Summer's Awakening (4 page)

There was nothing overtly censorious in his tone of voice, but nevertheless there was criticism of her methods underlying his opening remarks. She felt it was an ominous beginning to her relationship with him.

Outwardly composed, inwardly nervous, she answered, 'Because I believe in the theory that people fall into two categories—night-owls and larks. Emily's an owl. She loves to read in bed. If she went to school she would have to conform to conventional school hours. But she doesn't go to school, and I see no advantage in forcing her to get up early—any more than I'd make her write with her right hand if she happened to be left-handed.'

He picked up the ebony ruler and began to revolve it between his long, sun-burnt fingers. She wondered where he had acquired his deep tan.

Certainly not in Canada or the northerly parts of America where, according to the news on the radio, the winter weather was being more severe than usual. Perhaps he had been in Palm Beach with the old lady Emily had mentioned.

Summer had noticed his use of the phrase 'around ten or ten-thirty' where an Englishman would have said 'about ten'. But his transatlantic accent was not a strong one; and not, she was fairly sure, Canadian. After twelve years away from her homeland—and having left it as a child—her ear was no longer tuned to the many different kinds of American accents. The way he spoke reminded her of the voice of Alistair Cooke, the British-born, Yale and Harvard-educated broadcaster who helped her to keep in touch with events in her own country. But the actual timbre of James Lancaster's voice was more like that of Sir Douglas Fairbanks, one of the few Americans to have been knighted by the Queen of England.

'And are you also a night-owl, Miss Roberts?' he asked her.

'Yes, I am, as it happens.'

'I see,' he said, on a dry note.

The implication was obvious. He thought it was for her own convenience that she let Emily lie late in bed.

Striving to keep her tone equable, she said, 'But if you remember, the great Dr Johnson prefaced his advice by saying, "I have, all my life long, been lying till noon" —and surely no one would describe him as a failure?'

A fugitive gleam of amusement appeared in the lazy-lidded eyes meeting hers across the wide desk.

There was even a hint of a smile at the corner of his well-cut mouth as he said lightly, 'Touché,' and then, 'I can see I shall have to pick my quotations with greater care for the context.

'Are you always an early riser yourself, Lord Cranmere? Emily said you were expecting to sleep until lunchtime.'

'Oh, you've been up to see her, have you? I thought you'd just arrived. Yes, I'm normally up around six. I don't need very much sleep—I never have. When I was Emily's age, I was friendly with old Barty Hicks. He's probably dead now. He was a poacher by trade and, as you know, they work at night. I used to spend many nights with him, not only on this estate but sometimes on neighbours' land.'

'You helped poach your father's game?' she exclaimed in astonishment.

Moments ago, there had been a smile in his eyes, now she saw something else—a swift, cold glare of displeasure. Only for a fraction of a second but, while it lasted, oddly frightening.

At that point the butler appeared with a cup and saucer for her, and a plate of the chocolate biscuits which she and Emily had with their mid-morning break.

Watching Conway pour out the coffee, she could only conclude that the younger man had been annoyed by what he considered an impertinence. But why mention his youthful misdeeds if he wanted to keep her firmly in her place? He hadn't seemed to mind her Johnsonian riposte. Why had her spontaneous comment on his poaching made him angry?

As the butler withdrew, she helped herself to the cream and sugar he had placed on her side of the desk.

'Not for me, thanks,' said the Marquess, when she would have passed them across to him.

When he also refused a chocolate biscuit, she thought he might produce a cigarette to smoke with his cup of black coffee. Then she noticed there was no trace of nicotine stains on his fingers as there had been on his brother's.

Not only were they unalike in looks, but their general appearance was different. Lord Edgedale had been a countryman who hadn't shared his wife's liking for London. Although well turned out when hunting, or in evening dress, at most other times he had been an untidy-looking man who frequently cut himself shaving and who suffered from scurf in what was left of his hair.

Whether his younger brother was always as well-dressed and spruce as he was this morning, she had no means of telling. Even though he had the physique to make a cheap suit look good, she felt sure that the one he was wearing was the American equivalent of a bespoke suit from Savile Row. She could see that the buttons on his sleeves were the kind which unfastened and she knew this to be a sign of superior tailoring. His shirt cuffs were fastened by discreet flat gold links. Unlike his father and brother, he didn't wear a signet-ring on his left little finger. Perhaps if he hadn't left home in disgrace the year before, he would have received one at his coming of age.

'Tell me about Emily. As you know, I talked to her last night and formed an initial impression. But I'd like to hear your opinion of her.'

She realised she should have foreseen he would ask her this and prepared a considered judgment, neatly expressed.

To give herself time to think, she said, 'Do you mean academically or generally?'

'Both.'

'Well... I'm not in a position to compare her with her contemporaries, but by the standards of my day I'd say she's extremely bright. She enjoys learning. I don't have to push her. Sometimes I have to restrain her from overdoing it. As a person, I think she's a darling... sensitive, generous, full of fun—'

Before she could list any more of Emily's good qualities, he interrupted her.

'You make her sound a paragon. Has she no faults in your estimation?'

Again his tone was so dry as to make it obvious he suspected Summer of sycophancy.

She lifted her chin. 'Everyone has faults, Lord Cranmere. I feel it's a negative attitude to dwell on children's defects rather than their virtues. If you'd let me finish, I should have added that Emily is inclined to be untidy and she has a quick temper. But considering that thirteen is a notoriously awkward age, she's very easy to handle and I think she has great potential—even though, at the moment, she has no clear-cut vocation.'

'She tells me that asthma has prevented her from going to school. How often does she have these attacks?'

'Very seldom. But if she were in a different environment she would probably have them more often.'

'But that theory hasn't been tested?'

'No.'

'What are your qualifications as
a
tutor, Miss Roberts? Are you a graduate?'

'No. I was at Somerville for a short time, but I had to come down for family reasons.'

'You must have been an exceptional scholar to be given a place at one of the Oxford women's colleges. Why did you have to relinquish it?'

She hesitated, unwilling to discuss a subject which she felt couldn't be of any real interest to him.

'The aunt I lived with was taken ill. There was no one else to look after her.'

'Are you still looking after her?'

'No, she's dead now.'

'Isn't it possible for you to go back to Oxford?'

'I don't know—I haven't enquired. I don't particularly want to go back. It was going to lead to a teaching career, and that's what I'm doing.'

'But your present pupil won't keep you occupied indefinitely, and then what?'

Was this the first hint that dismissal was hanging over her?

She said quietly, 'I'm sure I shall be able to find another post when my time here comes to an end. I imagine you don't mean to make any drastic changes until you've been here long enough to make wise decisions, Lord Cranmere. I'm sure you're aware that Emily has already had two bad shocks this year, and that it would be better for her to get over losing her grandfather before there are any more disturbances in her life.'

'Were she and her grandfather fond of each other? He must have mellowed since my time if they were'—was his sardonic comment.

'No, perhaps not precisely fond,' she admitted. 'But he was her only close relation after she lost her parents. I've no doubt you and she will have a much warmer relationship... given time. Have you any daughters?'

He rose abruptly from his chair. There was restlessness in the way he thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers and took two or three strides away from the desk before suddenly swinging to face her.

'No daughters. No sons. No wife. My motto is: He travels fastest who travels alone.'

It didn't surprise her to learn that he was a bachelor. He didn't look like a family man. In spite of his elegant clothes, there was something... untamed about him.

'But now that the future of your family hinges on you—' she began.

'My family, if and when I have one, won't be living here,' he informed her. 'I prefer the New World, Miss Roberts. I've made a life for myself there and I've no intention of sacrificing my achievements on the altar of tradition. I came to England for two reasons; first, to disclaim the title and, secondly, to meet my niece and take responsibility for her until she can look after herself.'

Summer blinked at him incredulously. This was
a
turn of events she hadn't envisaged. She couldn't believe he was serious.

'How can you disclaim the title?'

'Easily. Lord Home disclaimed his in order to become Prime Minister. So did Lord Hailsham when he wanted to sit in the House of Commons. All that has to be done is to send an instrument of disclaimer to the Lord Chancellor. I shall do that later today.'

'But why? What's wrong with a title? What's wrong with tradition?' she protested, still too shocked to think before she spoke. 'If you don't want to use it, you needn't. But to throw it away... to reject it—'

'I don't think what I choose to do is your concern,' he said coldly. 'And I don't expect you to discuss it with anyone else. I particularly want to avoid the kind of sensational publicity drummed up by the tabloids. No public announcement will be made until after I've left the country. Meantime, in private, I prefer to be called by the name I'm known by in America. James Gardiner. Spelt G-a-r-d-i-n-e-r.'

When she didn't speak, he went on, 'It's been my name for ten years. I adopted it as my legal surname before I became an American citizen.'

Summer found her voice. 'What made you choose the name Gardiner?'

The broad shoulders shrugged. 'It was the name of a man I admired when I was a boy. An English military engineer who went to America as a colonist in the seventeenth century.'

She said huskily, 'Lion Gardiner of Gardiner's Island.'

'Yes—how do you know about him?'

'There's a book up on the gallery—
Lion Gardiner And His Descendants.
Emily has read it. He's rather a hero of hers.' She refrained from adding—and of mine.

'Is that so?' His expression was warmer than it had been some moments earlier. 'I should think she and I are probably the only people who have opened it since it found its way here. I must—' He was interrupted by the telephone. 'Excuse me.'

She was already on her feet when, putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he said to her, 'This is a long distance call which may take quite a while. We'll continue our conversation later.'

On her way back to Emily's room, Summer still found it hard to credit his intention to repudiate his heritage.

Clearly he had done well for himself in America. Equally clearly he still felt resentment and bitterness towards his father. Perhaps he had been harshly treated. But it was a long time ago—too long to bear a grudge. There had been times, in her teens, when she had hated her aunt. Now that she was older, she pitied her.

Madame de Staël, the brilliant society hostess whom Napoleon had banished from Paris, had been correct when she wrote,
Tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner.
To understand all is to forgive all.

It had been old Dr Dyer, the local GP, who had been her aunt's medical adviser, who had made Summer understand her aunt's sour, relentless nature and, understanding it, forgive its effect on her own life.

As it happened, later that day Dr Dyer came to Cranmere, first to attend to a housemaid who had scalded her arm, and then to give Emily a polio booster.

He was semi-retired; the practice being run by his son except for a few special patients and calls to Cranmere.

When Emily told him about her uncle's arrival, which perhaps he had already heard about while he was downstairs, he said, 'I wouldn't mind having a pound for every time I patched up Lord James, as he was then. He was always risking his neck in some foolhardy escapade.'

Emily's hazel eyes widened. 'What sort of escapades?

The old man chuckled. 'You'll have to ask him. I can't tell you. A doctor must respect his patients' confidences.'

As he spoke there was a knock at the door and the subject of their conversation joined them.

He had lunched with his niece and her tutor, but had spent the afternoon in conclave with the senior partner of his family's lawyers, whom he had summoned from London early that morning.