Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [287]
If there had been anything less than commonplace in their dispositions, he would have turned his back and left the balcony. As it was, he saw that Francis had lodged himself, a book on his knee, in what was obviously an accustomed chair, far to the side of the otherwise empty salon, while Philippa sat close to the fire, also from time to time reading. At other times she simply leaned back, and watched Lymond’s downcast eyes and his hand, as he turned the pages of his book. Then he, perhaps feeling the gaze, would look up and smile. So far as Adam could see, they were not speaking.
He stayed there in the mild air, watching, and listening to the clock on the distant stables chime the final hours of the night. Then, across in the other wing, Philippa rose, her book closed in her hand and Lymond, leaving his seat, came forward and opened the door for her. Then, with a smile, she was gone.
With a smile, and nothing else. But, of course, she must know, with the hangings apart and the candelabra burning, that all they did was visible. Presumably, Lymond knew it too. He closed the door at any rate directly after she had gone and returning to his seat, picked up his book and carried it to the chimneypiece. There he stood for a while, studying the embers. Then, the glow underlighting his face he knelt, laying down the thick volume, and began to rebuild the fire with remarkable care, as if erecting a city of gossamer. He remained kneeling by it for quite some time after it was done and then, when the flaring heat must have discommoded him, he rose and wandered to the far end of the room and back, his hands clasped, his eyes on the floor.
An explanation, with two people of different quality, would have been simple: just so might a bridegroom, married a month, await the nightly disrobing of a modest young wife. An explanation which did not even cross Adam’s mind as he lingered there, unaware of his fatigue, and watched the owner of Sevigny pass and repass, pacing the length of his salon, diverging sometimes to the fire, to the window, to his book, for the better part of two weary hours. He was still there, gazing down into the fire when Adam saw his head lift sharply and turn. A moment later, the salon door opened abruptly and Philippa stood on the threshold, her long hair tossed over her night-robe.
He had not expected her. His very rigidity made it clear, even seen over such a distance, and from behind. But by the time Philippa had closed the door and come a little way into the room Lymond had backed, and was standing looking at her from the corner in which, hours before, he had been seated. Then Philippa walked forward and confronting him, said something.
Adam saw her stop speaking. For some moments it seemed, nothing occurred. Then with extreme deliberation, Francis Crawford seated himself. And as he did so, Philippa sank on her knees before him, her gaze on his, her robe dragged like a furled sleeve behind her. After a while he unloosed his hands and, withdrawing a kerchief, laid it on the stool beside her, saying something: when she lifted it and held it to her face, Adam knew she must be weeping. Presently she rose and, her fingers still pressed to the linen, moved to the window where she stood in profile against one of the embrasures. Then she lowered her hands and laid the handkerchief, still folded, on the window seat and as she did so Lymond followed her quietly and stood, separated by the window, facing her from the opposite side of the bay.
For a long time they stood there, exchanging sentences occasionally, but more often silent. Then at length, she asked him a question, and he answered. And a moment later, turning, she walked to the door. There, she turned as she had before, and gave a smile of such sweetness that Adam’s breath caught. Then she had gone.
Time passed. Between Adam and his high balcony and that blazing range of lit windows below,