Lessons In Loving (21 page)

‘That depends on our Tom,' Laetitia giggled, then took hold of his thigh, making sure the others could see. Tom was thankful when a tray of frothing glasses of ale arrived at their table, together with sherries for the ladies.

Lunch over, Tom drove the family home, resigned to the sticky silence that more and more often oozed into the space between them.

Back at Kenilworth, days passed. Most of the time Laetitia stayed inside the Big House. Her parents became adept at disappearing. Occasionally Tom found them in the library, buried in books from the shelves which occupied a whole wall of the room. Sometimes Laetitia toyed with the piano. Tom chose not to comment on her amateurishness. Whenever he played, she waxed uncomfortable. He chose not to sit at the keyboard whenever she graced the music room.

‘It's time to put some flowers on my mother's grave,' he told her one Sunday morning after a family breakfast. ‘Would you like to ride with me? We could take Princess.'

‘Very well,' she said, her voice tired. ‘Perhaps I should make the effort to ride occasionally. I'm turning into a vegetable.'

‘You seemed to enjoy your ride on Princess the other day. You said that back in Hampshire you rode often.'

‘Princess isn't up to the standard of my Thunderbolt,' she said. ‘It's hard to find a substitute for the horse one's been reared with.'

‘Princess has always been rather shy,' Tom said. ‘Give her a little time to get to know you better.'

‘I trust I shall have better things to do than coax a tired old horse round the stables.

‘Very well, let's walk up to the grave, then.' Tom would settle for a small victory. Slowly, carefully, he would wean Laetitia away from what was likely mere homesickness. In time, she'd come to love Kenilworth, just as his Hampshire-born mother had. ‘I'll pick some roses while you change into your boots.'

As they walked, Tom remembered that Kate had joined him on his last visit to the grave. She'd told him that night, as they sat with their glass of Madeira on the verandah before dinner, that she loved the romantic aura that seemed to waft over the grave. Now he recalled her sweet words about the epitaph he'd struggled to write.

They reached the grave. While Tom replaced the dead flowers with the freshly picked bunch, Laetitia sat, gazing over the hills.

‘Do you know, Tom?' she said, having sat for some minutes in moody silence. ‘I often think you were rather too much under your mother's thumb. Perhaps you still are. Perhaps it's time for you to move on?'

‘Indeed?' he said, wincing from a sudden hurt. No-one had ever made barbed comments about his mother, especially about the way she loved him. They walked back to the house in silence.

Laetitia's parents had chosen not to join the young couple for drinks on the verandah that night. As Tom and Laetitia sat in the quiet of the setting sun, he decided it was time to clear the greyness that had filled the space between them.

‘Tell me, Laetitia. Ever since you arrived, you spend most of your time moping round the house. You hardly ever step outside. You never smile. Are you happy here?'

‘Well, since you ask, no, I'm not.'

‘And what would make you happier?'

‘Well, darling.' The words slid off her tongue as if she were talking to a three-year-old. ‘A little bit of fun.'

‘Fun?'

‘Well, shops, dining out. Theatre, perhaps.'

‘Very well. We could slip down to Sydney for a few days.'

‘When can we go?' He watched her face light up, and kicked himself. He'd been too slow to read the obvious message. A woman who'd lived the life of an overindulged child, who'd been spoilt by doting parents, who'd been pursued by too many eligible young bloods of the home counties, would be bored with the dusty solitude of Kenilworth. Of course she would. She'd be missing her friends, fighting homesickness. Perhaps a trip to Sydney would clear the air.

***

Next morning Ah Foo loaded the Barrington-Smythes' luggage, then Tom's, and set off for Armidale station with his four passengers. As evening fell, a hansom cab whisked them from Central Station to the prestigious Hotel Macquarie. Tom booked the party into a suite with several bedrooms, sensing that his parents-in-law would prefer to stay well and truly out of the way while their daughter and her intended addressed their differences.

Laetitia disappeared to her chambers to dress, for the dinner for two that Tom had said could be the finest Australia had to offer. After an hour, she appeared at the door of Tom's rooms in a dress, all dark silk and white flesh that made Tom's eyes pop.

They took their seats in the restaurant downstairs. The sommelier materialised as they studied the wine list. Tom asked Laetitia to order the wine, knowing she'd choose the most expensive. She obliged. Then the sommelier transformed into a friendly sorcerer.

‘It's a special occasion for mam'selle and monsieur?'

‘Yes,' Laetitia bubbled.

‘We have another wine. A little more expensive than those on the wine list. But so right, so perfect, for an evening you may wish to remember fondly.'

She nodded without asking for the details. The sommelier fetched the wine, poured it, and melted away. As they sipped it, they exchanged glances. It was indeed right, perfect for the occasion.

‘Let me order our first course,' Tom offered as he scanned the dinner menu. ‘Something to share. Beluga caviar. My mother loved it. She ordered it for me once when we stayed in this very hotel. To celebrate her birthday.'

‘Does your mother always have to run our lives?'

‘My apologies. Of course not. I merely thought you'd enjoy the Beluga. After all, it's the most expensive dish on the menu.'

The sommelier reappeared and suggested a subtle white wine to elevate their caviar into an experience which, he said, would be like flying to the most remote star in the heavens. Laetitia nodded. The evening progressed. Each course, each new wine, seemed to eclipse the last.

‘A walk might be pleasant,' Tom said as a waiter removed their plates after their last course was finished.

‘What? At this time of night?'

‘Perhaps you'd rather sit on my balcony? Watch the harbour lights?'

‘Very well,' Laetitia said. ‘If we can enjoy a drink while we sit.'

Tom ordered a fine port and two glasses from the sommelier, and led her to the balcony of his room. She raised her glass as soon as Tom filled it.

‘In vino veritas,' she said.

‘What does that mean?'

‘In wine, truth. Or in this case, in port, truth.'

‘Did you enjoy your dinner?' Tom said, planning to change the subject.

‘I'd have enjoyed it more if the company had been a little more interesting.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I've told you before, Tom. Everywhere we go, everything we do, you bring your mother with you. I'm heartily sick of it.' She took a long sip of her port.

‘I'm sorry.' For the first time in his courtship, Tom saw that her irritation might be justified. ‘Perhaps you're right,' he murmured. He'd tell her the whole story. ‘My mother always told me that when I was old enough, I must go to her Hampshire village and look for a bride. A bride I'd fall in love with. Who'd share my parents' dream to keep the noble blood in Kenilworth's ownership. That's how I found you.'

‘For goodness sake! Now you're telling me your mother's running our lives from beyond the grave! Enough!' She drained her glass, crashed it onto the table. ‘I'm leaving. Now!' She stalked inside, slipped out into the hall, then slammed the door with an energy which frightened Tom.

He sat in the dark, watching the lights moving on the water, sipping his port. For the first time in months, he felt a wave of peace waft over him. Laetitia had chosen to walk out of his life. And he was glad.

A few minutes later, the ideas bubbling in his head had distilled down to a sensible resolution. After a respectable interval, he walked down to the concierge.

‘Mr Fortescue, sir?' The ageless man, the hotel's senior concierge, had served Tom ever since, as a boy, he'd stayed at the hotel with his parents.

‘I wonder, Soames, whether you are aware of any ships now in port that are about to set sail for England?' Always inscrutable, Soames looked down at his desk.

‘Indeed, sir, the
Queen Adelaide
is to depart on the morrow. At daylight, I understand. Perhaps I might make enquiries on your behalf?'

Tom thought quickly. He knew that Prudence could not return from Melbourne in time to board the
Queen Adelaide
. No matter. Her return ticket had already been booked on the other ship.

‘I should like to know if there is first class accommodation available for a couple, and their daughter. A separate stateroom for the daughter. But surely it's too late now to—'

‘Excuse me, sir.' Soames sat, turned a handle connected to a strange boxlike machine, and began to talk into a cup attached to a handle. Then he fell silent.

Tom stared at him. Was the man mad? Did he think he could work magic?

‘The telephone, sir.' As usual, Soames had read Tom's mind. ‘When big ships dock, many of their first class passengers, and perhaps some of the higher ranking officers, choose to stay with us at the Macquarie. After long weeks at sea, they prefer the comfort of a proper suite, and they are quite able to manage their shipboard business with this.' He pointed to the strange box that he had addressed moments before. A crackling sound floated from the box.

‘Oh, excuse me, sir.' Soames pointed to the box, then spoke once more into the cup-like device. ‘First class staterooms?' Soames murmured. ‘For tomorrow's departure?' He fell silent again, evidently listening.

Now Tom recollected having heard that the telephone, invented in the United States of America some twenty-odd years before, had lately been introduced to certain prestigious businesses in Melbourne and Sydney. It seemed that if money were no object, then the well-to-do took to the telephone like ducks to water. Confused, he took a seat some distance from the concierge's desk. A few minutes later, Soames stood beside him.

‘Staterooms aboard the
Queen Adelaide
are now reserved in accord with your request, sir. I took the liberty of debiting your account …'

Tom knew that for a generation Soames had been aware of the bottomless well of the Fortescue finances.

‘Excellent!' Tom drew a triumphant breath.

‘The passengers, presumably the guests who arrived this evening, sir? The purser suggests they may come aboard this evening if they wish. Tomorrow's departure will be rather early. All the other passengers are already aboard. Perhaps I should arrange for a cab?'

‘Indeed!' Tom stood. In moments he would knock at the door of the Barrington-Smythes' suite and break the news he knew they had longed to hear from the moment they set foot on Australian soil. ‘Thank you, Soames.'

‘Should I send a concierge to your guests' quarters, sir? To advise them of their departure details?'

‘Thank you, Soames. I'd prefer to attend to it myself.' A smile skipped across Tom's face. He must hide it. ‘I'll fetch them immediately.'

He walked to their suite, knocked at the door, and waited. His intended father-in-law opened it, his face a question mark. Tom took a discreet peek inside. Laetitia sat in an armchair, upright, eyes blazing, dressed in her travelling outfit. Her parents stood beside her, silent, embarrassed, but seemingly obedient to the demands of their angry daughter. A neat row of portmanteaux stood in a line near the door. The Barrington-Smythes had not unpacked their luggage since it was delivered a few hours before.

‘Good news, sir.' Tom applied what he hoped was a gentlemanly smile. ‘Responding to your beautiful daughter's wishes, I've booked your passage to England on a fine ship—the
Princess Adelaide
. She leaves at dawn. So—'

‘But—but—'

‘You're evidently aware, sir, that Laetitia wishes to return to England post-haste.' Tom suppressed his smile as the suddenly ashen man turned towards his daughter. Her vitriolic stare confirmed to Tom that she had badgered her family into severing all ties with Tom Fortescue, and Australia, as quickly as possible.

‘But—'

‘I'm happy to advise, sir, that I've secured, and of course paid for, two of the ship's most elegant staterooms for your family. I trust it will suit.' He paused as the man choked for breath, eyes wide. ‘Given your ship's early departure, may I suggest that you board this evening? The concierge has already ordered a cab.'

‘But I've already paid for a return passage on the—' Charles Barrington-Smythe stopped mid-sentence.

Tom watched as the information filtered through the embarrassed man's mind. By accepting Tom's offer, he would save the cost of his return fare if he cancelled the booking promptly. Likely opportunities for that arrangement would present themselves as the
Princess Adelaide
steamed round the Australian coast to Melbourne, Adelaide, Perth.

Now, as Laetitia sat, face dark with anger, she looked towards Tom. Was that a tear on her eyelid? Was the cold, bullying woman, who'd wrapped him round her little finger for far too long, perhaps a little sad as they parted? She turned away.

‘I only came to this godforsaken place because my father made me,' she whispered to the wall.

‘And why did he do that?' Tom knew the answer before the words left his mouth. Some not-so-subtle asides from Prudence had confirmed Tom's suspicions. Charles Barrington-Smythe needed money to save his estate from bankruptcy. And he'd been prepared to sell his most valuable asset—Laetitia—to raise that money.

A soft knock at the door saved her from having to answer Tom's question. He opened it to the concierge, pressed a sovereign into his hand. In seconds, the concierge had collected the family's luggage, opened the door for them, waved them towards the lobby.