Rosamunde Pilcher - September

She said, "And us?"

"I never knew how it could be, until I met you."

"I wish you'd told me all this before."

"I was ashamed. I didn't want you to know. I'd give my right arm to be able to change things. But I can't, because they happened. They become part of you, stay with you forever."

"Have you spoken to Pandora about all this?"

"No. I've scarcely seen her. There's been no opportunity."

"You must make it right with her."

"Yes."

"She is, I think, still very precious to you."

"Yes. But she's part of life the way it used to be. Not the way it is now."

"You know, I've always loved you. I suppose if I hadn't loved you so much, you wouldn't have been able to make me so miserable. But now I realize that you are human and frail and make the same idiotic blunders as the rest of us, it's even better. I never thought you needed me, you see. I thought you were quite self-sufficient. Being needed's more important than anything."

"I need you now. Don't go away. Don't leave me. Don't go to America with Conrad Tucker."

"I wasn't running away with him."

"I thought you were."

"No, you didn't. He's actually a very nice man."

"1 wanted to kill him."

You must never tell Edmund. Still untouched by guilt, she felt protective of her husband, holding her secret like a proud and private trophy. She said lightly, "That would have been a dreadful waste."

"Will your grandparents be very disappointed?"

"We'll go some other time. You and me together. We'll leave Henry with Vi and Edie and we'll go and see them on our own."

He kissed her and leaned his head back on the deep cushions of the sofa and sighed. "I wish we didn't have to go to this bloody dance."

"I know. But we must. Just for a little."

"I would very, very much rather take you to bed."

"Oh, Edmund. We've lots of time for love. Years and years. The rest of our lives."

Presently Edie came to find them, knocking on the door before she opened it. The light from the hall shone from behind her and turned her white hair into an aureole.

"Just to say Henry's in bed and waiting for you…"

"Oh, thank you, Edie…"

They went upstairs. In his own room, Henry lay in his own bed. His night-lamp burnt dimly, and the room lay in shadows. Virginia sat on the edge of the bed and bent to kiss him. He was already half asleep.

"Good night, my darling."

"Good night, Mummy."

"You'll be all right."

"Yes. I'll be all right."

"No dreams."

"I don't think so."

"If dreams come, Edie's downstairs."

"Yes. I know."

"I'll leave you with Daddy."

She stood up and moved towards the door.

"Have a good party," Henry told her.

"Thank you, my darling. We will." She went through the door. Edmund took her place.

"Well, Henry, you're home again." "I'm sorry about the school. It really wasn't right." "No. I know. I realize that. Mr. Henderson does as well." "I don't have to go back to it, do I?"

"I don't think so. We'll have to see if the Strathcroy Primary will take you on again."

"Do you think they'll say no?"

"I shouldn't think so. You'll be back with Kedejah."

"That'll be good."

"Good night, old boy. You did well. I'm proud of you." Henry's eyes were closing. Edmund stood up and moved away. But at the open door, he turned back, and realized, with some surprise, that his own eyes were moist. "Henry?" "Yes?"

"Have you got Moo in there with you?"

"No," Henry told him. "I don't need Moo any more."

Out of doors, Virginia realized that the rain had stopped. From somewhere a wind had sprung up, chill and fresh as snow, stirring the darkness, causing the high elms of Balnaid to rustle and creak and toss their heads. Looking up, she saw stars, for this wind was blowing all clouds away to the east, and in their wake the sky was clear and infinite, pricked with the jewel glitter of a million constellations. Sweet and cold, the clean air struck her cheeks. She took deep breaths of it and was revitalized. No longer tired. No longer miserable, angry, resentful, lost. Henry was home and staying home, and Edmund, in more ways than one, returned to her. She was young and knew that she looked beautiful. Dressed to the nines and off to a party, she was ready to dance all night.

They drove into the beam of the headlights, the narrow country roads twisting away behind them. As they approached Corriehill, the night sky was bathed in reflected brilliance from the spotlights which had been directed onto the front of the house. Drawing closer, they saw Verena's strings of fairy lights looped from tree to tree all the way up the long drive, and as well, every twenty yards or so, the bright flafes of Roman candles that grew from the grass verges.

The BMW swung around the last bend, and the house was revealed in its full glory, towering up against the dark backdrop of the sky. It looked enormously impressive and proud.

Virginia said, "It must be feeling really good tonight."

"What must?"

"Corriehill. Like a monument. In memory of all the dinner parties, and wedding feasts and dances and balls that it must have known in the course of its history. And christenings. And funerals too, I suppose. But mostly parties."

Three brilliant searchlights were beamed upwards, lighting Corriehill from basements to chimneys. Beyond stood the marquee, lit from inside, like a shadow theatre. Distorted silhouettes moved and turned against the white canvas. They heard the beat of music. The dancing, clearly, was already well under way.

Another spotlight hung from a tree to the left of the drive, illuminating the big paddock. Here, cars were parked, in long, well-ordered rows, as far as the eye could see. A figure approached through the gloom, flashing a torch. Edmund stopped the car and rolled down his window. The torch-bearer stopped to peer in. Hughie McKinnon, the Steyntons' old handyman, press-ganged for the evening into the role of car-park attendant, and already reeking of whisky.

"Good evening, sir."

"Good evening, Hughie."

"Oh, it's yourself, Mr. Aird! I'm sorry, I didna' recognize the car. How are you, sir?" He craned a little farther in order to cock his eye at Virginia, and the whisky fumes flowed afresh. "And Mrs. Aird. How are you keeping yourself?"

"Very well, thank you, Hughie."

"Very good, very good," said Hughie. "You're awfully late. The rest of your party were all here an hour ago."

"I'm afraid we were unavoidably detained."

"Oh, well, no matter. The night's long enough. Now, sir"- with pleasantries over, he steadied his legs-"if you would just like to take your good lady to the front of the house, and drop her off there, you can come back here, and I'll be here, and I'll help you park the car over there. " His torchbeam wavered haphazardly in the direction of the field, and he belched discreetly. "And see that you both enjoy yourselves, and have a rare time."

He stepped back. Edmund rolled up the window.

"I doubt that Hughie is going to last the evening."

"At least he's well centrally heated. He won't die of hypothermia."

The car moved forward to pull up at the front door behind a large Audi with a personalized number plate, disgorging its load of very young men and girls, all flushed and laughing from some extended and lavish dinner party. Virginia followed them up the steps while Edmund drove off to find Hughie again and park his car.

She entered the house and was assailed by light, warmth, music, the smell of flowers, greenery, wood-smoke; the sound of voices, raised in greeting, laughter, and high-pitched conversation. As she slowly made her way up the stairs, she looked down over the bannisters at the carnival scene. People everywhere. Many she knew, and others strangers, come from all parts of the country especially for the occasion. A log fire blazed in the huge fireplace, and around this, young men in kilts and evening dress stood talking to each other, drinks in hand. Two of them were officers from the Relkirk barracks, flamboyant in their scarlet regimental mess-jackets.