She had a sudden sharp perception of how she would appear to an observer. A peeping Thomasina. A voyeuse. And vowed to give up. Tomorrow.
A vehicle was approaching. The sound became louder, filling her ears. It was not Gerald’s Celica. This car had a much heavier, louder note. And when the door opened and closed it was with a louder thunk. Laura ran into the trees on the far side of the cottage. Then, dry-mouthed with apprehension, moved swiftly forwards to where she could see what was happening.
A taxi stood in the drive. A woman, her back to Laura, was paying off the driver. She wore a smart black suit and a little hat with a veil. The driver called out something of which Laura could make out only ‘safely in . . .’. The woman rapped on the cottage door. As the cab drove away, the door opened and she stepped inside.
Laura let out the breath she had not even realised she was holding in a low moan. She clapped her hands over her mouth and waited, rigid with alarm, in case someone had heard. But it seemed no one had.
As she stood absorbing the shock other feelings were released. Misery, jealousy, a great bursting sadness and rage at her own gullible complacency. Because Gerald had shown no interest in her she had been vain enough to assume he had no interest in any woman. How completely she - indeed all of them - had been taken in by the pose of grieving widower.
Knowing she would be sorry, yet driven to turn the knife, Laura moved away from the shelter of the trees. As she did so a branch pulled at her scarf. The velvet curtains in the sitting room were not quite drawn. She stood in the flower border, past caring by now whether she was seen or not, and applied her eye to the chink.
She could see part of the bookshelves, the section of the sideboard supporting the wedding picture with Grace, appropriately enough, cut off. Half a vase of pink viburnum. The woman came into view. She was carrying a glass of red wine, presumably the claret. She had taken off her hat and thick fair hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders. She was beautifully made up but, thought Laura, older than I am. Much too old for him.
The woman lifted her glass, smiled and spoke. Then drank deep. Gerald’s wine. The intimacy of this very ordinary little ritual nearly drove Laura mad. She could no longer see for tears. Certainly she never saw or heard old Mr Lilley from Laburnum Villas walking by with his collie dog.
Amy could remember quite clearly the moment she became aware that servitude had entered her life. She had been living at her sister-in-law’s for several months and had tried to make herself useful from the start, being only too keenly aware of her inability to contribute financially to the household.
The moment in question had occurred on a sunny afternoon in May. Honoria had been sitting at her desk surrounded, as usual, by genealogical charts, old letters and other documents relating to the Lyddiards’ family tree and books on heraldry. The doorbell had just rung and Amy had put the pillowcase she had been mending aside, looked across at Honoria’s broad back, half got up, hesitated. Honoria did not even turn round. Just jerked an irritated finger in the direction of the sound.
Until that moment Amy had dignified her increasingly lengthy range of daily tasks under the term ‘being useful’, which she certainly was. Within a month of her arrival Amy had taken over the shopping (village store daily, Causton once a week), garden maintenance, collecting wood for the boiler, washing and ironing and helping Honoria with her research. But there were certain things that she might not do. Duties that were below the salt. Although only a relation by marriage she was still a Lyddiard, which meant no kneeling. Mrs Bundy came in once a week for that sort of thing, which was called ‘the rough’.
On the rare occasions when visitors were present Amy was not even allowed to clear away the tea things. ‘As if,’ she had grumbled during one of her secret conversations with Sue, ‘they are going to think we’ve got a black and white maid hiding in the kitchen.’
Sue had nodded sympathetically, remarking that she’d never known anyone so snobbish.
Amy disagreed. To call Honoria a snob was like calling Alexander the Great a bit on the bossy side. The worshipful veneration she entertained for her position and that of her ancestors on the map of English history beggared belief. Amy thought she was a bit mad. Since her brother’s death Honoria had spent all her time fiercely tracing this blood line, fortifying every discovery with as much primary material as she - and now Amy - could discover.
Many cardboard boxes filled with rubber-banded index cards attested to a most assiduous ferreting out of information. A vast square of white card, weighted at each corner, was permanently unfurled on a large table where it was gradually being imprinted with the family tree. When this was complete Honoria planned to have the details transferred to the finest vellum, professionally calligraphed and illumined with gold leaf, whereupon it would be framed and hung in the main hall.