Free A Winter's Child by Brenda Jagger Page B

the view that you are both too young and my brother certainly too foolish to take any major decisions whatsoever. But the circumstances are not normal. And one can hardly declare a man who is shortly to lead other men into battle as unfit to take a wife. Evidently one must discount the fact that he has had no real training to do either. All I can say to you is that, in any eventuality, money will be made available.’
    Money will be made available. Suddenly, when she least desired to do so, she remembered how Jeremy had laughed at that. ‘Good old Benedict,’ he had said, his voice reaching her now through a long tunnel of time, far beyond the possibility of grieving. ‘That’s his answer to everything. Money will be made available – or else it won’t be – that’s the way he operates. I’d better give you a baby Claire, now, before I go – just in case. A bonny little boy just like me, and then mother‘ll see to it that he refuses you nothing.’
    But there had been no child. There had been Paul. And still no child.
    â€˜Yes, I had an excellent journey,’ she said, in answer to his enquiry, her smile never wavering. ‘And what a lovely surprise to find the trains running on time, or very nearly.’
    He nodded. ‘Indeed. Although dinner at High Meadows, Miriam, seems to be a little behind schedule …? Or am I mistaken?’
    â€˜Polly,’ Miriam told him, offering the name of her youngest daughter in explanation.
    â€˜Of course.’ It did not in the least surprise him. It did not please him either.
    â€˜She will be doing her hair,’ said Miriam, visibly brightening at his displeasure, ‘and re-doing it, and changing her dress. You know how these girls are.’
    â€˜Yes. Unpunctual. Unfortunately – as you may remember – I have a train to catch later this evening. Had you forgotten?’
    And Claire, sitting tranquilly among them, was at once aware of Eunice, her large pale eyes shooting wide open and naked with alarm; and of a gleam of something that might have been satisfaction, or malice, or some strange, angry pleasure in Nola. Clearly neither one of them had known that Benedict was going away. And for how long? Both his wife and his sister needed, probably for vastly different reasons, to know.
    â€˜Well dear,’ said Miriam, who had all the information she required and was not in the least concerned about train timetables or the lateness of her daughter, Polly. ‘I could send a message to her room asking her to hurry, although the chances are she would only get flustered and take longer. Don’t you think so? Although if you would like me to send, then of course – at once, dear. What shall I do?’
    â€˜Just as you please,’ he might have told her once again, his manner curt or sardonic, but there came a sudden and rather delightful rustling in the doorway, a drift of perfume, an impression of colour and warmth and whispering laughter.
    â€˜Polly,’ said Miriam, and at once all heads were turned, all eyes were fixed, with varying degrees of admiration or exasperation, on the young lady who stood there, tall, golden, effervescent, as innocently, artfully alluring as ‘pretty Mimi’had ever been.
    â€˜Am I late? Oh dear, yes – I’m late.’
    But that, most certainly, had been her intention and posing now in the doorway she sketched a curtsey and took a little dancing step from side to side, her sapphire blue skirt with its silver spangles swirling and glittering around legs which everyone supposed to be long and shapely and firm, her cloud of hair brilliantly gold, her blue eyes bright and sparkling and set wide apart like Miriam’s, her radiant smile, revealing perfectly white, perfectly strong teeth, informing the assembled company that she was already well pleased with herself and that if they wished to make her gloriously happy – and she felt sure they