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‘I’ve always found martyrdom an annoying trait.’
Violet seethed on the way down, through another wilderness of rooms. En route, he gave her a potted history of the house and the land around it. She thawed. She was reluctantly charmed at the thought of an unknown half Italian coming to live there and passing on the mansion to his children, wrenching it away from the exclusive grasp of the landed gentry.
By the time they were finally at the sitting room where drinks were being served, she was more relaxed, and then she fully relaxed as Eleanor was helped down to make her entry, accompanied by Dominic and a young girl who tactfully left, having settled Eleanor in the chair by the fire.
She forgot about Damien. She knew that she should be making conspicuous efforts to play the adoring girlfriend but she became wrapped up in Eleanor and Dominic. She had been warned about Dominic’s disability. She hadn’t been told that although he was in a wheelchair, although his speech was often difficult to understand and although his movements were not perfectly controlled, he was smart and he was funny and shy. She sat very close to him, sipping her wine and leaning in so that she could pick up everything he said while Damien and his mother conducted a conversation, the wisps of which came floating her way. The need to think about selling the house...the difficulties of managing the various floors even if she made a full recovery...the value of having somewhere closer to civilisation where doctors and the hospital were not an unsafe car drive away if the weather was inclement.
He was the background voice of reason, the head of the family making sensible decisions, although, sliding her eyes across to him, she was aware of the frustration etched on his features at his mother’s vague, non-committal replies to his persuasive urgings.
Every family had its stories to tell and she wondered if this was his. If he was so embedded in his role as protector that he failed to recognise any form of mutiny in the ranks. He obviously didn’t think that his brother should have any input because the conversation was dropped the minute they were at the dinner table.
A carer helped Dominic with his food while Eleanor fussed and explained to her that that was normally her job.
‘I’m a pain in the ass,’ Dominic stammered.
Violet laughed and looked across to Damien, who was seated opposite her. ‘You have that in common with your brother,’ she said tartly and then flushed when he looked back at her with a slow, appreciative smile. Her heartbeat quickened. His glance lingered just that bit too long and she returned it with just a little too much dragging intensity.
After that, she was conscious of every little movement he made and tuned in to every word he said, even when her attention appeared to be elsewhere. She was aware of the quality of the food and the fact that she was being treated like a valued guest because, despite what Damien had said, Eleanor had long dispensed with formalities when it was just herself and Dominic and the wonderful girl who helped with him. Then they ate in the kitchen with dishes served by the housekeeper straight from Aga to plate.
‘My son would know that if he visited with a bit more regularity,’ Eleanor said with asperity. ‘Perhaps you could see that as your mission—to get him away from London and his never ending workload...’
Watching her, Damien was impressed at how well she fielded the awkward remark, which implied a future that wasn’t on the cards. He took in the way she communicated with Dominic. With ease, not patronising, without a hint of indulgence or condescension. Nor did she look to anyone to rescue her from what she might have felt was an uncomfortable situation.
Sipping the espresso that had been brought in for him, he mentally began to compare her natural responses to those of Annalise but it was an exercise he killed before it could take root. Such comparisons, he knew, were entirely inappropriate. That said, he murmured softly as they walked back up the stairs, Dominic and his mother having retired for the night, ‘Very good...’
‘Sorry?’ Violet wished she could have stretched the evening out for longer—for as long as she could, like a piece of elastic with no breaking point—because now she faced the prospect of the shared bedroom. He certainly wasn’t going to sleep on the chaise longue. She could try to, but chaises longues had not been designed for deep REM slumber. She might embarrass herself by falling off. Worse, she might hurt herself by falling off.
‘Your performance tonight. Very good.’
‘I wasn’t performing.’ They were now at the bedroom door and she stood back as he pushed it open and waited for her to precede him. ‘You know I like your mother and your brother’s amazing.’ He was pulling off the luxurious, ornate spread that had been thrown over the bed, dumping it in a heap in the corner of the room. Violet’s hands itched to fold it neatly, a legacy of having an untidy sister behind whom she had long become accustomed to tidying up.
He was beginning to unbutton his shirt, eyes still firmly focused on her, pinning her into a state of near paralysis.
Why couldn’t he have found somewhere else to sleep? Or found her somewhere else to sleep? Surely, in a mansion the size of a hotel, they could have had separate sleeping quarters without the whole world detecting it? Why was she being placed in this position? It felt as though every sacrifice was being made by her and she was the one who directly benefited from none of it.
Anger at her helplessness to alter the situation made her eyes sting. She clung to the anger like a drowning person clinging to a lifebelt.
‘I can see why your mother was so worried about Dominic when she was diagnosed,’ Violet imparted recklessly and she immediately regretted the outburst when he stilled.
‘Come again?’
‘Nothing,’ Violet mumbled.
‘Really?’ He was strolling towards her, lean, dark and menacing, and Violet stood her ground, stubbornly defensive. ‘If you have something to say, why don’t you come right out and say it? Only start something, Violet, if you intend to see it through to the end.’
‘Well, you don’t seem to really communicate with him. You leave it all to your mother. I heard you talking about selling the house with her and yet you didn’t say anything to Dominic about it, even though he would be affected as well...’
Damien stared at her with cold fury. Had he just heard correctly? Was she actually criticising his behaviour? Coming hard on the heels of his own unexpected guilt trip, he could feel rage coursing through his veins like a poison. Was she deliberately needling him?
‘I don’t seem to communicate with him...’ was all that managed to emerge from his incredulous lips.
‘You talk around him and above him and when you do talk directly to him, you don’t really seem to expect an answer, even though you look as if you do.’
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘No one ever tells you like it is, Damien.’
‘And you mistakenly think that you’re in a position to do so?’ He watched as she lowered her eyes, although her soft lips were still pinched in a stubborn line. ‘This may come as a cruel shock, but you’re over-stepping your brief...’
When had he stopped listening to what his brother had to say? Was it when they moved to the estate? When acres of space removed the need for physical proximity? And then later, in London...with trips back to the estate infrequent obligations...his mother usually amenable to taking a bit of time out in London, travelling without Dominic...had distance crept through the cracks until he had simply forgotten how to communicate? Or, worse, had he selfishly been protecting himself by unconsciously withdrawing? You couldn’t feel pain at other people’s thoughtless reactions if you just never put yourself in that position in the first place, could you?
‘I know I am!’ Violet flung at him defiantly. ‘But you can’t expect me to come here and have no opinions at all on the people I meet! And besides, what do I have to lose by telling you the truth? Once I leave here, I’ll never see you again! And maybe it’s time someone did speak their mind to you!’ She had courted an argument. It seemed safer to get into that bed with her back angrily turned away from him. But the shutter that fell over his eyes sent a jolt of unhappiness through her. She fought it off because why did it matter what he thought of her in the long run?
‘I think I’ll go downstairs and catch up on work.’ Damien turned away from her, walked towards his laptop, which he had left on the chest of drawers, and Violet was unaccountably tempted to rush into a frantic apology for having crossed the line.
‘Don’t,’ he threw over his shoulder with biting sarcasm, ‘wait up.’
CHAPTER SIX
WHEN DAMIEN HAD considered the challenge of setting his mother’s fears to rest and allaying her worry that he would not be able to cope with Dominic in her absence, he had envisaged a fairly straightforward solution.
He would take time off work to come to Devon. He would dispatch Violet after her week and, henceforth, he would assume the mantle of responsible son and dependable brother. How hard could it possibly be? He might have been a little lax in his duties over the years, but that was not for lack of devotion to his family. His work, every minute of it, was testimony to his dedication. They wanted for nothing. His brother had the very best carers money could buy. His mother enjoyed help on every front, from garden to house. She fancied roses? He had ensured that a special section of the extensive cultivated land was requisitioned for a rose garden fit to be photographed in a magazine. When she had been complaining of exhaustion only months previously, before the reason behind that exhaustion became known, he had personally seen to it that one of the finest chefs in the area was commissioned to cook exquisite meals and deliver them promptly so that she could be spared the effort of doing so herself. On the rare occasions when she ventured up to London, theatre tickets had been obtained, opera seats reserved, tables at the best restaurants booked.
