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“The war.”
“Oh.”
“I wonder…” She was about to ask him if she might pass, when she heard the discreet steps of the butler, McTeer, coming up behind her.
“Why would you go to a war?” Hector refused to let go of the puzzle. “You’re a woman. You can’t fight!” He began to laugh, as if the idea amused him.
“Now Mr. Farraline, sir,” McTeer said firmly. “You go up to your room and lie down a while. You can’t sit here all afternoon. People need the stairs.”
Hector shook him off impatiently. “Go away, man. You’ve got a face like a chief mourner at a funeral. You couldn’t look worse if it were your own.”
“I’m sorry, miss.” McTeer looked apologetically at Hester. “He’s a bit of a nuisance, but he’s no harm. He’ll no bother ye, except for prattlin’ on.” He took hold of Hector under the arms and hauled him to his feet. “Come on now, ye don’t want Miss Mary to see you behaving like a fool, do ye?”
The mention of Mary’s name sobered Hector dramatically. He gave one more venomous glance at the portrait across the hall, then allowed McTeer to assist him properly to his feet and together they made their way slowly up the stairs, leaving room for Hester to follow unhindered.
Hester slept, although she had not intended to, and woke with a start to find that it was time to prepare herself for an early dinner and bring her bag down to the hall, along with her cape, ready for departure to the railway station.
Dinner was served in the dining room, but this time the table was set for ten, and it was Alastair Farraline who sat at the head. He was an imposing-looking man and Hester knew instantly who he was because the family resemblance was startling. He had the same long face with fair hair, thinning considerably towards the front, a long nose, definitely aquiline, and a broad mouth. The shape of his bones favored Mary rather than the man in the portrait, and when he spoke his voice was deep and rich, quite his most remarkable feature.
“How do you do, Miss Latterly. Please be seated.” He indicated the last remaining empty chair. “I am delighted you accepted our offer to accompany Mother to London. It will set all our minds at rest concerning her welfare.”
“Thank you, Mr. Farraline. I shall do my best to see she has an easy journey.” She sat down, smiling at the others around the table. Mary sat at the foot, and to her left a man possibly approaching forty, who looked as utterly different from the Farralines as did Deirdra. His head was deep through from front to back, and his heavy hair, almost black, swept thickly across it with barely a wave. His eyes were set deep under dark brows, his jutting nose was straight and strong and his mouth betrayed both passion and will. It was an interesting face, unlike any other Hester could recall.
Mary caught her glance.
She introduced him with a smile of affection. “My son-in-law, Baird McIvor.” Then she turned to the younger man at her left, beyond Oonagh. He was obviously a family member; his coloring was too like the others’, his face had the same uncertainty, the shadow of humor and vulnerability in it. “My son Kenneth,” she said. “And my other son-in-law, Quinlan Fyffe.” She looked opposite to the remaining person Hester did not already know. He was also fair, but his hair was flaxen, almost silver in color, and cropped close to his head in tight curls. His face was long, his nose very straight and a trifle large for the rest of his features, his mouth small and chiseled in shape. It was a clever, meticulous face, that of a man who concealed as much as he told.
“How do you do,” Hester said punctiliously. They each replied, and conversation was stilted and sporadic while the first course was served. They inquired after her journey up from London, and she replied that it had been excellent, and thanked them for their concern.
Alastair frowned and looked across at his younger brother, who seemed to be eating with remarkable haste.
“We have plenty of time, Kenneth. The train does not leave until a quarter past nine.”
Kenneth continued eating and did not turn his head to look at Alastair. “I am not coming to the station. I shall say good-bye to Mother here.” There was a moment’s silence. Oonagh also stopped eating and turned towards him. “I am going out,” he said, his voice taking on a defiant tone.
Alastair was not satisfied. “Where are you going to, that you dine here first and cannot come to the station with us to wish Mother farewell?”
“What difference does it make if I wish to say good-bye here or at the station?” Kenneth demanded. “And I am dining here so that I can see her off properly, rather than go before dinner.” He smiled as if that were a most satisfactory answer.
Alastair pursed his lips, but said no more. Kenneth continued eating, still rapidly.
The next course was served, and while they were eating, Hester discreetly studied their faces. Kenneth was obviously intent upon his engagement, whatever it was. He looked neither right nor left, but ate steadily, and then sat with impatience plain in his face while he waited for the maid to clear his plate and the main course to be served. Twice he looked up sharply as if to speak, and Hester felt he would have asked for his portion to be served separately, ahead of the others, had he dared.
Hector ate very little, but emptied his wineglass twice. Before filling it the third time, McTeer glanced up and met Oonagh’s eyes. She shook her head minutely, and it was only because Hester was looking directly at her that she saw it at all. McTeer removed the bottle in its basket, and Hector said nothing.
Deirdra made some mention of an important dinner which was to be held and she wished to attend.
“For which, no doubt, you will need a new gown?” Alastair said dryly.
“It would be nice,” she agreed. “I only wish to do you justice, my dear. I should not like people to think that the Fiscal’s wife made do from one event to another.”
“Little chance of that,” Quinlan remarked with a smile. “You have had at least six this year … that I know of.” But there was no rancor in his voice, only amusement.
“As Fiscal’s wife, she goes to far more of those events than most of us,” Mary said soothingly. Then added, “Thank goodness,” under her breath.
Baird McIvor looked at her with a smile. “You don’t care for civic dinners, Mother-in-law?” He spoke as if he already knew the answer, his dark face conveyed both amusement and considerable affection.
“I do not,” she agreed, her eyes bright. “A lot of people only too aware of their own importance, sitting around eating too well, and giving portentous opinions upon everything and everyone. I often have the feeling that anyone caught making a joke would be fined immediately and then dismissed.”
