‘Still, you helped rescue someone, that’s what’s wonderful. And now I suppose he’ll be grateful to you for ever and ever. What’s he like, anyway? Is he good-looking?’
‘Oh, Angie, is that all you think about?’ Beatrice said with a groan. ‘I suppose he is. He’s very nice and easy to talk to.’
‘We must all meet him then,’ Angie said. ‘There, that’s settled. You must bring him up to Carlyon. I’ll ask Mummy to fix it.’
‘He’s been away, but he should be back today. And he’ll be going to school soon, so it’ll have to be quick.’
‘Ed and Peter will be leaving next week. I know – bring him tomorrow. I’ll ask Mummy if he may come for tea.’
‘All right, ask her,’ Beatrice replied. But the thought of sharing Rafe made her nervous. Part of her desperately wanted to show off the Wincantons, but she feared, too, that then he wouldn’t be just hers any more. He’d be swallowed up by them. Though that was nonsense. He wasn’t really hers at all. They’d been thrown together, that was all. He had a mother in India and a brother, and dozens of friends. And he’d be going back to school soon, and then he’d forget all about her.
Angie fitted the photograph of Bertie Hamilton into the corner of her dressing-table mirror, humming to herself. The picture wasn’t destined to remain. The next day Peter found it and ribbed his sister so horribly that she tore it up in a fit of pique.
The visit was, from Beatrice’s point of view, a disappointment, but Mrs Wincanton afterwards declared it to be a great success.
Rafe was enthralled by Carlyon. He paused as they walked round that all-important corner of the drive. ‘Golly,’ he said, and whistled.
As they waited in the hall for the Wincanton children to be winkled from various reaches of the house and grounds, he wandered round, studying the portraits of long-dead Carlyons, passing a hand over a carved newel post, calling Beatrice over to find St Florian on an old framed map of the county.
The drawing-room door opened and Ed appeared first, elbowing Peter to keep back. He and Rafe shook hands, instantly at ease. ‘We’ve an Ashton in our house at school, haven’t we, Pete? George Ashton.’
‘No relation, I’m afraid. Not that I know of, anyway. There don’t seem to be many of us Wiltshire Ashtons left. But, I say, did we play you last autumn at Eton? I seem to remember—’
He broke off for Beatrice to introduce him to Mrs Wincanton who had finally arrived, carrying a basket of fragrant roses and lifting a floppy sunhat from her head. ‘You must be Rafe. Welcome to Carlyon, dear. We’ve heard all about you. The girls are about somewhere.’ She glanced back through the drawing room and they all held their breath at the lovely silhouette of Angelina, framed by the french windows as she paused on the threshold to call to the little girls still somewhere in the garden.
‘They’re not taking any notice,’ she said, coming into the hall. ‘Oh hello, you must be Rafe.’ Beatrice was dismayed to see how Angie looked sideways at him under her lashes, and he stumbled out a greeting as he shook her hand.
‘Why don’t you show Rafe round?’ said Mrs Wincanton, laying down her basket. ‘I’ll let Cook know about tea.’ She disappeared through the baize door to the kitchens.
Rafe was still staring at Angie, but Ed touched his arm. ‘Come and see the games room,’ he said, and they drifted off with Peter trailing unhappily behind.
‘Well, that’s the last we’ll see of them for a bit,’ Angie declared, making a moue at Beatrice. ‘Let’s go out and find the girls. Hetty’s got a beastly dead blackbird and they’re having a funeral. It’s horribly ghoulish.’ Beatrice followed her, her spirits sinking. They passed Angie’s sketchbook lying open on the grass, half a dozen crayons spilled carelessly about. Down by the belt of trees, three small figures were crouched over something on the ground like midget witches from Macbeth.
As they approached, Hetty straightened and called out, ‘Do you think a poem would be all right, Ange? We’ve never been to a funeral. We don’t know what to do.’
‘Beatrice has, haven’t you, Bea?’ Angie said. Beatrice, remembering the awful day when James Sturton was buried, said quietly, ‘I’m sure a poem would suit. Or a favourite hymn.’
It was after they’d finished scattering petals on the mound to Hetty’s jolly rendering of All Things Bright and Beautiful’ that they saw the boys coming towards them across the grass. How alike they all were with their cowlicks of hair and their schoolboy swaggers, hands in pockets.