The serial: For Love and Money Day 29

In one abrupt movement, William clutched Violet tightly to him as though he’d never let her go – as though she was precious to him

In one, abrupt movement William clutched Violet tightly to him, as though he’d never let her go – as though she was precious to him.

She didn’t want this to be a soulless affair any more. She wanted them to love each other.

They watched the sun go down over the moon and the sky turn a fiery red, then tone down to mauve, with streaks of turquoise, as twilight approached. He held her once more and kissed her fiercely. David had bought Violet a present from his business trip to Milan. A music box which played Chopin’s Minute Waltz.

Violet was charmed. She played it over and over again.

David was so pleased to find her so appreciative of his gift.

David held her at arm’s length and gazed at her lovingly. “Violet, I’ve missed you so much.” “I’ve missed you too.” “What did you do all day with yourself?” “This and that. I went riding over the moors.” “The moors are lovely at this time of the year. I’ll come with you next time. This Sunday when I’m not at the mill.”

Violet held her breath.

Cursing his luck

On the Sunday David rode with her. They saw William in the distance, riding along the ridge by the rocks.

“Who’s that man?” David asked suspiciously. “I’ve seen him on these moors before.” “David, they are not on your moors.” “I know that. But what is he up to? Is he looking for you?”

“Me?” Violet feigned innocence. “Why would he be looking for me?” I don’t know him.”

William, seeing Violet with David, cursed his luck, turned his horse and galloped away.

“That fellow behaves as if he doesn’t want to meet us. He was coming in this direction, now he’s turned round.”

Violet was quiet after that. Was David obeying some instinct about William which aroused suspicion? It was as if her guilt hung in the air, tangible as the flies buzzing around the horses and Daniel could see it. Late September and the evenings grew dark early. The only way Violet and William could meet was through the day when David was at the mill.

William frequently played truant from Braithwaite’s to achieve it.

There was a wet week when the gardener just happened to be away ill with bronchitis at the same time.

They met in the glasshouse behind the tall copper beech hedge, where they could not be seen from the house.

The glasshouse was warm and full of late flowering orange lilies and chrysanthemums.

Now that Violet was mistress of Bradley Hall, they had vases of cut flowers everywhere in the house. The gardener was instructed to grow them.

Violet had brought a small picnic. They sat on seed boxes and ate savoury patties, pieces of sultana cake and enjoyed a bottle of David’s best claret, while they laughed and joked with each other. They couldn’t get enough of each other. They ate the picnic listening to the wind howling round the glasshouse.

It blew wet leaves against the windows, where they stuck, forming patterns like a collage. But inside, it was warm and steamy.

A new dimension had entered their relationship. A warmth – a tenderness.

Changed man

William had changed. Instead of his previous cool attachment, he jealously hounded Violet about David.

Did she love him, or was it merely his money? How old was he? What did he look like?

Uncomfortable with these questions, Violet didn’t answer them but brushed them off, retaliating with questions of her own about Shirley. They had both unintentionally fallen in love. Violet found being in love with William was not the ecstatic condition of her imagination. It involved mental anguish.

She was overwrought about William when he was not with her, jealous, frustrated. She wanted permanence.

It reached a point where it was no longer fun meeting in secret.

In rare sentimental moments, William dreamed of being able to set up house with Violet and Charles.

All proper and correct. A mama, papa and a small boy. A stupid dream. He was married. Violet was married.

Besides, she had proved to be totally unmaternal.

Resentment

David Simpson’s groom, Waites, started to resent the work of cleaning Violet’s horse after she had taken it out in the rain and the mud of the moors four days running.

He began to suspect she was meeting a man. Why else would a woman in her right mind want to go riding with the biting wind and rain lashing in her face?

The groom had more sense than to openly accuse Violet to his master. He made a joke of it.

“Mrs Simpson must be keen on riding, sir. She and yon horse ’ ave come back soaking wet these past four days. She’ll be catching her death.” David was no fool. He and Violet were having dinner in the dining room.

“What did you do today, darling?” David began pleasantly. “Nothing much.” “Did you go riding?” “What? In this weather?” Violet could look the person she was lying to straight in the eye. It was an art.

“David picked up on the deliberate lie. Why should Violet lie if she had nothing to hide?” “Do you ever see that man hanging about?” “What man?” “You know, the one we saw on horseback the other day.” “Never.” David weighted up that one word. Was it spoken too forcibly? Guiltily? Matter of factly?

“I don’t like the thought of strangers on the moors. “It’s not safe.” She made no reply. “You will be careful?” “I promise.” She gave him an angelic smile. David let the matter drop – but it was not forgotten.

(More tomorrow)