The Butterfly Box(155)

‘Stupid dogs. Piss off,' he growled, shunting Amadeus out of the way with a firm nudge of his shoe. Amadeus shrunk momentarily before believing it to be a game and trotted back for some more. ‘Bloody animals!’ he continued,

opening the boot and pulling out his coat. Trotsky lifted his ears in bewilderment and backed away leaving Amadeus to jump up onto Torquil’s neatly pressed corduroy trousers with muddy paws. Torquil was furious. He swore again and smacked the spaniel around the face. ‘You do that again and I’ll eat you for dinner,’ he scowled, before marching back through the arch to where the girls eagerly awaited him.

Sam was left floundering by the window, amazed at what he had just witnessed. He wanted to tell Federica immediately, but who would believe him? He sat down in Nuno’s leather chair and watched the fire smoulder in the grate. Over my dead body will he get Federica up the aisle, he thought to himself, but he didn’t have the first idea how he was going to stop him.





Chapter 33


Everyone loved Torquil. He had swept into Polperro like a victorious conqueror, winning over everyone he met, slaying them all with his straight white teeth and lucid eyes. Only Sam and Arthur remained suspicious, forming a silent resistance, unwilling to be deceived. But no one else seemed able to see beyond the charm. Nuno was too absorbed in the works of Stendahl to look, the women were all too smitten even to try and Federica’s family were so deeply enamoured with Torquil’s glamour that they didn’t give Arthur the opportunity to state his case. There was only one option open to both of them, but Nuno had warned Sam against speaking to Federica. He fretted away in a fever of irritation feeling powerless as Federica buzzed deliriously about the web of a very shrewd spider. But Arthur had less to lose - his stepdaughter had disliked him right from the start.

He managed to find a suitable moment on Sunday, when Torquil was being shown the Cornish coast in Toby’s boat, accompanied by Jake, Hal and Julian. Federica hadn’t wanted to go, preferring to spend some time with her grandmother in the kitchen, preparing the lunch in order to impress her fiance.

Helena sat in the rocking-chair beneath a canopy of hanging miniature ships, sipping a Bloody Mary and discussing wedding plans, while her mother and daughter sweated about the Aga with steaming pots of vegetables and treacle tart. After a while Federica wandered into the sitting room to find Arthur alone by the fire reading the papers. She pulled a polite smile.

‘How’s the cooking going?’ Arthur asked, folding the newspaper and placing it on the sofa beside him.

Federica hovered by the door, reluctant to embark on a conversation with her stepfather. ‘Fine,’ she replied impassively.

‘I can’t imagine you’ll ever have to cook at home once you’re married,’ he said and watched her carefully.

‘Oh, I’ll still cook, I’ve cooked all my life.’ Then she looked at him quizzically. ‘You don’t like Torquil, do you?’

Arthur sighed and sat back against the cushions. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t trust him, Fede,’ he replied, fixing her with his sharp brown eyes.

She shuffled uncomfortably, then placed a defiant hand on her hip. ‘What is there to mistrust?’

‘It’s too soon, Fede,’ he argued. ‘You’ve known him all of a few months, why

do you have to marry him right now? What’s wrong with spending time together first? That in itself makes me suspicious.’

‘We love each other?’ she insisted crossly.

‘What do you know of love, Fede? You have no experience. He’s the first man who’s swept you off your feet. He’s handsome, rich, charming, what else do you know about him?’

‘I don’t need to know anything else about him. You and Mama aren’t exactly the epitome of the perfect marriage,’ she retorted defensively.

He folded his arms and chuckled. ‘We have our problems, of course. Marriage isn’t a treacle tart, Fede. I’m concerned because I care about you.’

‘No you don’t, you care about Hal,’ she snapped impulsively, then wished the hadn’t said it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was a childish response and she was trying desperately hard to present herself as an adult. ‘Anyway,’ she continued defiantly, ‘try as hard as you like to find fault with him,

I promise you, you won’t find it. He’s perfect. That’s what gets up your nose.’ ‘That’s not true,’ Arthur replied patiently. He wanted to ask her what Torquil, a sophisticated, urbane man of thirty-eight, would want with a provincial eighteen-year-old of limited experience, but he knew that would hurt her. He