A Future Arrived (33 page)

“That tune certainly is. It's always the last one of the night. I asked old Vassilievich about it once. He owns the place … an ex-colonel in the Imperial Russian Guards … although they always say they were something grand. He was probably a cook. Anyway, he explained it was a folk song about a dying Cossack dreaming of the homeland he will never see again.”

“One can't get much sadder than that.”

He leaned toward her and pressed his lips against her throat. She opened her eyes and stared at him, almost in curiosity. “I hope you didn't mind,” he said.

“No. Should I?”

“Taking advantage. Balalaikas and brandy. An unfair mixture, like moonlight and roses.”

“I suppose it is … yet pleasant.”

“Certainly that.” He sat on the couch and drew her to him. Her lips and body were rigid as he kissed her. Then she was soft against him, pliant as wax. His tongue felt the moistness of her mouth. She pulled back from him with a throaty gasp.

“I … should go now.”

“If you wish.”

“It's best … I think.”

“Yes. It's terribly late.”

“If you would call a cab …”

He smiled at her and touched her cheek. “One doesn't call cabs at this hour. We walk around the corner to the White Mouse Club where the taxis wait.”

“What's the White Mouse Club?”

“A private social spot for well-heeled businessmen. A nunnery in the Shakespearean sense of the word.”

She stared at him, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “I see. An interesting neighborhood.”

“A bachelor's paradise—or so they say.”

“Not to you?”

“I'm not here often enough to find out.”

He took hold of her hand as they went down the stairs under the appalling gloom of the low-wattage bulb. The hand seemed quite lifeless to him, rigid as a mannequin's. In the street, he could see her expression in the brighter glow of the lights. Her face, he thought, was a mask of either boredom or indifference. He did not attempt to hold her hand, or to touch her in any way, as they walked around the corner into Bridle Lane where taxis were lined up in front of a darkly shuttered building. Albert stepped into the road and whistled for one of them.

Jennifer broke the silence between them as the taxi plunged into the now deserted streets of Mayfair.

“I had a most enjoyable evening.”

“I'm glad. I know I did.”

“I'm sorry your holiday plans were spoiled.”

“That doesn't matter. I'm just sorry for poor Colin. I'll find things to do. Day trips to Clacton-on-Sea, and other such thrilling excursions.”

There was an eternity of silence and then she said: “I'm rather at loose ends. Perhaps we could do something together.”

“I would enjoy your company.”

“And I yours.” The taxi pulled up in front of her building and she got out. “Why don't you phone me on Monday and we'll work something out.”

“I'll do that.”

“Good.” She shook his hand with a crisp formality—but the hand lingered, the fingers touched.

H
E TELEPHONED HER
on Monday morning and she suggested a drive in the country, to Lulworth Manor in Dorset. Would that be all right with him?

“Whatever you'd like to do,” he said.

“Good. I knew you'd agree. I ordered a hamper for us from Fortnum and Mason.”

“A what?”

“A picnic hamper … sandwiches, cold chicken. Much nicer than those horrid little roadside inns. I'll pick you up at eleven.”

She was there on the dot, pulling up in front of his door in her little green Sunbeam, the top folded back, a wicker basket strapped to the luggage rack. She was wearing slacks and a sweater, a green bandanna tied around her head to keep her hair from blowing. He got in beside her.

“You can drive if you'd like,” she told him.

“No, no. You look too enchanting behind the wheel.”

She pressed the gas pedal and shot away, threading into the London traffic.

It was impossible to talk over the snarl of the engine and the howling wind, so Albert sat back, face tilted to the sun, and enjoyed the drive. She turned off the main highway at last and drove along narrow lanes through a lush, verdant countryside and past hamlets of thatched-roof houses. An iron gate barred the end of one particularly deserted lane and she stopped the car, leaving the engine running, unlocked the gate and swung it open.

“Where are we?” he asked as she got back into the car.

“Lulworth Manor.”

“Which is?”

“My grandfather's estate. No one lives here now except a caretaker and his wife. It's a lovely old house, though, and the grounds are beautiful in a wild, overgrown sort of way.”

She was right on all counts. The house came into view, a Georgian mansion of gray stone perched on a hill with a magnificent view of the Channel and Lulworth Cove. Unpruned evergreens and the tangled thickets of what had once been a garden surrounded it. The house seemed to be rising from a jungle of native European flora.

“Good Lord,” he said. “What on earth are the caretakers for?”

“Not much. They're quite ancient. Keep the inside of the house from being swallowed in dust, I suppose. None of the family have lived here in years and no one seems willing to buy the place.”

“Make a smashing resort hotel.”

“That's Grandfather's fervent wish. It's a horrible white elephant, but I do love the place.”

She stopped at the caretakers' cottage to pay her respects to them—a pleasant couple who seemed as weathered as the stones of the house, and as strong—and then drove on for half a mile and parked on the edge of a meadow that sloped toward low cliffs and the sea.

“Chicken in herbs,” she said, unpacking the basket and placing the items on a blanket. “Potted shrimp … deviled eggs … sliced ham … French rolls … cheeses … a bottle of Chablis, a bottle of claret …”

“Stop! Did you invite six other people?”

“You should put on some weight. I think you're far too thin.”

“I've seen an infantry company exist on less food than this.” He filched a pickled onion from a jar. “Looks jolly nice, though. Must have cost you a ruddy fortune.”

“A pretty penny, as the saying goes.” She snapped her fingers. “But who counts the cost for an occasion such as this?”

“What sort of occasion is it?”

“Being with good company on a sunny, windy day. God in his heaven and all that.” She bit into a chicken wing and gazed across the wind-tossed grasses. The Channel was gray-green and flecked with whitecaps. “I used to swim in that cold sea when I was a child, even at this time of the year. I would hate to do so now.”

“God forbid.” He rummaged in the basket. “They even provided a corkscrew and two glasses. White or red?”

“Red. It warms the blood better.”

“Chilly?”

“Not yet, but it's time to get fortified. Those clouds blowing in will cover the sun in about an hour.”

The clouds did more than that and in less time. They brought a misty rain swirling in on the wind. Albert struggled to put up the canvas top while Jennifer hurriedly repacked the basket and carried it to the car. There were no side curtains and they huddled in the seats with the picnic blanket drawn around them like a tent.

“It'll blow over in a few minutes,” Albert said.

She shook her head. “I know this coast. It'll get a good deal worse before it gets better. We could go to the caretakers' cottage. They'll have a fire going.”

“Do you want to?”

“Not unless you do. I'm quite cozy here. Is there any claret left?”

“Nearly half a bottle. I stuck it behind the seat.”

He half turned to reach back for it, brushing against her as he did so. She placed her hands against his chest, moving her palms lightly across the softness of his sweater. She arched her back and strained against him as he put his arms around her and kissed her, her hands sliding to the small of his back, pressing him closer.

“You're very lovely,” he whispered against her mouth. “Beautiful.”

She pulled her head back, eyes closed, lips parted. “I've never felt quite this way.”

He smiled and kissed the hollow of her throat. “Deviled eggs and red wine.”

She rested her head on the back of the seat and studied him with a grave, thoughtful expression. “I couldn't get you off my mind yesterday. Found it hard to go to sleep last night. I kept thinking of you … that flat … the Russians and their sad songs. I'm really not myself today.”

“Aren't you? I rather like you this way. How are you usually?”

“More … in control of myself.”

“You seem calm enough to me.”

“Not inside. I … I think I'm falling in love with you, Thax.”

He drew away from her and watched the rain pelt against the windshield, driven almost horizontal by the wind. “I
know
I love you, Jenny. Knew it the moment I saw you that day at Abingdon Pryory. A reporter's instinct.”

“Have you ever been in love before?”

“Every second Tuesday when I was in college.”

“What were they like?”

“I can't remember one face. Just girls to go to the pictures with or the pubs, argue philosophy and the state of the world. Undergraduate romance. Intense but shallow.”

“Yes. I felt the same way about a man in India once. A Lieutenant someone-or-other. He had a small mustache.”

“Well, there you are. Can't take a chap with a small mustache seriously, can you?”

“I can take you seriously,” she said, the words barely audible over the rain.

He tapped his fingers against the dash. “Not the wisest idea, perhaps. Journalists and sailors.”

“What my sister would refer to as ‘no-strings.' None at all.”

He looked at her and she was staring at him. He could feel her intensity, her need. He reached for her hands and squeezed them between his own. “Shall we go back to London, Jenny?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, leaning toward the starter button. “As quickly as possible.”

H
E LAY NAKED
on the bed under a sheet and watched her come into the room in his bathrobe. The light had faded and the glow cast by the restaurant sign bathed the room in soft green and gold. She walked slowly to the bed and sat beside him, one hand holding the edges of the robe together. He smiled at her and said, in mellifluous tones: “And now Miss J. Wood-Lacy looking a vision in this season's fabric rage … tattered terry by Prince Albertino of Milan.”

She did not laugh as she curled her body beside him and rested her head on his chest. Her hair was still damp from the bath. “I feel … so odd all of a sudden, Thax.”

“Do you?” He stroked her shoulder, the familiar cloth, threadbare and in need of a wash. “Nothing odd about feeling odd.”

“I've never … made love before.”

“Really? What a shocking surprise. And you ten times married and only twice divorced.” He sat up on one elbow and brushed his lips across her cheek. “No wonder you're nervous. Nothing like rituals to take the starch out of anyone. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Then get dressed. We're going downstairs for dinner. Borscht with sour cream … shaslik or stroganoff … solianka, and pony glasses of ice-cold vodka. How does that sound to you?”

She raised her head, smiling at him. “Lovely.”

“And then, my darling, you can drive to your cozy flat in your cozy little car, or you can come back up here.” He teased her lips with his. “Either way … I love you.”

H
E STOOD IN
front of the window at dawn and glanced out across Lower James Street. It was silent below except for the gentle gurgle of rain down the drainpipes. Beyond the shadowed buildings he could hear the steady, never ceasing hum of the city, constant as blood coursing through living veins. Walking back to the bed he looked down at Jennifer sleeping peacefully under the blankets. Her face was in profile on the pillow, mouth parted, a wisp of dark hair across her forehead. She held the pillow in her arms and this movement had pulled down the blankets below her bare shoulders to reveal one small, uptilted breast.

He put on the terry-cloth robe—that now and forever held the scent of her body—and went into the kitchen. He put water on the gas ring and then walked into the drawing room and turned on the lamp over the large table he used as a desk. All the papers that had been sent over by messenger on Sunday were stacked beside his typewriter along with a note from Jacob. He glanced at the note again while waiting for the kettle to begin singing …