Sage climbed the first few steps back up towards her room. But she did not want to be left alone upstairs with her thoughts, not right now, so she swivelled on her heel and traipsed back into the depths of the house, on impulse heading towards the library. Slowly pushing open the heavy door, she stepped inside. Kestrel was sitting at the head of the long table; he had pushed back the chair that he had been sitting on at dinner the night before, so that it lay just outside the warmth of the hearth where a fire burnt gamely, the logs crackling and spitting away but not producing a huge amount of heat in the large, draughty room.Kestrel was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, his head resting wearily back against the top of the wooden chair. His eyes were closed. His fine-boned features were exaggerated in repose, the long slanting cheekbones standing out more than they normally did against the shadows from the flickering light, the blonde brows appearing darker, the fine Roman nose jutting out over his lean jaw and generous mouth. Sage caught her breath; the likeness to Rafe was uncanny.
Kestrel opened one eye, narrowing his thick lashes against the blue curling smoke.
‘Thank God – I thought you were Bloody Mary for a moment, sneaking about like a thief in the night. Drink?’ He indicated a glass on the table beside him that had a small measure of whisky left in it. ‘I’m afraid I’ve already started.’ He looked at his wristwatch and his lip curled up in a smile. ‘Although, ha! Itissix o’clock. Perfectly acceptable. Yah boo sucks to my horrible sister.’ He got to his feet and drifted elegantly over to the sideboard where he poured a measure of amber liquid from a decanter into a crystal tumbler and then moved towards Sage, holding it out to her.
‘Thank you, Kestrel,’ she said, feeling somehow complicit in doing some mischief towards him. She wanted to comfort him with friendship and suspected that refusing a drink would hurt his feelings. She also felt strongly compelled to drink her own worries away that evening. ‘Can you roll me one of those too, please?’ She pointed at his cigarette.
‘In for a penny?’ Kestrel said happily, pulling a chair out for her beside him. Then sitting down, he reached for his tobacco tin.
‘It’s been really intense, these past few days. I’m cooked.’ She sat down gratefully, trying to lower her tensed shoulders that seemed to be permanently braced in a defensive position.
For a long while, they sat together in companionable silence,both looking up at the high windows, outside which a storm was brewing. They continued to drink steadily. Rain lashed at the panes and the black clouds were starting to rumble with thunder. The night was drawing in and lightning soon lit up the inky sky, a jagged line dividing the heaving, pitching heavens.
‘Who needs fireworks?’ Kestrel scoffed quietly, almost to himself, as he leisurely supped on his replenished drink.
He carefully put the glass down and leant forward into the orbital warmth of the fireplace to throw on another log. Then tilting back on his chair again, he began to roll them another cigarette each. He spoke softly.
‘Please don’t be so glum. There’s really no need. I am about to be very indiscreet and my cousin will most likely have my head for it.’ Kestrel lit a cigarette and passed it to Sage, then lit another and inhaled deeply, slowly blowing out a plume of dancing smoke that twirled upwards to the window. Sage leant in, slightly impatiently. Kestrel was enjoying the suspense like a conjuror producing his white rabbit. ‘Rafe told me that you are the girl he is going to marry.’
Sage let this sink in for a moment. She was really feeling rather stewed now, her muscles beginning to slowly loosen. Almost a quarter of a bottle of whisky was having quite an effect on her nervous system. Another flash of lightning rent the volatile sky. Mesmerized by the rain hammering against the window, she felt suddenly lightheaded and anaesthetized from her earlier fears. Life was not so bad after all. Perhaps she had reacted too hastily. It might turn out all right in the end. It might not though.
She made an effort to focus on Kestrel. ‘Hemighthavechangedhismindshhincethen.’
Kestrel leant forward and looked at her owlishly, his eyes blinking slowly at her. Sage wondered at her words; they didn’t sound quite right. Hmm. She’d better give it another try.
‘Hemighthavechanged …’ No, that was definitely not right. Sage sucked in a long, sobering breath and tried once again, this time in a whisper and placing deliberate emphasis on each word. ‘He might … have changed … hismind.’ Bingo. Success. She would just have to talk in muted tones all night. Fine.
‘Like hell he has.’ Kestrel beamed at her comprehendingly, latched on to the sotto voce theme and replied in an echoing whisper. ‘When Rafe was eight years old, he decided he was going to be a point-to-point jockey. Did he become the Midlands Area leading rider at just sixteen years old in his first season? Yes, he did.’ Kestrel chortled and then shushed himself, proceeding once more in the voice of a church mouse. ‘Shortly after, Rafe then announced he was going to get his helicopter pilot licence before his driving licence. Did he? Yes, he did. Then he had his heart set on training racehorses. I believe he now has one or two rapid beasts galloping about and eating their heads off in a Newmarket yard, no? The point is, my dear, once Rafe has set his mind on a certain course of action, not a lot can dissuade him.’ Kestrel sank back into the chair again, quietly triumphant.
‘Let’s hope … that is true … this time.’ Sage didn’t dare allow herself to be convinced by Kestrel’s assurances, but she felt more optimistic.
‘Can you help me lay the table?’ Mrs M appeared, carrying a heavy terracotta soup tureen. Mary followed her, a silver ladle held between her thumb and forefinger. She was wearing a low-cut sequin dress that highlighted her bony chest and boyish figure. Her face had been meticulously painted; her thin lips were scarlet and she had drawn on heavy eyeliner, making her eyes look quite feline.
‘I see that you don’t bother to dress for dinner any more, Kestrel,’ Mary said dismissively, with a cursory glance at Sage and Kestrel. They were both still in jeans and jerseys, sitting in their chairs and clutching their drinks like naughty children.
‘I didn’t realize how late it was,’ Kestrel said sheepishly, still whispering. He stood up and swayed gently, holding a chivalrous, albeit slightly shaky, hand to Sage.
‘Thank you.’ She got unsteadily to her feet. ‘Is there time to change?’
‘Honestly, you two!’ Mrs M hid an indulgent smile from the glowering Mary. ‘No, no – don’t fret about that now. Dinner is ready. Just finish laying up, and I will go and get the bread.’
Mary sat down in Kestrel’s usual seat, her body as stiff as a rod, her sharp eyes following Kestrel and Sage’s wobbly progress as they silently laid the table with exaggerated care. She did not even pretend to help.
The storm had passed and the air cleared, making the house even colder. Sage tried to clear her head by sipping water and eventually they sat down to eat, with a snide, ‘So you eat with thestaffnow?’ from Mary.
‘You’ll mind yourself, Mary,’ murmured Mrs M, raising her eyebrow at the sharp-tongued young woman.
Sage, unable to stop shivering, was sitting on her hands, embarrassed at their trembling. She was beginning to understand why Kestrel loathed his sister as Mary continued to snipe at him throughout the three courses. Kestrel clumsily attempted to brush it off but Sage could see that the onslaught was taking its toll; his face was drawn and his brow deeply furrowed, his hands also shook as he lifted his glass to his lips but not from cold, and he had eaten nothing, pushing his food miserably around his plate.
By the time the plates were cleared, Sage’s head had stopped spinning. Mary, who herself had eaten very little, chain-smoked throughout. Mrs M left with the pudding bowls, keen to escape to the kitchen. Mary’s eyes flashed maliciously as she stood up and pushed back her chair; she was enjoying herself.
‘Do you really not remember me?’ she asked Sage in a low, lethal voice. ‘We’ve met before, in Panama.’
Sage felt a thrill of fear at the mention of Panama and tried to put her jumbled thoughts into order. She took a steadying gulp of ice-cold water.
‘You’re Santiago Deverill’s wife.’ Mary said it in such a way that panic rose inside Sage. Were she and Hal now in danger again? She felt an urge to bolt upstairs to check on her son.
‘Is that why you’re here? You know Santiago?’ Sage braced herself to stand her ground.
