More Than You Know (25 page)

Juliet did look really lovely. Eliza had to admit it. And Charles’s face, fixed on her as she walked down the aisle, showed his very clear pleasure and pride.

The dress was exactly what she had expected it to be, a tiered confection of a thing, all tulle and lace, with a full skirt and tight bodice, long sleeves, and a modestly swathed boat neckline. She looked, Eliza thought, exactly like a Disney princess. Her hair was drawn up in a tower of curls, her veil very long, gallantly tended to by four pageboys in blue silk suits complete with knee breeches. The eight bridesmaids wore dresses that were a simpler version of the bride’s own—four of them in pink and four in mauve, with white roses in their ringlets. Eliza—relieved at least to be in the pink party, not the mauve—smiling until her face ached, felt oddly lonely, looking at a church full of people, half of whom were strangers and to whom in some strange way Charles was defecting.

The service was charmingly predictable. Juliet’s voice was very firm as she made her vows, Charles’s less so, and Eliza’s heart lurched as he
stumbled over “till death do us part,” and the smile Juliet gave Charles when the vicar pronounced them man and wife could have been better described as smug than radiant.

The bridal party had now disappeared into the vestry for the signing of the register. Eliza suddenly and shockingly felt like crying. It had really happened: her beloved brother had left her, left all of them really, for a girl who was in no way his equal—not intellectually, not emotionally, who lacked his sense of humour, his style, his charm, his ability to befriend just about anybody, and she felt lost and terribly alone.

And then two things happened: the music changed, and the choir, led by the most amazing soprano, began to sing the “Laudate Dominum,” and the sheer searing beauty of it shocked her out of her sadness and quite literally took her breath away. And she turned round and, without quite knowing how she could have found him in that crowded church, she was staring at Matt, and he in his turn was staring at her, as clearly moved, shocked even, by the moment and music as she was, and then very slowly he smiled at her, and it was not the cocky, awkward Matt, or even the sexy, self-assured one; it was someone different, someone she had not known before, or even suspected he could be, someone warm and oddly gentle; and in that moment, suspended forever against the music and with the sunshine shafting in the windows of the small flower-filled church, and without her really understanding how or why, the world seemed to shift just a little.

“What a lovely, lovely house,” said Gina.

“What?”

“Matt! I said, what a lovely house. Isn’t it?”

“Oh—yes. Yes, not bad.”

A tall, slightly languid man had appeared, grinning rather foolishly at Gina. She smiled back.

“Good service, wasn’t it?”

“Lovely. Especially the music.”

“Jolly pretty girl, isn’t she? Known her for a long time?”

“No, no, I’ve never met her.”

“Oh, I see. I thought … well, I thought you must be a friend of hers. Haven’t met either of you. Tim Dalton-Smith, at your service.”

“How do you do, Tim. I’m Gina, Gina Barker, and this is Matt Shaw. He and Charles were in the army together.”

“Oh, really! What, out in Gib? Jolly good fun that must have been. I only managed Cyprus.”

“I wasn’t in Cyprus or Gib,” said Matt. “I was just with Charles in basic training. I was in the Royal Engineers out in Germany. Just an ordinary old sapper, you know.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. And you and Charles have stayed in touch, have you?”

“Yes. You could say that.”

“Well, jolly good.” There was a silence; then Dalton-Smith smiled rather uncertainly. “And what do you do now?”

“I’m in property.”

“Oh, are you, now. Well, it’s the right field to be in. Growing quite literally. What firm are you with?”

“My own,” said Matt decisively.

Dalton-Smith was briefly silenced. Then he said, “Oh, I see. Right. Domestic?”

“No. Commercial.”

“Well … well, jolly good for you.” He was clearly nonplussed. “And you,” he said to Gina, “what do you do?”

“I’m in the fashion business.”

“Oh? A model, I presume. Sure I’ve seen you in
Vogue
.”

“ ’Fraid not. No, I run a boutique. In the King’s Road.”

“Oh, I say, what fun. Eliza’s in the fashion business, isn’t she? Edits some magazine or other.”

“Something like that,” said Gina.

There was a silence; then she said, “I was just saying what a lovely house this is.”

“Isn’t it? Glorious. I came here for Eliza’s dance. God, that seems a long time ago. You weren’t here, I suppose … er …” He looked at Matt awkwardly.

“No,” said Matt. “I don’t get out much. Not in polite society, anyway.”

“That was so rude,” said Gina crossly, as Dalton-Smith made an excuse and hurried off. “He was only trying to be friendly.”

“Yes, well, that’s fine. I didn’t want to be friendly back.”

“But why not?”

“He was bloody patronising me. Why should I be friendly?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Gina, “I’m off. I might see you later.”

She stalked off; thirty seconds later she was chatting and laughing to a couple as if she’d known them all her life. Matt decided to explore. The house was locked, of course, but he looked down the avenue, as it curved gently towards the village below, and there was a sense of peace and set-apartness that was quite extraordinary.

He glanced to the other side of the house. Set just slightly to its right, below yet another lawn, was an exquisite building with a glass dome at the top; he walked down towards it, intrigued. It had huge glass-paned doors, which he tentatively tried, but which were locked, windows almost floor-to-ceiling height, and a tiled floor; there were two trees inside, growing almost the full height of the building, a fan-trained flowering shrub on one of the side walls (Matt wasn’t sure which kind), its blossoms fallen with a kind of casual extravagance on the floor around it, and several palms and other plants in enormous pots set about the room. There was a large and rather lovely white wrought-iron table in the middle of the room and a couple of matching chairs; otherwise there was no furniture and no further decoration. Except perhaps the sunlight, which filled it, an almost tangible thing; he felt if he could have opened the door he would have had to push against it, as if it was silk. He stood there, looking in and smiling and thinking it was the loveliest place he had ever seen, and thinking too of Eliza growing up with this exquisite thing as part of her everyday life, taking it for granted, careless of its beauty. What a charmed childhood she and Charles must have had, playing in these gardens, walking in the woods just beyond, beauty wherever they looked …

“Matt, hallo.” It was Eliza. His head was so full of her, he was in no way surprised to see her, had somehow been expecting her. She smiled at him; she seemed no more surprised to find him there. She was on her own. Like him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Thanks. Just exploring a bit. Hope it’s all right.”

“Of course.”

“This is a lovely place,” he said, quite gently. “Well, it’s all lovely, but this building—”

“Oh, the orangery. Yes, it’s very special. I adore it. We were never allowed in—I think Mummy and Daddy thought we’d smash the glass or something—but one day I saw the gardener get a key from under a flowerpot by the door—bit like Peter Rabbit, you know—and when no one was about, often early in the morning, I would creep down and let myself in, pretend I was a princess and this was my palace.”

“Well, it is a bit like a palace,” said Matt, “and you are a bit of a princess. By my standards, anyway.”

“Am I? Quite a poor one these days.”

“Yes, well, poverty is relative, I suppose,” said Matt, but his voice was easy, gentle, with none of the truculence that so often filled it. “I don’t suppose the key’s still under the pot?”

“Yes, it is. Do you want to go in?”

He nodded; she smiled at him conspiratorially and like a naughty child walked over to the corner of the building and retrieved the key.

He stepped in, looked round; the air was heavy with scent and heat.

“I was right,” he said. “I thought it looked from outside as if you could touch that light, feel it even.”

“Matt!” said Eliza. “What a lovely idea. I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

“I’m not usually,” he said. “I feel a bit as if it’s cast a spell on me.”

Eliza smiled at him, and then suddenly sat down on one of the chairs. “Sorry to break the spell, but I have to get these foul shoes off. Too small they are; I’m sure Juliet did it on purpose.” She clapped her hand to her mouth, looking like a naughty child. “Gosh, I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

“You don’t like her?” he said grinning.

“Not terribly much.”

“She seems a bit—” He stopped.

“A bit what?”

“A bit wrong for Charles. Can’t say more than that; don’t know her.”

“Oh, Matt,” said Eliza, “I could kiss you for that.”

“Well,” he said, “well, go on. I don’t mind.”

“All right.” She hesitated, then reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “There. Thank you.”

“That’s … that’s OK.”

And she moved back a step, away from him, and they stood there in
the bright, hot light, staring at each other, half-shocked, rather as they had in the church. He felt suddenly and unaccustomedly shy, and she seemed slightly awkward too, not her usual brisk, bossy self.

“Well,” she said, quickly, “we’d better go. The speeches are about to begin. Where’s your … your girlfriend?”

“Gina? I have no idea. We had a bit of a tiff.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Eliza. “What a shame. We’d better go and find her, and … and some champagne. Come on; if we scuttle down this path here, we can stay on the grass and I won’t hurt my feet. Oh, better just lock up.”

He followed her, bemused and still feeling half-enchanted, through an avenue of trees and out onto the sunlit lawn; people were moving into the marquee.

“Oh, good,” said Eliza. “Or bad. We haven’t missed anything yet. Now, can you—”

“Eliza, my darling girl! I’ve been looking for you. You look perfectly frightful, may I say. What a dreadful dress. Bride’s choice, I suppose.”

It was the woman in red silk with the turban. Eliza leaned forward and kissed her.

“Hallo, Gommie, darling. Yes, very much her choice. I can’t say you’ve made me feel any better, though.”

“Oh, you know I don’t mean it. You usually look marvellous. What a dreadful lot. Your poor mother, having them swarming all over the place.”

“I … um, Gommie, this is Matt Shaw. Matt, this is my godmother, Anna Marchant.”

“How do you do?” said Anna Marchant. “How do you fit in here?”

“I don’t,” said Matt briefly.

Mrs. Marchant laughed. “Very good. That woman, the bride’s mother, perfectly dreadful. Putting on airs and graces, telling me how she’d just been to a royal garden party. I told her I always turned the invitations down, too many unsuitable people there these days. That shut her up.”

“Gommie, do be quiet. Someone will hear you.”

“Darling, they’re much too drunk. Now, how is Jeremy? We had the briefest chat in church. So good-looking. And so extremely rich. I bet your mother’s getting her hopes up.”

“I … wouldn’t know.”

“Of course she is. She’s only human. And they could use the money; that’s for sure. But it’s your life. Not theirs. Remember that.”

“Gommie,
please
.”

“Well, it’s important. Anyway, he ought to have asked you by now. It’s gone on too long. Or has he?”

“No, Gommie, he hasn’t, and—”

“Well, in my day it was called trifling. Trifling with your affections. Not done.”

“Well, things have changed now,” said Eliza firmly.

“Yes, and not always for the better. Still, just remember what I said. So why are you here, Matt? Not part of the bride’s lot, I’m sure.”

“No,” said Matt, grinning, “no, I’m a friend of Charles’s.”

“Oh, really? How’d you meet him?”

“In the army. Doing basic training.”

“Yes, I see. What were you in?”

“The sappers.”

“Damn fine lot, the sappers. We’d have lost the war without them. Mulberry harbours and all that. And what do you do now?”

“I’m … I’m in the property business.”

“Eliza, you must bring Matt to lunch one day. I’d like to talk to him some more. I’m thinking of buying some shares in Blue Circle Cement. Good idea, Matt?”

“Um … probably.”

“That’s what I thought. Oh, God, here we go, father of the bride at the microphone. It’ll be dreadful. I need another drink.”

She moved off.

“I’m sorry,” said Eliza, laughing. “She’s so outrageous.”

“I thought she was wonderful.”

“Well, she took a great shine to you. You’d better watch it; she’s a frightful flirt.”

“Fine by me,” said Matt. “She’s got terrific legs.”

They moved into the marquee together, brought increasingly close, Matt thought, first by the singing, then the orangery, then by that wonderful conversation. He looked at Jeremy, smug bastard, laughing with Sarah, handing her a glass of champagne, and felt against all the odds a lurch of self-confidence.