For his tone was hesitant and sombre. And she just knew he was going to say a final farewell to the lovers they once had been. Time had moved on. He was going to talk of friendship…
She gazed to the sky, those crimson scratches bleeding to a bloody bitter gash.
“Bea… Will ya…will ya attend the Wychmere Feast with me?”
She closed her eyes, pressed her lips to a smile and when she turned, saw only the beauty of the sunset. “I would be honoured,Redmond O’Conner.”
“I’VEsomething to show you in my Tower.”
Ernest winced.
Of all the sunset-delivered lines that a rake had ever uttered to a woman, that had to be the most imbecilic.
Hebe halted on the herb garden path to lever a brow, and who could blame her? What had become of the silver-tongued London rake?
“I didn’t mean…” And for once he did not. For the day had been so enjoyable and never had a lady so understood his fondness for the horses, one who delighted in debating breeds and who admired their fragile strength, whose expression was cast to such serenity when she stroked a hand down their velvet noses. “What I mean is that I do not wish to lose the delight of your company. We could partake of this champagne I won, and there truly is a fine painting of a horse by Moreland that I would like to show you.”
He could read the sentiments passing through her eyes, suspicion mostly.
But the dayhadbeen so enjoyable.
Following his victory in the Sweepstakes, he’d departed for a wash and change in the Bibury Inn, donning his best striped waistcoat for the presentation ceremony.
For lunch, Hebe, Mrs Cassell and himself had taken the barouche to a hillock overlooking the racecourse and picnicked upon blankets. Mrs Pettifer had done them proud with roast chicken, pies filled with smoked trout, caramelised onion chutney and bottles of claret.
They’d watched the afternoon races and trundled back at just before sunset.
Hebe smiled shyly at him and something in his chest clattered to a halt.
“A celebratory champagne would be much appreciated,” she at last replied.
His Tower’s arched door creaked but the winding stone staircase was cheery enough with sconces lit at every turn. The lower floor was prone to mould so only the upper was used, and reaching the top of the stairs, he twisted the handle to his humble abode, stepping back for Hebe to enter.
“Oh!” she cried. “I thought it would be all cold stone and gargoyles but it’s so elegant.”
“I’m glad you like it. I had this room refurbished in spring when I knew I’d be spending more time here.”
Garvey had lit the desk lantern although from the far window, a red streak of sunset still sliced the room in two.
He’d wanted a restful chamber of ease and luxury at the end of an energetic day. A place where he could also read and work in peace. A generous mullioned bay window jutted over the moat, cream and burgundy drapes gathered to the sides, the desk placed before it for the light.
Chairs and chaises were set around the room, an attached bathing chamber through a door to the left. The wooden floor was obscured by rugs of Turkish design, thick and sumptuous to thwart the many draughts from below.
And against the far wall was an ancient Tudor four-poster bed of immense proportions, for he was an utter sprawler in slumber and appreciated the space. Damask crimson and pale-blue silk adorned the sides and canopy whilst the four posts were carved with twining ivy and fulsome roses.
There came an “Ahem” from Hebe and he realised he’d been staring at the bed…
“The painting I wished to show you is beside that mirror.”
While she strolled over, Ernest uncorked the sturdy-glassed bottle of champagne before returning to light a further candle lantern and place it by the canvas, the sun now having disappeared behind the forest.
Pouring two glasses, he smiled at Hebe’s countenance of rapture.
“Do you like it then?”
“To be truthful,” she whispered, receiving the offered goblet, “I prefer this to Stubbs. What do you see when you look at it?”
Ernest mulled. He’d always just…liked it. “I see a grey draught nag, tired at the end of her day, her demeanour rather…sad, but she draws comfort from the dog who slumbers beneath the hay trough.”
