Dynasty

Chapter 4-3

He swung open huge cast iron French windows that gave onto a flagstoned terrace. In the center was a table set for tea. He held back her chair and she sat down. The view was of an enormous flat lawn. In the corner was a thatched pavilion and a cricket scoreboard. Beyond the field was the tower of a church partially obscured by tall ancient oak trees. One workman was rolling the pitch while two others were completing the laying of a boundary rope. She handed him the birthday card from her handbag. He seemed astonished.

“It was your birthday yesterday,” she said.

He reached into his pocket and drew out a Swiss Army knife. He carefully slit the envelope.

“You don’t just rip it open then?” she teased.

“You don’t hit a nail with a screwdriver,” he said as he read her words. He beamed a smile. “Thank you so much, Shannon. Saskia made a big thing of birthdays. Without her, you know, it doesn’t seem right.”

She didn’t want to follow his sentiment.

“They don’t do cards about welders. There’s not too many rhymes,” she said, looking at the cricket field.

“There’s a match on Sunday. It’ll be the Bloxington Eleven against a team from Jasmine’s legal chambers and their clients. God, I hope we win. Do you care for cricket, Shannon?”

She chose not to remind him that her father was from Antigua and there was no option but to love cricket.

“I adore cricket and this is England,” she said, sweeping her arm at the gentle green panorama.

“Do you think so, Shannon?”

“Yeah. It’s picture postcard England. If I were a tourist this stuff would sell it to me,” she said.

“I hope you like cakes,” he said.

“Love them. I’ve worked off the calories today according to my app.”

Spencer frowned.

“Pardon? I’m not sure....”

“I’ve got a new phone app to count my food intake. It’s great. Have you found any good apps?” she said, knowing full well she was being disingenuous and provocative.

“Apps? Ben has apps,” he said.

“Whatever makes you ‘appy,’” she said, smiling broadly and watching him wince at the pun.

“I think you’re teasing. Do you think I’m a bit old fashioned?” he said.

“Spencer, you know you are.”

He smiled back.

“I suppose it’s deliberate isn’t it. I believe in tradition and quality,” he said.

“I guess that can be expensive,” she replied.

“Oh yes. Being an 11th earl doesn’t come with a salary I’m afraid.”

“You have a day job?”

“Yes. I’m a director of Chamberlain, Reed, and Rush.”

“What’s that?”

“Commodity trading—metals, fruit, coffee, tea....” he began.

“Ooh, so you can get me some Yorkshire Gold.”

“Er, no ... we don’t trade in that kind of way. We sell to the chaps who create your Yorkshire Gold. But, we do deal in gold,” he said seriously.

Shannon laughed and put a hand onto his arm.

“I know, Spencer. I was being a minx again.”

His eyes crinkled up at the corners.

“I thought you were and anyway, minx isn’t your kind of word,” he said.

“I know. I caught it from you. But I love it,” she said.

She gave his arm a last pat, which was more of a stroke and turned her attention to the tea set. He immediately followed her interest.

“It’s a Paris set, Rococo Revival style from the mid-19th century.”

“Not from the charity shop then?” she said.

“No. The 8th earl married a French vicomtesse, Odile de Saintonge and it came with her. Her picture is in the gallery.”

“Did she live here?” asked Shannon, warming to the sheer romanticism of his history.

“Oh yes. She set up the dairy to make cheddar cheese and export it for the French. Sadly her husband drowned in the lake at the age of eighty-two trying to retrieve a pheasant he’d shot.”

Shannon tried to look serious.

“Don’t they send dogs to do that?”

“Ha, ha! Dogs have more b****y sense than earls,” he said, letting out a laugh.

Spencer poured tea while a maid brought a silver tray of perfectly cut, crust-less sandwiches.

“This doesn’t seem real,” she said.

“You don’t like it?”

In truth she was blown away. The elegance and splendor overwhelmed her. She chose another word to express herself.

“It’s so seductive. It’s hard to resist,” she said, taking a glance at him to see if she had subtly gone under the radar.

“Well, seductive is a good word indeed, Shannon. Nell Gwyn, mistress of King Charles II sat on this terrace with him many a time when it was used as an orangery. Ann Boleyn stayed here, but that was before my family took over,” he explained.

“It’s fantastic,” she responded, munching a superbly flavoured smoked salmon and cucumber sandwich.

He looked at her across the table, smiling warmly.

“You have blue eyes,” he said, almost as if the thoughts had mugged him and pushed him aside. He gathered some composure. “Shannon, I’m sorry, I just said that....”

“And you Sir have brown eyes. We should swap really,” she said, holding his focus.

He looked away, seemingly embarrassed by his conduct. She reached across and touched his shoulder.

“Spencer, it’s nice—no—it’s wonderful to say what’s in your head, or heart. That’s what they call getting real, man. Your tradition and quality must be about being real,” she said, knowing that she’d fired another tender torpedo at his huge gentle rudderless battleship of formality.

They sat silently as the maid returned with a delicate china cake stand. It was loaded with tiny treats that looked like works of art and far too good to eat. She selected a tart with a perfect glazed strawberry.

“That’s hardly a mouthful. Please enjoy them. Everything shared is four times the pleasure.”

“Well I couldn’t deny you that, Sir,” she said, taking a wonderful square of very dark, chocolate and ginger confection. “Delicious!” she said. “I’m gonna have to do a few miles on my bike to burn this off.”

“You look jolly trim to me,” he said.

“And so do you, kind Sir—but not jolly trim. You look fit,” she said.

Spencer blushed visibly.

“I’m sorry. That was a personal remark. I wanted—I want to talk about the village and your role as policeman—policewoman, I mean. That’s what I intended.”

She studied him for a moment, letting him know with her eyes that she was thinking. This poor man was on a golden hook of his tradition and his dead wife. If this had been a boxing match, he would have been on the ropes now with his hands down. The soft tissue was there in front of her.

“Do you get to talk much? I mean talk like this,” she said.

“Not much,” he began, almost as if he choked up a little. “I guess I’m not that much of a talker. You know, a stereotype eccentric chap fixing my Jag and reading the Times.”

“If you were really that guy you wouldn’t have put that idea together and said that to me. And I think you know that,” she said.

He looked at her and let his chin sink into his cupped hands.

“You should be a cop.”

“So, you’re nicked in the act of trying to throw a lady off your scent,” she replied.

“Ben was right about you,” he said with a smile.

“You haven’t answered the question, Spencer. I mean, do you get to chat much?”

“It’s difficult to share things,” he said.

He was still on the ropes. She wasn’t sure enough of him to take things much further. He surprised her with a counterattack.

“Who do you talk to? You said you had nobody?”

“No one like I think you mean. I’ve got my best mate, Mel. You—you have Jasmine....”

He leaned back and sighed.

“Yes, she’s been a brick. Since the accident, you know, Saskia’s death, Jasmine has kept us going I suppose.”

Shannon felt a surge of angry spite rumbling somewhere unpleasant in her bowels.

“She must be a great comfort,” she said.

“Comfort? Ah, look it seems disloyal to talk about her, you know?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was wrong to mention her. Now I’m being too personal.”

A silence fell between them. She let it work for her. He had the ball.

“She—Jasmine, has tried to be something of a mother to Ben. She thinks I must send him back to boarding school for his own good.”

“b****y places seem like open prisons to me,” said Shannon, “but without parole.”

Spencer stared at her wide-eyed and open-mouthed as if he had never heard such a thing.

“The prime minister and everyone at the top—even your boss, Boris Johnson—they all went to boarding school.”

“No child of mine’s ever going to one. I’d be his or her mother even if it meant missing out on the wonderful world of politics,” she said.

She could tell he was appraising her.

“Am I being selfish keeping him here though? He hasn’t got a mother and it has been hard for him to fit in at school.”

She wanted to speak openly but she bit her tongue. If the nearest thing he had to a mother was Jasmine he would probably be better off away at school. It was obvious Ben hated her. It looked as if Spencer hadn’t picked up the vibes.

“He loves you, Spencer. That’s the whole deal apart from the fact that you love him and he knows that too. But look, I don’t know you guys. I’m sure Jasmine is on top of the job,” she said, keeping her eyes deliberately cold and dispassionate.

“Shannon, I can’t. I simply can’t. We shouldn’t be talking like this.”

She looked down, denying him her contact which she knew he wanted. Again a silence worked its corrosive magic.

“When will Jasmine be home? I must be keeping you,” she said.

“Home? No, Jasmine doesn’t live here. This is where she keeps some of her horses.”

“How many horses does a gal need?” asked Shannon, knowing she sounded edgy and insolent.

“Most of them are here. Maybe a dozen. She keeps a couple of mounts in London. She rides daily on Rotten Row in Hyde Park.”

“Not the Lady of the Manor then. I can imagine her on Rotten Row,” said Shannon.

“Oh no. She is a very top lawyer. She has a city penthouse.”

“You know she complained about me?” she said.

“Yes. I was extremely angry,” he replied. “I didn’t know if you knew. You weren’t supposed to find out apparently.”

“Spencer, it’s cool. I’ve got to work around you guys. I was a bit rude to her and I expect she’s a sweet girl if I got to know her and empathize with her,” she said.

“You don’t think that, do you? You’re just being professional and I respect that,” he said.

“Stuff ‘being professional,’ Spencer. I just wanted to trot out some half-baked crap to make me sound nice.”

For the second time his jaw dropped.

“You just say things, don’t you?”

She smiled at him. She’d roughed him up a bit. His experience was so different from hers. Life had knocked off her edges but had left a curved sharp blade underneath.

“I’m a bit direct I guess. I’m either an alien, a Yorkshire man or an American,” she said.

“You’re truly astonishing,” he said.

“So are you, Spencer. That boy loves and admires you.”

“You know all that in just a few minutes, just like that?”

“Yeah, I know about kids and love because I see it by its absence in every lost kid in the city. I see admiration and pride in every kid in a g**g. I’ve seen love withheld in lonely suicides and in psychopaths who kill for so-called respect or fame—that f*****g word the unloved use for love.”

He took a deep breath. She had meant him to. She had meant to swear to show him just a little of her mettle.

“You express many of my own views—in your own way, Shannon. But I think you’re right.”

He stood up and came round the table. She stood to join him, looking into his eyes.

“Can’t you just hug me or something,” she said.

“That could be a mistake.”

“Mistake me in your arms then.”

Then, he held her, not kissing, not pressing. He simply held her to him. She felt the warmth of his body. His arms closed around her shoulders as she laid her head on his chest. She nuzzled him a little and made a long “mmmmm” sound. She felt him relax and hugged his waist. This was a sweet fruit and a succulent pain. She loved the immovability of his big bear-like body. She softened into him, not sexually as such, but as a woman fits to a man.

He stepped back and let out a deep sigh. She wanted to speak first.

“Spencer, whatever you do or say do not tell me you’re sorry and that you’ve exceeded your role as a gentleman or any such rubbish. I wanted that as much as you, maybe more,” she said reaching up to his cheeks and fixing his head while she spoke.

“You did?”

“I just said so. I’d have asked for a kiss but I didn’t want to burn out your guilt fuses.”

He shook his head yet smiled innocently like a boy catching his first fish.

“Come and see the gallery of ancient Bloxingtons and beyond,” he said.

At some point, somewhere near the portrait of the composer Handel, either she took his hand or he took hers. It was a while before they let go.