Circles of Time (24 page)

She smiled and touched the side of his face with her fingertips. “You do mean that, don't you, Noel?”

Bending his head, he brushed his lips across the back of her wrist. “You know I do.”

They had kissed often during the past three months, but he felt a passion in her this time that surprised him. Her torso pressed against his and he eased her gently—oh, so gently—down on the couch. His fingers lightly touched the side of her right breast, a soft caress, the warmth of her flesh felt through the thin silk of her gown. Her mouth worked against his own and he fought against the urge to shift his hand to her legs. Gently … gently … He drew his head back and looked down at her closed eyes, her parted lips. He touched her eyelids.

“Dear Alexandra. If I only knew for certain.”

She opened her eyes and studied his face. “Knew what, Noel?”

“That you would consent to marry me.”

“You'd have to ask me to find out.”

He got onto his knees before her, praying that she would find the gesture romantic and not slightly ridiculous.

“Will you marry me, my darling?”

“Yes.” Her tone was thoughtful. “I think so, Noel.”

And that was that. She looked gravely at her image in the dressing-table mirror as she unpinned her long hair, knowing in her heart that she had not so much made a decision as drifted into one. It had certainly made Noel happy. Her upper arms were sore where he had gripped her, and her lips tender from his kisses. In the morning he would go through the formality of asking for her father's permission and then they would be engaged. A June wedding, he felt, in London, Saint George's, Hanover Square, with the reception at Claridge's. A small wedding. Just family and a few friends.

She undressed and looked down at her body before slipping into her nightgown. Not exactly the perfect figure for 1922. More Peter Paul Rubens than John Held—the breasts too large, the hips too round. There were stretch marks across her abdomen from Colin. It had not been a difficult delivery, but he had been a large baby, over eight pounds. She had carried him high and had gained a great deal of weight. That weight was gone now, but it had left its marks—all to be revealed to Noel in June. And no one had ever held her naked except Robbie.

S
HE AWOKE LATE
after a deep, dreamless sleep and barely had time to dress and drink a cup of coffee before leaving for church service in Abingdon. She sat between her father and mother in the car, Noel on the jump seat facing her, smiling at her the whole way with a tiny we-share-a-secret smile. Her own smile felt forced and lacking in joy.

After the service, Noel and her father strolled off by themselves in the rectory gardens and she stood with her mother in front of the church.

“Noel is acting a little oddly this morning, isn't he?” Hanna said.

“He has something to ask Papa.”

“Oh?”

“I told Noel last night that I'd marry him.”

Hanna's relief and happiness could not be expressed in words. She hugged her daughter to her, oblivious to the glances of the other worshipers who were leaving the church.

“I hope I'm doing the right thing,” Alexandra said.

Hanna gave her a final hug and stepped back. “But of course you are, dear. How could you doubt it? He's a charming, exceedingly handsome man from a fine old Cheshire family. He'll make a perfect husband. I can't tell you how happy this makes me—and your father. We're not exactly blind, you know. We've discussed the possibilities. Noel's attraction to you has been obvious from the start.”

“Yes, I suppose it has.”

“Your father and I have even discussed the wedding gift. Something you could both enjoy. A London house, perhaps. In Belgravia or Mayfair.”

“I'm sure Noel would like that.”

“Nothing ostentatious. There are some charming smaller houses to be found near Belgrave Square or off South Audley Street.”

The two men joined them, both smiling, her father with an arm draped across Noel's shoulder. All settled and done.

“So very pleased,” her father was saying, bending to kiss her cheek. “So very pleased for both of you.”

Going home in the car, the talk was of banns and announcements and the sheer mechanics of getting wed. She felt alien to the conversation. She had married Robbie in the front parlor of a justice's house outside Toronto, and after the ceremony the justice's wife had served them coffee and angel food cake. The justice's wife had been eight months along also and they had discussed their various discomforts and mutual joys without the slightest trace of embarrassment.

The earl cooled a bottle of Dom Perignon, performing the ceremony of twirling the bottle in the ice bucket and popping the cork himself while Coatsworth stood by. A father's privilege, he said, to pour champagne to bless his daughter's engagement.

“To happiness,” he said, raising his glass.

“Happiness,” Alexandra murmured.

After lunch she walked with Noel along the terrace and then down the curving stone steps into the Italian gardens, the wild March wind shaking the topiarywork and bending the cypress.

“You seem very subdued, Alexandra.”

“Do I? Sorry. Just thinking, I suppose.”

“Not second thoughts, I hope.”

“No, of course not.”

He stopped walking and pulled her close, hands buried in the deep fur of her coat collar. “Now look here. I know what you're thinking. But the past is over and done with. A clean slate from here on in. Mrs. Noel Rothwell. Although your father has made me the gracious offer of the family name. How does Mrs. Noel
Greville
-Rothwell sound to you?”

“Very nice. Quite melodic, in fact.”

“Yes,” he laughed, “it does trip lightly off the tongue. It will take me some time to get used to it. Noel Edward Allenby
Greville
-Rothwell. With a name like that I should stand for Parliament!” He kissed her impulsively on the lips. “Oh, Alexandra. I shall make you very,
very
happy.”

“As happy as yourself, Noel?”

“Happier, my dearest—if such a thing is possible.”

It had been, by any standard one cared to apply, a remarkable few days. From Sunday noon, when he had walked with her father into the rectory gardens, to Wednesday noon when she had seen him off to London at Godalming station, Noel had been thrust firmly into the bosom of the family with a gratitude that would have seemed puzzling to anyone not acquainted with the facts. She had made him aware of the facts—all of them—during a weekend in January. His second weekend stay at the house. They had walked down the drive to the gates and back, walking slowly while she talked. She had told him everything—her affair with Robin Mackendric in France during the war, and then of her decision to live with him in Canada. Of Robin's efforts to get a divorce from his wife in Aberdeen, and of how the divorce had finally been granted and then made final shortly before Colin was born. Everything.

“I understand,” he said, holding her hand tightly.

Of course he did. He was an intelligent and perceptive man. She was—at least by the code of her father—slightly damaged goods. Noel Edward Allenby Rothwell understood that code very well, even if he himself did not consider it applicable in this day and age, and certainly not in the present circumstances.

“I understand perfectly, Alexandra, and I admire you greatly for telling me. It doesn't lower my regard for you one iota. In fact, I must say, it makes me love you more.”

Love you … love you … love you …

She had no doubt that he loved her. And why not? She would bring a great many things into his life,
Greville
-Rothwell being just one of them.

Did she love him?

She pondered the question on the drive back to the house as she tried to visualize the type of life they would lead together. Very social. Small dinner parties in their London house—Belgravia, Noel thought; so many parvenus in Mayfair these days—and long weekends at the Pryory. He would hunt and go shooting with his friends and she would go shopping and have tea with hers. There would be jaunts to Paris and the south of France. Winter cruises to Greece and Egypt. A boarding school for Colin when he was eight or nine. Children of their own, no doubt. Noel was a strong, virile man. He would probably give her more sexual enjoyment in bed than Robbie, his thoughts always on some trying case or other, had been capable of giving. But Robbie had given her
pleasure
—pleasure in a thousand little ways that would have been impossible to explain to anyone. She did not experience that kind of intangible gladness around Noel. Perhaps she would in time. Perhaps she would feel a regard for him that would pass for love, but she didn't love him now because she couldn't find anything about him to love.

But did it matter? She had been in love, and that emotion could never be recaptured. It was something she would hold in her heart forever, secret and inviolate. Noel would, as her mother had said, make a good husband. She would make him a good wife. Not a marriage made in heaven, perhaps, but certainly one that could not be faulted. And one that pleased her parents. The distressing past all forgotten now. Their happiness showed and she felt a kind of peace—a sense of atonement.

She filled her days by walking. Poor Mary, who suffered terribly from bunions, was not up to walking along country roads and across fields. The elegant, high-wheeled pram so suitable for the gravel paths of Regent's Park was totally useless at Abingdon, except on the terrace. And, besides, Colin balked at it now. He could walk along like a trooper on his sturdy little legs, flopping down when he was tired or holding up his arms to be carried. One of the grooms had devised a carrying sling for her from an old canvas rucksack. She could carry Colin in it, his legs dangling from the two holes in the bottom, the strap around her shoulder, and the baby riding comfortably against her hip.

She hiked to the top of Burgate Hill in that fashion, her son bouncing gently against her right hip, a light wicker basket in her left hand. When they reached the top, she put Colin down and let him wander among the daffodils and crocuses beginning to thrust up from the ground. She lay back in the grass to catch her breath and then opened the basket and took out the sandwiches and the vacuum bottle of milky tea that cook had prepared for them. They sat facing each other, eating the sandwiches and drinking the warm tea, and then Colin rolled onto his back with a cry and pointed toward the sky. “Mama! See! See! Mama, see! …”

She leaned back on her elbows, hearing it now, and saw the airplane sweep in and out of the great white clouds. It banked sharply—dived—looped—engine sound pulsing against the earth. Colin pressed his hands against his ears and squealed with delight. And then it was gone from overhead, flashing down toward the airfield at Blackworth's five miles away.

“B
Y
G
OD
,” S
IR
Angus cried, “I'm not a drinkin' man, but,
by God
, I'm goin' to get drunk tonight!”

Ross grinned at him. “I might just join you.”

The plane, a converted BFC-3, powered by the new Argo engine, taxied toward them, the pilot blipping the engine in triumph. When he cut the switch and the plane rolled to a stop, he jumped out, waved his arms like a madman, and ran toward them.

“Bloody fantastic! I can't tell you—simply
can't!
”

“Just simmer down, Gerald, and tell us all about it.”

“It's a bloody marvel.” The pilot took off his leather flying helmet and grinned foolishly at Sir Angus. “Like being shot from a bloody cannon! I had her up to a hundred and sixty going over Guildford on the straight and level. Did you see me do that loop over Burgate Hill?”

“We did that,” Sir Angus said.

“Not a cough—not a miss. Talk about smooth as bloody silk!”

“When she's refueled, take 'er up again. See how she does at twenty thousand feet.”

“No need. I had her at twenty-two thousand over Farnborough.” He tapped the notepad strapped to his leg. “Bloody fucking cold up there, but I'll decipher my notes.”

“Good lad.” Sir Angus clapped him on the shoulder. “Go get yourself a cup of tea and a tot of rum.”

“Well,” Sir Angus said, watching the pilot hurry off toward the hangars, “we did it, by God. We did it, lad.”

“It looks like it.”

“I have an ear, Ross. I closed my eyes when he took off and just listened. I could tell by the sound we'd done it. I didn't see him loop over the hill, I
heard
him loop. Not a beat lost—not a stroke. She's a blinkin' marvel, Ross.”

They walked across the tarmac to the plane and stood in front of the engine, looking up at it, inhaling the odor of hot oil and burnt petrol. The mountings on the plane had been adapted to fit the big engine. With its oversize cylinders and large manifolds, the engine made the slender plane look overburdened and front-heavy—but it had flown like a dream.

Sir Angus reached out and touched the propeller. “The only way, Ross. I don't give dog turds for testin' on the frames. Take 'em up is my way. See what they'll do in the bleedin' air. We done it, Ross. May just be the best air-cooled engine in the world.”