"Oh, Edmund. That was cruel."
"Yes. A sin of omission. Do you know that dreadful feeling, when there is something immensely important that you should do, and you haven't done. And with each day that passes, it becomes more and more difficult to accomplish, until finally it passes the bounds of possibility and becomes impossible. It was over. Archie and
Isobel went to Berlin, and immediate ties with Croy were severed. I heard nothing more. Until that day that Vi called from Balnaid to say that Pandora had gone. Run away, eloped to the other side of the world with a rich American old enough to be her father."
"You blame yourself?"
"Of course."
"Did you ever tell Caroline?"
"Never."
"Were you happy with her?"
"No. She wasn't a woman who engendered happiness. It worked all right, because we made it work, we were those sort of people. But love, of every sort, was always thin on the ground. I wish we had been happy. It would have been easier to accept her death if we'd had a good life, and I could have been certain that it hadn't all been just a"-he searched for words-"waste of ten good years."
There did not seem to be anything more to say. Across the distance that divided them, husband and wife regarded each other, and Virginia saw Edmund's hooded eyes filled with despair and sadness. She got up then, off the low stool, and went to sit beside him. She touched his mouth with her fingers. She kissed him. He reached out his arm and pulled her close.
She said, "And us?"
"I never knew how it could be, until I met you."
"I wish you'd told me all this before."
"I was ashamed. I didn't want you to know. I'd give my right arm to be able to change things. But I can't, because they happened. They become part of you, stay with you forever."
"Have you spoken to Pandora about all this?"
"No. I've scarcely seen her. There's been no opportunity."
"You must make it right with her."
"Yes."
"She is, I think, still very precious to you."
"Yes. But she's part of life the way it used to be. Not the way it is now."
"You know, I've always loved you. I suppose if I hadn't loved you so much, you wouldn't have been able to make me so miserable. But now I realize that you are human and frail and make the same idiotic blunders as the rest of us, it's even better. I never thought you needed me, you see. I thought you were quite self-sufficient. Being needed's more important than anything."
"I need you now. Don't go away. Don't leave me. Don't go to America with Conrad Tucker."
"I wasn't running away with him."
"I thought you were."
"No, you didn't. He's actually a very nice man."
"1 wanted to kill him."
You must never tell Edmund. Still untouched by guilt, she felt protective of her husband, holding her secret like a proud and private trophy. She said lightly, "That would have been a dreadful waste."
"Will your grandparents be very disappointed?"
"We'll go some other time. You and me together. We'll leave Henry with Vi and Edie and we'll go and see them on our own."
He kissed her and leaned his head back on the deep cushions of the sofa and sighed. "I wish we didn't have to go to this bloody dance."
"I know. But we must. Just for a little."
"I would very, very much rather take you to bed."
"Oh, Edmund. We've lots of time for love. Years and years. The rest of our lives."
Presently Edie came to find them, knocking on the door before she opened it. The light from the hall shone from behind her and turned her white hair into an aureole.
"Just to say Henry's in bed and waiting for you…"
"Oh, thank you, Edie…"
They went upstairs. In his own room, Henry lay in his own bed. His night-lamp burnt dimly, and the room lay in shadows. Virginia sat on the edge of the bed and bent to kiss him. He was already half asleep.
"Good night, my darling."
"Good night, Mummy."
"You'll be all right."
"Yes. I'll be all right."
"No dreams."
"I don't think so."
"If dreams come, Edie's downstairs."
"Yes. I know."
"I'll leave you with Daddy."
She stood up and moved towards the door.
"Have a good party," Henry told her.
"Thank you, my darling. We will." She went through the door. Edmund took her place.
"Well, Henry, you're home again." "I'm sorry about the school. It really wasn't right." "No. I know. I realize that. Mr. Henderson does as well." "I don't have to go back to it, do I?"
"I don't think so. We'll have to see if the Strathcroy Primary will take you on again."
"Do you think they'll say no?"
"I shouldn't think so. You'll be back with Kedejah."
"That'll be good."
"Good night, old boy. You did well. I'm proud of you." Henry's eyes were closing. Edmund stood up and moved away. But at the open door, he turned back, and realized, with some surprise, that his own eyes were moist. "Henry?" "Yes?"
"Have you got Moo in there with you?"
"No," Henry told him. "I don't need Moo any more."
Out of doors, Virginia realized that the rain had stopped. From somewhere a wind had sprung up, chill and fresh as snow, stirring the darkness, causing the high elms of Balnaid to rustle and creak and toss their heads. Looking up, she saw stars, for this wind was blowing all clouds away to the east, and in their wake the sky was clear and infinite, pricked with the jewel glitter of a million constellations. Sweet and cold, the clean air struck her cheeks. She took deep breaths of it and was revitalized. No longer tired. No longer miserable, angry, resentful, lost. Henry was home and staying home, and Edmund, in more ways than one, returned to her. She was young and knew that she looked beautiful. Dressed to the nines and off to a party, she was ready to dance all night.
They drove into the beam of the headlights, the narrow country roads twisting away behind them. As they approached Corriehill, the night sky was bathed in reflected brilliance from the spotlights which had been directed onto the front of the house. Drawing closer, they saw Verena's strings of fairy lights looped from tree to tree all the way up the long drive, and as well, every twenty yards or so, the bright flafes of Roman candles that grew from the grass verges.
The BMW swung around the last bend, and the house was revealed in its full glory, towering up against the dark backdrop of the sky. It looked enormously impressive and proud.
Virginia said, "It must be feeling really good tonight."
"What must?"
"Corriehill. Like a monument. In memory of all the dinner parties, and wedding feasts and dances and balls that it must have known in the course of its history. And christenings. And funerals too, I suppose. But mostly parties."
Three brilliant searchlights were beamed upwards, lighting Corriehill from basements to chimneys. Beyond stood the marquee, lit from inside, like a shadow theatre. Distorted silhouettes moved and turned against the white canvas. They heard the beat of music. The dancing, clearly, was already well under way.
Another spotlight hung from a tree to the left of the drive, illuminating the big paddock. Here, cars were parked, in long, well-ordered rows, as far as the eye could see. A figure approached through the gloom, flashing a torch. Edmund stopped the car and rolled down his window. The torch-bearer stopped to peer in. Hughie McKinnon, the Steyntons' old handyman, press-ganged for the evening into the role of car-park attendant, and already reeking of whisky.
"Good evening, sir."
"Good evening, Hughie."
"Oh, it's yourself, Mr. Aird! I'm sorry, I didna' recognize the car. How are you, sir?" He craned a little farther in order to cock his eye at Virginia, and the whisky fumes flowed afresh. "And Mrs. Aird. How are you keeping yourself?"
"Very well, thank you, Hughie."
"Very good, very good," said Hughie. "You're awfully late. The rest of your party were all here an hour ago."
"I'm afraid we were unavoidably detained."