and perfect, everyone entirely themselves. But most of all, there was an air of peace and joy that settled across the picture like a blessing.
I really hadn’t expected that kind of blessing from my future mother-in-law. I took it as a plus when she remembered my name.
The painting was more than a gift. It was beautiful and unique and heartwarming. It was an investment of time and creative energy that must have taken weeks, if not months of work.
Maybe she wasn’t quite so indifferent to her only son as she appeared?
I gave Caroline Selwick-Alderly an impulsive hug. She felt tiny, her bones small and brittle. “This is . . . incredible.”
Putting a safe distance between us, Caroline Selwick-Alderley brushed her Guerlain-dusted cheek against mine. “I hope you’re happier here than I was.”
The “it would be hard not to be” was implied.
I wished I had the nerve to ask what her life had really been like with Colin’s father. I had heard only one side of the story, and Mrs. Selwick-Alderly, who had seen first her nephew and then her grandson marry a woman she clearly despised, was hardly an impartial witness.
It was hard to know how to answer that without putting my foot in it, so I merely said, “This is really lovely. Thank you.”
It was lovely. At least, on a first glance. As Colin added his thanks to mine, I took a closer look and the shadows began to creep in.
It reminded me a bit of that Holbein painting where a smudge, when viewed at the right angle, resolves itself into a skull. It wasn’t just that Caroline hadn’t included herself in the picture. It was the way the shadow from the old medieval tower crept towards the house. A dark figure in a hooded robe could be dimly glimpsed behind the tower. The Phantom Monk of Donwell Abbey? It was certainly part of local history, but it seemed an odd detail to include in a wedding picture.
But, most unsettling of all, when one looked at Mrs. Selwick-Alderly in the window, and the faint figure of Colin’s father behind her, it became less clear which was the living and which the dead. There was something insubstantial about Mrs. Selwick-Alderly. It felt almost like an ill wish.
With a smile that had lost its warmth, I said, “It was very kind of you to include Mrs. Selwick-Alderly in the picture. I know she would be touched.”
No, she wouldn’t. She would be skeptical. She had made no secret that she thoroughly disliked Caroline. I had never heard the term “free spirit” used in a more pejorative tone than when Mrs. Selwick-Alderly spoke of Colin’s mother.
Caroline’s blue eyes were as hard and shiny as those of a porcelain doll. “She always did think it was still her house. She certainly did everything she could to get me out of it.”
The venom in her voice was unmistakable.
No. It was impossible to imagine Colin’s slight mother wrestling his aunt into the backseat of a car. Colin’s mother looked like she supped on thistledown and dew—which wasn’t that far from the mark, except that her version was champagne and cigarettes. Either way, she had the sort of body that worked brilliantly in little slip dresses and high boots.
Mrs. Selwick-Alderly was more of a broad-shouldered 1930s-film-goddess type. It was like imagining Mrs. Peel from the original Avengers strong-arming Faye Dunaway.
On the other hand, that Mrs. Peel was pretty spry. . . .
“Are you all right?” It was my own mother, who, if we were going by television references, was a dead ringer for Mrs. Gilmore. She was making her Mrs. Gilmore face right now. Dropping her voice, she said, “If you’re having second thoughts . . .”
“No,” I said firmly. “No second thoughts.”
Just a kidnapped great-aunt. For a moment I toyed with the idea of telling my mother all. I could just see her marching purposefully through the ruins of Donwell Abbey in her Ferragamo pumps, taking the kidnapper by the arm and giving him a good talking-to.
It was a highly tempting prospect.
On the other hand, there had been genuine menace in that voice on the other end of the line. And the truth of the matter was that we hadn’t the foggiest idea what, or who, we were dealing with. It could be anyone. Martin might secretly be the grandson of a killer spy Mrs. Selwick-Alderly had seen locked up; Jeremy might be scheming to secure the last of the jewels of Berar; Colin’s mother might be settling old scores.
There was no way to find out but to make the rendezvous.
I sneaked a glance at the display on my mobile. It was already pushing midnight. With cocktails and dinner and speeches, the evening had stretched on and on, and no one seemed to be showing much inclination to leave, although the last of the coffee had gone cold, the port had been passed, and the pub staff were yawning.
Jeremy and Caroline were the first to excuse themselves. Coincidence? Or design?
My mother was organizing people into cars. “And Jillian can go with Colin and Eloise.”
“Er, Mom, we’re going to stick around here for a bit.” I tried to signal to Colin with my eyebrows but only succeeded in looking as though Pammy’s mud mask had given
me a tic as well as spots. “Some last-minute wedding stuff.”
Given that my mother knew the wedding preparations better than I did, it was a pretty weak excuse, but it was better than the truth.
“All right.” She gave me a warning look. “But don’t stay up too late.”
What seemed like a century later, but was really only about twenty minutes, everyone had staggered off the premises and Colin and I were leaning wearily against each other, contemplating the rest of our night.
It wasn’t the rest of our lives that was the problem; it was the next twenty-four hours.
“Next time,” I muttered to Colin, “let’s just elope.”
He wrapped his arms around me from behind and rested his chin against the top of my head. “Gretna Green or Las Vegas?”
“Blacksmiths or blackjack? Hmm.” That was a tough one. “Gretna Green. But only if you wear a kilt.”
“Las Vegas it is, then.” I could hear the pain in his voice as he said, “This is a hell of a way to begin our life together.”
I turned in his embrace, wrapping my arms around his waist. There was something so comforting about the Colin-ness of him, stable and steady and entirely himself.
“Sickness and health. Thick and thin.” I didn’t think thick and thin was actually in the marriage service, but it made more sense under the circumstances than richer and poorer. “Better to start out with the tough stuff and then move on to happily ever after by and by. And, hey, think of the story we’ll have to tell our kids!”
I could feel his laughter in the movement of his chest and in the snuffle of air against my hair. “That’s one way to look at it.”
I took a step back, looking up at him. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”
Colin’s lips twisted in a half smile. Taking my hand in his, he said, “‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, / Doubt that the sun doth move, / Doubt truth to be a liar, / But never doubt I love.’” More prosaically, he added, “You’re right. We’ll get this sorted.”
“Together,” I said. Hamlet might not be the most auspicious of plays, but I appreciated the sentiment all the same.
And it could have been worse. It could have been Macbeth.
Taking a deep breath, I twined my fingers through his. “I know we’re still a bit early, but . . . shall we head over to the abbey?”
“Why not?” said Colin, and squeezed my hand just a little bit tighter. “Together.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Christmas?” Jack looked as rattled as Jane felt. That was gratifying, at least. He smacked his palm against his forehead. “Oh, for the love of—”
“Precisely,” said Jane, fighting a crazy urge to laugh. Or possibly to cry. She wasn’t quite sure which. She took refuge in trivialities. “And we even have a donkey.”
Jack groaned. “After this many years here— I should have realized that was why the bells were ringing.”
“It’s not surprising you thought first of attack.” Jane gathered up the blanket, bundling it briskly onto the donkey’s back. She should be grateful for the bells, she supposed. They had kept her from following foolishness with foolishness. “You had battles on the brain.”
“That’s not what I had on the brain.” Jack came up to her side, his tanned face serious beneath the brim of his hat. “Jane—”
Jane ducked around the other side of the donkey, concentrating on loosening his lead. “If we don’t hurry, we won’t reach the monastery before dark.”
Strategic retreat. Which was, as Jack had pointed out to her in the past, just another word for running away. But what else was she to do? She wasn’t accustomed to acting on impulse. And that kiss—that kiss had been an impulse. When she had made the decision to succumb to Nicolas’s advances, it had been a calculated measure. Jane had told herself that she had nothing left to lose, that society’s rules held no more power over her. If her decision to share Nicolas’s bed had been driven as much by loneliness as by desire, well, then, that was for herself alone to know. She had chosen the time; she had chosen the place; she had chosen to let Nicolas believe the persuasion was his. Her seduction had been orchestrated with as much precision as any of her missions.
But then, thought Jane despairingly, nothing about this mission had gone as planned. Why should her relations with Jack be any different? There was something about him that seemed to make the best-laid plans go awry. She’d meant to blister his ears and ride off ahead of him in high dudgeon. Instead, she’d bared her soul and kissed him.
Even now, with her lips still tingling from his kiss, she wasn’t entirely sure how that had happened. She had always despised those agents who wasted time in useless dalliance, when every moment was of the essence. What were they thinking? she had wondered, feeling happily superior.
She wasn’t feeling terribly superior right now.
Jane yanked at the donkey’s rope. “Do you want to lead Dulcibella, or shall I?”
They really did need to get to the monastery before dark. The terrain here was gentler than the mountainous region they had crossed the day before, but the roads were still steep and uncertain, dangerous to navigate in the dark. If they delayed any longer, they would be forced to spend another night in the rough.
Curled up together for warmth.
“I can walk if it will be faster,” Jane offered.
“And break your blisters again?” Jack followed her around the donkey, absently flapping at it as it attempted an exploratory nibble on his pocket. “What just happened—”
“Happened.” Jane had the donkey’s rump on one side and a tree behind her back. There was nowhere left to go. Except up. Keeping her gaze straight ahead, she hoisted herself up on the donkey’s back. “Consider it a thank-you.”
Jack caught her hand. Despite herself, Jane found herself looking at him, arrested by the fierce light in his amber eyes as he said, “You never have to say thank-you like that. Not to me. Not to anyone.”
Jane felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. If he had been importunate, belligerent, defensive, any of those things, she might have brushed it off. But such intensity demanded honesty for honesty.
Jane twitched her hand away. “I didn’t have to. I wanted to.” She stared straight out between the donkey’s ears. “Now can we get on?”
There was a long, pregnant pause.
And then Jack took up the lead and, without a word, urged the donkey forward, onto the path.
It ought to have made her feel better, but it didn’t. With a furrow between her brows, Jane watched Jack’s back as he trudged along ahead of her, surefooted on the narrow path. She had handed him a weapon. And he had chosen not to use it.
But why should that surprise her? Jane pressed her eyes shut, feeling faintly seasick as she swayed with the motion of the donkey. From the first, Jack had confounded her expectations.
Your virtue lies in your mind, not in what lies between your legs.
Jane scowled at the back of his head. Why did he have to be so maddeningly kind? It made it so very difficult to go on despising him. And if she stopped despising him, she might have to admit that she liked him. Rather a lot. And that she wished, very much, that the bells hadn’t begun ringing when they did, that she could be back half an hour ago, in the circle of his arms, feeling so deeply, improbably safe. Safe and cherished.
Stupid, stupid. Jack Reid wasn’t the cherishing kind. He was a restless rover who had spent his life cutting off attachments, working alone. And she—she wasn’t the sort whom men cherished. Praised, yes. Admired, yes. Set up for display in a prettily contrived glass cabinet, all that. But cherished, no. Men had made Jane extravagant promises, but she’d known it was all part of the chase. They didn’t want the reality of her, merely the shell, to set upon a balcony and pay homage. It was about the winning, not the having.
Even with Nicolas.
It’s not your body I want, he had said, as they lay together that night in Venice, a gondolier’s song drifting through the window. The night was warm, the air sweetly perfumed, Nicolas’s chamber hung in silk brocade. Candles guttered on a gilded table, and the remains of the sweet wine they had drunk glowed golden in blown glass goblets. A perfect setting for romance, and yet Jane had felt cold, cold to her core. It’s your heart, your soul.
Jane had instinctively turned away, taking the fine linen sheet with her. That would only be fair coin if you were willing to tender your own in return.
Don’t you know they are already yours? Nicolas had said extravagantly.
And Jane had kissed him to keep herself from saying what was in her head, offering him her body instead of her heart. Whatever she had told Jack, the guilt she had felt had nothing—or at least very little—to do with the sacrifice of her virtue, and everything to do with the fact that she had lied, with her actions if not with her words. She might once have fancied herself in love with Nicolas, but it was so long ago that it seemed like a tale told about someone else, a pastel image in a book. By the time she had lain with Nicolas, the glamour had already faded. She had hoped that the joining of the flesh might rekindle that old wonder; she had wanted, so badly, to believe that she could love him.
Familiarity, however, had only made clear that they were less star-crossed than they were ill suited. Nicolas’s murder of his colleague had provided her an excuse for leaving; it hadn’t been the cause.
It would have been more honorable, if uncomfortable, to have told Nicolas as much. Instead, she had let him go on believing that she had flown out of maidenly delicacy, and that if only he pursued her long and hard enough, she would be his for the winning. There were times when kindness wasn’t kindness. Kindness or policy? Jane wasn’t entirely sure, but she didn’t like herself much either way. She had told herself she had left things as she had to avoid hurting Nicolas’s pride, but the truth of it was, as long as the Gardener thought he might still win her, he kept his claws sheathed. He batted at her in play rather than earnest.