Page 68 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

Richard was aware that his grandmother did not leave her bedroom until eleven o’clock, or twelve if she had been out late the night before. He was not an early riser himself, but on Monday, trusting that Grandmère had not been carousing on Sunday evening, he presented himself on the stroke of eleven, shaved as smooth as a pebble, dressed with meticulous neatness, and bearing a bunch of iris, which she loved.

All his care merely convinced her, when he was shown into her presence, that he was up to something. She sat at the small table in her sitting-room, dipping squares of toast into her delicate gold and white Limoges cup of linden tea, and eyed him narrowly. ‘I suspect I am about to be asked for something.’

He gave her a wounded look. ‘Can’t a fellow bring his favourite grandparent flowers?’

‘I am your only grandparent,’ she said.

‘But you see I thought about it carefully. I didn’t bring you roses.’

‘I give you credit for that. Roses must only come from lovers. Simone, put them in a vase.’ But she held on to them for a moment, and ran a finger over their taut curves. ‘God’s flowers,’ she remarked, with soft pleasure. ‘Three, and three, and three. The flower that bears the Trinity always in its heart. Also Mary’s flower – the sword-lily of Our Lady of Sorrows. All beauty wears sorrow on its other face.’

Richard nodded intelligently, feeling that his recent exposure to church had given him more sensitivity on the subject of religion. He wondered if he should tell her about his visit to St George’s, then thought it would just remind her of how rarely he went. He’d been given credit for the iris – he shouldn’t push his luck.

‘You are up early,’ she said, as she relinquished the flowers to her maid. ‘Or have you not yet been to bed?’

‘Au contraire,’ he said. ‘I have had a Saturday and Sunday of unparalleled virtue. Giles was invited for a Saturday-to-Monday at Dene Park—’

‘Ah, yes, the Wroughtons,’ Grandmère said. ‘Not people of the greatest refinement. Respectable, but dull.’

‘Don’t you find all English aristocracy respectable but dull?’ he suggested.

‘And some not even respectable. But they are better, at all events, than the French aristocracy, who can do nothing but complain about their lost treasures. No-one – remember this, petit – no-one enjoys self-pity. Not other people’s, at all events. One’s own is a different matter, bien entendu. That is always most agreeable.’

‘You are especially mordant this morning, Grandmère.’

‘Come to the point, enfant,’ she said, growing brisk. ‘Giles went to Dene Park and you did not. Eh bien, ensuite?’

‘I was occupied in matters of philanthropy. And I come to ask you a great favour—’

‘I knew it!’

‘But not for myself. For a very worthy person, whose concerns you will understand and feel sympathy with.’ He saw she was growing impatient, and hurried on: ‘There is a woman, a very respectable widow, living in reduced circumstances, who has a daughter with a miraculous talent for music. I have heard her play the piano, Grandmère, and it took my breath away.’

‘You?’

‘Me!’

‘Tiens!’

‘But they only have an upright piano. And she longs to play on a better one. Her talent deserves it. You have a grand piano—’

‘Two,’ she reminded him in the interests of accuracy.

‘Quite. The one in this room, and a very fine one in the drawing-room below that stands idle for most of the time.’

‘I play,’ she said sharply. ‘And Sir Thomas plays for me, when he visits.’

‘Not the one in the drawing-room.’

She shrugged that off. ‘You cannot,’ she said, with authority, ‘expect me to give away my piano to a stranger.’

‘No, no, of course not. Even if you did, there’s no room for one in their lodgings. What I’m asking is that you let her come here and practise, whenever it should be convenient to you.’

‘Let a stranger into my house? Impossible. You cannot ask it.’

‘Knowing how you love music, and how Sir Thomas nurtures talent, I do ask it. For her sake – for this very good, respectable young lady, who loves music as you do.’

Grandmère’s eyes narrowed again. ‘You are in love with her, this young woman.’