shrugged. ‘She might
have overheard us talking. Margot’s smart. She’s quite capable of putting two
and two together.’
‘Should I talk to her?’
Igraine shook her head.
‘Absolutely not. It wouldn’t achieve anything, and it might make matters a lot
worse.’
‘That girl is going to give us
trouble,’ said Uther, not for the first time.
Not only was Margot smart, she
was also the most beautiful of the three sisters. With her black hair, big
brown eyes and creamy complexion she seemed as pure and innocent as a Madonna.
The reality, as Uther knew, was very different. Margot combined innocence with
sensuality in a way that many visitors to Brackett Hall found remarkable, not
to say disturbing. When she was around, wives and girl-friends watched their
partners closely. Perched on a man’s lap, she would entertain him with childish
chatter, tossing her hair from time to time so that its soft waves brushed his
face. Giggling girlishly, she would bury her head coyly in his neck and whisper
secrets in his ear. She would hold his hand, (she was obsessed with hands),
caressing it affectionately, or touch his cheeks with pouting lips, all the
time confronting the other guests with her eyes as if to say, ‘What’s wrong?
Nothing. Nothing but your nasty mind.’
When Martin, the head
gardener, died, his successor was Tom Beddows, a young man in his early
twenties, good-looking, cheerful and uncomplicated. Margot took a fancy to him
and would trail him round the gardens, chattering incessantly, leaving him now
and then to chase a squirrel or turn a cartwheel on the lawn. At first Tom
found Margot’s constant attentions a distraction, yet to his surprise he missed
his young friend when she went away to boarding school. Distraction or not, he
had grown accustomed to having her around.
With the holidays Margot
returned, as if no time had passed at all. In those few short months, though,
Tom noticed the change in her. Whereas she used to skip behind him turning
cartwheels, now she walked demurely by his side, tossing her black hair,
slipping him an occasional sidelong glance. Before, she had shown artlessly, as
a child does, that she liked him; now he could no longer read what was in her
mind.
The day before her school
summer term began, Tom was eating his lunch on the Victorian ironwork bench by
the big lawn, and she was sitting next to him. He liked that; it was the first
time she had shown her friendship for him in such a companionable way. For a
while she watched him eating, and for some reason this made him nervous.
Pushing aside his last sandwich only half eaten, he wolfed an apple in four
bites, slopped a mug of tea from his thermos flask and gulped it down.
‘I’m going back to school
tomorrow. Will you miss me?’ she asked.
Had he answered immediately,
he would have said yes, and that would have been the end of it; but uncertain
how to respond, he hesitated. Avoiding her eyes he busied himself clearing up
the debris of his lunch. By chance, it seemed, their hands touched. The
unexpected physical contact made him recoil so violently that flask and mug,
apple core and remains of sandwich were tossed on the grass. Confused, all he
could do was sit there looking at the mess. Seeing how agitated he was, Margot
burst out laughing. Tom was hurt. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said contritely, ‘I didn’t
mean to laugh. But you look so miserable.’
For a few moments they sat
staring at the lawn, Tom sullen, Margot wondering how she had offended him.
‘Are you angry?’
‘Why should I be?’ he muttered.
‘Why won’t you talk to me
then?’ She turned to face him, her eyes willing him to speak.
For a few moments he was
silent. Then he looked away, mumbling ungraciously, ‘I’ve no time to sit around
talking to children.’
‘I’m fifteen,’ she said
indignantly. Most days she practised telling lies in front of the mirror in her
bedroom.
He picked up the mug and the
thermos flask. ‘Do you think I’m
have overheard us talking. Margot’s smart. She’s quite capable of putting two
and two together.’
‘Should I talk to her?’
Igraine shook her head.
‘Absolutely not. It wouldn’t achieve anything, and it might make matters a lot
worse.’
‘That girl is going to give us
trouble,’ said Uther, not for the first time.
Not only was Margot smart, she
was also the most beautiful of the three sisters. With her black hair, big
brown eyes and creamy complexion she seemed as pure and innocent as a Madonna.
The reality, as Uther knew, was very different. Margot combined innocence with
sensuality in a way that many visitors to Brackett Hall found remarkable, not
to say disturbing. When she was around, wives and girl-friends watched their
partners closely. Perched on a man’s lap, she would entertain him with childish
chatter, tossing her hair from time to time so that its soft waves brushed his
face. Giggling girlishly, she would bury her head coyly in his neck and whisper
secrets in his ear. She would hold his hand, (she was obsessed with hands),
caressing it affectionately, or touch his cheeks with pouting lips, all the
time confronting the other guests with her eyes as if to say, ‘What’s wrong?
Nothing. Nothing but your nasty mind.’
When Martin, the head
gardener, died, his successor was Tom Beddows, a young man in his early
twenties, good-looking, cheerful and uncomplicated. Margot took a fancy to him
and would trail him round the gardens, chattering incessantly, leaving him now
and then to chase a squirrel or turn a cartwheel on the lawn. At first Tom
found Margot’s constant attentions a distraction, yet to his surprise he missed
his young friend when she went away to boarding school. Distraction or not, he
had grown accustomed to having her around.
With the holidays Margot
returned, as if no time had passed at all. In those few short months, though,
Tom noticed the change in her. Whereas she used to skip behind him turning
cartwheels, now she walked demurely by his side, tossing her black hair,
slipping him an occasional sidelong glance. Before, she had shown artlessly, as
a child does, that she liked him; now he could no longer read what was in her
mind.
The day before her school
summer term began, Tom was eating his lunch on the Victorian ironwork bench by
the big lawn, and she was sitting next to him. He liked that; it was the first
time she had shown her friendship for him in such a companionable way. For a
while she watched him eating, and for some reason this made him nervous.
Pushing aside his last sandwich only half eaten, he wolfed an apple in four
bites, slopped a mug of tea from his thermos flask and gulped it down.
‘I’m going back to school
tomorrow. Will you miss me?’ she asked.
Had he answered immediately,
he would have said yes, and that would have been the end of it; but uncertain
how to respond, he hesitated. Avoiding her eyes he busied himself clearing up
the debris of his lunch. By chance, it seemed, their hands touched. The
unexpected physical contact made him recoil so violently that flask and mug,
apple core and remains of sandwich were tossed on the grass. Confused, all he
could do was sit there looking at the mess. Seeing how agitated he was, Margot
burst out laughing. Tom was hurt. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said contritely, ‘I didn’t
mean to laugh. But you look so miserable.’
For a few moments they sat
staring at the lawn, Tom sullen, Margot wondering how she had offended him.
‘Are you angry?’
‘Why should I be?’ he muttered.
‘Why won’t you talk to me
then?’ She turned to face him, her eyes willing him to speak.
For a few moments he was
silent. Then he looked away, mumbling ungraciously, ‘I’ve no time to sit around
talking to children.’
‘I’m fifteen,’ she said
indignantly. Most days she practised telling lies in front of the mirror in her
bedroom.
He picked up the mug and the
thermos flask. ‘Do you think I’m
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