‘We always had cats at home,’ Rory said shortly, then looked away from her and changed the subject by holding out a hand to the kitten, who promptly bit his finger.
‘When I was home last,’ she said, looking curiously at his closed expression; so many subjects were clearly taboo, ‘Gran had a visitor, a Mrs Something, I forget what. I came down to make some tea and when I got back there was total chaos. Mrs Something was on her feet and dripping blood from her hand, with her chair knocked over behind her and Gran was standing by the table. She looked white with fury and she was clutching Percy tightly. It was funny afterwards but at the time Gran was in a state. She turned to me and said, “Edith, please take Mrs Whatsit to the bathroom. I don’t think she cares for cats and Percy certainly doesn’t seem to care for her.”
‘I got the poor woman out of the room and cleaned her up, but she was incoherent with rage. Apparently she hated cats but thought she ought to be polite as Gran seemed so keen, so she held out her hand to him. Of course, he’s half vampire and half piranha so he just gave her an evil grin and took a chunk out of her finger. She left, insisting she was going straight to the doctor’s to have a tetanus jab. Gran’s never forgiven her for that so she certainly won’t be at the party tonight.’
‘How formal is this thing tonight?’ Rory asked. ‘I don’t think anyone’s said. I mean, is it black tie or what? And shouldn’t there be another marquee for dancing or something? The Great Hall isn’t anywhere near big enough.’
‘Oops.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Good job you asked. Yes, it’s a real posh-frock do, dinner jacket, the works. I’d better borrow something of Gran’s. She’s a hoarder and never gets rid of clothes, so there’s a big stash of vintage dresses dating back to the late forties. And no,’ she added, ‘it’s not a dance, just a dinner because the hall isn’t big enough to squeeze in a dance floor as well as dining tables. What about you tonight? I expect we could borrow something if you like.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he assured her. ‘Mr Attlin says I can have the barn out the back as a temporary studio and storeroom and I’ve got a trunk there. I’ll get my dinner jacket and take it up to my room to hang up. Do you need me for anything particular this morning?’
‘Um, not really.’ She shook her head, then glanced up at him. ‘Tell you what, when Elvis has finished polishing the floor and the Rotary people are doing their stuff, why don’t I show you the picture gallery? You’ll understand then why it is that everyone gasps when they see you. Meet you at 11.30 on the first floor landing?’
‘Wow!’ Rory stood, almost speechless, in the doorway to the small gallery on the top floor of the house. ‘Oh. My. God!’ he finally managed. ‘I assumed it would just be attics up here, full of junk. Interesting junk perhaps, but still junk. This is incredible – why have I never heard of it? It’s pure Tudor and so are some of those paintings.’
Edith had forgotten he was an artist and his enthusiasm disarmed her. ‘Are you an art historian too?’ she asked with interest. ‘What kind of painting do you do, anyway? I don’t think I’ve heard.’
‘I’m getting something out of my system at the moment,’ he said and the jagged echoes of some bitter hurt pierced her, though his face was composed and determinedly uncommunicative. He pulled himself together. ‘I’ll be teaching a bit of art history,’ he explained. ‘Along with the practical stuff. And I mostly work in acrylics and mixed media, oils now and then, but like I said, I’m having a stab at something different just now.’
The picture gallery was at the top of the Tudor house, with light coming in from the back of the building via small mullioned windows. Edith had always been led to believe that the collection ranged in quality from the frankly mediocre to some pleasantly undistinguished family portraits, some going back to early Victorian times, though a couple were known to be older. She was surprised, therefore, to see that Rory was almost purring with pleasure as he loped round the rectangular, oak-panelled room.
‘They’re supposed to have used the gallery for exercise, but I’m not sure it’s true. That sounds far too grand, this was never that kind of house – it’s too small. Still, you can come up here whenever you like, but we don’t really have a lot of time at the moment,’ she warned, relieved to see that interest in the gallery had relaxed that extreme control over his emotions. What could possibly have hurt him so badly? Edith had known grief as a child, with her father’s long-drawn-out suffering and eventual death, but that was an old sorrow. Whatever was eating Rory was raw and immediate and he withdrew politely but firmly from any comforting overtures.