The Soldier's Dark Secret

Chapter Seven

‘A very proper, very English young lady.’ Celeste repeated, looking blankly at Jack. They were in the studio, where she had been laying out her preliminary drawings to allow Lady Eleanor and Sir Charles to make their final selections, before she began the task of painting the actual canvases. ‘You think that my mother was of genteel stock?’

Jack nodded. He had taken a seat across from her at the table. In the two days which had passed since their early-morning swim, they had both been careful not to mention it or the kiss which had followed. Though as far as Celeste was concerned, it hung in the air, almost palpably, every time she looked at him.

She shuffled a bundle of rejected sketches, quite unnecessarily. ‘What makes you come to this conclusion?’

Jack tapped his pencil on the notebook in front of him. ‘A number of little things. Hasn’t it ever struck you as odd, for example, that the wife of a school teacher would employ a cook?’

‘I’ve never given it much thought. It’s just how things were.’

‘Then there’s this school you attended in Paris. It sounds as if it was a good one.’

Celeste frowned. ‘The girls were from good families. Titled, mostly, or very wealthy. Or both. That was one of the problems I had to deal with, being neither.’

‘You mean you were bullied?’ Jack’s hand tightened on his pencil. ‘I don’t know why, but I assumed that sort of thing was confined to boys.’

‘If you mean fighting, then it most likely is. Girls are more subtle,’ Celeste said grimly. ‘It doesn’t matter, I learned to hold my own. Besides, I cannot believe it was really so grand a school,’ she rushed on, having no desire to recall how effective the bullying had been. ‘We were not permitted a fire except in the dead of winter and then never in the dormitory. And the bed sheets were almost threadbare. It was hardly luxurious.’

‘Which confirms my point,’ Jack said with a tight smile. ‘My so-called exclusive prep school had dormitories that would have delighted a Spartan. Such privations don’t come cheap. Then there is her knowledge of dinner-party etiquette. And the comment about—what was it—a woman’s reputation. Your mother could draw and paint, but she couldn’t cook. Could she sew?’

‘She taught me to embroider.’

‘Precisely.’

Jack looked pleased. Celeste was unconvinced. ‘I never thought much about my mother’s origins. Why should I, when Maman was so determined that she had none? She would have preferred me to believe she had been baked like dough in an oven.’ Blind baked, Celeste added to herself, a brittle pastry with a hard crust.

She pushed back her chair and went over to her favourite spot at the window. Was she being unfair? Maman had been cold, distant, aloof. Certainly stern, and yet at other times she had looked...

Just as Jack had done that first morning at the lake.

Despair? Anguish? Whatever label one put on it, it was obvious now that her mother had indeed suffered. And she, Celeste, had been oblivious to it. All the signs had been right in front of her nose, and she had not noticed them. She shook her head in disgust at herself. ‘I have been an idiot! For an artist, quite the blind woman. Thinking I was the poor little schoolgirl, when really it was a case of all the other little schoolgirls being so very rich.’

Her fingers went to the locket around her neck. ‘That’s another thing,’ Jack said almost apologetically. ‘I doubt very much that your locket is a trinket. In fact I think you’ll find it’s made of diamonds and sapphire, not glass. There’s a maker’s mark. I’ll show you.’

Celeste took the locket off obediently. There it was. She looked at the portraits inside, painted in such a way that her mother gazed across at her. Lovingly? Her mother, who had claimed in her last letter, that she had always loved her. Was this locket proof as Jack said? Celeste found this almost impossible to believe.

Almost? She touched the miniature of her mother with the tip of her finger, an echo of Jack’s gesture with his own mother’s picture in the portrait gallery, she realised. But his had been one of unmistakable affection and love. Was hers?

She looked up, smiling faintly at Jack. ‘You have given me a great deal to think about,’ she said, snapping the locket shut.

A rap on the door heralded the arrival of her patrons. Celeste quickly made the final touches to her arrangement of sketches, ensuring the ones she favoured were most prominent, but when the door opened, it was to reveal Lady Eleanor alone.

* * *

‘My husband sends his apologies, Mademoiselle, he will be unable to join us this morning, but he desired me to make some preliminary selections from your work. I trust this is satisfactory?’

Without waiting for an answer, her ladyship made straight for the table where the sketches were laid out and began sifting through them. Jack cast Celeste an eloquent glance, and began unobtrusively to push the preferred drawings towards his brother’s wife.

‘Of course, these are just very rudimentary sketches to give you an idea of what the finished work would look like,’ Celeste said, ‘but I hope they are sufficient to allow you to make some decisions on the sequence in which you would like me to paint the formal gardens.’

Lady Eleanor examined the sketches carefully. It had always amused Celeste to witness her patrons’ reactions at this stage. Seeing their estates spread out before them on paper almost always made them view their properties afresh, made them somehow grander, more magnificent, which in turn added to their own sense of consequence.

Lady Eleanor was no different. ‘I must say, I had not appreciated the epic sweep of the estate. You have managed to cover a great deal of ground in a very short time.’

‘Thank you. Monsieur Trestain has been most helpful. He has an excellent eye for the most pleasing views.’

‘Well, it is comforting to know that he has managed to occupy himself gainfully,’ Lady Eleanor said pointedly. ‘I expect you, Mademoiselle, being a—a woman of the world are rather more equipped to deal with Jack’s outbursts than a child. Robert,’ she continued, addressing Jack directly, ‘was sobbing his little heart out the other day after his encounter with you.’

Jack blanched. Celeste felt her fists curl. ‘If you do not mind me saying,’ she said, ‘when Jack refused Robert’s request in a perfectly reasonable manner, it was the child who threw the tantrum, not Jack.’

‘Celeste.’ Jack held up his hand to quiet her. ‘I am very sorry if I upset Robert, Eleanor.’

‘My son, like all small boys, is obsessed with all things military,’ her ladyship replied, her stiff manner giving way to a plaintive one. ‘He would hang on your every word for a first-hand account of Waterloo. Your brother tells me I must try to stop him bothering you, but Robert is such a naturally inquisitive little chap.’

‘He reminds me very much of Charlie at that age,’ Jack said. ‘Mad keen on fishing.’

‘And equally eager to hear his uncle’s account of what is our nation’s greatest victory. No disrespect intended, Mademoiselle. Really, Jack, is that too much to ask? Frankly, I’m at a loss to fathom you these days. I remember a time when you were more than happy to sit up until dawn, regaling Charles with your exploits. I know you are still recovering from your wounds, and that we must all make allowances for your—your— For the anguish you are suffering at having witnessed the deaths of so many of your comrades, but...’

‘Is that what Charlie thinks it is?’ Jack shook his head when Lady Eleanor made to answer. ‘No matter. I am sorry to have upset him, but I cannot— The days of my boasting of my army exploits are over, Eleanor, but I am more than happy to take Robert fishing instead.’

‘But I do not see...’ Making an obvious effort, Lady Eleanor bit back her remonstration. ‘That is kind of you, Jack.’

‘It is nothing. I do care for the boy, you know, regardless of how it may appear.’ Jack picked up some of Celeste’s sketches. ‘In the meantime, let us concentrate on your selections. Look at this study of the Topiary Garden. Do you not think that it is a great shame to have it cut down? When you see it afresh like this, through Mademoiselle’s clever eye, it really is quite lovely and wants only a little tidying up to bring it back to its former glory.’

‘Rather more than a little tidying up,’ Lady Eleanor replied, ‘and it is so very gloomy.’

Jack picked up another view of the Topiary Garden. ‘Look at this, though. Mademoiselle Marmion was telling me that though she’s painted some of the grandest estates in France, the Trestain Manor Topiary Garden is one of the finest examples she has ever seen.’

Lady Eleanor looked doubtfully at the sketch. ‘Really? I had no idea. Is this true, Mademoiselle?’

‘Why, yes,’ Celeste replied, intensely relieved that Jack had managed to turn the subject. ‘In France, the art of topiary is much admired. The best examples attract admirers from all over the country. I think that your garden, with only a few changes, could do the same.’

‘You would be leading the way for England,’ Jack said. ‘Your good sense in preserving the garden will be appreciated by generations of Trestains to come. Think about that, Eleanor.’

Her ladyship did, rewarding Celeste with a tight smile. ‘I wonder, Mademoiselle, if it is not too much trouble, if you could perhaps give me the benefit of your artistic eye and suggest a few enhancements. I can then discuss them with Sir Charles and our landscaper. Awarding you full credit for your contribution of course.’

Celeste nodded, slanting Jack a complicit smile. Lady Eleanor continued to sift through the drawings, laying a small selection to one side which, Celeste was pleased to note, contained most of her own favourites.

‘These are really very good, Mademoiselle,’ she said, sounding as if she meant it. ‘I am most pleased. Sir Charles will make the final selection tomorrow. You will excuse me now, I must go and speak to cook. Your Aunt Christina’s long-awaited annual gift of a haunch of prime Highland venison has finally arrived, Jack. Something of a family tradition, Mademoiselle,’ she added by way of explanation. ‘Every year we have a special banquet when it arrives. We will be celebrating the occasion tonight.’

Jack shifted uncomfortably, looking not at all enamoured by the prospect.

‘Your brother,’ Lady Eleanor said, ‘will be very much gratified by your presence. I believe that your aunt, in the accompanying letter, was most eager for you to partake of the beast, and particularly requested that Charles give her an account of the dinner—for it seems she has no hope of a letter from you.’

‘I have had my arm in a splint these past two months, Eleanor, in case it has escaped your attention.’

Her ladyship turned to Celeste, ignoring this remark. ‘Mademoiselle Marmion, I will entreat you to use any influence you have with Jack. Is it really so much to ask that he joins us en famille for a special dinner sent all the way from Scotland by his favourite relative?’

Celeste, taken aback by Lady Eleanor’s consulting her on any subject save art, found herself shaking her head.

‘You see? Mademoiselle Marmion agrees,’ her ladyship said, turning back to Jack.

‘I don’t think...’

But Celeste’s role had, it seemed, been played. ‘It is not as if we are even holding the usual grand banquet,’ Lady Eleanor said. ‘Not a single guest. Not even our closest neighbours. I told Charles that they would be most offended, but he said he cared nothing for any guest save you. So I take it you will not be letting him down?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Eleanor, what a damned—dashed fuss over a bite of dinner. Yes,’ Jack said, ‘I’ll be there. Satisfied?’

‘Your brother will be, and that is what matters to me. You too are cordially invited of course, Mademoiselle Marmion. Until tonight, then.’

Lady Eleanor swept from the studio. Jack stared at the door, his jaw working. ‘It is just dinner,’ Celeste said tentatively. ‘Though I am surprised Lady Eleanor thinks me worthy of your aunt’s precious venison.’

Jack grimaced. ‘Obviously, she assumes that your presence makes the chances of my attendance more likely.’

Celeste coloured. ‘Have we been indiscreet?’ Her colour deepened. ‘You do not think that someone saw us at the lake the other morning?’ It was the first time either of them had mentioned it. She wished immediately she had not. Unlike those other kisses, the memory of this one was not inflammatory, but bittersweet.

‘No,’ Jack said, ‘I’m sure no one saw us. It’s one of the things I like about that place, it’s completely private.’

‘Unless someone hides behind a hawthorn tree.’

Jack’s smile was twisted. ‘As with so many things, you are the exception that proves the rule.’

Their eyes met and held. He reached out to touch her cheek. She turned her head. Her lips brushed his palm.

‘Celeste.’ His voice was filled with the same longing she felt. He took a step towards her, then halted. ‘You must be keen to get to work, now Eleanor has made some decisions. I will see you at this blasted dinner.’

Confused, frustrated, as much by her own reaction as Jack’s, Celeste turned her back on the closed door and set about stretching some canvases.

* * *

Jack put the final touches to his cravat. It was not perfect, but it would do. At times like this, he missed his faithful army batman, but Alfred was happily ensconced many hundreds of miles away as the landlord of the Bricklayer’s Arms in Leeds, and besides, the last thing Jack really wanted was proximity to any of his former comrades. Still, no one could tie a cravat like Alfred.

He pulled on his waistcoat. Grey satin stripes, and one of his best. Quite wasted in the country, but Eleanor would appreciate the effort he was making. As she’d appreciate the formality of his cutaway black coat and silk breeches. They were considerably looser on him than the last time he’d worn them to the now-infamous ball held by Lady Richmond on the eve of Waterloo. He closed his eyes, but it seemed a set of evening clothes, even one with such associations, did not trigger anything other than a vague discomfort, and that was coming from his shoes, which had always pinched.

Perhaps he was on the mend, mentally as well as physically? Perhaps this thing, this nostalgia, whatever the hell it was, would heal, as his shoulder was doing, and his arm.

‘Nostalgia,’ Jack said viciously as he shrugged himself into his coat. Such a soft, comfortable little word to describe what he felt. Was it all in his head? But the pain, the tearing blackness, the white heat of his uncontrollable fury, the terror that made him run from himself, the sweats and the shakes, and the dull ache in his head, they were all too real.

‘I am not mad.’ He jumped as the porcelain dish containing his cuff-links clattered to the floor. It was not broken, thank the Lord. He picked up the scattered links, replacing the dish carefully. If he was insane he wouldn’t recognise or understand what it was that made him feel the way he did. And that, he understood only too well. How could he fail too when he lived through it again and again, almost every night without fail?

Seated at the dressing table, a brush in one hand, he stared at his reflection. What he didn’t understand was that for two years he had functioned reasonably well. The dream had been sporadic. He’d carried on doing what he’d always done. True, there had been doubts, but none strong enough to stop him doing his duty, stop him believing that doing his duty was paramount. Only after Waterloo, when peace was indisputable, when war was over, had his symptoms escalated.

And only after Celeste arrived at Trestain Manor, had he had to cope with not only enduring the symptoms, but confronting the fact that they were in danger of ruining his life.

A flicker of rebellion kindled in his heart. He didn’t want to spend his life enduring. He wanted to have his life back. Not the old one, that was gone for ever, but something preferable to this shadow of a life. Celeste sent his head spinning, she forced him to face a good many unpalatable truths, but she also sent blood rushing to parts of him he’d thought dormant. It frightened him, the thought of giving free reign to the passion she ignited, because he had retained such a tight grip on himself for so long, it was almost impossible for him to think about letting go.

Almost. Jack picked up his other brush and set about taming his hair. Almost was better than completely. Instead of dreading tonight, what he needed to do was to see it as a test. A possible step forward on the road to recovery.

* * *

Celeste was nervous, though she couldn’t account for it. She stood clutching the obligatory small glass of Madeira wine, half-listening to Sir Charles recount a complicated anecdote which seemed to involve a miller, his wife, the village baker, a neighbouring magistrate and, if her ears were not deceiving her, a wheel of Stilton cheese. Celeste took another sip of the sweet wine and smoothed down her gown. It was one of her plainest, of russet-coloured crêpe with a deep V-shaped neckline and high puffed sleeves, the only embellishment being a corded sash tied around the high waistline. Lady Eleanor was dressed far more elaborately in lilac lace. Sir Charles was in full evening dress for the first time since her arrival. Obviously, Auntie Kirsty’s haunch of venison demanded a major effort be made to mark the auspicious occasion. She now regretted her understated choice of attire.

Jack entered the salon just as Lady Eleanor was consulting the clock on the mantel for the third time. He too wore full evening dress. His hair was tamed ruthlessly, his jaw freshly shaved. The deceptively simple cut of his coat, the stark black of the silk suited him. As he strode across the room to bow over Lady Eleanor’s hand, Celeste could not help comparing the two brothers, so similarly attired, and so very different. Sir Charles was probably more classically handsome, but Jack’s imperfections, his austere countenance, were what made him, in Celeste’s eyes, by far the more attractive of the two. She remembered thinking that first day, when she had watched him swimming naked in the lake, that he looked like a man who courted danger.

Heat flooded through her. She should not be thinking of him naked, especially not when he was bowing over her hand. Celeste dipped a formal curtsy, lowering her head to hide her flush. ‘Monsieur.’

‘Mademoiselle. You look beautiful as ever.’

‘And you too look very handsome.’ Though now she studied him, she thought he looked tense. There was no time to pursue the cause of this, however, for at that moment Lady Eleanor’s footman sounded a gong, Sir Charles took his wife’s hand and led the small procession out into the hall and across into the dining room.

Jack was seated opposite her. Sir Charles led the conversation which was primarily concerned with previous haunches of venison and the large parties at which they had been consumed.

‘I hope you’ve not deprived your neighbours of their annual treat on account of me,’ Jack said to Eleanor. ‘After all, it’s not as if I’ve been able to attend more than twice in the last dozen years, while they looked forward to it every year.’

‘Well, to be honest, Jack, we did not think—’

‘What Eleanor means is that we thought it would be cosier to keep it to just the family,’ Sir Charles interrupted hurriedly.

Jack put down his wine glass carefully. ‘Cosier,’ he said with a cold smile. ‘I see.’

Sir Charles rubbed his hands together. ‘Good. Excellent. It is— You must know, Jack, it is good to see you at the table.’

‘You fret about me too much, Charlie.’ Jack pushed his glass aside. ‘I’ve heard reports in the village that it’s going to be a bumper harvest. What do you say?’

His brother was no fool, but as he was, Celeste had noted several times, most definitely a man who avoided confrontation, he was therefore happy to be diverted. Lady Eleanor’s footmen brought in a procession of side dishes. Her ladyship supervised the placing of each, and the brothers chatted about crops. At least, Sir Charles talked, and Jack prompted, saying just enough to keep the conversation ticking over.

The first of the side dishes was already going cold when the door was held open by one footman, and two more entered the dining room bearing an enormous copper platter. Celeste, who was by now rather hungry, felt her mouth watering. The aroma coming from the venison was delicious. The meat looked succulent. Across from her, she caught Jack’s hand curling tightly around the stem of his glass, though he quickly put it down when he noticed her watching him.

She couldn’t understand what was wrong with him. The platter was placed in front of Sir Charles, who made a great show of sharpening the carving knife on a steel before picking up the fork. Blood and juices trickled from the roast haunch as he began to carve through the charred skin.

A footman placed a side dish in front of Jack. A silver tureen containing vegetable broth of some sort, redolent with the herbs of Provence. Surprised, Celeste turned to Lady Eleanor. ‘What is that dish? It smells exactly like home,’ she said.

‘Indeed,’ her ladyship said, gratified. ‘I had cook concoct it as a small gesture to make you feel welcome. I discovered it in a receipt book belonging to Sir Charles’s mother. She was Scottish, you know. I believe the Scots have a great affinity with you French. The Auld Alliance, I believe it is—good heavens, Jack, what on earth is the matter?’

He had turned a deathly pale. As he pushed his chair back, he caught the dish of broth and sent it flying from the footman’s hand. Jack got to his feet, clutching the table and swaying. His skin now had a greenish hue. He was staring at the venison, his eyes dark with horror.

‘Dear lord, I think he is going to be ill, Charles,’ Lady Eleanor exclaimed, turning rather green herself. ‘Charles. Charles!’

Her husband jumped to his feet at the same time as Celeste pushed back her chair and got to hers. Jack swayed. He looked as if he was about to crumple, but when his brother tried to put his arm around him, he swatted it away and began to lurch for the door, his mouth over his hand. Celeste reached him as he clutched the handle. He pushed her to one side and threw himself out into the hallway and from there out of the front door and into the night air.

* * *

Another sleepless night, this one thanks not to his dream but to his lingering and complete mortification. Jack had not actually been physically ill last night. He was trying very hard to see that as some sort of progress, but as he had lain sleepless and sweating in his bed, he replayed the entire hideous scene over and over, to the point where he had thought himself beyond embarrassment. If the dinner had been a test, he’d failed it spectacularly.

Unable to face anyone, knowing he must eventually face them all, he had been wandering aimlessly around the grounds for hours. Exhausted, hungry but unable to contemplate eating, he was instead contemplating retiring to his bed when the sound of voices drifted out through the long French window which gave on to Celeste’s studio.

‘Yes, yes, these are all excellent, Mademoiselle,’ he heard Charlie say.

His brother was giving his approval to the selection of sketches to be painted. They would all three of them be there. It was an ideal opportunity for Jack to make himself scarce, but he found himself instead positioned behind a trellis which obscured him, but also afforded a view into the studio. It was inevitable that the subject of the dinner would come up. What would their take on it be? Information was the best of ammunition after all. It seemed old habits died hard.

Charlie, unlike his wife, who had studied each of Celeste’s sketches with a great deal of care, gave each a fairly cursory glance, and seemed indiscriminately happy with every one of them. Standing beside him, Celeste, looking pale, with dark circles under her eyes, was struggling to give her patron her full attention. Her gaze drifted over to the window.

Jack froze, though she could not possibly see him. It was ridiculous to be hiding here. He should join them. His feet refused to comply. He wondered fleetingly if this was how Celeste had felt that day—which seemed like months ago—when she had watched him swimming.

Charlie was looking at a view of the lake now. No, he had selected one. Now he was dithering between two views of the Topiary Garden, and Jack could see Celeste making a huge effort not to try to steer him towards the one she herself preferred. She smiled when he opted for it, and pushed the pinery sketches towards him.

‘Yes. Excellent.’ Charlie rubbed his hands together again, a sure sign he was nervous. ‘I wonder if I may be so bold, Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘as to enquire how you find my brother?’

Jack’s hackles rose. Celeste looked wary. ‘I am not sure what you mean. He has been most helpful.’

‘Yes, yes. I can see that.’ Charlie pursed his lips. ‘It cannot have escaped your notice, Mademoiselle, that my brother is not quite— That he is not— That in short, he is rather out of sorts. On occasion.’

‘He has been wounded. I think his arm has given him a great deal of pain. What do you think of this vista, Sir Charles?’

Charlie ignored the proffered sketch. ‘It amounts to more than tetchiness, Mademoiselle. More than the residual pain from a wound now healed. Last night—for heaven’s sake, you witnessed what occurred last night. What in the name of all that’s sacred was that about, do you think?’

Celeste blanched. ‘I don’t know. I was as much— I don’t know.’

Charlie threw the sketch down. ‘The time has come to stop beating about the bush. My wife and I are at our wits’ end. We have tried but we seem singularly ill equipped to help him, Mademoiselle, indeed I think we unintentionally exacerbate matters.’

Jack strained forward. Charlie was leaning over Celeste. Celeste, hindered by the table, was bending backwards. ‘I am fain to embroil you in a private family matter,’ his brother said, ‘but it has struck both my wife and myself that you seem to be able to...well, to influence Jack in a way we cannot.’

‘Monsieur, Sir Charles, I do not...’

‘You do. He listens to you. Eleanor says that it was only at your behest that he finally consented to come to dinner last night.’

‘No.’ Celeste flushed. ‘That is, I might have— But it was very wrong of me. Jack was eager to please you too, Monsieur—Sir Charles. He is not— He— I should not have—’

‘What sparked such an extreme reaction out of the blue like that—that’s what I want to know. It can’t go on, that much is certain.’

Clearly agitated now, Charlie thumped his fist on the table. Jack felt his own fists curl. Appalled, sick to the stomach and furious, he forced himself to listen.

‘He used to be the most even-tempered of chaps,’ Charlie was saying, ‘and now one must constantly be treading on eggshells around him. He barely eats. He hardly sleeps. I don’t know how many times the chambermaid has reported some piece of broken china from his bedchamber. Then there is the way he— He— Our little boy, Robert.’

‘You remember, Mademoiselle Marmion was witness to one of those episodes in the portrait gallery the other day, my love.’

‘Lady Eleanor, I really do think that your son—’

‘I hate to say it,’ Charlie interrupted again. ‘It pains me a great deal to say it, but I must protect my child from upset or worse. Last night, you will admit, Mademoiselle, that Jack was quite out of control?’

‘He was— I admit he was not himself.’

Celeste! It was like a punch in the gut. Jack closed his eyes, only to find himself immediately swamped with the smell of that damned soup and the ferrous tang of bloody meat and scorched flesh. He swayed, clutching at the trellis for support. He opened his eyes. Deep breaths. More.

It was as if he was watching a play, the voices booming and fading, his own vision wavering. Celeste was wringing her hands. Charlie was tirading. Celeste was shaking her head. Jack shook his like a dog after a swim.

‘We don’t know,’ Charlie was saying. ‘That’s the nub of it, we simply don’t know. My brother is not the man he was. I hoped we could help him. Fresh country air, good food, that sort of thing. But he is getting worse. We don’t know what he will do next, and I’m not sure we can afford to wait and see. I would suggest he see a medical man, one who specialises in matters of the mind, but...but dear God, I cannot contemplate having my brother confined.’

Confined? Stunned, Jack wondered if he’d misheard.

‘Confined!’ Celeste went quite still. ‘Sir Charles, are you saying that you believe Jack—Monsieur Trestain is—is of unsound mind?’

Silence greeted this remark. Jack waited, every muscle clenched so tight his jaw ached. Charlie shuffled his feet. He rubbed his hands together. He cast Eleanor an anguished look. Then he sighed. ‘I must confess with a heavy heart that I fear it may be the case,’ he said, and Jack, with a growl of fury, launched himself through the French doors and into the studio.

* * *

Lady Eleanor screamed. Sir Charles froze in mid-sentence. Jack’s expression was thunderous and extremely intimidating, but instead of cowering, Celeste caught herself at the last moment and stood her ground.

He looked wild. His eyes were stormy. His fingers were furling and unfurling into fists. ‘I am of a certainty not mad, Charlie.’

‘I didn’t say—’

‘You did.’ Jack took a menacing step towards his brother. Sir Charles shrank back. ‘“I must confess...I fear it may be the case” is what you said.’

‘Yes, and I also said it was with a very heavy heart I did so,’ Charlie countered.

‘You should not have been listening in to a private conversation,’ Lady Eleanor said primly. ‘Eavesdroppers, it is well known, never hear any good of themselves.’

‘Eavesdropping is one of the many things I was required to do to protect my country,’ Jack said, rounding on her with a snarl. ‘A duty I discharged assiduously. Would you rather I had not?’

Her ladyship blanched, but Jack turned his attention back to his brother. ‘Tell me I am not mad, Charlie.’

‘Well, you must admit, you’re not precisely stable, old chap,’ Sir Charles said, accompanied by a feeble attempt at a smile, in an utterly misguided attempt to inject humour into the situation.

Jack recoiled, whirling around to face Celeste. ‘And you! You must think it too, else you would not have asked the question in the first place. You, of all people! I thought...’

‘Jack...’ Celeste took hold of his arm and gave it a shake ‘...Jack, you must know that I don’t think...’

He shook her off. He staggered against a gilt-leafed side table. The bowl of dried flowers which sat on it clattered to the ground and smashed. He stared at them all blankly.

Celeste took hold of his arm once again. ‘Jack.’

He removed her fingers gently. ‘Let me alone.’ He straightened his shoulders and marched towards the door. It closed behind him gently.