Write soon, dear Amelia; and bend your thoughts, if you can bear it, to what I have written about the horse. What a dreadful thing to write!
Your loving sister,
Hester
1911
It is nowhere near lunch time when a smart knock at the door jolts Cat from her reverie. She has been distracted all morning, her gaze wandering far and away through the hall window which she’s supposed to be polishing with balls of old newspaper. Thoughts of George Hobson tease her mind away from her work. She saw him again last night, drank enough beer with him to make her head spin and her insides glow. Now her head is spinning still, and her stomach feels weak, and a slow throb of pain has taken to beating behind her eyes. Fatigue makes her limbs heavy and her thoughts slow. Even this early in the day the air is warm, and a mist of sweat salts her top lip. When the door knocker forces her to move she turns, catching sight of herself in a heavy-framed mirror on the wall. A grey-white ghost of a girl, with dark hollows for eyes and a drab dress to set her off. That Holloway taint, still. Cat wears an expression of faint disgust as she opens the door.
‘Yes? May I help you?’ she asks the young man standing on the step. His face is every bit as fresh as hers is not; he carries a leather holdall in one hand and a travelling case in the other, with his coat draped over it. In shirt sleeves and waistcoat, his jacket abandoned, Cat is reminded of The Gentleman’s son, come down from university for a few days’ break. That same luxurious disarray.
‘Good morning. My name is Robin Durrant, and I believe I am expected.’ The young man smiles. His teeth are very white and even; the smile curls his mouth slowly, like a cat stretching, and makes his eyes crinkle warmly.
‘Do come in. I’ll let Mrs Canning know that you’re here,’ Cat replies gracelessly. She takes the man’s holdall from him, hangs his coat on the hall stand.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’ Robin Durrant is still smiling. Cat turns away from his good humour abruptly, and goes along the hall to knock on the drawing room door.
‘There’s a Mr Robin Durrant here to see you, madam. He says he is expected,’ she announces. Hester drops her pen suddenly, and looks up with a guilty blush on her cheeks. Cat wonders idly what hot gossip she was writing in the letter on the blotter.
‘Oh, gracious! Not already? I’ve not had a chance to be ready, and Albert not even back yet …’ Hester flusters.
‘Nevertheless, he is here, and waiting in the hallway,’ Cat says mildly.
‘Right, well, yes – I shall come straight away, of course,’ Hester says, but Robin Durrant appears behind Cat and clears his throat.
‘I’m so sorry – I couldn’t help but overhear – please do not disturb yourself, Mrs Canning. I am early, which is frightfully rude of me, and I shall make myself scarce until the proper time. It’s a warm day and perfect for a stroll. Please – don’t get up,’ he says cheerily. Hester gazes at him, quite at a loss, as he vanishes back into the hallway.
‘Perhaps I ought to stop him, madam?’ Cat suggests, after a pause.
‘Yes, do! Do! He must not feel he ought to leave again …’ Hester says, a little overwrought. Cat catches up with Robin by the front door.
‘Excuse me, sir, but Mrs Canning insists that you mustn’t go off again,’ she says, flatly. ‘She is quite ready to have you now.’
‘Is that so?’ Robin Durrant smiles again. His smile is ready and waiting, it seems; his face always half-primed to shape it. ‘Then stay I shall. Who could resist such an invitation?’ He gives Cat a knowing look that puts her at once on edge, and then returns to the drawing room.
*
‘Was that him, at the door?’ asks Mrs Bell, when Cat comes into the kitchen.
‘It was. She’ll be ringing for tea any second, once she’s gathered her wits sufficiently to remember it,’ Cat says, filling the kettle and setting it to boil.
‘What is he – young, old, rich or poor?’ the fat cook asks. From the table top, a fatty shoulder of lamb fills the room with the cloying smell of raw meat. Bluebottles circle it intently, waiting for a chance to land; but Sophie Bell is ready for them, dish towel in hand.
‘Hardly poor, and very young. About the same age as the vicar’s wife, I’d hazard.’ Cat pours herself a cup of water and drinks it in huge, messy gulps.
‘Good grief, it’s like listening to a cow at the trough,’ Mrs Bell tuts. Cat shoots her a scathing look.
‘Now you know how I feel, sitting down to dine opposite you every day,’ she mutters.
‘Any more of that lip and you’re more than welcome to eat your supper out in the yard – or not at all, is what’s more likely.’