which can be discounted.’
‘It could,’ Marianne said slowly. ‘There are ways . . .’
She hated saying it, feared suddenly, with a cold, deathly fear, that he would swing round, offer to pay . . . He did not. Instead he shook his head and flung open the nearest door, gesturing into the room before him.
‘Living-room. Looks nice when the fire’s lit, but we don’t spend much time in here in summer, Tess and myself.’
Marianne looked around the large, well-proportioned room with french windows leading on to a small terrace, a huge fireplace which took up most of one wall, and comfortable, rather shabby furnishings. ‘It’s nice,’ she said, and heard the breathlessness in her own voice and knew it was because he was showing her his home without holding anything back, without saying ‘if you behave, this could be yours’, even if that was what he meant.
He crossed the hall in a couple of strides and threw open another door.
‘Dining-room. Used half a dozen times a year at the most, I suppose. Tess and I eat in the kitchen, as a rule.’
Another room, as large as the first, but with two ordinary windows, curtained in red velvet. A long, dark dining-table, gleaming like still water, with a silver candelabra in the centre and a number of long-backed chairs drawn up to it.
‘Not cosy,’ Peter said. ‘But functional.’
‘Marvellous,’ Marianne breathed. ‘Stately, impressive – oh, Peter!’
But Peter was shutting the door, leading her across the hallway again, opening another door.
‘My study.’
A smaller room this time, dominated by a large desk, the walls lined with shelving upon which stood innumerable books.
Marianne nodded. ‘Not cosy, but functional,’ she said. She grinned up at Peter. ‘Bedrooms?’
He took the stairs two at a time, leaving her to follow more sedately. The upper landing had four doors leading off, as had the lower hall. They must be very large bedrooms, Marianne thought, but then the first door was opening and she saw that the room revealed wasn’t very large at all, was, in fact, cosy.
‘Tess’s room,’ Peter said briefly. ‘Good thing she tidied round before she left.’
Marianne thought the room untidy and rather ill-planned, but dared not say so. She also saw that it was pretty, with honeysuckle wallpaper, dark-yellow curtains and a square of fudge-brown carpet on the linoleumed floor. She moved forward, to take a peep round the door, but Peter was already on his way out. He closed the door firmly, opened the next.
‘Spare room. The bath’s in here. I keep meaning to make it official, but you know how it is. Tess and I manage.’
‘Oh! No lavatory, either?’ The words were out before she could prevent it and Marianne could have kicked herself for the implied criticism, but Peter just said, ‘Been meaning to have one installed as well as a bath. I’ll do it if you’d like it. Otherwise it’s a chamberpot during the night and a run down to the end of the garden during the day.’
‘I’d like it,’ Marianne said feelingly. She had no urge for the simple life, not as regards plumbing, at any rate. ‘But I could manage, I suppose.’
He nodded, then opened the third door.
‘Spare room. We don’t have many visitors, but when I’m away Mrs Rawlings sleeps here.’
It was a pleasant room, though it seemed chillier than the rest of the house, possibly because the walls were ice-white and the curtains and bedspread a very pale blue. But Marianne nodded approvingly. It was fine for visitors. And what she wanted to see was where Peter had slept – alone – for the last few years. She realised as the thought entered her head that she had no idea when the first Mrs Delamere had died, but there were some things, she decided, that you simply didn’t ask Peter. It wasn’t that he was secretive, exactly, simply that he was rather a private sort of person. He would tell you things in his own time, you couldn’t hurry him.
‘My room.’
He opened
‘It could,’ Marianne said slowly. ‘There are ways . . .’
She hated saying it, feared suddenly, with a cold, deathly fear, that he would swing round, offer to pay . . . He did not. Instead he shook his head and flung open the nearest door, gesturing into the room before him.
‘Living-room. Looks nice when the fire’s lit, but we don’t spend much time in here in summer, Tess and myself.’
Marianne looked around the large, well-proportioned room with french windows leading on to a small terrace, a huge fireplace which took up most of one wall, and comfortable, rather shabby furnishings. ‘It’s nice,’ she said, and heard the breathlessness in her own voice and knew it was because he was showing her his home without holding anything back, without saying ‘if you behave, this could be yours’, even if that was what he meant.
He crossed the hall in a couple of strides and threw open another door.
‘Dining-room. Used half a dozen times a year at the most, I suppose. Tess and I eat in the kitchen, as a rule.’
Another room, as large as the first, but with two ordinary windows, curtained in red velvet. A long, dark dining-table, gleaming like still water, with a silver candelabra in the centre and a number of long-backed chairs drawn up to it.
‘Not cosy,’ Peter said. ‘But functional.’
‘Marvellous,’ Marianne breathed. ‘Stately, impressive – oh, Peter!’
But Peter was shutting the door, leading her across the hallway again, opening another door.
‘My study.’
A smaller room this time, dominated by a large desk, the walls lined with shelving upon which stood innumerable books.
Marianne nodded. ‘Not cosy, but functional,’ she said. She grinned up at Peter. ‘Bedrooms?’
He took the stairs two at a time, leaving her to follow more sedately. The upper landing had four doors leading off, as had the lower hall. They must be very large bedrooms, Marianne thought, but then the first door was opening and she saw that the room revealed wasn’t very large at all, was, in fact, cosy.
‘Tess’s room,’ Peter said briefly. ‘Good thing she tidied round before she left.’
Marianne thought the room untidy and rather ill-planned, but dared not say so. She also saw that it was pretty, with honeysuckle wallpaper, dark-yellow curtains and a square of fudge-brown carpet on the linoleumed floor. She moved forward, to take a peep round the door, but Peter was already on his way out. He closed the door firmly, opened the next.
‘Spare room. The bath’s in here. I keep meaning to make it official, but you know how it is. Tess and I manage.’
‘Oh! No lavatory, either?’ The words were out before she could prevent it and Marianne could have kicked herself for the implied criticism, but Peter just said, ‘Been meaning to have one installed as well as a bath. I’ll do it if you’d like it. Otherwise it’s a chamberpot during the night and a run down to the end of the garden during the day.’
‘I’d like it,’ Marianne said feelingly. She had no urge for the simple life, not as regards plumbing, at any rate. ‘But I could manage, I suppose.’
He nodded, then opened the third door.
‘Spare room. We don’t have many visitors, but when I’m away Mrs Rawlings sleeps here.’
It was a pleasant room, though it seemed chillier than the rest of the house, possibly because the walls were ice-white and the curtains and bedspread a very pale blue. But Marianne nodded approvingly. It was fine for visitors. And what she wanted to see was where Peter had slept – alone – for the last few years. She realised as the thought entered her head that she had no idea when the first Mrs Delamere had died, but there were some things, she decided, that you simply didn’t ask Peter. It wasn’t that he was secretive, exactly, simply that he was rather a private sort of person. He would tell you things in his own time, you couldn’t hurry him.
‘My room.’
He opened
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