The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [103]
Then he asked if there was anyone whose permission he should ask. Briefly I thought of Miss Seftain and how she had teased me about marriage as we walked across the frozen grass. “No,” I said.
“So there are no obstacles,” he said jubilantly.
He picked me up and kissed me and I stopped thinking about rugs, or stars, or larks, or anything except my body measured by his.
Save for the strangely heavy rock under my pillow, the next day everything seemed just the same: breakfast, hens, calves, lessons, lunch, a walk, reading. After tea, however, when I was labelling her drawings, Nell skipped into the schoolroom and said Uncle Hugh wanted us in the library. I brought a book, thinking he might ask her to read. But as soon as I saw Vicky, seated in an armchair, knitting, I knew that once again we were standing on the cliff top. It had not occurred to me that our nocturnal conversation would bring changes so soon. Don’t say anything, I wanted to say.
Was it my thoughts or his own doubts that made Mr. Sinclair move his feet awkwardly, lean one way and then the other, push back his hair and look out of the window before turning to face three women whose combined ages totaled a little more than fifty? Just for an instant, I cherished the hope that he was about to propose an outing to Kirkwall or agree that Nell could, at last, have piano lessons.
“I want you both to know, to be the first to know”—his eyes flickered towards one bookshelf, then another—“that Gemma and I are going to be married.”
Nell flung her arms around me. “Hurrah. I’ll have an aunt.”
As we embraced, I saw Vicky’s ball of red wool rolling away across the floor. She was looking at me wide-eyed, one hand pressed to her chest, as if to still the inner turmoil, but by the time Nell had stopped jumping up and down she was on her feet, ready to shake hands with Mr. Sinclair and kiss my cheek. “I do congratulate you both,” she said. He too, I saw, had registered her coolness; indeed, he had expected it. How could his twenty-seven-year-old housekeeper be expected to welcome the news that he was marrying his eighteen-year-old au pair?
“When are you getting married?” clamoured Nell. “Can I be a bridesmaid?”
“No—there won’t be any bridesmaids.”
“What about a cake? A white cake with a bride and groom on top.”
“No,” Mr. Sinclair said again. “We’re not going to make a fuss.”
Vicky stood up and announced that she had a pie in the oven. I stood too and told Nell we must tidy the schoolroom before supper.
“Wait,” said Mr. Sinclair. “We have to talk.”
“We can talk later, after Nell’s in bed. Or you can help tidy the schoolroom.” I held out my hand to Nell.
“But you’ll have dinner with me?”
“Nell has supper in half an hour. I eat with her.”
“We’re engaged,” he said. “Surely that makes a difference?”
“As little as possible, if I have any say, which the last ten minutes suggest I don’t.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair. “We’re having our first quarrel. I’m sorry. I should have asked you before I told Vicky and Nell.”
“You should have.” Hand in hand with Nell, I left the room.
Later that night, after she was asleep, we sat together in the library. Now that our relationship was public, there was no reason to hide away in his room. Vicky, I knew, was safely visiting friends, and Seamus was out wandering the fields, or bowed over his mantelpiece, but I left the door ajar, a signal that everything was above-board. Mr. Sinclair apologised again.
“I’m sorry. I’m just so used to being in charge.” Then he added that he had applied for a wedding licence. We would be married in the registry office in Kirkwall next week.
“Next week?” I exclaimed. “Besides, I thought we’d be married in a church.”
“I’m sorry, Gemma.