Long Night's Loving. Anne Mather
There were bushes edging the drive, dripping with water at present, a far cry from the riot of colour they presented in spring. When she’d first seen them, Neil had told her they were rhododendrons, and even she had had to admit that their lush blooms of yellow and red and purple were magnificent. On a clear day, they had provided a useful screen for the house, but tonight there was no need of any cultivated concealment.
Nevertheless, when they emerged from the tall banks of greenery onto the open forecourt before the house Maggie couldn’t deny a sudden feeling of liberation. The front of the house was illuminated, and the light spread over the blocked paving of the courtyard. She could see now that the stagnant pool that had once provided a centre-piece was gone, and in its place a fountain, in the shape of a nymph playing coyly in the water, added its rhythm to the falling rain.
Outwardly, the house itself was little changed. There was still greenery growing over its walls, and the tall mullioned windows still flanked the double doors with their pedimented portico. But instead of being dark many of the windows were lit, and in the late afternoon gloom it had an undeniable appeal.
Maggie drew her lower lip between her teeth. She thought she understood why Neil had been reluctant to bring her here. The dower house—well, they had once shared that, if only infrequently, but this place could hold no memories for him. It must have been deliberate, a desire to move into a place in which she had played no part? Or had he always intended to move here, once old Miss Cavendish had gone?
The Range Rover stopped, and as if on cue the doors of the house opened, and a man appeared in the aperture. He was heavier than she remembered, but no less recognisable, and she cast a glance at Neil, as if waiting for his permission to alight.
‘As you can see, Luke is looking forward to meeting you,’ he remarked without expression. He opened his door. ‘You’d better run. This is the kind of rain that can soak you through in seconds.’
Maggie knew a moment’s panic. ‘Nei!—’
‘Go on,’ he said, rather more harshly. ‘He’s waiting. If you hesitate any longer, he’ll think there’s something wrong.’
Maggie’s lips tightened. ‘And isn’t there?’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ remarked her ex-husband coolly. ‘I’ve got your bag. Go ahead.’
MAGGIE paced restlessly about the bedroom, wondering when Neil was going to find the time to talk to her. Since they had arrived at the house, he had become frustratingly elusive, and it had been left to Luke Parry to make her feel at home.
Well, perhaps not that, she conceded, admitting that even Luke—dear Luke—had found it difficult to treat her as if nothing untoward had happened. It was five years for all of them, after all, and there was no denying that, however friendly he appeared, in any argument between them he would always take Neil’s side.
Which was only as it should be, she supposed. What had happened between her and Neil would have stretched any bonds of friendship between herself and Luke, and he was unlikely to forget how much he owed his friend and employer.
Nevertheless, he had eased the awkwardness of her arrival. When Neil had stood back to allow her to precede him into the house, it had been Luke who had taken her hands and drawn her into the warmth of the firelit entrance hall, who had helped her out of her coat, and handed it to the round dumpling of a woman who she had later learned was Mrs Fenwick, Neil’s new housekeeper.
‘Maggie,’ he’d said, gazing at her in his old approving way, as if he couldn’t see the dark rings that underlined her eyes, or the traces of grey in her ash-blonde hair. ‘Beautiful, as always. How do you do it?’
‘By hypnotising the beholder,’ she replied, with a wry glance over her shoulder. But Neil hadn’t followed them into the spacious drawing room that opened off the hall, so he hadn’t heard what Luke had said. Instead, she could hear his voice as he spoke to Mrs Fenwick, and although she couldn’t hear every word she heard enough to know he was telling the woman that she would be spending the night.
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ declared Luke, indicating that she should seat herself in front of yet another log fire. Although the house was obviously centrally heated, the open fires created an atmosphere of warmth and comfort in the huge, high-ceilinged rooms. Rooms which had been expertly designed and renovated, so that Maggie’s vision of cobwebs and crumbling plaster was banished for ever. ‘How are you, Maggie? It’s been a long time.’
It was only as Luke lowered himself with rather more care than usual onto the teal-green velvet sofa beside her that Maggie remembered what Neil had told her about him twisting his knee. He had made such a good job of hiding it up until that point, but bending it was obviously painful and Maggie felt a sense of shame.
‘I’m fine,’ she responded. ‘How about you? Neil told me you’d twisted your knee. And that you’d had a motorcycle accident.’
‘Neil should mind his own business,’ declared Luke firmly, but there was no real censure in his voice. ‘Believe it or not, I twisted my knee getting down from Sinbad. Oh—’ he grinned at her puzzled expression ‘—he’s the old hunter Neil keeps in the stables.’
Maggie’s brows arched. ‘You ride?’
‘Yeah.’ He grinned. ‘Amazing, isn’t it? Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have known one end of a horse from the other.’ He grimaced. ‘But Neil is the biggest landowner hereabouts, and it’s not always possible to reach every part of the estate in the four-by-four.’
‘I see.’ Maggie shook her head, trying to picture it. ‘Neil rides too?’
‘Oh, sure.’ Luke’s pale, still boyish features were a little ruddy now with embarrassment. ‘Things have changed around here since Miss Cavendish died. No offence to you, Mags, but I think Neil’s beginning to enjoy life again.’
Maggie managed a smile, but it took an effort. Yet it was what she wanted, wasn’t it? she asked herself. The past— well, the past was water under the bridge now, as they say, and whatever resentments Neil might still be nurturing towards her she was glad that she apparently hadn’t ruined his life.
‘That’s good,’ she said, albeit a little tensely, and determinedly turned her attention to the beautifully appointed room.
However doubtful she might have been about Neil’s decision to move into the house, it was obvious that someone with taste had done the renovations. She refused to speculate how much money Neil must have spent, or why he had felt the need to buy a larger property. Nevertheless, it crossed her mind that the rug alone must have cost a small fortune, and what use she could have made of such a sum when her business had started to Hag.
She drew a breath. How things had changed. When she’d first met Neil, he’d regarded her parents’ modest semi with some admiration. He’d been brought up in a terraced house near the docks. Abandoned by his mother, he’d been raised by elderly grandparents, and he freely admitted he’d run wild when he was a teenager. But a spell in the army, and the opportunity to learn a musical instrument, had been the making of him, and pretty soon his ability both to write and perform his own music had been noticed.
Neil himself had always been essentially modest about his own achievements, which was another reason why he had become so successful. He could communicate with young people, and they could identify with him, and his pop career had gone from.strength to strength...
‘How’s Lindsey?’
There it was. That question again, and this time no reason not to answer Luke. ‘Oh—she’s OK,’ she replied, smooth- ing the fabric of her skirt along the thigh. She glanced towards the door. ‘Where’s Neil gone?’
‘To arrange for some tea, I should think,’ declared Luke, leaning towards the fire and jabbing at a precariously balanced log with his boot.