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‘No, thank you. I’ve already had a jam tart. They are my weakness.’
‘Would you like another?’ Now that they had nothing to talk about, he had lost his ease in speaking to her. It had seemed so effortless before.
‘Later, perhaps,’ she answered. ‘Sarah looks a lot better, doesn’t she?’
He turned to look, and found Sarah looking back at him, her face filled with gratitude. Arthur, too, turned towards him and smiled, then gazed back at the room and the multitude of pictures, ornaments, and mementoes that filled it.
Kitteridge was the last to arrive. He came in as angular as usual, seeming all legs and
elbows and wearing a most flamboyant necktie. Mercy made him welcome and offered him tea and fruitcake, which he accepted warmly, and narrowly missed spilling it over Sarah. He apologised profusely, and she assured him that it was perfectly all right. It was not his fault at all.
A slight flush spread up Kitteridge’s cheeks.
Daniel looked away, conscious of staring. It seemed the only thing left to worry about was Graves’ manuscript, but that mattered more to him than he dared tell anyone else. They all looked so relieved, he felt selfish to darken the party with his own fears.
Miriam reached forward and gave the fire another dig with the poker, and it seemed to gain new energy.
‘Are you cold?’ he said incredulously.
‘Oh, no, thank you.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘Are you still worried about the manuscript, Daniel?’
‘Yes . . .’ he admitted.
She gave a sweet, gentle smile. ‘Don’t be,’ she said, and gave the fire another sharp prod. ‘It will never see the light of day, I promise you.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ he pressed.
‘Daniel, would you reach into the coal scuttle?’
He lifted the lid and his fingers touched a thin pile of paper. He pulled out the last pages of the manuscript. With a flood of relief, he passed them to her. And silently, she fed them to the fire.
