The drawing room door was open a little, and I could hear the murmur of their voices.
Resting my hand upon the banister, to bear my weight, I went halfway down the stairs in my bare feet.
Memory flashed back to childhood. I had done this as a lad, when I knew Ambrose was below and had company for dinner.
The same sense of guilt was with me now.
The voices went on and on.
But listening to Rachel and Rainaldi was of no purpose, for they spoke together in Italian.
Now and again I caught mention of my name, Philip, and several times that of my godfather, Kendall.
They were discussing me or him, or both of us.
Rachel had an urgency to her voice that sounded strange, and he, Rainaldi, spoke as though he questioned her.
I wondered, with sudden revulsion, if my godfather had told Rainaldi about his traveling friends from Florence, and if, in his turn, Rainaldi talked of this to Rachel.
How useless had been my Harrow education, and the study of Latin and Greek.
Here were two persons talking Italian in my own house, discussing perhaps matters that might be of great importance to me, and I could gather nothing from it, save the mention of my own name.
There fell a sudden silence.
Neither of them spoke.
I heard no movement.
What if he had gone towards her, and had put his arms about her, and she kissed him now as she had kissed me on Christmas Eve?
Such a wave of hatred for him came to me at the thought that I nearly lost all caution and went running down the stairs to fling the door open wide.
Then I heard her voice once more, and the rustle of her gown, drawing nearer to the door.
I saw the flicker of her lighted candle.
The long session was over at last.
They were coming up to bed.
Like that child of long ago, I stole back to my room. I heard Rachel pass along the corridor to her own suite of rooms, and he turn the other way to his.
I would never know, in all probability, what they had discussed together all those hours, but at least this was his last night under my roof, and tomorrow I should sleep with an easy heart.
I could hardly swallow my breakfast, the next morning, in haste to hurry him away.
The wheels of the post chaise that was to carry him to London sounded on the drive, and Rachel, who I had thought must have said farewell the night before, came down, ready dressed for gardening, to bid him good-bye.
He took her hand, and kissed it.
This time, for the sake of common courtesy to me, his host, he spoke his adieus in English.
“So you will write me your plans?” he said to her.
“Remember, when you are ready to come, I shall await you there, in London.”
“I shall make no plans,” she said, “before the first of April.”
And, looking over his shoulder, she smiled at me.
“Isn’t that your cousin’s birthday?” said Rainaldi, climbing into the post chaise.
“I hope he enjoys it, and does not eat too large a pie.”
And then, looking from the window, said as a parting shot to me,
“It must be odd to have a birthday on so singular a date.
All Fools Day, is it not?
But perhaps, at twenty-five, you will think yourself too old to be reminded of it.”
Then he was gone, the post chaise passing down the drive to the park-gates.
I looked across at Rachel.
“Perhaps,” she said, “I should have asked him to return upon that day, for celebration?”
Then, with the sudden smile that touched my heart, she took the primrose she had been wearing in her gown and put it in my buttonhole.
“You have been very good,” she murmured, “for seven days.
And I, neglectful of my duties.
Are you glad we are alone again?”
Without waiting for my answer she went off to the plantation after Tamlyn.
21
The remaining weeks of March passed very swiftly.
Each day that came I felt a greater confidence in the future, and grew more light of heart.
Rachel seemed to sense my mood, and shared it with me.
“I have never,” she said, “seen anyone so absurd about a birthday. You are like a child, who finds the world magic when he wakes.