The Winter Folly (23 page)

One day she found herself walking near Pall Mall and saw from the barriers that lined the road and the great ceremonial flags hanging at intervals from tall poles that a royal procession was
taking place. She approached the barriers where people stood three or four deep, a mixture of Londoners and tourists, and heard the distant tinny rhythm of the marching band and the clip-clop of
the accompanying horses carrying the royal guard.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked a man standing near her.

‘A prime minister on a state visit,’ he replied. ‘Don’t know who.’

She watched curiously for a moment as the procession approached and just as the magnificent beasts, glossy and superbly trained, began to pass her, each with an immaculately turned-out rider
clad in black brass-buttoned tunics with white gloves and breeches, wearing a polished brass helmet with its plume of red horsehair, it suddenly burst on her what this meant. This was
Laurence’s own regiment, the Blues, whose duty it was to provide the royal guard. She had seen them many times in training but they had a new magnificence in their ceremonial uniforms.
Alexandra drew a short shocked breath and looked up at the faces of the soldiers as they passed. She wanted to turn away but couldn’t prevent herself scanning each one. Then, as she knew she
would, she saw Laurence, his thin face framed by the thick gold chin strap of his helmet, and it was inevitable that he should somehow sense her presence and turn his eyes to the right so that his
light blue gaze locked with hers. She saw that he recognised her immediately and while he appeared outwardly impassive, he paled and his hands twitched as they held the black reins. His gaze burned
into her for no more than an instant and then moved on to stare straight ahead, a perfectly controlled soldier in the perfectly formed ranks of horsemen.

The rest of the crowd murmured and began to clap and cheer as the royal carriage came into view. Alexandra turned and walked away as fast as she could, her heart sprinting in her chest. That was
her husband. Much as she wanted to forget him, he still existed and the wedding ring on her finger proved that they were still legally bound together. But the month was almost up. What then?

She wanted to talk to Nicky about it, but when she got back, the house was empty with only a note left folded on the kitchen table to show he’d been there. She pulled it open in panic,
fearing that he had left her or was ordering her to leave, but it was a quickly scrawled message to tell her that he had been called home and would let her know about it as soon as he could. He was
sorry he’d missed her.

There was no news until the next day and Alexandra existed in a horrible emptiness. This was what life without Nicky would be and she knew she couldn’t stand it. When he telephoned in the
evening, her whole being thrilled to the sound of his voice.

‘Are you all right, Nicky? What is it? What’s happened?’

‘It’s my father. I’m sorry to say he’s died.’

‘Oh, Nicky!’ Her heart swelled with tenderness and sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you, darling. It wasn’t a shock, if that’s any comfort. The funeral is on Friday.’

‘Do you want me there? I’d like to be with you.’

There was a pause and Nicky said, ‘I don’t think it would be wise. Not yet.’

‘No . . . no, of course not.’ She imagined herself appearing at Nicky’s side, to the shock of the village and probably to the consternation of his family. And it was inevitable
her father would hear of it too. She wasn’t ready for that.

Nicky went on: ‘It would be no fun for you here, I’m busy with inheritance matters as well. Besides taking on the house, I have to persuade my stepmother to leave. We’re just
agreeing where she’ll go but I think I’ve managed to make Bournemouth sound most attractive. Listen, darling, I have to go. I’ll call again and I’ll be back just as soon as
I can.’

That night she stared into space, thinking fearfully of what the inheritance meant. Their life in the little mews house was so beautiful. She didn’t want a new chapter to open, for a
different existence to come along and spoil everything. How would they keep this sense of blissful togetherness if Nicky was going to be taken away from her by the great house and all that went
with it?

When Nicky came back two days later, she fell into his arms and they went to bed at once, hungry for one another after so long apart. Afterwards, she held him tightly, stroking his hair and
listening as he talked about what had happened.

‘It was all so odd,’ he murmured, his cheek pressed against her breast, an arm over her waist. ‘I wasn’t close to my father but the funeral was a wretched experience.
They put him in the family vault alongside my ma, and it was rather awful standing down there in the dark watching my father join my mother and thinking:
Well, that’s me
next
.’

‘Not for years and years,’ whispered Alexandra, unable to contemplate that horror.

‘No.’ He gazed up at her, his eyes almost beseeching. ‘But it made me realise that I don’t want to be without you. Life is for living. We should be together.’

Happiness bubbled up inside her. ‘That’s what I want too, more than anything.’ Her joy faded. ‘But there’s Laurence. He wants an answer. The month is up.’

A stormy look passed over Nicky’s face. ‘He’s a cad. He can’t possibly expect you to go back to him after what he did to you. We won’t dignify the whole sorry mess
with an answer. You never wanted to marry him in the first place. Fort Stirling is mine now – let’s go back there and be happy. Let him try and get you if he wants. You’ll come
with me, won’t you, Alex? You’ll have to be brave. People will know about us, and fast. Your father is bound to find out.’

She was silent, clutching onto the warm strength of his arms. Could she do it? She’d go home not as the respectable bride who had left, but as the wicked woman who had deserted her husband
barely six months after the wedding and set up home with another man. Here in the depths of London she was anonymous. There she would be talked about, discussed, speculated about.

Nicky’s hand fell on hers and closed over it, warm and comforting. ‘I don’t want to go back without you,’ he said softly.

‘Of course I’ll come,’ she replied stoutly. She shut the thought of her father from her mind. ‘I want to be with you, wherever you are.’

Besides
, she added silently,
where else could I go?

‘Are you happy to be home?’ Nicky asked, shouting over the noise of the car engine as they sped through the country lanes, the wind ruffing their hair.

Alexandra smiled and nodded, not wanting to open her mouth because the wind would whip tendrils of hair into it. The little convertible sports car roared around bends and tore up hills as though
there was a horde of barbarians giving chase.

But no one is chasing us
, she thought, exhilarated.
We’re free. At least for now.

She was glad that they didn’t have to go through the village – she wasn’t ready for that – but they approached from the west instead, rounding the woods and climbing the
hill until the estate opened out in front of them. Suddenly there was the house: a hotchpotch of styles that melded into a thing of beauty with its graceful chimneys, glittering glass windows and
ornate stonework. Around it the soft green parkland billowed out like a cushion and was dotted with trees, their edges already touched with autumn russet.

Fort Stirling was glorious, breathtaking in a way she’d never noticed before. As a child she’d simply accepted it as a big house where she would sometimes play but now she saw what a
magnificent piece of history it was, a stone edifice softened to a velvety texture that belied its ancient purpose as the stronghold of the Stirling family. Generations had lived here, defending
it, building wealth, cultivating land, reinforcing the family’s importance. And all this was Nicky’s now. The young man beside her, with his thatch of dark hair, the grey eyes she loved
so much, the hands that drove her wild with longing and made her sigh with pleasure – it all belonged to him.

Unaware she was looking at him, he whooped as they sailed down the hill towards the house, the wind tufting his hair. She felt wonderfully carefree. Who could touch them in a place like this? It
was a fort, wasn’t it? They could lock themselves away and protect themselves against the outside world. It would be just the two of them, needing nothing and no one but each other.

By the time they pulled up in a shower of gravel in front of the ornate front door, a small collection of people had gathered to greet them. When Nicky climbed out of the car, a portly lady in a
navy dress came forward and curtsied to him.

‘Welcome home, my lord,’ she said in a rich Dorset accent.

‘Hello, Mrs Spencer, how are you? How is the old place?’

‘We’re happy to have you back,’ she said fervently. ‘All of us.’ She cast an enquiring look at Alexandra.

‘This is . . . Miss Crewe,’ Nicky said, seeing the direction of her glance. ‘She’ll be staying with us. Thomas, our luggage is jammed in the back. Do see if you can
extract it.’

A young man in dark trousers, shirt and a waistcoat darted forward, mumbling, ‘Yes, my lord.’

Alexandra glanced at Nicky. Of course he was ‘my lord’ now. He had inherited the title, which made him the new Viscount Northmoor. Nicky Northmoor had quite a ring to it.

But the realisation of his new status made her afraid. How could Nicky live indefinitely with a married woman? She wondered suddenly if Laurence would divorce her but she did not see how that
would improve matters. A divorced woman was just as bad in most people’s eyes.

‘Come on, Alex, let’s go in.’ Nicky strode ahead of her, barely acknowledging the bows and curtsies of the gardener and the two maids. Alexandra followed on behind him, smiling
shyly at the staff as they gazed at her curiously, and then she was going up the stone steps and through the front door, into the great hall beyond.

Nicky showed her around the house, through the huge salons and drawing rooms, into the grand dining room where a polished mahogany table stretched away with twenty chairs on
either side, and into the small circular one with its more manageable round table and the pretty turquoise wallpaper printed with fruit and flowers. ‘French wallpaper,’ Nicky remarked.
‘Very old and special apparently.’ He grinned at her. ‘I don’t really understand such things. Perhaps you do.’

‘Not really,’ she replied, thinking of the very ordinary wallpaper they had at home. ‘But I’ll try.’

As they wandered through the halls and galleries, she understood how Nicky had been drawn to photography. He had grown up around beautiful things that demanded to be recorded. On every wall and
from every window there was something to look at: huge old oil paintings, elegant portraits, the vista of the park or the terrace or the quad that lay between the wings of the house. Objects of
beauty were everywhere: vases, statues, collections of fine porcelain. There was costly furniture: huge gilt mirrors, marble-topped tables and inlaid cabinets. And yet for all its magnificent
contents, the house felt empty. Even though the staff lived here, the place seemed deserted.

Upstairs, she remembered the way to the nursery where she had once played, but Nicky led her to a white and gold guest bedroom with twin beds and embroidered curtains. It looked impressive at
first glance but on closer inspection was shabby and a little dusty. Her suitcase had been placed near an ancient basin in the corner, part shielded by a pink satin curtain, where a spider scuttled
about near the plughole.

‘Don’t worry,’ Nicky said, as she looked around it. ‘You’re not going to be here anyway.’

‘I’m not?’

He shook his head and then whisked her up into his arms. ‘Of course not! You’re going to be with me, naturally.’

‘Stay in your room?’ she said, scandalised. ‘But what will the servants think?’

He laughed, a big booming sound that she felt against her chest. ‘You’d rather stay in here and creep along to me after lights out, would you? Come on, Alex, we can do whatever we
like! Don’t forget, I’m the lord of the manor around here, and I can have whoever I like in my room, even if she is a scarlet woman.’ He kissed her neck fondly but she stiffened
and pressed him away.

Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Don’t say that,’ she whispered, hurt.

‘What? Scarlet woman? Don’t be silly, darling, I was joking.’

‘But it’s what people will think. You know they will.’

‘Who cares what they think?’ he said stoutly. ‘I don’t and neither should you. Now come on, I want to show you my four-poster. In particular the very comfortable mattress
. . .’

Alexandra wondered if she was imagining the disapproving looks from Mrs Spencer and the stifled giggles of the maids when she passed them sweeping carpets in the hallways. She
wished she could be like Nicky, sublimely unaware of all that; but then, for them, he was their adored master, the new lord, and she was just his girlfriend, living with him in sin. Her wedding
ring was well hidden at the bottom of her washbag but that was no guarantee the staff didn’t know exactly who she was.

Nicky had to spend the morning shut away in the library with some men who’d come to see him on business. Alexandra found a desk in the small drawing room that she had noticed the day
before. On the top sat a letter rack that held sheets of yellowing notepaper engraved with the fort’s address. She took one and sat down at the desk. The blotter was unused but a film of dust
needed brushing away. She picked up a pen from the crystal inkwell and dipped it in the ink. The pen had a scratchy nib and sat awkwardly in her hand, but she wrote as best she could.