Page 8 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

‘Yes,’ said Giles, struck with the thought. Never see England again? No, he wouldn’t care for that.

‘Just relax the jaw now, my lord. That’s right.’

Afton’s hands were strong but gentle, and there was something sensually pleasant about having his face turned this way and that as the razor glided like silk across his skin. To his own complete surprise, he did find himself drifting off, and when Afton wrapped a soft, warm towel round his face he could definitely have fallen asleep.

Too soon, it seemed, the towel was removed, a little astringent cologne was applied, and Afton whipped off the protective coverings with a movement that was pure barber’s shop showmanship, and not a bit gentleman’s gentleman. ‘All done, my lord.’

Giles heaved himself up and went to the looking-glass, inspected his face and ran a hand over it. He met Afton’s expectant eyes in the reflection. He couldn’t be churlish with the man. ‘Yes, you have done a good job,’ he said. ‘And a better one than I could have,’ he admitted generously.

Afton looked pleased. ‘Nice of you to say so, my lord. Now, I’ve heard the water arrive next door, so your bath is ready, and I’ll lay out some clean clothes for you for after.’

Giles turned and made a stand. ‘I dress myself, Afton.’

Afton’s smile was as innocent as a child’s. ‘Course you do, my lord.’

Giles went into the bathroom, smiling to himself and shaking his head.

Horatius at the bridge, indeed!

Richard was in London on Christmas Eve, and after an interview with Vogel, the family banker, he turned from duty to pleasure and went to visit Molly Sands. The landlady, Mrs Gateshill, showed him upstairs in person, with the politeness of one who hopes the festive season will encourage a nice tip from a gentleman whose visits were, to say the least, a bit suspicious, given he was a young single man and Mrs Sands was— Well, what, indeed?

Not wanting to foment trouble for Molly, Richard found two half-crowns he couldn’t afford, and he was more sorry to see them leave his hand than she seemed happy to have them land in hers. Perhaps she’d been hoping for a sovereign. He wished her a merry Christmas, and she bobbed dutifully but gave him a look as she departed that said as clearly as words, ‘Won’t get very merry on five bob, will I?’

‘Chloë not here?’ Richard asked, as he stepped into the small living-room – the only room, apart from the bedchamber beyond.

‘She’s at the Academy, practising,’ said Molly, coming forward to shake his hand. He bent to kiss her, but she turned her face and gave him only her cheek.

‘I’m sorry to miss her,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought a Christmas present for each of you, and since I can’t see you on Christmas Day, I thought we could do as the Germans do and have them today.’

‘I haven’t anything for you,’ Molly said.

‘You’ve given me a reason to live. I couldn’t expect anything more.’

She was distressed. ‘Oh, my dear – don’t! It’s too much.’

‘By contrast my presents are very small beer, but I’d like to have given Chloë hers in person.’

‘I’m sure it will give her just as much pleasure tomorrow,’ Molly said.

‘But it won’t give me as much. Present-giving is the ultimate selfishness, you know.’

‘How can you be so foolish!’

‘I’m quite serious. The giver has all the enjoyment of choosing, spending and anticipating, then seeing the recipient’s delight – or a facsimile thereof. He feels noble, generous, a better person. All the recipient gets is the obligation to be grateful. It’s a very one-sided transaction.’

‘So you agree with the Bible: it is more blessed to give than to receive?’

‘Yes, but receiving ought to get far more credit than it does. There’s a skill to receiving gracefully and allowing the giver to bask in his own glory.’

Now she was laughing. ‘It’s not fair. Whenever I want to be stern with you, you make me laugh. Will you have some tea? The kettle’s almost boiled.’ She pushed it, on its trivet, back over the fire.

‘While we wait, open your present,’ he said.

It was neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string; inside, a small box, lined with jeweller’s cotton, on which nestled a cameo brooch. He watched her face anxiously. She didn’t speak. ‘The image is Proserpina, bringing the spring – the flowers falling from her fingers and coming up where she treads.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘The carving is exquisite.’

‘You are Proserpina to me,’ he said. ‘When I go away from you, the world plunges into winter.’