In Distant Fields (19 page)

‘Had I known that you needed privacy I should have turned away,' Peregrine told her, feeling vaguely guilty. ‘But as it was – well, as it was, it seemed to me that the sight of you swimming was one of the most delightful that one could wish for.'

Partita nodded, looking momentarily bored, which amused Peregrine. It was as if, because they both knew that she was beautiful, she found the subject of being delightful to watch a trifle tedious.

‘You are just going in,' she stated, looking Peregrine in his one-piece costume up and down with feigned detachment.

‘This very minute,' he agreed.

‘The water is clear and cold, and beautifully agreeable.'

‘Come in with me?'

Partita considered this for a second.

‘Oh, very well,' she replied, making sure that he knew that she was doing him a favour.

She turned and went back down the beach, flinging her hat onto the ground as she did so, still shaking out her thick head of hair. Peregrine followed more slowly, since he was barefoot.

Once in the water he raced towards the horizon, jumping and splashing, until he was far further out to sea than she was, or had been. Seeing this, Partita realised that he was throwing down a gauntlet to her; he was saying, ‘
I expect you do not dare to follow me
,' so of course she had to follow him, swimming strongly against the tide, which seemed suddenly to have strengthened its purpose, and was now pulling towards the beach huts, and the walls at the top of the shingle, which edged the gardens of Waterside House.

‘I can't swim any further.'

Her voice, even to herself, sounded genuinely panic-struck. In a few seconds Peregrine had swum back to her and, turning her, he pulled her, he doing backstroke, she happily helpless in his arms, until they reached the shallow water once more, and she stood up, laughing.

‘I always used to do that to Al,' she told an
indignant Peregrine. She put on a mock helpless voice. ‘
I can't swim any more!
'

Peregrine leaned forward and gently shook her, laughing as he did so.

‘You are a very naughty little girl,' he said. ‘You deserve to be stood in the corner.'

Partita became purposefully helpless in his grasp, but he did not seem to notice this, only went on laughing as she allowed herself to be shaken.

‘Careful, I am not a cocktail.'

Peregrine stopped shaking her and let go, but he was still slightly breathless, and laughing at her deception, which was probably why he did not seem to notice Partita closing her eyes and raising her face to his, so he only turned away, reaching for his beach towel and burying his face in it.

‘You have always been an imp – do you know that, Partita? Always. Ever since you were a little girl, you have been an imp.' He rough-dried his hair and then, pulling off the towel, he smiled around him at the still quiet scene. ‘Aren't we lucky, to have today, in a place like this, and everyone here such friends? We must be the luckiest people in the world.'

‘All the pirates are here now,' Partita agreed, walking up ahead of him as if he had ignored her closed eyes and raised face, while all the time comforting herself that he had perhaps not ignored her so much as not noticed. Peregrine, after all, was hers. She had been in love with
him ever since she could remember. He was hers.

No one else can have him, she repeated silently to herself.

‘Shall we all be meeting on the beach later?'

He stopped outside the men's bathing hut and looked down at Partita with his usual brotherly affection.

‘I expect we shall.'

Partita shook out her still damp hair, but, despite this really rather abandoned movement there was nevertheless a set expression to her eyes. She was not so young, nor so stupid, that she had not noticed that Perry still had that irksome, detached brotherly look on his face. Well, she would pay him back for that, if it was the last thing that she did.

‘Is everyone – I mean, are both your sisters here?'

‘You know they are, Perry,' Partita told him in a bored voice, pulling open the beach-hut door.

‘And Miss Milborne, and Miss Rolfe?'

‘Of course. Al would not forgive us if we did not invite those two, would he? Especially Kitty, with whom Al is madly and passionately in love, and whom I think is madly passionately in love with
him
.'

She did not know why she had said that, except she did. She had said that because she did not want Peregrine to love either Elizabeth or Kitty, and because she knew that he had never
loved her sisters so she had not bothered to include them.

She also said it because she wanted Kitty to marry her brother Almeric. As she saw the expression on Peregrine's face Partita could not help feeling satisfied that her inference had hit home, but she also saw that it had made him unhappy, because he turned away from her quite suddenly, and went into the men's bathing hut, saying nothing more.

Partita stared at the closed door, realising that her victory was not really a victory at all, because if Perry felt nothing for Kitty why would he have turned and left without a word? Why would he not have stayed to enjoy their usual banter together? Because – it dawned on her quite quickly – because he did not want Kitty to be in love with Al.

She walked slowly back up through the garden, past the monkey-puzzle tree, and other strangely shaped specimens planted long, long ago. She stopped briefly, staring around her, imagining the moment when the trees had been first planted, perhaps by someone who, like her, had been in the habit of getting up early and going down to the beach for a swim. She imagined the delight that the person who had planted them must have felt at just the idea that they would grow tall and strong, as they had indeed done, and how delighted they would be if they could see how well the trees had endured, how they had somehow managed to
protect each other from the violence of the sea winds, from the salt air and the storms that could sweep so suddenly in from across the Channel, bringing with them that sense of helplessness that is at the same time both satisfying and frightening.

Partita sat down on the bench, staring around her at the terrace with its empty furniture waiting for the guests, at the lead urns planted with her mother's favourite white roses. She thought she would wait for Peregrine, that he would shortly follow her up the garden, but then she realised that he had not followed her at all, but was once more picking his way back down to the sea's edge, before striding into its initially calm surface, and, as soon as he was able, starting to swim, moving steadily towards the horizon until his head became just a tiny dot.

She stood up. She knew why he must be swimming out to sea – because she had upset him, because she had pretended to him that she knew all about Kitty and Al. She felt panic-struck, but helpless. If she made a fuss and dashed down to the water's edge and called or waved to him it seemed to her that it would be tantamount to admitting that she had fantasised about her brother and her best friend. She sat down again, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

Could it be possible that Perry loved Kitty, and not her, and that now he was intent on drowning himself in the most gentlemanly
manner possible? She felt herself grow dizzy, but quickly put it down to the increasing warmth of the morning. She hated herself, and loved Perry, both too much, and too little.

Still, she could not love Perry so much as to allow him to love Kitty, and she could not hate him enough to want him dead. Nevertheless, she should never have implied to him that she knew all about Al and Kitty's feelings, when she knew nothing of the sort. It was not true that Kitty loved Al. It might be true soon, but not at that moment. Partita stood up again and as she did so she thought she saw the swimmer turning, and realised after a second or two, that she had
actually
seen him turning. She sat down again, thanking God, in whom, most unfortunately, she only seemed to believe in moments of crisis.

Perry was turning. He was coming back to her. He was swimming slowly and steadily back to the beach, and then walking up the beach towards the house, with his towel slung over his broad shoulders. The handsomest sight that she was likely to see that day, that week, or that month. She loved him so much, nothing would ever stop her loving him, she was sure of it.

A little while later, changed into casual clothes that set off his tall figure so well, he strode slowly up the garden towards her, but such was her relief that he had not drowned, that he had not swum out to sea never to come back, Partita
stood up and ran down the garden and flung her arms around his neck.

‘I was so worried for you! I thought you would never come back.'

Peregrine held Partita away from him, smiling. He had swum off his confusion of emotions. He had swum off the hurt he had felt at the idea that Kitty could love Al. He was now sure that he was quite back to his normal self. He looked down at Partita. He should feel grateful to her. His feelings for Kitty were not something that should be entertained. There would be a war soon, he was sure of it, and what place had love when a young man was about to go to war? No place at all.

‘Hallo, Mischief,' he said, still holding her away from him, and reverting to her childhood nickname. ‘What are you still doing here, Imp? Should you not be at breakfast?'

Partita wrinkled her perfect nose and shook her head, covering the disappointment she felt as she realised that the look of brotherly affection in Perry's eyes had not changed, but had, in some strange way, actually increased, and for no reason she could discern.

‘I never have breakfast until it is too late,' she said, turning away and walking up the lawn. ‘I like cold coffee, and food that is too cooked, or too cold, and toast that is all twisted, and butter that is runny, and no one else around to see me enjoy it.'

‘That is so like the Mischief. You have not
changed at all, do you know that?'

‘Oh, but I have, Perry, really I have,' Partita pleaded with him. ‘I have changed so much. I am a grown-up now, and I will be doing the season next year, if there is not a war. I shall be going to balls and dancing the night away endlessly.'

‘But not pointlessly, I hope, Mischief. You will break hearts, of course,' he stated, not looking at her, but staring ahead of him at the house, hearing the increasing sound of breakfast noise and laughter drifting towards them through the open French windows. ‘But however many hearts you break, you will still always be an imp.'

‘Oh dear.' Partita turned away, and she caught her bottom lip with her small, white teeth. ‘You sound just like Jossy.' She did an imitation of Jossy with a pretend pipe in her mouth. ‘Ooh, Lady Teeta, you're that much trouble, and always have been, I'll say that for you!'

Perry laughed, not seeing the hurt in her eyes. He walked up the garden after her. The Mischief would always be the Mischief to him. Then feeling himself being watched, he looked up at the house, and seeing Kitty at her bedroom window, he waved to her, and she waved back to him, kissing her hand quickly and carelessly to him, before finally turning away from the window.

Just a glimpse of Kitty, in her flimsy-looking dress, caught at Peregrine's heart, and for a second he allowed it to, before walking back into the house and the friendly gaiety of the party.

As for Kitty, she walked back across her bed-room and, pausing for a second in front of the dressing mirror to check her dress, she stared at herself. She must not,
must
not allow her heart to dominate. Peregrine Catesby belonged to Partita. He probably always had, and that would not be surprising since they had known each other all their lives. If she did but know it, they had probably been childhood sweethearts. Certainly seeing how Partita had flung her arms around Peregrine's neck, Kitty had no doubt at all that Partita loved Perry with all her heart.

She walked slowly down to the hall, and was reaching out for the dining-room door handle when Almeric opened it.

He smiled at her.

Kitty smiled back at him, and as she did so she knew exactly what Al's smile was saying, and that there was nothing to stop it. It was a run-away horse of a smile, a speeding motor car of a smile, it was a smile that was saying openly and happily, ‘
I love you, Kitty Rolfe, on this beautiful summer morning, with the blue sky, and the blue, blue sea, and the sun shining. I love you, and you must know it
.'

Kitty knew she should stop smiling back at him, that she should discourage him, but she felt helpless to do so. He had said, and only that morning, that everyone they knew was sure that there was going to be a war.

If there was a war Almeric might die; they all might die. This might be the last time they
could all be young and in love, for better or for worse. Seconds later, Almeric leaned forward and kissed her briefly on the lips, and Kitty let him, because not to seemed somehow really rather selfish, particularly if there was going to be a war. Besides, wars were always rather romantic, weren't they? Knights going off to battle with a girl's favour tucked into their battle-dress, and so on. So what was a kiss?

Ever since she was a child Elizabeth had always dreaded mealtimes, but since being invited to Bauders Castle she had come to realise that food and wine, taken in the company of friends, was not just a matter of eating, but a time to be entertaining. The Duchess told her that she must never allow herself to feel shy.

‘The unwritten rules of luncheon and dinner are to make the men feel flattered, warmed, and finally, of course, entranced by encouraging
them
to talk,' Circe went on. ‘If you are facing a blank, or worse, disinterested face, always start with childhood. It is, without fail, a very safe subject.'

Circe had also insisted that conversation did not come naturally to the opposite sex. They needed to be
prompted
into talking.

‘If you go into a room and listen to men talking, they never chatter and laugh, confide or advise as women do. They do gossip, of course, but in such an uninteresting way that, quite honestly, it is not until you are left to yourself
that you realise that they have brought you something of any kind of interest. It is important, from the outset, to try and find out your dinner companions' subjects. For instance, the Duke's subjects are Bauders Castle, his regiment, the Royal Horse Guards, and, er – Bauders Castle. My subjects are music, light opera, the theatre, and, just occasionally, the history of surgery in the modern age.'