Windfallen (10 page)

He glanced around him and smiled, a tentative smile.

Celia’s smile was dazzling. “Mummy, Daddy, I’d like you to meet Guy. And you’ll never guess—we’re engaged.”

M
RS
. H
OLDEN SAT IN FRONT OF HER DRESSING TABLE
pulling pins carefully from her hair, her gaze fixed unseeing on the reflection in front of her. She had always known it was going to be difficult for Lottie when Celia started to blosssom. It was inevitable that Celia would start to show her pedigree at some point. And she had to admit, down in London her daughter had blossomed in a way even she couldn’t have imagined. Her little girl had returned home looking like a fashion plate.

Susan Holden put the pins carefully in a little china pot and replaced the lid. She didn’t like to admit quite how relieved she was at Celia’s becoming engaged. To a chap of some standing, too. Whether it was out of happiness for Celia or thankfulness that she was now “taken care of,” the whole family had, in their way, felt the urge to celebrate. (Henry had given her a quite uncharacteristic peck on the cheek. She still felt quite warm just thinking about it.)

But Lottie’s response to Celia’s news had been positively peculiar. When he had initially emerged from the train, she had stared at the young man in a manner that was almost rude. Oh, they had all stared—Celia had taken every one of them by surprise, to be sure. Susan had to admit she’d probably stared a little herself. She hadn’t seen a pineapple for years. But Lottie didn’t take her eyes off him. Mrs. Holden had particularly noticed this, because the girl had stood right in her line of vision. It had been rather irritating. And then when Celia had announced their engagement, all the color had drained from Lottie’s face. Actually drained, like you could have watched it sliding down. She had looked quite pasty afterward. Almost as if she were going to faint.

Celia hadn’t noticed. She was too busy showing off her ring and chattering on about weddings. But, no, even in the midst of all the excitement, Mrs. Holden had noted Lottie’s strange response and felt the faintest fluttering of alarm. Even as she digested her daughter’s news, she had found herself eyeing her surrogate daughter with concern.

Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. After all, no one other than Joe would ever be interested in her, Mrs. Holden thought with a peculiar mix of pity and pride in her own daughter. Not with that coloring. And that history.

She reached for her cold cream and began methodically removing the rouge from her cheeks. Perhaps we’ve been unfair taking her in after all, she thought. Perhaps we should have left well enough alone, left her with her London folk.

It is possible we have given her expectations.

“
T
otally unclothed, they were. I tell you, ladies, I felt quite faint.” Mrs. Colquhoun raised a hand to her mouth, as if pained by the memory. “Right by the sea path, too. Anyone could have seen.”

This was entirely possible, the ladies of the salon conceded, while privately acknowledging that it was debatable whether anyone other than Deirdre Colquhoun would have stumbled across George Bern and Julian Armand taking a bracing morning swim. In fact, most were well aware that Mrs. Colquhoun had made an unusual number of walks along the sea path in the past months, even in inclement weather. But of course no one wanted to suggest that it was down to anything other than a desire to see Merham’s standards upheld.

“Weren’t they a bit foolhardy, in this water?”

“I would imagine they were rather blue in this water,” Mrs. Ansty observed, smiling. Then stopped, when she realized that no one else thought it amusing.

“And do you know he actually waved to me? The young one? Actually stood there and waved . . . as if . . . I could see . . .” Mrs. Colquhoun’s voice tailed away, her hand still lifted to her mouth as if recalling some past horror.

“He was singing last week. That Mr. Armand. Just stood on the terrace belting out some sort of opera, if you please. In broad daylight.”

The ladies shook their heads.

“Something German, I believe,” said Margaret Carew, who had a great passion for Gilbert and Sullivan.

There was a short silence.

“Well,” said Mrs. Ansty.

“I do believe, ladies, that the inhabitants of that house are beginning to lower the tone of our town.”

Mrs. Chilton put down her cup and saucer. “I’m becoming increasingly concerned about next summer’s visitors. What if word gets around about their antics? We’ve got a reputation to uphold. And we don’t want their influence spreading among our young folk, do we? Heaven knows what could happen.”

There was a brief lull in the conversation. No one wanted to bring up the incident with Lottie and Celia on the beach. But Susan Holden was far too buoyed up by Celia’s engagement to continue to feel cowed by it.

“Another piece of pineapple, anyone? Or perhaps a slice of melon?” She emerged through the door and began bustling around the room, stooping to offer little slices of the fruit, which she had carefully placed on cocktail sticks and arranged in attractive circles (
Good Housekeeping
magazine was very keen on attractive food arrangements).

“You know, it’s amazing to think how far this fruit has traveled just to be here. I said to Henry last night, ‘There are probably more pineapples on airplanes these days than people!’” She laughed, pleased by her little joke. “Go on, do try some.”

“It is quite different from the canned variety,” said Mrs. Ansty, chewing meditatively. “It’s almost a little sharp for my tastes.”

“Then have some melon, dear,” said Mrs. Holden. “It’s got a lovely mild flavor. You know, Guy’s father imports fruit from all sorts of amazing places. Honduras, Guatemala, Jerusalem. Last night he told us about fruits that we’ve never even heard of. Did you know there is actually a fruit shaped like a star?” She had gone quite pink with pride.

Mrs. Ansty swallowed and winced with pleasure. “Ooh, that melon is lovely.”

“You must take a bit home for your Arthur. Guy has told us he’ll get his father to send us some more from London. He’s got ever such a big company. And Guy is the only child, so he’ll have a very nice business to go into one day. More pineapple, Sarah? There are some napkins here, ladies, if you need them.”

Mrs. Chilton smiled primly and refused a second piece. They were all pleased that Susan had got Celia safely betrothed. But it didn’t do to get too full of oneself. “You must be so relieved,” she said carefully.

Susan Holden looked up sharply.

“Well . . . girls can be such a worry, can’t they? We’re all very glad you’ve got your Celia taken care of. And we’ll be keeping our fingers crossed for little Lottie. Although she’s never been
quite
as much of a worry to you, has she, dear?” She paused, accepting a proffered Nice biscuit from Virginia, who had just entered with a tea tray.

Mrs. Holden’s smile had gone all wobbly again.

Mrs. Chilton settled back in her chair and gave Mrs. Holden an encouraging one of her own. “Now, ladies, what are we going to do about Arcadia House? I’ve been thinking . . . perhaps someone should have a quiet word. Someone with some weight, like Alderman Elliott. But I think they should be told, those bohemians, or whatever they think they are. I don’t think they realize quite how we do things in Merham.”

L
OTTIE LAY ON HER BED PRETENDING TO READ, TRYING
not to listen to the sounds of laughter outside, where Celia and Guy were playing tennis on the lawn, apparently oblivious to the blustering wind and Frederick’s overzealous ball boying.

She stared accusingly at the page in front of her, aware that she had been gazing at the same paragraph for nearly forty minutes. If anyone had asked her what it was about, she wouldn’t have been able to answer. Then, if anyone had asked her what anything was about, she wouldn’t have been able to answer. Because nothing made sense. The universe had exploded, fragmented, and all the bits had landed back in the wrong place. Except only Lottie had noticed.

She heard Celia shriek accusingly, the cry dissolving into loud giggles, and underneath it Guy’s voice, more measured, instructing her in something. His voice held a bubble of laughter, too, but he hadn’t let his out.

Lottie closed her eyes and tried to breathe. Anytime now she knew that Celia would send someone upstairs to see if she would come and join them. Perhaps make up a comedy four, if Frederick demanded to be allowed to play. How could she explain her sudden aversion to tennis? How could she explain her sudden reluctance to go outside? How long before someone realized that wasn’t Lottie being “unsociable,” as Celia had laughingly accused her? Before they realized it wasn’t just another of her foibles, this sudden reluctance to spend time with her best friend?

She stared at the new blouse hanging on the door handle. Mrs. Holden had given her one of her “looks” when she’d thanked Celia for it. Lottie knew she thought her graceless. She should have been more grateful. It was a very nice blouse.

But Lottie hadn’t managed to say much at all. Because there was nothing Lottie was going to be able to say. How could she? How could she explain that the first moment she had set eyes on Guy everything she knew, everything she believed, had been sucked away from her like someone pulling a rug from under her? How could she explain the searing pain of familiarity at his face, the sudden, bitter joy of recognition, the deeply held certainty that her very bones were already familiar with this man; they had to be—weren’t they cast from the same human porcelain as his? How could she tell Celia she couldn’t possibly marry this man she had brought home as her fiancé?

Because he belonged to her?

“Lottie! Lots!” The voice drifted upward, carried on the air. Just as she had known it would.

She waited until the second summons, then opened the window. Looked down. Tried to keep her gaze on Celia’s upturned face.

“Don’t be boring, Lots! You’re not studying for exams now.”

“I’ve got a bit of a headache. I’ll be down later,” she said. Even her voice sounded different.

“She’s been in there all day,” said Frederick, who was throwing tennis balls against the side of the house.

“Oh, come on, do. We’re going to head over to Bardness Point. You could fetch Joe. Make a four. Come on, Lots. I’ve hardly seen you.”

She wondered that Celia couldn’t tell that her smile was false. It hurt the sides of her mouth.

“You go on. I’ll just wait for this headache to clear up. We’ll do something tomorrow.”

“Boring, boring, boring. And I’ve been telling Guy what a bad influence on me you are. You’ll think I’m fibbing, won’t you, darling?”

“Tomorrow. Promise.”

Lottie pulled her head back into the bedroom so that she wouldn’t have to see their embrace.

She lay facedown on her bed. And tried to remember how to breathe.

G
UY
P
ARNELL
O
LIVIER
B
ANCROFT HAD BEEN BORN IN
Winchester, making him technically English. But that was the only English thing about him. Everything—from his tanned skin, so at odds with most of the pale English complexions around him, to his relaxed, diffident manner—marked him out as separate from the young men the girls had known. Merham men anyway.

He was a self-contained young man, polite, reserved, who nonetheless carried the casually gilded air of the heir apparent, surprised by little and prepared at all times for good things to happen. He seemed to suffer none of the tortured self-examination of Joe or be driven by the testosterone-fueled bullishness of the other boys. He gazed a bit wide-eyed around him, as if permanently amused at some unforeseen joke, occasionally letting out bursts of uninhibited and joyful laughter. (He was the kind of young man you couldn’t help smiling at, Mrs. Holden confided to her husband. But then Guy made her smile a lot; once she had got over the shock of her daughter’s swift engagement, she had viewed him as indulgently as a firstborn son.) Guy seemed as equally unfazed by the man at the taxi rank as by the prospect of formally asking Dr. Holden for his daughter’s hand in marriage. (He hadn’t yet. But then he had been there only a couple of days, and Dr. Holden had been terribly busy.) If he was somewhat passive, somewhat less forthcoming than the Holdens would have liked, then they weren’t going to judge him for it (gift horses and all that).

But none of this should have been a surprise. For Guy Bancroft had spent most of his life freed from the rigid social conventions of boys’ public schools or suburban social circles. An only child, he had grown up as the veritable apple (his joke) of his father’s eye and, after a short, unsuccessful spell at British boarding school, was regathered to the family bosom and carted, along with their luggage, from tropic to subtropic, as Guy Bertrand Bancroft (Senior), astutely recognizing the appetite of deprived Britons for nonindigenous fruit, swiftly built up his import business, finding channels to satisfy their increasing passion.

Guy had subsequently spent his childhood wandering the huge fruit estates of the Caribbean where his father had initially based himself, exploring the deserted beaches, making friends with the black workers’ children, educated sporadically by tutors when his father remembered to hire them. Guy didn’t need formal education, the father would exclaim (he was very fond of exclaiming. It may explain why Guy the younger was rather quiet). What good did 1066 and all that ever do him? Who cared how many wives Henry VIII had? (the king could hardly have kept track himself). Everything
he’d
learned was in the School of Hard Knocks. Graduated (the boy’s mother used to raise her eyebrows comically at this point) from the University of Life. No, the boy would learn far more left free to roam wild. More about geography—compare and contrast the stepped crop fields of central China with the vast, open agricultural acres of Honduras—more about politics, more about real people and their cultures and beliefs. Math he could learn from the accounts. Biology—why, look at the insect life!

But they all knew the real reason. Guy Senior just liked having him around. Late and much longed for, the boy was all he’d ever wanted. He didn’t understand those parents who wanted to pack their offspring off to stuffy old private schools where they would learn stiff upper lips and snobbishness and likely be bugger—“Yes, darling,” his wife would interrupt firmly at this point. “I think you’ve made your point.”