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Robin stood and stared at it while his grandfather watched his face almost hungrily, his wrinkled features intent upon the boy and aware of nothing else.
'Well?' he demanded when Robin remained silent.
Robin lifted his clear, alarmingly adult eyes to him. 'I w
ish I lived in your house,' he said bluntly.
Leon Daumaury's skin slowly flushed, his lower lip trembled, and he closed his lips together in an effort to stem the emotion Emma could read in his face. After a moment he said gruffly, 'I'm glad you like it.'
They walked slowly round to the back of the house. A terrace ran along here, the wooden columns supporting a glass roof, and roses spilled everywhere in waves of scent and colour, despite the lateness of the season. 'In summer they're the talk of the county,' Leon Daumaury told Emma, seeing her eyes rest on the roses. 'We're proud of our roses at Queen's Daumaury.'
'What's that?' asked Donna in dismay, shrinking back at a sudden raucous shriek.
'Peacocks,' said Tracy abruptly.
Her grandfather looked at her, his eyes keen. 'D'you like them?'
'They show off,' Tracy said scornfully. 'All those feathers…'
'Oh, pretty,' Donna cried, seeing a cock spread his tail feathers in glittering panoply. 'Oh, pretty!'
They all stood, in satisfied silence, admiring the spread of colour. 'There's no denying it,' Emma said with a laugh, 'they are fantastic creatures, aren't they?' She looked at Tracy and smiled. 'I sympathise with your point of view, darling, but one has to admire them!'
'I suppose they're very pretty,' Tracy reluctantly admitted.
'You wait until you see the gardens in the spring,' said Leon Daumaury. 'We have a blue garden here—in the spring it's a sea of blue hyacinth, then later forget-me-not and love-in-a-mist, larkspur and iris…it's quite breathtaking.'
'I love blue flowers,' said Tracy, on an involuntary surge of enthusiasm.
'There's a wild garden, too,' the old man added. 'We call it the Coppice—there are hazel trees, a little stream and glades filled with bluebells and wood anemones in the spring, with cowslips and ladies' slippers and a dozen different varieties later. The gardeners leave it alone to encourage wild flowers to seed there—the birds carry the seeds in their beaks, you know, and some blow in on the wind.'
'Dandelion clocks,' said Tracy knowingly.
'Yes,' he nodded.
Donna was standing at a french window, her nose pressed against the glass. 'Can we go in?' she asked her grandfather.
Before he could answer a window was flung open above Donna and Amanda cried in sharp, angry tones, 'What are you doing here? Go away at once, you naughty child!'
Leon Daumaury stepped forward. He had been hidden from Amanda's sight until he moved. Now she stared, going pale, having thought that Donna was alone.
'Oh, I didn't see…I didn't know…'
Sternly the old man said, 'You shouldn't have shouted at the child like that. You've frightened her.'
Donna was not frightened, merely startled. Emma knew her well enough to recognise the look of mild contentment which now crept into the big blue eyes. Donna was enjoying this—she did not like Amanda and was glad to see her getting into trouble, particularly as Amanda had just made her jump in alarm.
Amanda bit her lip and tried to appear contrite. 'I didn't recognise her. I just saw a strange child on the terrace, peering in the window, and I thought…'
'Considering her obvious age you shouldn't have shouted, whatever she was doing—she's only a baby,' Leon Daumaury said coldly.
Amanda flung Emma a look of bitter hatred. Emma knew whom Amanda blamed for this incident. Then, with a flicker of her lashes, the other girl smiled at the three children. 'Oh, they know me, don't you? We're old friends now. We understand each other.'
'We certainly do,' said Robin in a hilarious imitation of Ross.
His grandfather looked at him sharply. Emma wondered if he knew Ross, and perhaps recognised the turn of phrase, the tone. Of course, she thought—Ross had visited the house now and then to see Amanda. Leon Daumaury must know him, even if he detested Ross's sister for having married his son.
Amanda opened the french windows and they all entered the room beyond. It was one of those much photographed for glossy magazines. A drawing-room in shades of pale blue and creamy beige—the walls papered with a silky sandy material, the carpet a tone poem in blue and cream, the furniture upholstered in blue brocade. Blue vases stood on occasional tables, containing exquisitely arranged flowers, dahlias in warm autumn shades which looked discreetly colourful against the muted elegance of the walls.
