Authors: Rosamunde Pilcher
"But you loved her?"
Edmund shook his head. "I don't know. I didn't think about it all that much. I only know that she was wonderful to look at, immensely elegant, the sort of woman that would always turn heads, excite a certain envy. I liked being seen around with her. I was very proud of her. The sexual, loving part of our relationship wasn't quite so smooth. I don't quite know when it all started to go wrong. I'm sure it was as much my fault as Caroline's, but she was a strange girl. She used sex as a weapon and frigidity as a punishment. Before the first year was over, I was sleeping as often as not in my dressing-room, and when she realized that she was pregnant with Alexa, there was no joy, only tears and recriminations. She didn't want a baby, because she was frightened of childbirth, and as things turned out, she had every reason to be afraid. Because after Alexa was born, she went into a post-natal depression that lasted for months. She was in hospital for a long time, and when she was fit to travel, her mother took her off to Madeira to spend the winter there. In the early summer of that year, Archie and Isobel were married. He was my oldest, closest friend. I'd seen little of him after I went to London, but I knew that I had to be at his wedding. I took a week's leave and came home. I was twenty-nine. I came back to Strathcroy on my own. I stayed here, at Balnaid, with Vi, but Croy was filled with house guests and spinning like a three-ring circus, and on my first day home I went up to see Archie and become involved in all the fun.
"And Pandora was there. I hadn't seen her for five years. She was eighteen, finished with schools, finished with childhood. I'd known her for ever. She was part of my life, always there. A baby in a pram, a little girl tagging along with Archie and me, never missing a trick. Spoiled as hell, wayward, wicked, but utterly enchanting and endearing. I saw her again, and knew that she hadn't changed. All that had happened was that she had grown up. I saw her coming towards me across the hall at Croy, and I saw her eyes and her smile, and her long legs, and an aura of sexuality about her, so potent, almost visible. And she put her arms around my neck and kissed my mouth and said, 'Edmund, you horrible man. Why didn't you wait for me?' And that was all she said. And I felt as though I was drowning, and the deep waters had already closed over the top of my head."
"You were lovers."
"I didn't seduce her. She was only eighteen, but somewhere along the line, she had already lost her virginity. It wasn't difficult to be together. There was so much going on, so many people in the house, that nobody missed us if we went off on our own."
"She was in love with you."
"She said. She said she always had been, ever since she was a small girl. The fact that I was married only made her more obdurate. She'd never been denied anything that she wanted, and when I tried to talk reason to her, she put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes and refused to listen. She couldn't believe that I would leave her. She couldn't believe that I wouldn't come back.
"The wedding was on a Saturday. I had to drive back to London on the Sunday afternoon. On the Sunday morning, Pandora and I walked up the hill, on the road to the loch. But we stopped at the Corrie and lay on the grass, with the sound of the burn trickling at our feet. And I finally convinced her that I had to go, and she wept and protested and clung to me, and finally, to quieten her, I promised that I would come back, that I would write, that I did love her. All the stupid bloody things you say when you haven't the courage to end something. When yqu haven't the courage to be strong. When you can't bring yourself to destroy another person's dream."
"Oh, Edmund."
"I made such a fucking cock-up of it all. I was such a bloody coward. I went back to London, and as the miles lengthened behind me, I started to hate myself for what I'd done to Caroline and Alexa, and for what I was doing to Pandora. By the time I got back to London, I determined I would write to Pandora and try to explain that the whole episode had been a sort of fantasy; stolen days that had no more substance, no more future, than a soap bubble. But I didn't write. Because the. next morning I went into the office, and by that evening I was in an aeroplane with my chairman, flying to Hong Kong. A huge financial deal was on the stocks, and I'd been picked to handle it. I was away for three weeks. By the time I returned to London, that time at Croy had dissolved into a sort of distant unlikelihood, like days stolen from another person's life. I could scarcely believe that it had happened to me. I was my own hard-headed business man, not that indecisive romantic, swept off his feet by a fleeting sexual infatuation. And there was too much at stake. My job, I suppose. A way of life that I'd worked my guts out to achieve. Alexa. Losing Alexa did not bear thinking about. And Caroline. My wife, for better* for worse. Back from Madeira, sun-tanned, well, recovered. We'd gone through a bad time together, but we'd come out on the other side. We were together again, and it wasn't the right time to blow it all apart. We picked up the threads of life, the warp and woof of a convenient marriage."
"And Pandora?"
"Nothing. Finished. I never wrote that letter."
"Oh, Edmund. That was cruel."
"Yes. A sin of omission. Do you know that dreadful feeling, when there is something immensely important that you should do, and you haven't done. And with each day that passes, it becomes more and more difficult to accomplish, until finally it passes the bounds of possibility and becomes impossible. It was over. Archie and Isobel went to Berlin, and immediate ties with Croy were severed. I heard nothing more. Until that day that Vi called from Balnaid to say that Pandora had gone. Run away, eloped to the other side of the world with a rich American old enough to be her father."
"You blame yourself?"
"Of course."
"Did you ever tell Caroline?"
"Never."
"Were you happy with her?"
"No. She wasn't a woman who engendered happiness. It worked all right, because we made it work, we were those sort of people. But love, of every sort, was always thin on the ground. I wish we had been happy. It would have been easier to accept her death if we'd had a good life, and I could have been certain that it hadn't all been just a"-he searched for words-"waste of ten good years."
There did not seem to be anything more to say. Across the distance that divided them, husband and wife regarded each other, and Virginia saw Edmund's hooded eyes filled with despair and sadness. She got up then, off the low stool, and went to sit beside him. She touched his mouth with her fingers. She kissed him. He reached out his arm and pulled her close.
She said, "And us?"
"I never knew how it could be, until I met you."
"I wish you'd told me all this before."
"I was ashamed. I didn't want you to know. I'd give my right arm to be able to change things. But I can't, because they happened. They become part of you, stay with you forever."
"Have you spoken to Pandora about all this?"
"No. I've scarcely seen her. There's been no opportunity."
"You must make it right with her."
"Yes."
"She is, I think, still very precious to you."
"Yes. But she's part of life the way it used to be. Not the way it is now."
"You know, I've always loved you. I suppose if I hadn't loved you so much, you wouldn't have been able to make me so miserable. But now I realize that you are human and frail and make the same idiotic blunders as the rest of us, it's even better. I never thought you needed me, you see. I thought you were quite self
-
sufficient. Being needed's more important than anything."
"I need you now. Don't go away. Don't leave me. Don't go to America with Conrad Tucker."
"I wasn't running away with him."
"I thought you were."
"No, you didn't. He's actually a very nice man."
"I wanted to kill him."
You must never tell Edmund. Still untouched by guilt, she felt protective of her husband, holding her secret like a proud and private trophy. She said lightly, "That would have been a dreadful waste.".
"Will your grandparents be very disappointed?"
"We'll go some other time. You and me together. We'll leave Henry with Vi and Edie and we'll go and see them on our own."
He kissed her and leaned his head back on the deep cushions of the sofa and sighed. "Iwish we didn't have to go to this bloody dance."
"I know. But we must. Just for a little."
"I would very, very much rather take you to bed."
"Oh, Edmund. We've lots of time for love. Years and years. The rest of our lives."
Presently Edie came to find them, knocking on the door before she opened it. The light from the hall shone from behind her and turned her white hair into an aureole.
"Just to say Henry's in bed and waiting for you. . . ."
"Oh, thank you, Edie. . . ."
They went upstairs. In his own room, Henry lay in his own bed. His night-lamp burnt dimly, and the room lay in shadows. Virginia sat on the edge of the bed and bent to kiss him. He was already half asleep.
"Good night, my darling."
"Good night, Mummy."
"You'll be all right."
"Yes. I'll be all right."
"No dreams."
"I don't think so."
"If dreams come, Edie's downstairs."
"Yes. I know."
"I'll leave you with Daddy."
She stood up and moved towards the door.
"Have a good party," Henry told her.
"Thank you, my darling. We will." She went through the door. Edmund took her place.
"Well, Henry, you're home again."
"I'm sorry about the school. It really wasn't right."
"No. I know. I realize that. Mr. Henderson does as well."
"I don't have to go back to it, do I?"
"I don't think so. We'll have to see if the Strathcroy Primary will take you on again."
"Do you think they'll say no?"
"I shouldn't think so. You'll be back with Kedejah."
"That'll be good."
"Good night, old boy. You did well. I'm proud of you."
Henry's eyes were closing. Edmund stood up and moved away. But at the open door, he turned back, and realized, with some surprise, that his own eyes were moist.
"Henry?"
"Yes?"
"Have you got Moo in there with you?"
"No," Henry told him. "I don't need Moo any more."
Out of doors* Virginia realized that the rain had stopped. From somewhere a wind had sprung up, chill and fresh as snow, stirring the darkness, causing the high elms of Balnaid to rustle and creak and toss their heads. Looking up, she saw stars, for this wind was blowing all clouds away to the east, and in their wake the sky was clear and infinite, pricked with the jewel glitter of a million constellations. Sweet and cold, the clean air struck her cheeks. She took deep breaths of it and was revitalized. No longer tired. No longer miserable, angry, resentful, lost. Henry was home and staying home, and Edmund, in more ways than one, returned to her. She was young and knew that she looked beautiful. Dressed to the nines and off to a party, she was ready to dance all night.
They drove into the beam of the headlights, the narrow country roads twisting away behind them. As they approached Corriehill, the night sky was bathed in reflected brilliance from the spotlights which had been directed onto the front of the house. Drawing closer, they saw Verena's strings of fairy lights looped from tree to tree all the way up the long drive, and as well, every twenty yards or so, the bright flares of Roman candles that grew from the grass verges.
The BMW swung around the last bend, and the house was revealed in its full glory, towering up agains
t t
he dark backdrop of the sky. It looked enormously impressive and proud.
Virginia said, "It must be feeling really good tonight."
"What must?"
"Corriehill. Like a monument. In memory of all the dinner parties, and wedding feasts and dances and balls that it must have known in the course of its history. And christenings. And funerals too, I suppose. But mostly parties."
Three brilliant searchlights were beamed upwards, lighting Corriehill from basements to chimneys. Beyond stood the marquee, lit from inside, like a shadow theatre. Distorted silhouettes moved and turned against the white canvas. They heard the beat of music. The dancing, clearly, was already well under way.
Another spotlight hung from a tree to the left of the drive, illuminating the big paddock. Here, cars were parked, in long, well-ordered rows, as far as the eye could see. A figure approached through the gloom, flashing a torch. Edmund stopped the car and rolled down his window. The torch-bearer stopped to peer in. Hughie McKinnon, the Steyntons' old handyman, press-ganged for the evening into the role of car-park attendant, and already reeking of whisky.
"Good evening, sir."
"Good evening, Hughie."
"Oh, it's yourself, Mr. Aird! Pm sorry, I didna' recognize the car. How are you, sir?" He craned a little farther in order to cock his eye at Virginia, and the whisky fumes flowed afresh. "And Mrs. Aird. How are you keeping yourself?"