The Mistress of Alderley Read Free Page A

of making himself known, and had decided against doing it at that time. At some stage, surely, he would come back, tell her who he was, and would probably turn out to be the result of one of Marius’s earlier indiscretions. In fact, she felt she would be rather disappointed if he did not—if his appearance in the road outside Alderley turned out to be merely the result of a curiosity that was satisfied by a sight of the house in which Marius had installed his mistress. She felt she wanted to talk to the boy, and since Marius had made no secret of several youthful and not-so-youthful entanglements, she saw no reason for embarrassment on either side. Without any conscious decision on her part, Caroline stayed within the house and garden for the next day or two. That was no penance. Alderley was the first place in her life where she was entirely happy.
    She had seen the boy on Tuesday. It was Thursday when he rang the doorbell. Caroline was working round the side of the house, waiting for a promised visit from the rector and Sir John, and the windows of Alderley were open to the summer sun. She went round to the front, vaguely wiping her earthy hands, and recognized her visitor at once.
    â€œOh, hello,” she said. “I wondered whether you’d come back.”
    â€œBack?”
    â€œI saw you when you went past the house before. I was puzzled, at first, by your resemblance to somebody.”
    The boy smiled a slow smile. He did not take her up on her words, but went at the matter obliquely, rather reminding Caroline of Alexander.
    â€œI hope you don’t think it’s cheek, visiting you like this.”
    â€œNot at all. I’m delighted. Do come in and have a cup of tea or coffee. I’m Caroline Fawley, by the way.”
    â€œI know. I’m Pete Bagshaw.”
    They shook hands awkwardly, then laughed, and Caroline led the way inside. She regretted that Alexander and Stella were both out, and she hoped she could persuade Pete to stay to dinner, or stay the night even. The children could help with that, and she hoped she could delay him until they were back. She put him in the lounge, found that he would prefer coffee, and asked if there was anything else that he wanted.
    â€œA bath. I’d die for a bath.”
    â€œBath or coffee first?”
    â€œI should say bath, but I’m parched.”
    â€œRight. There’s a paper there if you’re interested in the news.”
    When Caroline came back with a coffeepot and two large cups and saucers, she saw he was somewhat confusedly finding his way through the various sections of The Times. She poured a cup, then said: “Anything particular you’re looking for?”
    â€œSport.”
    â€œOh, it sometimes has a section to itself, sometimes it’s with Business. I’m afraid it’s not something I even glance at.” She handed him his cup, and he helped himself to two heaped teaspoons of sugar. Out of tune with his time, she thought. When he tasted the coffee, he had to suppress a grimace of surprise or distaste.
    Caroline could have kicked herself. He was a Nescafé boy, and probably a tabloid one. She didn’t often put her foot in it when it came to that sort of judgment. She thought perhaps it had come about because she had thought of him as Marius’s son, and that she had made the mistake because she was nervous. Silly reaction, she told herself: she had known many gauche but harmless young men, usually friends of her children. She had nothing to fear from the likes of Pete Bagshaw.
    â€œTry some cream,” she said. “It will take away the bitterness. I was a bit lavish with the coffee grounds.”
    The cream did seem to make the brew more palatable.
    â€œIt’s a grand house,” Pete said.
    â€œIsn’t it? I just loved it the moment I saw it.”
    â€œAnd lovely gardens too.”
    â€œThey are—small thanks to me. The rector and a neighbor should be here