Last Voyage of the Valentina(52)

“I would have hated to be so restricted. Besides, these boots make me feel on top of the world. I stride about as if I own it,” she replied. “They’re Italian suede, you know.”

“I’d like a pair of boots like that. How do you think they’d look beneath my robes?”

“I don’t think it matters what you wear underneath. You could be wearing nothing at all and no one would be any the wiser.” They both laughed.

Cook glanced across at Mrs. Arbuckle, who was talking to Fitz. Now, he was a charming man. Sensible, gentle, kind. He had even come into the kitchen after dinner the night before to thank her for such a “sumptuous feast” as he had so sweetly put it. She noticed the reverend take four potatoes. Not only an eye for the ladies but a very healthy appetite to boot. In her day vicars were men of moderation and modesty. She sniffed her disapproval, drawing the dish away before he helped himself to a fifth.

Captain Arbuckle complimented Cook on the lunch. She was very fond of the captain, had known him most of his life. When he came back from the war with that tiny baby in his arms, it broke her heart. How could he possibly cope on his own with such a small creature? The grief had distorted his features. He looked like an old man, not the glossy young boy who had been the rebel of the family. A character he had been, always up to no good, but with the charm of a monkey. He could smile his way out of anything, that Tommy, as he was known in those days. Not when he returned from the war. He had changed. Despair had changed him. If it hadn’t been for the little girl he held in his arms so possessively he might have lost the will to live and faded right away. That happened. Cook had heard. They had talked about Valentina in hushed voices, as if to mention her name at such a sad time was in some way to denigrate it. Beautiful, she had been. An angel, they said. Then the new Mrs. Arbuckle came on to the scene and Valentina’s blessed name was never again mentioned in the house. Not directly. It wasn’t a surprise that Alba had rebelled. Cook snorted her displeasure and the captain, thinking it was on account of his having taken too many potatoes, discreetly put one back.

Cook moved on to Fitz. He smelled of sandalwood. She could smell it above the aroma of her cooking. She liked Fitz. Though they did make an odd couple, he and Alba. They were clearly fond of each other. Fitz made Alba laugh. That was the way to her heart, though Cook wasn’t sure that he had got there. He knew where it was, he aimed straight at it, and yet, as with all the young men Alba entertained, he didn’t quite penetrate it. She could see it in Alba’s eyes. Fitz might get there in time, if he persevered. Though Alba didn’t have a good track record. She wasn’t a long-distance runner, as Captain Arbuckle had put it. She had heard him talking to his wife one evening, lamenting the lovers Alba took, her decadent lifestyle, longing for her to settle down. She was getting on, after all. As Fitz served himself the last potato, Cook didn’t mind a bit.

It was later in the afternoon when Cook just happened to be wandering through the house to tell her employers she’d left cold meat and salad in the fridge for supper that she stumbled upon Alba rootling around in her father’s study. Cook stood in the drinks room, spying on Alba through the crack in the door, unable to contain her curiosity. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t restrain herself.

Alba carefully opened the drawers of his desk, lifted papers, sifted through them, scowling all the while. She obviously couldn’t find what she was looking for. She kept glancing up from under her brow at the door to the hall, afraid someone might walk in and catch her. Occasionally she’d pause and stiffen like a startled cat before relaxing with relief and resuming her search. Cook was fascinated. What could she be searching for?

Suddenly Cook stiffened too, as a shadow was thrown across the room. Mrs. Arbuckle stood in the doorway, her large frame obscuring the light that came in from the hall. Alba stood up abruptly and gasped. For a moment they simply stared at each other. Mrs. Arbuckle’s face betrayed a seething yet controlled fury. Now Cook couldn’t leave even if she had wanted to. The slightest movement would most certainly have given her away. Her skin bristled with apprehension.

Finally Mrs. Arbuckle spoke in a very quiet voice. “Are you looking for something, Alba?” Cook, who could only see Alba’s profile, was able to detect a sly grin across Alba’s face. She leaned across her father’s desk and lifted a pencil out of his pen holder.

“Found it,” she said flippantly. “Silly me. It was in front of my nose all the time.”

Mrs. Arbuckle watched in disbelief as her stepdaughter flounced past her out of the room.