"It was originally a sketch that Ann made at a picnic one day," he said. "I asked for it, and she offered to make a proper oil portrait out of it. She made it a little bigger than a miniature. It is a good likeness."

She gazed at it for a long time. "Brendan?"

"My son, yes," he said. "I loved him."

She lifted her eyes to his. "Of course you did," she said. "He was your son."

He could see from her eyes that she knew the truth. But she spoke the truth too. Brendan was his son.

"Did you keep it displayed," she asked him, "before you married me?"

"No." He shook his head. "It is not for the gallery, though it will probably end up there eventually. It is not for the sight of any servant who steps in here. It is for my eyes alone. And now yours."

"Thank you," she said softly.

He wrapped the portrait carefully and put it away.

"Come and sleep," he said.

"Yes."

21.

Dora woke up to the sound of rain lashing against the window. It was full daylight. George was sitting at the bureau in his shirtsleeves, writing. Amazingly, she had slept deeply and apparently dreamlessly.

She turned quietly onto her side and gazed at him. He did not usually write his letters up here. Indeed, she had never before seen the bureau actually being put to use. But she guessed that he had not wanted to leave her to awaken alone. He dipped his quill pen in the inkpot and continued to write, his head bent over his work.

Her eyes strayed to the top drawer, and she felt tears p.r.i.c.k them though she blinked firmly. She had been enough of a watering pot yesterday. There would be no more of that today.

There had been such tenderness in his hands as he had folded back the linen that covered the picture, and such tenderness in his eyes as he had looked briefly at the painting before handing it to her. And tenderness had been in his voice when he spoke. My son, yes. I loved him.

The boy must have been about fourteen or fifteen when the sketch was made and then painted in oils, a plain-faced, plumpish boy, his fair hair somewhat tousled by the outdoors, the shy suggestion of a smile lending him both vulnerability and charm. He looked as unlike George as it was possible for a boy to be.

It is a good likeness.

I loved him.

It is for my eyes only. And now yours.

There was no family portrait in the gallery. But there was this, a very private, prized possession. A portrait of a boy who had not been his own flesh.

My son, yes.

She must have made some sound. Or perhaps he was just keeping an eye on her every few minutes. He turned his head and then smiled and-oh, she loved him.

"Good morning," he said softly.

"Good morning." She had thought yesterday only of herself, of the fact that she might have died. This morning she thought of him. What would it have been like for him now, at this moment, if she had died? She did not believe he felt any great romantic pa.s.sion for her, but she did know he was dearly fond of her and content with his marriage.

Ah, Dora. My beloved. My only beloved.

Had she really heard those words? Or had it been part of some dream into which she had sunk when she lost consciousness?

"No nightmares?" he asked.

"None," she said. "You?"

But she knew the answer even before he shook his head. He had not slept at all. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and the creases that extended from his nostrils past his mouth to his chin were more p.r.o.nounced than usual. There was little color in his face.

"There was a letter from Imogen this morning addressed to both of us," he said, "and one for you from your sister." He tapped an unopened letter on the surface beside him.

"What does Imogen have to say?" she asked.

"You must read it for yourself," he said, "but I will play spoiler and tell you her main item of news. We Survivors are all being admirably prolific in ensuring the survival of the human race."

"She is with child?" Dora sat up abruptly and threw back the bedcovers. "I thought she was barren."

"So did she," he said. "Apparently you were both wrong."

"Oh, goodness." She began counting on her fingers. "Agnes, Imogen, Chloe, Sophia, Samantha. Me."

"One wonders, does one not," he said, "what is wrong with Hugo? I shall have to write and ask him. Though they do have young Melody."

"Imogen and Percy must be ecstatic. Oh, I must write. It is to them you are writing?" Dora crossed the room barefoot to look briefly over his shoulder-he was writing to them-and to pick up Agnes's letter. It felt fatter than usual. But that, she soon discovered, was because there was another letter folded within it addressed to their mother. It was the first of its kind, Dora was almost sure, though she remembered Agnes's saying she would inform her mother when the baby was born. She looked quickly at her own letter. But Agnes had not delivered early. She was still feeling large and ungainly and breathless and generally cross whenever Flavian patted her largeness and looked pleased with himself. She was also feeling excited and a bit apprehensive, and since she could not steal Dora herself, then she was going to try to steal their mother away from Penderris instead. She hoped Dora would not mind too terribly much, and she hoped her mother would be willing to come.

"I must have buried memories from early childhood," she had written. "Although I cannot bring any specific details to mind, I have a general feeling of safety and calm and comfort whenever I think of our mother. Was she like that, Dora? Or is it just you I am remembering?"

"Agnes has written to Mother," Dora said, holding up the folded letter. "She wants her to go to Candlebury Abbey for her confinement."

"Oh, she will go," George said. "But you will miss her."

"Yes," she agreed. "But they intended returning home within the next week anyway. They have been happy here, I believe, but they have their own lives, as we all do."

"There will be no walk today," he said, nodding toward the window. "It is a good thing Philippa and Julian are to stay longer. The roads will be muddy. It is to be hoped our other guests will be able to get safely home."

It was still raining heavily, and blowing too, judging by the rattle of the window. It was a reminder that autumn was upon them and that winter was not far off.

"Perhaps it will ease up later," she said. She still desperately wanted to take that walk she has spoken of last night, and the sooner the better, before she lost her nerve. For the very thought of it made her knees turn weak and her heart start thumping. Then she caught sight of the clock on the mantelpiece. She had forgotten about those overnight guests. "I must get dressed and go downstairs. Whatever will everyone think of me?"

"What your husband thinks," he said, "is that you look rather delicious."

She shook her head at him and clucked her tongue as she made her way to her dressing room.

The rain eased after luncheon and then stopped. But only just. Dark clouds hung low and the wind still blew in gusts. It was, in fact, a thoroughly unpleasant afternoon, cold and damp and cheerless and best spent indoors. Nevertheless, a group of people left the warmth and shelter of Penderris Hall for the outdoors early in the afternoon, all of them bundled up against the chill as though it were January already. George and Dora led the way, and then came Sir Everard and Lady Havell, Philippa and Julian, and Ann and James c.o.x-Hampton. All of them had been a.s.sured that they must not feel obliged to come, especially the c.o.x-Hamptons, who had merely called to inquire into Dora's health. All had come anyway, as grim and purposeful as the weather itself.

They might, George thought, have waited for a more auspicious day on which to expose themselves to the cliffs and the beach, but then this outing was not about pleasure. Quite the contrary. Dora had hovered close to the south-facing windows all morning when she was not seeing overnight guests on their way, fretting over the rain, imagining it had stopped long before it actually did, and considering going out even if it did not stop.

"What are boots and rain capes for, after all," she had asked at one point of no one in particular, "if one never goes outside in the rain?"

No one had been able to think of a decent answer. Or, if anyone had, no one had said what it was.

Dora had wanted to come out-or needed to, rather-and so all of them had come. She was, George thought, that precious to everyone. She had almost been murdered yesterday, and no one was willing to leave her far out of their sight today. Everyone was ready to pamper her every wish.

They strode first along the driveway Ann and James had driven over half an hour or so ago, their feet crunching on wet gravel. It seemed safe enough, as though they were all on a stroll to the village. The wind buffeted them from behind, though it would cut into them as though to rob them of breath as soon as they turned in the opposite direction. And turn they would, for they were not going to the village, of course. Dora was retracing the route she had taken yesterday. Before they reached the park gates they veered off to their right, toward the cliffs, and then turned right again to walk along the path that ran roughly parallel to the edge for a few miles until it descended a gentle slope to provide an easy access to the beach a couple of miles or so west of the house.

They would not walk that far, though.

George drew Dora's arm firmly through his own and clamped it to his side. He held her hand with his free one. Julian moved up on her other side while Sir Everard offered his free arm to Philippa. Julian would have taken Dora's other arm, but she would have none of it.

"Philippa needs your arm," she told him, "and Sir Everard does not need two strings to his bow. It might make him conceited."

Even now she could make a joke that set them all to laughing, though none of them, George guessed, were feeling very amused. Yesterday's events were still much too raw in all their minds. Julian and Havell had been out here with him yesterday afternoon, and their wives had doubtless heard all the details. Dora had told Ann, he believed. He had told James. This was madness.

But it was a necessary madness, it seemed. Necessary to his wife. Dora would not even allow him to take the outside of the path, which would have been the gentlemanly thing to do even under ordinary circ.u.mstances. She insisted on taking it herself. He was feeling a terror to rival yesterday's even before they reached the part of the path that skirted the fall and the slight promontory beyond it. She stopped when they reached that and drew her arm free of his. She stepped off the path and onto the gra.s.s, which must be slippery from all the rain. George clasped his hands behind his back and fought the almost overwhelming urge to grab her and haul her back to safety. Though she was not unsafe. She was nine or ten feet from the edge.

Everyone else had come to a stop on the path and stood in an unnatural silence. George wondered if they were all holding their breath, as he was doing.

"It is beautiful," Dora said. The wind blew her words back to them. "Nature can seem very malevolent at times, even cruel, but really it is devoid of feeling or intent. It just is. And it is always beautiful."

After which strange little speech she turned and stepped back onto the path and took George's arm again. She smiled with what looked like genuine amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Everyone is so very silent," she said.

"If the wind were not so noisy, Dora," James told her, "you would hear all our knees knocking."

"And our teeth chattering," Julian added.

"Poor Everard is afraid of heights," Dora's mother said.

"I do not suppose," Philippa said, "any one of us is actually in love with heights. It would be foolhardy. But you are quite right, Aunt Dora. This is beautiful-the scenery and the weather. Wild but beautiful."

"And safe," Havell said. "It really is safe. The path is not really muddy, is it? I thought it might be slippery, but there are too many small stones. And it is not as close to the edge as I remembered."

"If you all keep on talking now that you have finally started," Dora said, "you may even convince yourselves that you would rather be out here enjoying the walk than drinking tea by a cozy fire in the house."

"Tea?" James said. "Not brandy?"

"I am going down onto the beach," Dora told them. "But no one must feel obliged to come with me."

Everyone did, of course.

George had used this particular descent all his life. So had everyone else at the house. Why go two miles to the easy access when this was so much closer to the house? All his fellow Survivors with the exception of Ben with his crushed legs had used it regularly. It was steep and needed to be treated with respect, but it had never been considered dangerous. However, Dora had almost died here yesterday, and Eastham actually had. Today they all picked their way down with more than usual caution until they were standing safely on the beach.

It was not difficult to choose a direction, since to their left stones and rocks and pebbles jutted out into the water and offered a rough pa.s.sage around a bend to the harbor below the village, invisible from where they stood. That was the route by which the body had been taken yesterday. To their right was a beach of golden sand, bordered on one side by tall cliffs and on the other by the sea stretching apparently to infinity. The tide was on the rise, though it was still some distance away. It was rough today. Waves were breaking into foam well before they encountered the beach, and were tumbling in, one after the other, each one climbing a little higher up the sand before subsiding beneath the next. Farther out, the water was slate gray and foam flecked.

They walked along the beach a short way, all of them silent again, but Dora did not stop below the small promontory upon which she had stood yesterday, nor did she look up. None of them did. Some distance away from it she stopped and turned toward the sea, drawing her arm from his as she did so and lifting her face to the wind.

It was a signal for them all to relax.

"I will bet, Julian," Philippa cried suddenly, grabbing up her skirts and breaking into a run, "that I can race you to the water's edge."

Julian looked at the rest of them as she streaked away. "I have to go in pursuit," he said. "She did not say what she was betting."

And he was off after her at an easy lope. She looked back to see if he was following, shrieked when she saw that he was, and flew onward.

"Children, children," James said, laughing and shaking his head.

"I wish, Dora," Ann said, "that I had my sketchbook with me, though it would probably blow away in the wind, would it not? I would love to capture you as you are right at this moment. 'Woman Triumphant,' or something like that but not so pretentious."

"I will not suggest that you try to race me, my love," Havell was saying to his wife. "But shall we?"

They began a sedate stroll toward the incoming sea.

Dora smiled at Ann. "With red, shining nose and windblown hair beneath windblown bonnet?" she said. "'Woman Cold and Windblown'?"

Ann laughed. "I shall sketch you from memory and show you when I see you next," she said. "Or I shall hide it from you and swear I never did it. Some of my efforts are not for sharing."

"But very few," James said loyally.

Dora took George's arm again. "Let's go closer," she said.

"Have some ghosts been blown away?" he asked her when they were out of earshot of anyone else.

She nodded. "Events come and go," she said, "but this remains." She indicated the landscape about them with a sweep of her free arm. "And it is beautiful, George. After my cozy little cottage in its picturesque village, I wondered if I would regret having to live in starker surroundings close to the sea. And when I first came to Penderris, I wondered even more. Everything-the house, the park, this-was on such a vast scale. But I have grown to love it, and I will not allow an . . . event to spoil it all for me. It is an event that is in the past. Though not quite, is it? There will be an inquest?"

"Tomorrow," he said. "In the village. You will not be expected to testify, Dora. Neither will I, I suppose, but I will."

"Sir Everard and Julian will?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "And your mother wishes to testify."

"Ought I?" she asked.

"No," he said firmly.

"Will Sir Everard admit to having tripped the earl?" she asked.

"I did suggest that he need not do so," he said. "It would be quite credible that the man lost his footing and fell una.s.sisted. But Havell insisted upon telling the truth last night and he will repeat it tomorrow."