Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [80]
‘You’re not counting properly,’ Henrietta protested.
She was plunging round among the trees, looking for a hiding place. Then she changed direction and came running towards the summerhouse.
‘No, don’t let her,’ Celia hissed through the planks.
I stood up, but too late to intercept Henrietta as she ran behind the summerhouse.
‘I’ve found Celia. I’ve found Celia.’
‘Go away you little pest.’
But Henrietta’s voice must have carried over the hedges. Stephen called from some way off in the flower garden, ‘Celia?’ Two pairs of footsteps sounded on the gravel path, one quick, one slow and heavy.
‘Go to them,’ Celia said to me. From her voice, she was near to tears. ‘Tell them she’s lying and I’m not here.’
By then I was in a fair panic myself.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Mr Brighton saw me at the stables dressed as a boy. Supposing he guesses?’
A gasp from behind the planks, then silence apart from Henrietta’s capering steps on the grass. Stephen appeared at the gap in the hedge. I sat down again, curling into the darkest corner of the summerhouse. As he came striding in our direction I stayed where I was, determined that Celia must solve her own problem for once.
‘Celia, are you there?’ he called.
Celia came out from behind the summerhouse looking far cooler than I’d expected, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear.
‘You’re too hot, Henrietta. You’ll make yourself ill.’
Her voice was cool too, but she threw me a glance of pure terror. As far as I could tell, Stephen hadn’t noticed me in the summerhouse.
‘Celia, where have you been? We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
‘Here, with the children,’ Celia said. ‘But Henrietta’s made herself over-excited running about. I’m taking her back to the house to lie down.’
‘Can’t Betty or Miss Lock see to them?’ Stephen protested.
But Celia took a firm grip of her half-sister’s hand and began walking towards the hedge. She was almost there when Mr Brighton arrived, flushed of face but gorgeously dressed in pale green cut-away coat with green-and-pink striped waistcoat. He stood staring at Celia like an actor unsure of his cue. Anything less like an ardent suitor I’d never seen.
‘Charles, James, come here,’ Celia said, ignoring him entirely.
She collected the boys and shepherded the three children straight past Mr Brighton as if he were no more than another apple tree. When they’d disappeared, he prodded his walking cane into the grass a few times with a vacant look, then his hand went to the pocket in his coat-tail, the gold box came out and his little finger carefully applied pink balm to his full lower lip. He seemed lost. Stephen had to escort him away in the end, much as Celia had done with the children.
I stayed in the summerhouse, surprised by her resourcefulness and weak with relief at not having come face to face with Mr Brighton. Something about him was nagging at my mind – something apart from what had happened in the stables. When I saw the vacant expression on his face, a kind of half-recognition had come to me, as if I’d seen that look before a long time ago, though where and when I couldn’t say. I remained there for some time. It was cool and restful and I was in no hurry to return to all the complications inside the house. I think I must have fallen into a half doze, because I didn’t hear the footsteps coming back on the gravel path until they were almost at the hedge. They were male steps, but rather uncertain, as if the person didn’t know what he’d find on the other side. I hoped it was simply a guest taking a stroll and started to stand up, intending to say a polite good afternoon and leave. But it wasn’t a guest. Stephen Mandeville was standing in front of me.
‘Miss Lock, I was hoping you’d still be here. No, please, sit down.’
So he’d seen me after all. He seemed weary, dark hair disordered, shadows under his eyes. There was nothing for it but to sit down again. He settled himself on the far side of the bench, with a respectable distance between us. I waited, heart thumping. It was in my mind that Mr Brighton might have told him about