Hotbed of Scandal. Kate Hardy
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with the russets and reds of autumn, as it was now, the vine gave the building a warm, welcoming appearance. It was approached beneath a Norman arch, set in a high stone wall, that gave on to a cobblestoned courtyard, where Rafe’s mother had cultivated plants that clung as tenaciously as the ivy to the uneven bricks. Here was honeysuckle and clematis, but late in the year, only the lingering scents of their blossoms remained, like a memory of summer.
Rafe brought the Land Rover to a halt to one side of the ivy-hung porch, and warning Rufus to remain where he was, invited his guests into the house. Sir George was mellowing, too, beneath the undoubted influence of historic architecture, his admiring gaze moving along the mullioned panes that flanked the porch at either side, and John Norman, who had seen it all before, exchanged an encouraging glance with their host.
William Morgan appeared as Rafe entered the hall, his elderly features expressing polite interest in the two men who were following his employer. The old man had been butler at the Manor for more than forty years, since the days when the Glyndowers had employed a housekeeper, too, and not relied on the mistress of the house to perform such menial duties. He was a luxury they could ill afford, Rafe had acknowledged many times, but like Percy Laurence, Morgan was too old to cast adrift.
‘Will you be wanting tea, sir?’ he enquired now, relieving Rafe of his jacket. ‘I believe Mrs Glyndower is in the library. Master Thomas is with her.’
For a moment Rafe forgot the presence of his guests, forgot the unpleasantness of the decision he was going to have to make, and felt only a sense of crushing disappointment.
‘Tom?’ he echoed. ‘Thomas is here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Damn!’
Rafe felt his jaw clenching angrily, and then was reminded of his position once more as Sir George remarked: ‘Capital house you’ve got here, Glyndower. This panelling—magnificent! Seventeenth century, isn’t it? Beautiful.’
‘It’s early eighteenth, actually,’ replied Rafe absently, his mind still buzzing with the implications of his son’s arrival. Then, forcing a politeness he was far from feeling, he added: ‘Part of the foundations date back to the sixteenth century, and there are stone racks in the cellars, which we think were used for storing wine by the monks who used to live in the monastery that originally stood on this site.’
‘Is that so? Fascinating, fascinating …’
Sir George was clearly disarmed by his surroundings, and while he and John Norman shed their sheepskin jackets, Rafe had a swift exchange of words with the butler.
‘When did he arrive?’ he demanded in an undertone, and Morgan wasted no time in pretending he did not know who his employer was talking about.
‘Just after you left, sir,’ he exclaimed, rather reluctantly Rafe felt. Morgan had a soft spot for the youngest member of the household. ‘I—er—I understand he came up from Cardiff by train.’
‘Hitched a ride, you mean,’ muttered Rafe dourly. ‘God Almighty, this is all I need! I don’t suppose his mother was pleased.’
Morgan’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘No, sir.’
‘I thought not,’ Rafe thrust impatient fingers through the thickness of his hair. Dark, like his Celtic ancestors, it was now streaked with grey, no small contribution coming from the problems Thomas always created.
The opening of the library door brought his silent speculations to a halt. Lucy stood on the threshold, smiling warmly at John Norman, whom she knew, before awaiting her husband’s introduction to Sir George. Not very tall, and slender, with the smallest hands and feet he had ever seen on a woman, Lucy epitomised anyone’s ideal of a well-bred and attractive wife. But, after twelve years of marriage, Rafe now understood why size should never be equated with weakness. Lucy was strong, and determined, and at times she could display the ruthlessness of purpose her father had exhibited in the boardrooms of the Redvers grocery chain. As when dealing with their son, for example …
With the introduction over, Rafe suggested they continued their conversation in the library, and ignoring Lucy’s silent signals to adjourn to his study, he entered the room to find Thomas curled up mutinously on the window seat. His eyes widened hopefully when he saw his father, and then dropped again when he saw he was not alone, and Rafe had no opportunity to speak to him before John Norman saw him, too.
‘Hello, Tom,’ he greeted the boy smilingly, and Thomas was forced to vacate his window seat and come and shake hands with his father’s guests.
‘Hello, sir,’ he acknowledged politely, casting an appealing glance towards his father, and then shook hands with Sir George as he followed the others into the room.
‘This is your son, Glyndower?’ Marland exclaimed, taking a seat on the worn velvet sofa beside the fire, and holding out his hands to the blaze. ‘A fine boy. Isn’t he at school?’
‘He was.’ Lucy spoke, coming into the room after ordering tea, and urging Sir George to remain seated as he attempted to rise. ‘Unfortunately, Thomas doesn’t like work, and this afternoon he arrived home—unannounced.’
‘What my wife means is—this is the third time Tom has run away from his school,’ Rafe put in flatly. ‘Isn’t that right, Tom? You have made yourself absent without leave, haven’t you?’
Tom drew himself up to his full height of some four feet eight inches. At ten years of age, he was quite a tall boy, but so thin Rafe felt he could have snapped him in two.
‘Yes, Father,’ he answered now, making no excuses for his behaviour, and Sir George let out his breath in a puffing sound of disapproval.
‘Won’t do, young man, won’t do,’ he declared, as Lucy came to join him on the couch. ‘We all need to learn, as much as we possibly can these days. And accept discipline. That’s what keeps the wheels of industry turning.’
Tom made no reply, looking to his father for some sign that he at least understood why he had come home, but his mother was still in command.
‘Go along and see your grandfather, Thomas,’ she directed, as Morgan came in with a tray of tea. ‘Talk to him for half an hour. I shall speak to you later.’
Tom’s hesitation was minute, and although Rafe was tempted to countermand the order, he didn’t. But talking to old Lord Penwyth could be a trying business. His father had lapses of memory, a symptom of the disease that had stricken him down five years before, and he was poor company for a small boy.
Still, Tom went obediently out of the room, and Rafe moved to the drinks cabinet. He guessed his guests would prefer something stronger than tea to ward off the chills of the late September afternoon, and he ignored Lucy’s tightening lips when both Marland and Norman accepted Scotch.
With their glasses full, Rafe seated himself opposite his wife, long legs splayed carelessly, considering the mud on his boots with a critical eye. Lucy, as usual, presented an impeccable appearance, and he supposed he ought to be grateful she had her own allowance. Without it, Tom could not have attended his public school—however reluctantly he remained there—or Lucy herself been able to maintain her wardrobe in the manner to which she had become accusomed. This afternoon, her plain mushroom-coloured dress, of fine woollen jersey, proclaimed its exclusiveness in the simple elegance of its lines, and the chestnut darkness of her hair curved softly into her nape, styled by an expert hand. He knew she would not approve of his own informal attire of moleskin breeches and roll-necked sweater, but she would not say so, not in so many words. Like everything else, it would be implied, alluded to, and only aired if his own patience gave out and he brought the subject up.
Realising a conversation was going on around him, Rafe made an effort to pay attention to what was being said. But his thoughts were with his son upstairs, and he longed to go after him and find out why he persisted in disobeying orders like this. So far, all they had been able to get out of him was that he didn’t like the school or being away from home, but Rafe was convinced there was more to it than that. He had not