The Morning Gift

‘No.’ Quin hesitated. ‘I was eight when I came to Bowmont. I’d heard only awful stories about him and he was all that I had heard. He put me into the tower to sleep under the bear he’d shot, teeth and all. I was there alone, a child with a father blown to pieces in the war. I was terrified of the dark – I’d come straight from Switzerland and heard the servants talk about my mother’s death – the screams, the blood when I was born. Going to bed was purgatory. I liked the tower but I wanted a night light – I begged for one, but he said no. I wasn’t afraid of anything out of doors . . . climbing, sailing . . . I loved the sea as he did. He saw that, but he was obstinate. One day I said: “If I sail alone to Harcar Rock and back, can I have a night light?” He said: “If you sail alone to Harcar Rock, I’ll beat you within an inch of your life.” He used to talk like that, like a boy’s adventure story.’

‘Harcar? That’s where the Forfarshire went down? Where Grace Darling rowed to?’

‘Yes. Anyway, I did it. I got the dinghy out at dawn – I was small but I was strong; sailing’s a knack, nothing more. Even so, I don’t know why I wasn’t killed; the currents are terrible there. When I came back he was standing on the shore. He didn’t say anything. He just frogmarched me up to the house and beat me so hard that I couldn’t sit down for a week. But that night when I went to bed, there it was – my night light.’

‘Yes,’ said Ruth, after a pause. ‘I see.’

‘I could do it, Ruth. It’s no trouble to me to be Master of Bowmont. Physical things don’t bother me. I can find a wife –’ He checked himself, ‘a new wife – I can breed sons. But I don’t forget what it did to my father. I don’t forget that my mother died for his dynastic pride. So let someone else have it. I shall be off on my travels again soon in any case. Unless –’ But there was no need to speak to her of the war he was sure would come.

Back in the tower, he took the jacket from her shoulders, turned back the covers.

‘Tomorrow you shall go back to your friends, Rapunzel,’ he said. ‘Now get some sleep.’

The sudden gentleness almost overset her.

‘Can I stay, then?’ she managed to say.

‘Yes, you can stay.’

‘Oh, my dear!’ said Lady Plackett as her daughter turned from the mirror on the evening of the dance. ‘He will be overcome!’ – and Verena smiled for she could not help thinking that her mother spoke the truth.

Miss Somerville’s letter suggesting a party for her birthday had sent Verena to Fortnum’s in search of a suitable dress, where their chief vendeuse had suggested a simple Greek tunic of white georgette for, as she pointed out, Verena’s beauty was in the classical style.

Verena had refused. She wanted, on the night that she hoped would seal her fate, to be thoroughly and unexpectedly feminine and ignoring the ill-concealed disapproval of the saleswoman, she had decided on a gown of strawberry-pink taffeta with a tiered skirt, each tier edged with a double layer of ruffles. The big leg-o’-mutton sleeves too were lined with ruffles, as was the heart-shaped neckline, and wishing to emphasize the youthful freshness which (she was aware) her high intelligence sometimes concealed, she wore a wreath of rosebuds in her hair.

Had this been the informal dance originally planned, her toilette might have been too sumptuous, but the party, as the Placketts hoped, had snowballed to the point where the word ‘informal’ hardly applied. As Verena stepped into her satin sandal – carefully low-heeled since Quin, now past his thirty-first birthday, could not really be expected to grow any more – other girls all over Northumberland were bathing, young men were tying their black ties or putting on dress uniforms, ready to make their way to Bowmont. For after all, it had always been rather special, this sea-girt tower with its absent owner, its fierce chatelaine – and perhaps they knew what Quin knew; that Fate was knocking on the door and pleasure, now, a kind of duty.

Ann Rothley and Helen Stanton-Derby had come over early to help Frances. Helen had brought armfuls of bronze and gold chrysanthemums, of rosehips and traveller’s joy, and disappeared with rolls of chicken wire to transform the drawing room into a glowing autumnal bower while Ann had slipped upstairs to supervise Frances’ toilette. Had Miss Somerville worn anything other than her black chenille and oriental shawl, the County would have been seriously upset, but Ann could sometimes succeed where Martha failed in coaxing her friend’s hair into a less rigorous style and persuading her that a dab of snow-white powder in the middle of her nose did not constitute suitable make-up.

Now the three women sat in the hall, drinking a well-earned glass of sherry before the arrival of the guests.

‘Doesn’t everything look lovely!’ said Ann. ‘You can just see the place preening itself! You’ll see, it’s going to be a tremendous success.’

‘I hope so.’ Frances was looking tired.