and stay at Ponson Place for the summer.
Horace lay in bed, nursing his hangover and resisting the urge to cover his ears as Vera rattled on. He wondered what the hell Albert had told her that had been so persuasive. Obviously he hadn’t mentioned the water butt behind the garage. Vera would have gone out of her mind with rage. But instead she was harping on about what a cold fish that Belinda was, and not being sure about Esmond being happy with going away to Essex. And how would a woman who couldn’t have children of her own know how to feed a growing boy like Esmond? Esmond was so fussy about his food and besides he was delicate and …
Horace listened to her and tried to look even sicker than he felt. As far as he was concerned, Belinda Ponson could starve his ghastly son to death or make his life utter hell as long as she didn’t drive the brute to come home.
‘I just need to rest,’ he whimpered, partly as an answer to his own unspoken thoughts, and was relieved to hear Vera sigh and most surprisingly agree, without the added comment that if he would come home stinking drunk he’d got what he deserved. Instead she went downstairs and waited for Esmond to come home from school to tell him that Uncle Albert and Auntie Belinda had very kindly asked him to stay for the summer holidays.
All the same, Vera’s doubts remained. Something was wrong and that something hadn’t anything to do with Horace getting drunk or coming home lateand talking about Esmond being him. It wasn’t even the inconceivable idea of Horace gambling on the stock market. There was something else niggling away at her.
Sitting at the kitchen table with Sackbut staring out the window from his customary place by the cactus, it slowly dawned on her what that something might be. And if she was right, then Horace’s behaviour, odd and mad as it had seemed, was actually calculated and purposeful and made complete sense. What if Horace had another woman or, as the romances she read put it, a mistress? That would explain everything, his leaving the house early and coming home later and later, his drinking and how he’d got into debt. It even explained his horrid behaviour to Esmond; he hated him because Esmond was a constant reminder of his duty as a father and a husband. And of course it explained why he was no good in bed and she’d always had to do all the lovemaking.
As this terrible conviction hit her and she knew herself to be a wronged woman, nay, a betrayed wife, and Horace no more than a philanderer, conflicting tidal waves of emotion crashed over her. Her first impulse, to rush upstairs and confront the faithless Horace with his guilt, was succeeded by the thought of the effect on her darling Esmond. The poor lad would be traumatised.
It wasn’t a word that came at all easily to a woman who lived an emotional life almost entirely based onearly-nineteenth-century Regency bucks who crushed maidens to their manly breasts, fought duels after dancing till dawn and then rode great black horses post-haste, etc., but she’d heard it on the telly and it came to her now.
She couldn’t allow Esmond to be traumatised. She had to do her duty as a mother, and if that meant sacrificing her own feelings, at least for the time being, she would do so. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t going to express her fury the moment Esmond had left for Ponson Place. Oh, she’d have something to say to Horace then …
She was stopped by another thought: the cunning and skill with which Horace had managed to get Esmond out of the house. He had said something to Albert, something that had so shocked that bluff man that Albert had come down to the kitchen clearly shaken to the core by what he had just heard. Vera had never seen her brother so ashen and Albert was not a man to be shocked easily.
Of course, of course, Horace had confessed everything to him. Albert had forced Horace to tell him everything about the other woman who haunted his dreams. Or Horace had
Horace lay in bed, nursing his hangover and resisting the urge to cover his ears as Vera rattled on. He wondered what the hell Albert had told her that had been so persuasive. Obviously he hadn’t mentioned the water butt behind the garage. Vera would have gone out of her mind with rage. But instead she was harping on about what a cold fish that Belinda was, and not being sure about Esmond being happy with going away to Essex. And how would a woman who couldn’t have children of her own know how to feed a growing boy like Esmond? Esmond was so fussy about his food and besides he was delicate and …
Horace listened to her and tried to look even sicker than he felt. As far as he was concerned, Belinda Ponson could starve his ghastly son to death or make his life utter hell as long as she didn’t drive the brute to come home.
‘I just need to rest,’ he whimpered, partly as an answer to his own unspoken thoughts, and was relieved to hear Vera sigh and most surprisingly agree, without the added comment that if he would come home stinking drunk he’d got what he deserved. Instead she went downstairs and waited for Esmond to come home from school to tell him that Uncle Albert and Auntie Belinda had very kindly asked him to stay for the summer holidays.
All the same, Vera’s doubts remained. Something was wrong and that something hadn’t anything to do with Horace getting drunk or coming home lateand talking about Esmond being him. It wasn’t even the inconceivable idea of Horace gambling on the stock market. There was something else niggling away at her.
Sitting at the kitchen table with Sackbut staring out the window from his customary place by the cactus, it slowly dawned on her what that something might be. And if she was right, then Horace’s behaviour, odd and mad as it had seemed, was actually calculated and purposeful and made complete sense. What if Horace had another woman or, as the romances she read put it, a mistress? That would explain everything, his leaving the house early and coming home later and later, his drinking and how he’d got into debt. It even explained his horrid behaviour to Esmond; he hated him because Esmond was a constant reminder of his duty as a father and a husband. And of course it explained why he was no good in bed and she’d always had to do all the lovemaking.
As this terrible conviction hit her and she knew herself to be a wronged woman, nay, a betrayed wife, and Horace no more than a philanderer, conflicting tidal waves of emotion crashed over her. Her first impulse, to rush upstairs and confront the faithless Horace with his guilt, was succeeded by the thought of the effect on her darling Esmond. The poor lad would be traumatised.
It wasn’t a word that came at all easily to a woman who lived an emotional life almost entirely based onearly-nineteenth-century Regency bucks who crushed maidens to their manly breasts, fought duels after dancing till dawn and then rode great black horses post-haste, etc., but she’d heard it on the telly and it came to her now.
She couldn’t allow Esmond to be traumatised. She had to do her duty as a mother, and if that meant sacrificing her own feelings, at least for the time being, she would do so. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t going to express her fury the moment Esmond had left for Ponson Place. Oh, she’d have something to say to Horace then …
She was stopped by another thought: the cunning and skill with which Horace had managed to get Esmond out of the house. He had said something to Albert, something that had so shocked that bluff man that Albert had come down to the kitchen clearly shaken to the core by what he had just heard. Vera had never seen her brother so ashen and Albert was not a man to be shocked easily.
Of course, of course, Horace had confessed everything to him. Albert had forced Horace to tell him everything about the other woman who haunted his dreams. Or Horace had
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