“Sockbridge.”
“Mockerkin.”
“Conksbury.”
“And for the classically trained mind, although I have no idea what it means, I give you Aspatria.”
“That’s the winner.”
“Hector likes you. Do you like him?”
“Oh, that was direct. I didn’t expect that.”
“Sometimes you have to put aside being English to get the answer you want. Do you like him?”
“Yes, I do, but—”
Hector returned, arms filled with firewood. “I see you two are getting on well.”
“We are indeed, Horace,” Caitrin said.
“Horace?”
“That’s just habsolutely horridly hawful,” Elinor said, and laughter rendered her incapable of saying another word.
13
The sun had lowered behind the hill, leaving the house in shadow, and the air was a deepening crystalline blue as the day faded away. Caitrin, wearing a woolen scarf and one of Elinor’s overcoats against the rising chill, walked with Hector toward the brook. A few yards away, a fox broke cover, froze when it saw them, and spun on its length to disappear into the trees.
“What a beautiful creature.”
Hector watched him go. “Edmund’s chickens will have a different opinion.”
“At least they’re safe for now,” Caitrin said as she stretched her arms wide and inhaled a deep breath of cool evening air. “It is so good to have time away from sitting in a car. And to be out of the city.”
“We still have one more day off tomorrow. After that, two days to get from here to Greenock will be easy. Job done, Jewels on a sub, across the ocean, and then safe in a Canadian bank vault.”
They stopped at the water’s edge. Caitrin picked up a stone and skipped it across the surface. “Why do we do that, do you think, throw stones into water?”
Hector shrugged. “An offer to the ancient water gods, perhaps, or to keep wicked monsters at bay?”
“Or perhaps just because it’s fun. This is a pretty stream.”
“Up here it’s called a beck. What is it in Wales?”
“Ffrwd or nant.”
“That which we call a brook by any other name—”
“Would still be wet.”
They walked upstream in silence for a while, and the first bat of the evening flickered past. The land had a bleak beauty. It was self-sufficient in its simplicity.
“My father and I used to walk here often,” Hector said and pointed to a far hill, its curved edge just visible against the cobalt sky. “When I was little, he would carry me on his shoulders, and we would continue on right to the top of Marlton Fell. He loved this place. Then it was a summer home only, though. We had property in Durham, Belgravia, and the City of London. Did my mother tell you anything about him?”
“Just a little. She said you two were very close.”
“Yes, we were, and after the war he tried so hard to be a good father, even though the pain interfered so much at the end. Did she tell you how he died?”
“Not exactly.”
“He shot himself.”
She looked at him, surprised at his blunt, un-Hector-like statement.
He seemed surprised too. “I don’t know why I told you that. I’ve never mentioned it to anyone before.”
She took his hand.
A door, long closed, opened. “The pain was growing more intense, and he was gradually going blind. I think he could have stood the pain a little longer, but his pride could not accept the blindness too. The thought of being in agony and helpless for the rest of his life was too much for him.”
“I am so sorry, Hector.”
“I found him. My mother thinks it was an accident. I told her it was, managed to convince the coroner too, and I wouldn’t want her to ever believe otherwise.”
“You know I would never tell her.”
He stared at something invisible in the far distance. “We lost everything to death duties, except for Marlton. It survives, barely, on farm rents,” he said and turned to face her. “So you see, I am a member of the ancient aristocracy you want to eliminate, but I assure you I am a harmless and rather, no, very impecunious one.”
