Consider the Lily (10 page)

‘Oh, Kit,’ she said. ‘Am I boyish enough for you?’

At that he kissed her hard on the mouth, before wrenching her shoulder strap down and kissing the exposed breast underneath. Helpless, she let him.

Along with the desire coursing through their flesh was the knowledge that they belonged together, that their bodies fitted, and the leaping burn of delight in meeting a mate. For Kit was sure that here was the woman who would heal whatever lay, dark and unfinished, in his mind. And Daisy knew that Kit accepted her as she was.

By the time they pulled apart, Daisy’s lips were bruised and swollen and Kit’s upper lip was beaded with sweat. With a groan, he let her go. She swayed slightly and pulled her shoulder strap back into place.

It was her turn to be daring. ‘Is that all?’ she asked.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and forced himself to think of multiplication tables and unpaid bills. ‘You know it is.’

‘No coffee legs tangled in sheets?’

The idea of unpaid bills had no effect on Kit. Shuddering a little with frustration, he circled her face with his hands, tilting it up so that moonlight played on the bruised mouth and managed to say, ‘No.’

She was half sorry, half relieved, for sometimes Daisy’s impatience to live life and her curiosity frightened even her. ‘All right, Kit darling. I’ll learn patience, but kiss me again.’

Kit obliged. As his mouth hovered above hers, pulled into its uneven smile, he said, ‘I don’t mind waiting,’ and Daisy tightened her hold on the tall figure bending over her while the cicadas beat out their rhythm.

Dysarts never liked to lie in bed: it was a family trait. Although the party had returned well after four o’clock in the morning, both Kit and Flora were up at seven thirty and on the terrace. They sat side by side at the breakfast table and watched the gardener’s laborious trips with the watering can to and from the lead tank at the bottom of the slope.

Flora inspected the sunburn on her arms and held out a leg for inspection. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I need watering.’

‘Cold cream,’ advised Kit and pushed away the croissants.

Flora scratched at a patch of peeling skin. ‘I’ve applied tons and tons.’ She held a strip up to the light. ‘It’s fascinating, Kit. You can see its structure.’

‘If you have a shred of pity left in you, Flora, spare me.’ Kit poured hot milk into the coffee bowl and took a mouthful, glancing up at the cousins’ bedroom as he did so. Flora directed a look at her brother. She had witnessed him in the throes of calf love before, but it was with an odd, apprehensive feeling that she now realized she had never seen him with
that
look on his face. Flora was also quick enough to know that whatever
she
might feel about this – envy that Daisy might have her brother, jealousy that she had to share him – she must keep it to herself.

‘You’re very smitten, aren’t you, Kit?’

‘Beyond reason,’ said Kit, in an attempt to fob her off. Then he relaxed and was truthful. ‘Very.’

Flora could not resist one jab. ‘I expect you’re not the only one. Daisy gets about. You know she has a boyfriend back in London. Matty told me.’

She regretted it, for the shut look snapped down over Kit’s face and the conversation terminated. Both Flora and Polly wore the same expression in difficult situations, but Flora knew that Kit retreated faster and more thoroughly than any of them.

‘Belt up, old girl, and eat your breakfast,’ he said.

Removing the black cherry jam from his reach, she helped herself. Kit proffered the croissants. ‘Take two and you’ll be even fatter.’ She made a face at him while he drank his coffee. Smarting from the gibe, Flora buttered her croissant then changed her mind, scraped it off and wondered if she dared return it to the butter dish. Really, it was too bad because she wanted to talk to Kit. She needed his advice and now he was in one of his don’t-approach-me moods. Then she thought: How ridiculous. One does not ask advice about love affairs of one’s brother.

Was it a love affair, the sticky encounter that she and Marcus had had last night?

She tried other words to describe it and, because she was honest, ‘burlesque’ was one of them.

Clearly Marcus was no strategist in sex and had chosen his moment badly to press himself on Flora, who was ignorant and required care. This was hardly surprising for Marcus’s strongest recollected emotion was his hysterical fear when, aged seven, he had been dispatched to prep school by his mother. Since then he had neither trusted nor understood women. Yet Flora attracted him in a basic way and, like his sister, he was curious. Without preliminaries, Marcus had grabbed Flora under the olive tree and kissed her. His moustache felt like a... like a rodent rooting round her mouth and he smelt of wine and brandy, and every instinct in Flora told her that this was a sham. Nauseated, she pushed him away and begged him not to. After that, they had said goodnight to each other very politely.

Immaculate in black with white fluttering streamers, Adèle, the maid, stepped through the French windows onto the terrace and handed Kit a telegram.

Kit picked up the paper knife. ‘Hope it’s nothing serious,’ he said, and slit the envelope.

‘Another hot day, Adèle.’ Flora ground out her nursery French.

Adèle’s olive-skinned features remained expressionless. ‘
Oui, Mademoiselle.’

‘Is it always as hot at this time of the year?’

‘Not always, Mademoiselle. It is the year of
la grande-chaleur.’

Unequal to further conversation, Flora gave up and contemplated the steaming garden. The sun was already strident. She sighed and scuffed her shoes on a rogue patch of thyme that had worked its way between the terrace stones. Only then did she register the baffled, frozen look on Kit’s face. Oh, God, she thought. Father’s done something.

‘What is it?’

He tossed her the telegram and she read:
FINANCIAL CRISIS STOP COME HOME STOP NEEDS SORTING OUT STOP RUPERT STOP PS WARNING STOP CHUDLEIGHS DON’T HAVE A BLOODY PENNY STOP

‘Don’t pay any attention,’ said Flora urgently. ‘Don’t. Don’t!’

‘Have you been telling tales, Flora?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Sorry.’ Kit pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘So where did Father get the idea that I am the sacrificial lamb?’

‘Mrs Chudleigh would have told him about you and Daisy. Quick as say knife.’

‘Of course.’ Kit hovered by the stone balustrade and ran his fingers up and down the coping. ‘Now where does that leave Daisy and me in Father’s plans? That I mustn’t get involved because he wants me to marry money, I suppose.’

Flora couldn’t bear that. ‘If you love Daisy, marry her. It’s very simple.’

‘It’s not simple.’ Kit faced his sister. ‘I don’t know what Father has gone and done, but he’s right in one aspect. We have to maintain Hinton Dysart.’

Flora wiped cherry jam off her mouth. ‘Does it matter if the house falls down? Does it, Kit? A bit of brick and stone and some documents with “Dysart” written on them. Anyway, what does Father mean? Has he lost all our money, or just a bit? Hadn’t you better find out?’

In the heat, the butter had turned muddy gold and crusted rims had formed around their coffee bowls. So brilliant and exotic a few moments ago, the colours in the garden had become hard and indifferent.

Oh, Kit, said Flora, silently addressing her brother’s retreating back. I see trouble and if I could be the one to marry someone rich and stop all this silly nonsense, then I would.

‘Hallo.’

‘Hallo, Father, can you hear me?’

‘Can I what?’

‘
HEAR ME
.’

‘No need to shout.’

‘What’s happened? Why do I have to come home?’

‘I’ve lost a great deal of money on the stock exchange, if you must know.’

Kit digested this. ‘How much, sir?’

‘A lot. Well, almost all our capital. Something’s going wrong with the market. It’s panicking and I didn’t trust Hepworth to deal with it.’

Kit began to understand. His father had been given a tip over sherry by a neighbour or some such person and as a result had told Hepworth, their money man, to go to hell after disregarding his advice. ‘How serious is this, sir? I need to know.’

‘Very,’ said Rupert heavily. ‘Very serious indeed, and I gather the market is not going to get any better.’

Static on the telephone line cracked across their conversation which both swelled and faded in volume. Kit pressed his father. ‘There is no chance of recouping?’

Kit could hear Rupert blowing out pipe smoke and thought how much he would like to wrench the pipe out of his mouth.

‘Yes. I am afraid that is so,’ said Rupert, at his most clipped. Kit drove his hand into his trouser pocket. ‘I want you to come home. I gather you’re thick as thieves with the Chudleigh girl and I want you to stop all that. This is no time to get yourself entangled.’

There was no hint of regret or apology in his tone, nor had Kit expected there to be.

Susan Chudleigh reacted acidly to the news that Kit was returning to England on business matters. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, drawling the words, a technique which imperfectly hid her rage. ‘I am sure your dear father would only request you back if something serious had happened.’ She understood the implications of Rupert’s directives, and ran over in her mind the chatty letter she had written to Rupert to see where she had gone wrong. ‘I will excuse you both, of course. I am sure Flora would not wish to stay on any longer without you.’

‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.’

‘Of course she would mind.’ Susan was not going to dispense hospitality to an undeserving cause. She had different plans for Marcus – who could flirt as much as he liked, of course – and, now that Kit was removing from the scene, Flora was not included in them. Kit stared at his hostess hoping that not one feature in the hard face would ever echo in Daisy’s. Of course, he had met Susan’s type many times, but it had never before struck him that she was a creature that at all times should remain under a stone.

‘You have been very kind,’ he managed to say. ‘Thank you.’

He left Susan, who went to seek out her daughter. She found her lying in a bath with a mud pack on her face.

‘Sit up,’ she said to Daisy. ‘I want to know what’s happened.’

Daisy obeyed in a wash of scented water. Her eyes were pools in the mudflat of her face which cracked as she replied. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Think,’ said her mother. ‘Where did you go wrong last night? Did you throw yourself at Kit Dysart?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know,’ said her mother. ‘You know as well as I do that you were hoping to hook him. Well, you’ve botched it. He’s off back home.’

‘Don’t be silly, Mother, he’s staying for September.’

Susan watched mud rivulets run down her daughter’s shoulders, and said, ‘No, you little fool. He’s going tomorrow... on the night train.’ She watched Daisy subside into the bath and added, ‘Well, what do you have to say?’

Daisy lay quite still in the clouded water. ‘I have nothing to say, Mother. It’s probably a problem at home. I’ll see him in London.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, Daisy. I think he is clearing out. He’s been warned off. Finish.’ Susan pulled the handle of the bath plug. It made a hollow sound.

‘No.’

‘You’re more of a fool than I thought. Kit Dysart would have made a good husband if you’d got in quick.’ Susan folded her arms and thought for a moment. ‘But I suppose he had his disadvantages. Now you’re left with Tim, and you’d better pull yourself together because you’re no spring chicken any longer. I hope Tim doesn’t hear about this episode.’

Daisy’s confidence faltered. Had something happened to Kit in the night? Had he been seized by fear of being trapped, by the memory of the boy? Daisy’s thoughts swirled like the draining bathwater. And why, most hurtfully why, had he not come to tell her first?

‘Is that all you care about, Mother?’ Daisy wanted to be very quiet and to concentrate on trusting Kit, but Susan was not going to go away. ‘Really, if marriage is all that is required to rescue the budgets, I’ll get the next man I meet to propose.’

Her mother sat down suddenly and extracted her cigarette case from the pocket of her slub linen dress. ‘No, Daisy, it isn’t all.’ Her face with its armour plating of make-up softened a trifle.’I want you to be happy.’ She inhaled. ‘But we have to be sensible and practical. Not any man will do, and Kit was suitable... and titled.’

‘Oh, yes, titled,’ said Daisy.

‘If only—’

Susan’s familiar litany was starting. Daisy broke in, ‘If only we had Matty’s money. Yes, I know. Well, we haven’t. Now, listen. I did not, as you put it, get in quick and get him to propose, but it was understood. So, if Kit is leaving...’ She covered her eyes abruptly with her hand. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, more to herself than to Susan.

‘If he
is
going,’ she continued, ‘you must make nothing of it. Not until I have sorted it out.’

Susan looked curiously at her daughter, as if she had made a discovery. ‘You really do care for him?’

Cigarette ash dropped in a soft arc to the floor.

‘Go away, please,’ Daisy begged.

Susan got up, straightened the pleats of her dress (a Patou copy run up in a basement) and walked over to the door, leaving behind a trail of smoke and Chanel No. 5.

‘The Dysarts will take Matilda back with them as the wretched girl can’t seem to stand the heat. You and Marcus will stay here as we planned and I’ve rung Annabel and asked her to come and join us. That will cheer you up.’ Susan pushed the door open. ‘At least we won’t have Matilda moping about.’ The door swung on its hinge and she was gone.

Dressed in a blue cotton frock and matching shoes, Matty walked down the passage and witnessed a strange sight: Daisy sitting up in an empty bath with a mud-streaked face crying into her flannel.

Late summer’s the time for a little dead-heading and snoozing in a deck-chair over Pimm’s – and at my age I should be doing precisely that but I don’t. (Have you noticed how people like the old to act their age, particularly the young?) Non-gardeners (‘Are there any?’ asks Thomas in a resigned tone) might imagine that the gardener relaxes in high summer and enjoys the fruit of his brooding, whittling and labours instead of dreaming of autumn and the whiff of bonfire. Something urges me on: the knowledge that I do not have much time left and a reluctance to waste it.