A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [12]
A line of Olivia’s poetry from the volume Wings of Fire—O. A. Manning’s poetry—filled his mind, unbidden.
I have not forgotten you,
The pleasure of your touch,
The depth of your voice.
It’s as if you never left me,
And my heart is full.
He nearly dropped the coat, but Meredith Channing appeared not to notice. Hamish had.
Rutledge had envied Nicholas Cheney, Olivia’s half brother. He still did. And Hamish knew that all too well.
There were general farewells, giving Rutledge time to collect his wits and shake hands, say the right thing, and turn away as the next cab drew to the curb. Frances was adding, “Mrs. Channing is going my way, Ian. You needn’t worry about seeing me home. Did you enjoy the evening? I hope you did.”
“Very much so,” he answered, kissing her cheek.
And then he was alone, traveling toward his flat. Damn Barrington, if he broke Frances’s heart!
Three nights later Rutledge met friends for dinner, this one masculine and taken in a club off St. James’s Street. Their conversation avoided the war, but even so, the toast, “To absent friends…” had brought it back like a specter at the feast. One man had just returned from a tour of duty in South Africa, his face burnt brick red by the sun, and they spoke of his journey home, then moved on to where the government was heading with its policies, the state of the economy, and most depressing of all, a rise in the crime rate as ordinary people struggled to make ends meet. As the dinner broke up, Freddy Masters informed them that he was thinking of immigrating to Canada.
“My uncle has business interests there, and he lost his son—my cousin Jack—in the war. I’m what’s left of the family, and while I’m not particularly enthralled with providing electricity to millions, there you are. I don’t have much choice.”
There was general agreement, and Mark Hadley said, “My neighbor has much the same idea. He’d considered Argentina and even Australia, but Canada seems less of a change.”
Talk of Canada reminded Rutledge of Jean, married and living there now with her diplomat. If it hadn’t been for the war he’d have married her himself. When he came home from France shell-shocked, a broken man, she had been horrified, unable even to look at him. He’d released her from the engagement there and then, but it had taken him a very long time to come to terms with the anguish of her desertion. It had seemed to underline the bleakness of his future.
He was wondering if she missed England, just as Freddy continued. “My wife’s not best pleased, leaving schools and friends behind. I’ll let you know what we decide.”
“I can tell you my wife wasn’t best pleased with Cape Town,” Edward Throckmorton commented. “But we managed. You find a way.”
Mark smiled at Rutledge. “Lucky man, you have no wife to make your decisions for you.” And then he too remembered Jean and looked away.
Rutledge said only, “I don’t know if it’s luck or a curse. My sister keeps me in line.”
Freddy said, thoughtfully, “I saw Frances some ten days back, walking along Bond Street with Simon Barrington. Good man, Simon.” As if to say he’d seen which way the wind blew there. And as if to reassure Rutledge that she might make a worse choice.
“He’s in Scotland at the moment,” Rutledge answered.
“Scotland?” Mark was surprised. “He dined with the Douglases last night. I’m sure of it.”
Rutledge heard him, but managed to say, “I must be wrong, then. I may not have a wife, but I know how to listen with half an ear.”
That brought a round of laughter, and they said their good nights.
Driving to his flat, Rutledge tried to recall some of the evening’s conversation, but it was a blur, already fading. All he could hear was Hadley’s voice: He dined with the Douglases last night. I’m sure of it.
Tomorrow he would make it his