Mad About the Boy? (12 page)

Arthur; she'd always known there was some misfortune in his family's past – her mother, who had known the Stantons as distant neighbours, always referred to ‘poor Jane Stanton' without ever spelling out why Arthur's mother should be commiserated with – but the depth of his feeling had shocked her.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking at the homely grandeur of the hall. The sun laid sharp-edged paths of light across the black-and-white marble floor, catching the pillared doorways and bringing out the warm richness of the oak panels. Above it all, the painted roof showed a sailing ship battered by a storm while an oddly smug Neptune, complete with trident and attendant goddesses, looked on from a becalmed and sunlit rock. She'd known this place all her life. She loved it; it was home. Arthur's home had been wrenched from him by greed and she'd asked him to say nothing and do nothing to the man responsible. She didn't know if she'd be capable of such self-control.

Arthur; she liked Arthur. He was attractive, with his obstinately curly hair, his shy, rather hesitant manner and his thoughtful hazel eyes. She could make him happy and, what's more, she enjoyed making him happy. So why hadn't she said yes last night when he asked her to marry him?

Because of Malcolm. When she had first met Malcolm he had struck her as ridiculously glamorous. Her first suspicion, that he was too handsome for words and knew it, simply wasn't true. He wasn't remotely vain. Instead he was serious, thoughtful and rather intense. She guessed he felt things far more deeply than it was fashionable to admit. And he was very good-looking.

She went out to the gardens with the idea of finding either Bubble or Squeak and, after a half-hearted and fruitless search, ended up wandering down to the stables. Sixpence, the stable cat, had had kittens, and she spent quarter of an hour watching them chase each other on unsteady legs.

She was feeling much more cheerful when she heard footsteps. She looked up and saw Malcolm Smith-Fennimore.

His rather solemn face brightened at the sight of her. ‘Hello, what have you been doing? Playing with the kittens?' He crouched down beside her. ‘Jolly little things, aren't they?' He screwed up a few wisps of straw into a ball, smiling as the kittens chased after it. ‘I'm going for a drive,' he said, nodding towards the big green Bentley. Part of the stables had been converted into garages and the Bentley stood at one end. A kitten patted his hand and he flicked a piece of straw for it to play with. ‘Do you want to come? Last night at the ball I promised to teach you how to drive, remember?'

She hesitated. For some reason he made her feel slightly nervous. ‘I was going to try and find Bubble and Squeak. I haven't seen them since lunch. Could they come with us?'

He stood up and gently took her arm, ushering her towards the car. ‘I'd rather they didn't. It's hard enough trying to cut you loose from your cousin and that Stanton chap, without bringing the Robiceuxs along. Four would very definitely be a crowd.' He turned the engine over, climbed in beside her, and drove the car out into the sunshine. ‘I like driving,' he said, negotiating the stable yard and bringing the car out on to the drive. ‘It helps me think.'

‘I wish I could stop thinking,' said Isabelle.

‘Why?' he asked, giving her a quick glance.

She sighed. ‘Because it all seems so incredible.' She indicated the park with a wave of her hand. ‘Out here, in the sunshine, it's hard to believe any of it really happened.'

‘It happened all right,' he said, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘And quite apart from Tim, there's something damned funny going on. Who was that visitor your uncle had last night? Haldean told me about him and he sounded downright peculiar. And then there was that Russian who turned up this morning. I tell you, Isabelle, I don't like it. I can smell danger. So much so, I picked up this from my room.' He took one hand off the wheel and half pulled an automatic pistol from his jacket pocket. Her startled gasp made him glance round momentarily. His face softened at her expression. ‘Don't look so scared. It's my old navy Colt. It won't go off by itself, you know.'

If Arthur had produced a gun and talked about smelling danger – or Jack, come to that – it would have seemed ridiculously melodramatic. She'd have probably laughed. She wasn't in the least tempted to laugh at Malcolm. ‘Why have you got a gun?'

‘To protect . . . well, anyone who needs protecting. You, for instance.'

Isabelle looked at him. He meant it. ‘I'm not in any danger.'

‘And I intend to keep it that way,' he said, with a rather grim smile. ‘It looks as if we've got a murderer among us. Haven't you thought that he or she might not like us playing detectives? We might come too close.'

They turned out of the gates of Hesperus and up the road, away from the village. The lane took them between high hedges, flashing in and out of patches of sunlight where a gate gave on to open fields and on into the woods, where the road was a tunnel between the trees. The tall beeches and squat oaks met overhead in a rustling canopy, filtering the light on to the narrow road. Blinding shafts of white sun stabbed through the green shade. It gave Isabelle the oddest sensation that they were travelling along the bed of a river, with the tops of the trees breaking through like vast water plants to the surface. Down here, amongst the ivy-entwined trunks, was a place that was hidden, unexplored and alone. She rather liked the idea.

They came out of the trees to a crossroads. Smith-Fennimore chose a road at random and drove a short distance before pulling into the side and stopping. With the noise of the engine gone, silence flooded round them, followed by all the little Sunday in summer sounds. A train chugged far away, the noise taking on a musical note in the distance. It was the sole indication that they were not the only people in the world. Although they hadn't driven far, it felt as if they'd come a long way from Hesperus. Isabelle found herself growing more light-hearted by the minute.

Smith-Fennimore climbed out of the car and opened Isabelle's door. ‘Slide across. I need to get in. There's no door on the driver's side. This is the perfect spot. A longish straight road with no sharp bends. We can see anything coming in plenty of time.' He grinned at her puzzled expression. ‘Well, if you're going to have a crack at driving, you've got to sit behind the wheel. That's what we're here for.'

Isabelle slid across the front seat and tentatively held the huge, corded steering wheel, listening to his detailed explanations.

‘Have you got that?' he finished.

‘I think so,' she said doubtfully. ‘I'll try, anyway.'

The first couple of attempts were not a success.

With admirable patience, Smith-Fennimore ran through the array of switches and levers on the dashboard and steering wheel once more. ‘It's all quite simple, really. Retard the ignition – that's the lever on the top of the steering column – and turn the throttle switch to the slow running position – that's right – and then turn the mixture control to the rich position. Not too much, she's already quite warm. The pressure feed on the tank looks about right. That's about it. Now press in the twin magneto switches – that's it – and press the self-starter firmly.'

‘This one that looks like a mushroom?'

‘That's the one.'

Isabelle pressed down hard and was rewarded by a burbling thrum from the engine.

‘Now dab the accelerator with your foot.' Isabelle yelped as the accelerator kicked back at her. ‘Try again, and if she kicks back, turn the ignition down until the engine fires in the right direction. There, you've done it. I told you you could. You've just got to be firm. She's ticking over nicely. Now advance the ignition and dip the clutch – hard down – put her in first gear – that's the lever beside your right leg – and release the handbrake – that's the lever on the outside of the car –
keep your foot on the clutch!
– and press down on the accelerator as you bring your other foot slowly away.'

Malcolm Smith-Fennimore winced in almost physical pain as one thousand, three hundred and forty-two pounds' worth of the most elegant machinery in the world kangarooed down the road. The engine screamed a protest, then stalled.

‘Oh dear,' said Isabelle mournfully. ‘I hope I haven't damaged the car.'

‘Don't worry,' said Smith-Fennimore, with rather a forced smile. ‘It's got a five-year guarantee.'

‘How do I change gear?' she asked.

‘I think we'll cover that later. Let's try again.'

They tried again. ‘Perhaps,' he said, after two more false starts, ‘you'd have a better idea if you knew what was happening under the bonnet when you started her up.'

Which was a very tactful way of saving his precious Bentley from her mistreatment, thought Isabelle. It might even be true.

Climbing out, Smith-Fennimore took his jacket off, rolled his sleeves up, and undid the leather straps over the long, aristocratic nose of the car. She stood beside him to peer into the mysterious depths of the engine bay. ‘Now, when you press the self-starter, the magnetos fire a spark which is amplified . . .'

Isabelle's education had been varied and expensive, but weak on electricity and its application to the internal combustion engine. She summoned up a memory of Jack and her brother playing with magnets and copper wire in the barn long ago, and nodded intelligently.

‘This is the fly-wheel which conducts the power . . .'

She watched the muscles flex on his arms. She was suddenly intensely aware of his physical presence. Strong arms, with strong, capable hands. She swallowed. It was as if she'd developed another sense. He bent his head closer into the engine and she noticed how his fair hair swept back behind his ears. Fair hair on tanned skin . . .

‘And the distributor carries the current . . .'

She reached out to touch the shining magneto and he caught her hand.

‘Hey, don't touch that. The engine's hot.' Still holding her hand he continued, ‘And then it goes to . . .' He stumbled over his words and seemed to be finding it difficult to speak. She looked straight into his eyes, the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. He was an incredibly attractive man.
Why not?

‘And then it goes to . . . goes to the spark plugs . . .' He gulped, and reached out for her, gathering her blindly in his arms. He paused momentarily, then kissed her passionately, one hand round her waist. She arched her back under the pressure of his fingers and sensed his delight in her response. She leaned her head on his shoulder, feeling the hard muscle under his shirt, listening to his quick breathing.

‘I've been so unsure how you felt about me,' he said in a whisper.

‘I love you, Malcolm,' she said simply. She relaxed against him, totally happy as he kissed her forehead and her hair.

He held the palm of his hand to her face and gazed into her eyes. ‘You're going to marry me, aren't you? You will marry me? Soon. It has to be soon.'

She kissed his hand. ‘Of course I will.'

He held her tightly. ‘I'm going to love you until I die.' He sounded oddly solemn and she shivered. ‘Here,' he said gently. ‘You're cold. Come and sit down in the sun.'

‘It's not that,' she protested, but let him lead her to the grassy bank at the side of the road. He spread his jacket out and sat beside her, leaning back on his elbow. He reached out and stroked her hair.

Isabelle looked up at him with a pensive smile. ‘Malcolm, tell me about yourself. There's so much I don't know.'

‘There's not much to tell, really,' he said with a smile. ‘All the usual things. School, Oxford. I spent my holidays in Russia. I loved it out there. I went to the Argentine for two years with the bank and learned a lot. When the war started I came back home and joined the navy. I've always been good with mechanical things and I fell in love with flying. After the war I took up racing.'

Isabelle smiled. ‘Everyone knows you as a racer.'

‘Yes, I suppose they do.' His smile faded. ‘What happened to Tim has taken the shine off that a bit. Tim was a brilliant driver, you know. When I think of him really stuck for money – desperately stuck – I can't believe I didn't know. I should have known something was wrong.'

She covered his hand with hers. ‘You did try to find out, Malcolm.'

‘I should have tried harder. That Stanton chap knew all about it. And now Tim's dead. I . . . I was really turned over by it, Isabelle. He was alive this time yesterday. My God, I wish I'd known. I could have stopped it somehow.' His eyes clouded and Isabelle knew he was no longer thinking of her. ‘I said it'd never happen again,' he muttered, more to himself than her.

‘Happen again?' she asked gently. ‘What do you mean?'

He recalled himself with a start. ‘Nothing.' He spoke quickly then hesitated, looking at her. ‘At least . . . You want to know, don't you? I've never told anyone before but I'd like to tell you.'

He sat up and brushed some grass off his sleeve. Taking out his cigarette case he offered her one and for a few moments he smoked thoughtfully. ‘In some ways it's a very commonplace story. That's probably the worst thing about it. There was a man in my squadron, a James Chilton. Anyway, we hit it off but we lost touch when he got invalided home. I meant to look him up but never got round to it. It was the winter after the war – it was a beastly cold winter if you recall – when I came across him. He was absolutely broke. I mean really broke. You've seen the poor devils sleeping on the Embankment, haven't you? Jimmy Chilton was there. Jimmy Chilton MC.'

Isabelle drew her breath in, her eyes fixed on his face.

His mouth trembled for a moment, then he continued. ‘I gave him some money, all I had on me, but it wasn't much. God knows why I didn't do more. All I can think of was that I was so shocked I couldn't think straight. I gave him my address and told him to look me up. He never came. After a few days I went to find him, determined to see he had a job and a proper place to sleep and so on, but I was too late. It was the police who found him in the end.' His voice was so quiet Isabelle had to strain to catch the words. ‘He'd been admitted to hospital suffering from pneumonia and he died. I should have helped him.'