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  “He agreed to come almost at once. I was astonished.”

  “Maybe he was just waiting to be asked?”

  Walter stares across at the seductive creature who now shares his bed without being asked and gives him so much joy.

  “Or maybe he’s curious,” he says, “to see how beautifully we get along.”

  ***

  Preparations for their special Christmas supper begin. The house is cleaned from top to toe. While Walter paints and Felix sleeps, Moira goes shopping with an empty perambulator. She returns laden with flour, eggs, brandy butter and dried fruit for their Christmas cake, bottles of wine and spices for its mulling, cheeses and an enormous ham, potatoes and parsnips for roasting, and cranberries for the sauce. She orders their goose from the Covered Market: an enormous bird that will feed them for two days. She’ll collect it on the morning of Christmas Eve, put it straight into the oven. She even buys a copy of Mrs Beeton’s Household Management and sits for hours consulting its recipes.

  At the end of term, Walter spends several afternoons shopping at Morton’s Grand Christmas Bazaar on Cornmarket. He buys hand-painted wooden toys and a cheerful-looking gollywog for Felix, a silver pendant and matching bracelet for Moira, a winter suit and woollen waistcoat for Henry, and crystallised fruit, dark chocolate and Mocha coffee. Then he adds an enormous box of baubles, and hauls a small Christmas tree home from the market. He spends that evening decorating the brave fir, admiring how its branches sparkle by the sitting-room fire. Walter has never properly celebrated the holiday before. In the past, Henry had done all the work. Walter had merely sat back and enjoyed his efforts.

  When Christmas Eve dawns in the pouring rain, Moira leaves the house early under a large umbrella to collect her goose. Walter spends the morning finishing a portrait and the afternoon arranging his gifts beneath the tree. By six o’clock the mouth-watering scent of roast goose permeates the house. Felix, fed, washed and ready to be shown off, burbles happily in his crib by the fire. Lizzie arrives with presents and a bottle of festive wine. Moira, flushed from cooking, changes into a ravishing red-velvet dress, lifts her dark hair into an elaborate swirl. Walter relaxes in his sitting-room chair. At last he has a family he longs to share with his Papa.

  Henry is always punctual, if not early, for every appointment. He’d taught Walter the importance of punctuality. “Keeping other people waiting is one of the rudest things you can do. If you’re early for an appointment, walk around the block. You’ll be calm and ahead of the game. If you’re late, your competitors won’t wait for you and you can never make up the time. No excuse will do.”

  So when Henry does not appear on the dot of six o’clock Walter thinks it extremely odd, but assumes his Papa must be caught up in other Christmas festivities. The minutes tick by. Walter lifts Felix from his crib, dancing him around the room: a nightly exercise during which the baby crows with delight.

  When Henry has not appeared by seven o’clock, Walter begins to sweat with anxiety. He opens the front door, gazes along the wet street, gasps at the freezing air, shuts the door and paces the hall, dodging the perambulator and his bicycle.

  “For goodness sake, Walter.” Moira stands in the doorway. “You’re making me dizzy. We must eat or the food will be ruined.”

  “I don’t understand. Papa is never late—”

  “Well, he’s certainly late tonight… Maybe he decided he couldn’t face meeting me after all.”

  “Nonsense. Papa agreed to come. He’s a straightforward fellow. If he hadn’t wanted to be here, he’d have told me.”

  Moira gathers up her skirts. “Let’s eat, unless you want to celebrate Christmas with burned goose.” She flounces down to the kitchen. “Come on, Walter. Don’t just stand there.”

  Walter swallows everything Moira puts before him, not tasting a morsel, staring at the empty place Henry should have filled. At eight o’clock he drinks a second glass of mulled wine, throws on his raincoat, and climbs onto his bicycle. It’s still pouring.

  “I expect Papa has got the days muddled up.” The blasts of cold air freeze Walter’s eyeballs. “I’ll cycle over and make sure he’s fine… If anything is wrong – maybe he’s fallen down the stairs, if he needs a doctor – I’ll stay with him… Don’t wait up.”

  The gas lamps along Walter’s way flicker with sporadic life. He cycles towards Wolvercote, over the bridge, battling squalls of sleety rain and vicious wind, praying that Henry’s cottage will reveal lights in the windows, while inside are the warmth of a fire and an abject apology.

  “Great heavens, dear boy! I’m terribly sorry! Must have got my days mixed up… Here, these small gifts are for you.”

  But the cottage sits hunched in darkness.

  Walter lets himself in, calling out as he does so. He’s met only by silence, the drips of rain as they fall off his hat, and the wildly worried beating of his heart. He lights the gas lamp on the hall table. Next to it sits a wicker basket. Three carefully wrapped parcels glimmer at him. Walter peers at their labels, each addressed in Henry’s flourishing hand:

  Felix, Walter, Moira.

  A lump rises in Walter’s throat. He turns into the darkness of the living room, the lamp in his hand.

  Henry is lying on the floor by the fire. The poker has slipped from his grasp. The dying embers of the burned apple logs murmur and hum.

  Walter kneels at his father’s side.

  “Papa… Papa… Wake up, my dearest Papa! What are you doing here by the fire?… You should be with us!”

  He takes Henry’s hands in his. They are cold as ice. He touches his father’s motionless cheek, feels for a pulse, knowing there will be none. The rain from Walter’s hat and coat drip onto the lifeless body.

  So do his tears.

  Two days later Walter slumps over a cup of Bovril in the Covered Market café, still numb with grief. Every time he closes his eyes he remembers his Papa’s face: the puffy yellow skin, the thin strands of hair, the blue-veined eyelids, the open mouth.

  Walter has eaten nothing all day but he cannot face food. Even the meaty scent of his Bovril makes him queasy. He has so many urgent matters to arrange – the funeral, the flowers, the hymns, the wake, the sale of Henry’s cottage and his valuable book collection – but no energy for any of them. He dreads going home, having to face Moira’s stern gaze and sensible questions.

  He sips at the steaming liquid, forcing himself to swallow. He knows he’s Henry’s sole inheritor. He’ll be able to buy a house, a car, clothes, take a holiday. Yet all his painfully throbbing heart wants is to have his Papa sitting opposite him with his cigarette and wheezy cough.

  Sundays… What will he do with himself on Sundays? Why did he have to make such a silly fuss about Christmas? How will he ever spend Sundays again without thinking hour after hour about his beloved Papa?

  Somebody taps Walter on the shoulder.

  “Walter Drummond?”

  Startled out of his misery, Walter looks up and sees a pair of shining dark eyes, round rosy cheeks and a wide-brimmed hat.

  “I’m Alexandra Cox… One of your models… Do you remember me?”

  Blood rushes into Walter’s face. She’s the ravishing blonde with come-hither eyes and skin that shines like silk.

  “Of course… How nice to—” His voice fails. “Please. Won’t you join me?”

  “Thank you… You looked so unhappy, I felt I had to say hello.” Alexandra sits opposite him. She’s wearing a coat so tight Walter fears it might explode with its weight of flesh. “I heard about your father. I wanted to say how sorry I am.”

  Walter’s eyes fill with hot tears. “He tried to be mother and father to me, you know. He was an old-fashioned man but he was my best friend… I loved him very much.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.” Alexandra leans across the table, takes Walter’s shaking hands in hers. “Wh
y don’t you come home with me? I live round the corner on Holywell Street with my mother, but she’s at work in Cowley. She won’t be back until after six… I promise to make you feel better. Drink a glass of wine with me. Just for half an hour.”

  Walter takes out his handkerchief. He mops his face, dries his eyes, flicks back his wonderful head of hair. He remembers how cold and reticent Moira had been when he’d told her Henry was dead. “I’m sorry, Walter, of course I am, but I never really knew him. Be honest. He never wanted to have anything to do with me.”

  “Do you know what?” Walter gives Alexandra a smile that is sad, wistful and just a tad flirtatious. “I’m going to say yes. That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

  Secrets and Lies

  Oxford, 1911

  Walter waves goodbye to the last of his art class. He dashes out of Beaumont Street and into the Ashmolean to have a word with a friend about a new commission.

  As he emerges from the coolness of the museum, he’s more aware than ever of the heat. It’s a baking-hot June afternoon: too hot to do anything but relax in the shade of a tree-filled garden. Except that in Walton Crescent, Walter only has a shabby backyard just large enough for a coal shed and a washing line. He thinks longingly about taking a gentle stroll in the University Parks, sleeping under a tree for an hour. He’s been working so hard recently, he deserves a rest. Perhaps he’ll call briefly on Alexandra on his way home… His adorable, compliant Alex. Always overjoyed to see him. Or on Jilly. Or Melanie. Each girl has modelled for him. Each has become an enthusiastic mistress. Walter can’t decide whom he likes the most…

  He walks slowly down the steps of the Ashmolean and hesitates, trying to decide what to do. He has a new portrait of Moira sitting on his easel at home: a surprise present that he’s managing to keep a secret and hopes to finish without asking her to sit for him. It’s excellent work, the best he’s ever done. But it’s so hot, a break might do him good.

  He catches a glimpse of an elegant woman outside the Randolph Hotel, just across the road. She looks deliciously cool and fresh in her pale blue frock and stylish hat. She’s holding the hand of a young boy who wears a smart sailor-suit and smiles up into her face.

  Walter blinks and swallows.

  Good God!

  It’s Moira with Felix.

  She hadn’t told him she was going out, or that she’d be taking Felix anywhere… And wait a minute. A man stands beside Moira, talking rapidly, gesticulating, looking into her eyes. Then he bends and kisses Felix on both cheeks. Now he’s clasping Moira’s free hand, raising it to his lips: intent, passionate.

  Walter stares across at him, his eyes burning. He’d recognise that blond hair anywhere, that tanned skin, those swaggering movements. Nobody else wears such expensive clothes with such panache.

  It’s Pierre Tessier.

  Moira’s seeing that French fellow again.

  Walter’s first reaction is to leap across the road and confront them, but Moira has already turned away. Still holding Felix’s hand, she starts to walk into the centre of town. Walter shrinks back against the stone wall of the museum. Tessier has bowed to Moira with a flourish and disappeared into the hotel.

  Startled and furious, a thousand questions whirling in his mind, Walter races home, oblivious of the heat, the crowds, the street-sellers, pushing everyone out of his way.

  How had Moira and that French fellow arranged to get together? He hadn’t noticed any letters for her. Is this the first time they’ve met? If not, how often have they seen each other? How dare Moira meet another man behind his, Walter’s, back? Have they told Felix who his real father is?

  Sweat drips down Walter’s face. The thought of Felix loving another man more than himself is beyond contemplation. Who has cared for Felix from the very week he’d arrived in Oxford? Loved him, nurtured him, fed him, clothed him, danced him in his arms, given him the best any child could expect? He had, with never a word of reproach to Moira that she was saddling him with another man’s child. How dare that Frenchman step in now, pretending he cared?

  Walter hurls himself through his front door and dashes up to Moira’s room. He opens her bureau, churns among its papers, looking for love letters. There’s nothing remotely exciting: only lists of drawings and commissions, household duties and recipes. Moira has either destroyed anything private or locked it away.

  Walter flings himself downstairs to his studio. He stares at the unfinished portrait on his easel. Moira’s beautiful face smiles serenely out at him.

  Panting with rage, Walter slumps onto the chaise longue, his head in his hands, his heart in his mouth. Urging himself to calm down and think straight, he knows he must invent a careful plan.

  First he’ll ask Moira where she and Felix have been that afternoon, to see whether or not she tells him the truth. If she doesn’t, tomorrow he’ll watch her every move. If she goes into Oxford, he’ll stalk her. If he sees her go into the Randolph, if by any ghastly chance he manages to catch her with the Frenchman again, urgent action will be needed. He’ll either have to talk to her straight, have the matter out with her, get her to promise she’ll never meet Tessier again, or…

  Or what?

  Of course, Walter himself has mistresses, but that’s different. He’s a man. It’s perfectly acceptable for him to take a little comfort in another woman’s arms. It’s not as if he’s doing any harm. Whereas Moira has an absolute duty to remain his and his alone. It goes without saying…

  The difference between his feelings for his mistresses and for Moira is this: if Walter thinks about Alexandra or Jilly or Melanie being with another man, he merely laughs and wishes them every happiness. Whereas if he even contemplates Moira with her lips on another man’s mouth, he feels his body burning with a jealousy so dark and bitter it’s frightening.

  Of course, sexually, things between him and Moira had cooled since those first ecstatic weeks. Walter puts his head in his hands, trying to remember. Henry’s death had started it. Moira seemed incapable of offering him real sympathy. Walter had felt so miserably lost without his Papa, particularly on Sundays. But Moira had merely said, “You have to move on with your life, Walter,” and gone off with her Votes-for-Women friends…

  Should he move away from Oxford? Get Moira to leave the city with him, go to live somewhere else, where it’ll be impossible for her to meet her lover? Walter will need to invent several cast-iron excuses for their move. And where would they go? Perhaps he could persuade Moira she needed a holiday? Then, once they’d left Oxford, he’d make plans for them to stay away.

  Walter paces up and down his studio. Maybe things would have been different if, after he’d organised the repair of Henry’s cottage, they could have moved into it. He loved the cosy rooms, the wild garden, the memories of his childhood near Port Meadow. But Moira said she felt Henry’s ghost in every corner. She refused point blank to live there.

  So Walter has reluctantly sold the cottage. He has money to buy a place of their own, but over and again he has hesitated. Whenever he and Moira have gone to see somewhere new, they’ve argued about its suitability. A bad-tempered inertia has taken over. Recently they’ve stopped looking and stayed where they were, although Walter knows the rented house is too small, the backyard dull and poky with no space for Felix to play. Sooner or later they’re going to be forced to find another home.

  Perhaps now is the right time? Seeing Tessier again has been a grim warning. It jolts Walter into realising that if he wants to hold onto the woman he loves and the child he adores, there’s not a moment to lose.

  ***

  The early stages of his plan work only too well. When he asks Moira over supper that evening what she’s done during the day, she says she took Felix to the Covered Market to buy him new shoes. Walter duly admires them, his heart sinking.

  The following day, Walter catches Moira waiting for the postman, and
then pushing a letter into her pocket, and dashing up to her room. He keeps his studio door open all morning, straining to hear her movements. Then, at lunchtime, she leaves the house, saying she’s going shopping.

  Following her, Walter watches Moira glide into the Randolph Hotel.

  For two hours he waits in the hotel bar, drinking coffee and a large brandy until, her cheeks flushed and her hat at a different angle, Moira emerges onto the steps, alone. She wipes tears from her eyes before she crosses the road and drifts towards Walton Crescent.

  Walter is engulfed in a wave of jealousy so black and bitter he can hardly breathe.

  So Moira and that French fellow are lovers. What else could they have been doing for two hours in a hotel room? He takes refuge that afternoon in Alexandra’s arms. She notices he’s hardly his usual passionate self, asks him what the matter is. His mind – and indeed his body – seem to be elsewhere.

  Walter, apologising, says he’s hot and tired. He rolls off the bed. With sweat trickling down his back, he puts on his shirt and linen jacket. The truth is, he can’t stop thinking about Moira. He realises they haven’t made love for weeks. Maybe it has been months. He can’t remember.

  All he knows now is he must do something drastic to stop the rot.

  That Sunday Walter persuades Moira to go out with him in his car.

  After selling Henry’s cottage, Walter has bought a top-of-the-range Ford sports car, with a beautiful coach-built body, from Coxeter’s in Oxford for five hundred and fifteen pounds. It’s his only large purchase and he’s proud of it. At first it was thrilling to pile his family into its smart leather seats. During the summer of 1910 they’d driven to many small villages all over Oxfordshire.