Fitz slowed down and they turned into the driveway. The drive itself was about a quarter of a mile long, lined with majestic copper beeches whose buds were beginning to open and reveal tender red leaves. On the right a field extended out to a dark wood. A few horses were grazing, hardly bothering to raise their eyes to see what the disturbance was, and a couple of large rabbits, their shoulders hunched and ears twitching, huddled together as if in deep discussion. Fitz was enchanted. But nothing could have prepared him for the beauty of the house.
Beechfield Park was a large, red-brick and flint mansion with immense character and charm. Wisteria and clematis climbed the walls with complete freedom to go where they chose. The lead windows were small but, like eyes, they were alert and watchful and full of humor. The roofs were uneven, curved, as if the spirit of the house had rebelled against the architect’s stringent lines and had stretched and flexed its limbs to make itself comfortable. The result was a building with great warmth. “It’s glorious,” Fitz exclaimed as the car scrunched up the gravel and drew to a halt outside the front door.
“It belonged to my great-great-grandfather,” Alba explained. “He won it at the gambling table. Sadly he lost his wife there before she could enjoy it.” Alba never let the truth interfere with a good story.
“He lost his wife gambling?”
“Yes, to a rich duke.”
“Perhaps she was a fright.”
“Well, she can’t have been that great if he was prepared to gamble her away. Oh, the rats!” she said with a laugh as Margo’s yapping terriers scuttled out of the door. “They’re Margo’s loves. For God’s sake, don’t sit on one! Great-uncle Hennie once sat on Grandma’s dog and killed it.”
“A slight faux pas!”
“They didn’t discover it for a week. He hid it under the cushion for the housekeeper to find.”
At that moment Margo and Thomas emerged from the porch, smiling broadly. Margo called the dogs in her low, commanding voice, slapping her thighs. Her hair was gray and pinned up roughly at the back. She wore no makeup and her skin was lined and ruddy, as one would expect of a woman who spent a great deal of her time out riding horses. “Hedge, do come here!” she barked. “So nice to meet you, Fitzroy,” she added, extending her hand. Fitz shook it. She had a firm, confident grip.
“What a charming home you have, Captain Arbuckle,” said Fitz, shaking Thomas’s hand.
“Call me Thomas,” he replied, chuckling good-naturedly. “I hope you didn’t encounter too much traffic. The roads can be rather dreadful on a Saturday morning.”
“No trouble at all,” Fitz replied. “We flew down without a hitch.”
Thomas kissed Alba’s temple as he always did and she found herself enormously relieved that he bore no grudge after their last meeting. Margo smiled tightly. She found it harder to hide her feelings.
“Would you mind if I let Sprout out for a run?” said Fitz. “He’s old and particularly kind to those smaller than himself.”
“Don’t underestimate small dogs,” replied Margo. “They’re more than capable of standing up for themselves.”
Fitz lifted the trunk and a rather stiff, crumpled Sprout lumbered out. The dogs all sniffed each other curiously, though Margo’s terriers showed a greater interest in Sprout than the old dog showed in them. He was keener to cock his leg on the tire and sniff the gravel than play with the scruffy little creatures who pressed their noses to his bottom. Fitz left the trunk open so Sprout could seek refuge there when the terriers became too much, and followed Margo and Thomas into the house.
“Caroline’s coming down after lunch and Miranda’s home from school. Poor Henry’s at Sandhurst. They keep him busy there,” said Margo as they walked through the hall into the drawing room. Fitz was pleasantly surprised by Alba’s parents. They weren’t the ogres she had portrayed but conventional, country types. The drawing room was decorated simply in pale yellows and beiges. He sank into the sofa and, to his surprise, Alba positioned herself beside him and took his hand and squeezed it. He noticed Thomas catch Margo’s eye. It was clear that Alba had never brought a boyfriend home before.
“A drink, Fitzroy?” Thomas asked. Fitz wondered what they would expect him to have, then asked for a whiskey on the rocks. Thomas looked pleased and walked over to the drinks table. Margo sat on the club fender and pulled one of the dogs onto her lap.
“So, Fitzroy, what do you do?” she asked, running a large hand down the dog’s back.
“I’m a literary agent.”