‘She doesn’t want me, Primrose. She said so herself, she’ll love George until she dies.’
Mrs Megalith clicked her tongue loudly. ‘Women are often conquered with persistence, dear boy. What are you doing with that ghastly poodle?’
‘I’m very fond of Delfine. She makes me happy,’ he said lightly.
‘She’s a spoilt child. Wait until she’s a spoilt woman and then she won’t make you so happy.’
‘Don’t be so cynical. She’s charming, everyone loves her.’
‘Except you,’ she stated flatly.
‘How’s Ruth?’ he asked, changing the subject. Didn’t she realize how much it hurt to talk about Rita?
‘Her pregnancy is beginning to show now. She wears it well.’
‘That’s good!’ he exclaimed, dwelling for a moment on his own deep-rooted yearning to create new life for the sake of his family who had lost theirs. He never confided in Delfine the haunting dreams he had about the baby sister who had never lived to grow up. Only Rita knew the remote corners of his heart and the shadows that dwelt there.
‘Thanks to you she’s happy and living well. You’re a very generous boy.’
Max chuckled. ‘Money means little to me, Primrose, you know that. I’m in a position to help. I do what I can.’
Mrs Megalith knew he would have liked to do the same for Rita. ‘If Rita married you, she wouldn’t have to work so hard,’ she said, continuing her thoughts out loud.
‘That was her choice, not mine.’
‘Fools, the both of you. Really, you do make life very hard for yourselves. Still, thank God for Mr Bradley. Long may he live!’
When Max put down the telephone he felt depressed. It was usually such a pleasure talking to Primrose. He knew that she was wrong about Rita. As long as George was alive she would never have room in her heart to love him. Besides, he didn’t want the role of understudy to George Bolton. When his secretary tried to put through a call he snapped at her for no reason. He’d bring her a bunch of flowers at lunch time to apologize.
To Max’s intense irritation Mrs Megalith seemed to be right as usual. As Delfine grew up she became less charming. All the things that Max had liked about her were discarded like clothes she’d grown out of. Little by little she failed to be impressed by his gifts, the hotels they stayed in weren’t luxurious enough, the parties she went to bored her, and the charities that had launched her into society were time-consuming and dull. Having been like an adoring puppy, happy with the odd pat or smile, Delfine became demanding of his attention and bitter when she didn’t get it, pressing him all the time to confirm a date for the wedding.
Delfine realized that there was an invisible presence that stood between her and her fiancé. She refused to go and stay at Elvestree because, not only did she get the impression that Mrs Megalith didn’t like her, but she sensed there, more intensely than ever, that invisible but inescapable presence. Max never told her he loved her. He told her he was fond of her, that he adored her, that she made him happy, but he never used the word ‘love’. She hadn’t noticed at first. His gifts had been so generous. She had never expected a man like Max to want her. She was flattered by the simplest of smiles, the smallest of gestures. Now they had been living together for over two years, she had grown accustomed to his wealth and his celebrity. She wanted the man, but she couldn’t have him. Someone stood in her way and she was sure that the secret was hidden behind the locked door to the only room in the house that didn’t belong to her.
Then one bleak winter day Ruth telephoned Max, her voice heavy with sorrow, ‘Primrose is dying and she wants to see you.’ Max left a message for Delfine with the housekeeper and drove as fast as he could to Devon. When he arrived at Elvestree the house looked naked and cold as if some of the magic were also dying. Choked with misery, he hurried inside to find his sister waiting for him in the hall. ‘Thank God you’ve come. She’s barely holding on,’ Ruth groaned, sinking into his arms. He kissed her affectionately, then bounded up the stairs two at a time. He walked to the end of the corridor where the door to her room was open and expectant. Ruth followed, biting her fingernails and fighting her tears. To Max’s horror the room was filled with cats. They lay on every surface, watching the bed with eyes wide and knowing. Mrs Megalith was sitting up, propped against large white pillows. Her face was as grey as the sky outside and her eyes glistened with rare emotion.
‘Come to me, Max,’ she said, putting out a feeble arm. She wore a purple dressing gown but her hands were free of rings. Only the moonstone hung against her bosom as it had always done. ‘Ruth, I want to speak to you too,’ she added weakly. Max sat on the edge of the bed and sandwiched her hand between his. Ruth went around to the other side and had to push off a couple of cats in order to make a space for herself. ‘My time is up. Denzil and Trees are waiting for me in the world of spirit with a bottle of the best Dom Perignon, bless them. I bet it tastes even better in spirit.’ She managed a chuckle but then coughed and wheezed with difficulty. ‘You are my children,’ she continued seriously. ‘I love you both more than I love either of my own daughters and I’m not a bit ashamed of it! When you two little refugees arrived in my house, forlorn and fearful, I think I loved you instantly. My Max,’ she said with a long sigh, removing her hand from his and running her fingers down his face. ‘You’re a good boy. Don’t give up on Rita, she needs you. Foolish girl, she has a funny way of showing it, though, doesn’t she?’