Tall Poppies (19 page)

The sun chose that moment to briefly illuminate the window behind the altar, and they were bathed in colour as though the marriage was being blessed.

The reverend gently coughed and the ceremony began.

It didn't take long to dispose of her blemished spinsterhood. Richard repeated the vows in a clear, calm voice, as if absolutely certain that what they were doing was the right thing in his eyes.

Resentment flooded through her at the thought that this beautiful man had made his sacrifice, and was standing in the queue waiting for God to collect him. Short of a miracle, there was nothing anybody could do about it. Meanwhile, he was trying to snatch just a little normality and happiness out of his suffering.

She felt every word of the ceremony with acute but useless anguish.

Now it was her turn to give account of herself, and her voice reflected the emotion in the moment.

‘
I take thee, Richard Sinclair Sangster, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death do us part  . . .
'

There was a poignant moment in the ceremony when her voice faltered and tears pricked against her eyelids. She wanted to shout out: It isn't fair! Richard's hand gently squeezed hers, strengthening her as she completed the vow, ‘ . . .
according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth
.'

As they left the church a boisterous gust of wind snatched off her hat and sent it bowling across the field.

Richard laughed when Beamish was about to run after it. ‘Let it escape. By the time you catch it, it will be covered in mud. I'll buy her a new one.'

Dr Elliot arrived to join his wife. He waylaid them to give Livia a kiss and to shake Richard's hand. ‘The best of luck you two. I can't see your father anywhere, Richard, couldn't he make it?'

‘I'm afraid not. Are you coming back to the house, Doctor? We have champagne.'

‘I can't, I have my rounds to finish. How lovely you look, Livia. I'm almost tempted to make my patients wait  . . . though I don't think Mrs Miller's baby will appreciate it. Hmmm  . . . I've missed one cheek, so you look a little lopsided.' He kissed her again on the other cheek, laughing, ‘There, that's better.'

‘May I point out that kissing Livia is now my privilege,' Richard said.

‘And kissing you is mine, Doctor Elliot,' Helen reprimanded, and the doctor laughed and surprised his wife with a kiss on the lips.

They crowded into the Austin, the staff squashing into the back seat, laughing and making jokes as they splashed through the potholes.

Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow Livia would interview a new housekeeper, and she, who'd not long ago been the maid-of-all-work, would take her place as the mistress of the house.

Beamish had arranged for a photographer to record the wedding. They posed in the conservatory, Richard seated, Livia claiming him, standing with her ring hand on his shoulder so the platinum band was obvious. Esmé was at the front, clearly loving being dressed up, but looking self-conscious at being noticed.

The photographs would be a reminder for her in the years to come, the players gazing stiffly out at her from silver frames lined up on the piano. Except for Richard, who looked as though he was about to burst from happiness. It was humbling to realize that a man like Richard could love her.

He began to look tired when they got to the champagne toasts. Livia stayed by his side while Beamish made a short speech. Richard responded, his voice shaking a little. He flinched at the end when Matthew Bugg popped the cork from a second bottle of champagne prematurely, and she witnessed a moment of fright and panic in his eyes.

She stooped, taking his hand in hers and whispering in his ear, ‘Richard, you're fatigued.'

‘Yes. Ask Beamish to take me upstairs so I can rest before dinner, if you would.'

After he'd gone she accepted the congratulations of the staff.

‘You're a dark horse, I must say,' Connie told her with a touch of acid. ‘I told Florence something was up, though I don't know what all the secrecy was about. We could have done a proper wedding feast with guests, a cake, and all the trimmings.'

‘Thank you, Connie, but it would have all been too much for  . . . for my husband.' There, she'd said it for the first time. ‘Richard didn't want a fuss made.'

‘Aye, there's that I suppose.' Connie sighed. ‘Still, we didn't expect this. We all thought you were interested in young Doctor Elliot.'

Livia didn't indulge her in that observation. ‘The agency is sending out a new housekeeper tomorrow.'

‘Aye, well. Now you've gone up in the world I doubt if you'll want to get your hands dirty.'

Gently, she said, ‘Connie, we'd best get one thing clear right from the start. Whatever my role has been in this house in the past, I've always given of my best and treated everyone with respect. There's no reason why this shouldn't continue. This reversal of roles is as hard for me as it is for you, and I think it might be a good idea for you to think about that a little.'

‘Aye, you're right. I'm sorry, it's just  . . . well, it's going to take some getting used to, isn't it? What would you have us call you?'

‘If Captain Sangster had married another woman and brought her into the house as mistress, how would you expect to address her? It shouldn't take the staff long to work that out, and adjust. Including you.'

‘Yes,
Mrs Sangster
.'

Leaving the staff to the celebrations, and taking Esmé with her, Livia went upstairs to see if Richard was comfortable, aware she was leaving a small smudge of resentment behind her. Champagne had given Connie a false sense of courage. The cook had decided to see how far Livia could be pushed, and had got her answer. She would soon get over it.

Beamish had moved out of the connecting room, and it was now Livia's domain, though she hadn't yet moved her things from the cottage.

Esmé would be in the smaller room across the hall, and the room next to that would be Chad's when he was home. Beamish had found himself a room a discreet distance away, on the other side of the bathroom and within easy reach of the bell.

Looking round, she thought, This is now my home  . . . this big house with its air of shabby gentility, its ageing creaks and groans, its constant dust and the stale aura of birth, life and death. It was passed down through the Sinclair family and supported by the original Sinclair, who had made his fortune from whisky, and who'd gone to his grave keeping tight control of both fortune and tradition with typical Scottish thriftiness. She didn't envy her child the responsibility of it in the future.

‘We need some nightwear, so Esmé and I are going to the cottage to collect it.'

Half asleep, Richard took her hand and gave a faint smile as he snuggled his cheek into the palm.

She pressed a kiss against his mouth. ‘I won't be long, and I'll see you at dinner.' But Richard's eyelids had already closed over the brightness of his eyes. Gently, she withdrew her hand.

‘He'll be out for a couple of hours and Matthew will come up and keep an eye on him,' Beamish said. ‘I'm going into Poole to send some telegrams on his behalf. I can drop you off at the cottage and pick you up on the way back if you like, Mrs Sangster.'

‘Thanks. I'll be able to pack a couple of boxes to bring back.'

The first thing she did was pluck the letter from Denton from the drawer. The contents beckoned her; the firmly stuck-down flap mocked her. She must forget him. She threw the letter on to the cold ashes, then, suddenly remembering that the torn cheque had been snatched out of the same, she plucked it out again. Brushing the ash off, she slid it back into the drawer and under the lining. Instinct told her it wasn't time to open it yet, but one day  . . .

When Livia got back, carrying everything she could pack, including the cat and dog, which Esmé took upstairs to her room, Richard was awake. He'd been brought down to the drawing room and looked rested. He put his book aside. ‘Come and talk to me, Livia.'

‘I've got to put my things away and make Esmé's bed.'

‘Florence can do that.'

‘She has enough to do. Look, Richard, you might as well get used to me doing things in the house. I'm used to it, and I don't know how to act the mistress.'

When he rang the bell Florence appeared, her eyes merry and her smile a champagne glitter. ‘Yes, Sir?'

‘Put Mrs Sangster's things away please, Florence, and make her bed up, and that of Miss Esmé. Oh  . . . and tell the cook we'd like some afternoon tea.'

‘Yes, Madam  . . . Sir.' Florence went off with a slightly sideways gait, humming Mendelssohn's wedding march tunelessly under her breath.

They looked at each other and laughed.

‘There you are, it's easy being the mistress of the house,' Richard said.

Livia threw a cushion at him.

Twelve

The disruption over, they settled into a new routine. The replacement housekeeper was called Ellen Anstruther. She was a widow of fifty years of age with a grown-up son and daughter, both married. She was quiet and efficient and soon had the household running to schedule. The rest of the staff got on with her, too.

A couple of weeks later Livia suffered her first bout of morning sickness, and her suspicions were confirmed. Luckily it only happened a couple of times so she was able to avoid detection.

It had become a habit for her to get into her nightdress and robe and go through to say goodnight to Richard after Beamish had retired for the night. Quite often they talked until Richard was ready to sleep.

This particular night she found his room lit by candlelight.

‘Does your gaslight need a new mantle?' she said. ‘I'll ask Matthew to fix it in the morning.'

He gave a bit of a chuckle.

‘I'm sure now about the baby, Richard, though I'm not going to tell Doctor Elliot until I'm about three months gone. It should be due halfway through October.'

He smiled and kissed her, then placed a hand against her stomach. He'd become more affectionate of late, and she was growing used to the familiarity of his touch. Now he lightly caressed her cheek. ‘Would you do me a favour, my love?'

She nodded.

‘You don't know what it is yet.'

‘Then tell me.'

‘You once said you wouldn't deny me anything.'

‘I meant it.'

‘Then I'd like you to sleep in my bed so I can hold you in my arms, like a normal husband would with his wife.'

She thought about it, then grinned and kissed him. ‘I think I'd like that too.'

Removing her robe she slid under the covers and snuggled against his warm body. ‘Tell me if you're uncomfortable.'

He slid his free hand down over her hip and bunched the material of her nightgown in his fist. ‘What the devil is this garment you're wearing?'

‘My nightgown.'

‘It's as bulky as a circus tent.'

She tried not to grin. ‘It used to belong to your mother, though I never saw her wearing it. I was going to cut it up and make some nightgowns for the baby from it, but I only had one nightgown of my own, so it seemed like such a waste.'

‘It's certainly a waste to cover yourself up in it. You feel like a rabbit in a sack.' He began to laugh. ‘And if you need another reason to get rid of it, I don't want a reminder of my mother in bed with us. As a passion killer it's a very effective tool. Would you take it off so I can ravish you?'

‘Stop being so mean. I'll go and put another one on, shall I?'

‘To be honest, I'd prefer you to be as bare-arsed and naked as I am.'

‘Oh, I didn't know you were  . . . naked.' She covered her shock with a light laugh. ‘Good Lord! Now you've made me blush, and me a married woman.'

‘Unfortunately, you're not married enough yet, and by now you must realize it's my intention to get up to no good. Why else do you think I'd light all these candles? My hands were shaking so much it was a wonder I didn't burn the house down.'

‘I thought—'

‘So did I, and that might yet prove to be the case. But anyway, I would like to get to know you better if I can. Taking a hands-on approach seemed the best way to encourage a little romance between us  . . . literally.'

She didn't know whether to encourage him by laughing or not. She did know that putting his manliness to the test like this had taken a great deal of courage on his part. Her mouth dried up a little and she pretended to be shocked. ‘Richard Sangster!'

‘Oh, don't sound so prissy.' Taking her face in his hands he tenderly kissed her, then gazed into her eyes, laughing. ‘If you don't fancy getting down and out dirty with me then I won't insist, but a little bit of naughtiness wouldn't go astray.'

‘I won't know what to do.' But because he'd made her laugh and she was relaxed in his company, she did fancy it. ‘I admit that the thought isn't too outrageous, and I suppose you can teach me how to go about things.'

He crossed his eyes and curled his lip, drawling, ‘Mostly it's instinct, Livia, my lascivious wench.'

‘Don't leer like a villain in a melodrama, it's a most unattractive trait.'

Stepping out of bed she undid her nightgown, bunching it at the neck and saying before her courage completely deserted her, ‘Now you see it  . . . and now you don't.' When she opened her hand, the material slid down her body and pooled around her feet. ‘Is this naked enough?'

His gaze lingered on her rapidly cooling flesh. ‘You're perfection  . . . like all my imaginings, only better.'

‘You've imagined me naked?'

‘Often. You have a little round bottom that bobs when you walk.' He took her hands and pulled her down into the bed and against him. There was a moment when their eyes met and the laughter between them became charged with an intensity of emotion – when flesh touching unfamiliar flesh seemed to meld and melt them together, as though the heat from the flickering candles had dissolved them one into the other.