“Mrs. Tyson has rung through to me. It would appear, since I’d not told her of other plans, Cook has taken it on herself to present us with a fine Bonfire Night meal tomorrow evening, including a Neapolitan Bombe for dessert.”
“A what?”
“It’s an amaretto-laced mousse.”
“Oh, will you want fireworks, too, Magnus?”
“Good grief, no. We’ll make our own.” The low chuckle in response warmed his blood. “I do think I’ve discovered a surprise of my own to share with you. One I hope you’ll understand.”
“Of course, I will. I’ll meet you for lunch. You can tell me all about it then. I’m afraid I have to go. The bass player in Dreams is having a bit of a meltdown. His girlfriend is in rehab and he doesn’t want to be too far away from her for too long. I need to dole out a lot of reassurance.”
“No doubt he will be grateful. You’re so good at reassurance. I’ll meet you in the dining room at one.” He set the phone down. When focused on others in this way, her voice always made him smile. Part of his desire for her originated from her rare generosity of spirit. His confidence she would understand what he’d discovered this morning remained high.
Sian’s passion for beauty encapsulated the needs of body and spirit as well as aesthetic pleasures. He’d never met another woman like her. Julia had demonstrated a similar ability to meet him in dreams, but she had possessed nothing like Sian’s talents to control him, or the bountiful spirit to offer herself in such an unconditional way. Julia had never given herself in the same manner, despite her promises of love. When faced with the question of their marriage, Julia had obeyed the will of her father, who had thought him a wastrel, and she had declined. He shrugged his shoulders. The heartbreak from so long ago seemed as though it belonged to another person, yet at the time he’d thought her refusal permanently stole every hope of joy.
No, not that, for he had dreamed and hoped still, even when he reached Italy. Julia had dreamed with him. When those interactions ceased, he’d been full of fears for her. His return from the continent to find Julia dead shattered him.
Sian was something so much more than Julia had ever been, vibrant and stronger, too. His feelings for her were…like the first time he saw electric light in London in the late nineteenth century and understood what it meant. She was his true mate. He could taste it, feel it stronger inside with every day they shared.
The agony of the question plaguing him clenched an iron fist around his heart. To make her his forever, he must offer her the bite of the beast. A shiver rolled down his spine.
Not yet. She must be sure in her decision and…she was so much younger than him. Even though she thought herself ready, he doubted she understood all she would lose.
He gazed back down to the image of the Green Girl’s director. Another cloud of concerns to mull over, but simple in comparison to the dilemma he and Sian faced. She would understand the circumstance regarding Dorothy. Perhaps she’d recognize his need to take things a step further so he could find out the truth.
The prospect of a living connection to his past warmed his heart. Bonfire Night tomorrow, the fifth. There would be fireworks in the village, though he never attended the pub display. He liked standing up on the roof walkway to watch, yet sometimes the thunder of noise brought back so many recollections of the war, he crept back into the house filled with sorrowful memories. Not of the second war when he’d known Dorothy Fowler, but the first when he’d known no one but servants and the lads who made up his company in the mud-bath trenches of Verdun and the Somme.
He shook his head and glanced at the computer. An age must have passed since he thought of the pals he’d led, encouraged, and marched with through the mire as they made their way from one battle to the next. Pursing his lips, he whistled the first few notes of “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” astonished he recalled the tune with such ease. He must be growing sentimental. He hit the touch screen to refresh his search and focused.
Artifacts for the conservatory should be his goal for the morning. Sian was always full of her morning’s achievements when they met at lunch, and he must have something positive to tell her. After that, he’d share his other news.
* * * *
“What do you have there?”
“I printed this out. We could go tomorrow evening after dinner.” Sian waved a piece of paper. “It’s a Bonfire Night firework display, hosted by Stonewells Cricket Club, not more than three miles away. The display starts at nine-thirty. I think it looks like it would be great, as long as there’s no rain. Can we go?” Her smile beamed her enthusiasm.
“Of course,” he said. “You have found the perfect post-dining entertainment. I have to say dinner tomorrow evening will be tres chic. The staff are preparing an extravaganza between them.”
“Sounds exciting.” She sat, reached over for a plate, and passed one to him before she helped herself to sandwiches and a side salad.
He took a chicken portion and a little potato salad for himself. “Indeed, it seems Mrs. Tyson and Cook were rather concerned we were alone so much last week, thought perhaps we’d starved. Well, you more than I, or so I think. They’ve enlisted the help of the local Women’s Institute to create a celebratory menu, apparently. I think half the village has been involved in planning this while the ladies have been away from the house.”
Sian laughed. “I see. I’m looking forward to the results. So, shall we book a cab?”
“I think if I telephoned my mechanic Monty, he may be willing to drive us in one of the cars. We’ll not take Bertha. I’d hate to get holes in her canvas roof from a stray firework. It’s so hard to get replacements for vintage vehicles, and although Bentley are very good suppliers, I’ve had to have things custom made once or twice. Maybe one of the other cars would benefit from a spin. Do we need to book tickets for this event?”
Sian pushed the advert across the table to him. “No, it says they take a donation of five pounds on the gate.”
“I see. The display seems interesting.”
“Don’t you go comparing this to the fireworks for the king or anything extravagant like that.” Her gaze snapped with crackles of her own.
A wash of tenderness hit him. She spoke so readily of his longevity, as though it might be an ordinary part of their life together. “Of course not. I’m sure the display will be a most pleasant, simple entertainment.” He broke the chicken leg in two. “Thank you, for finding the event. I shall look forward to it. I’ll telephone Monty this afternoon. I’m sure he won’t mind taking one of the cars out tomorrow evening.”
“Now, what was it you wanted to tell me? I’m intrigued—you sounded so mysterious.”
He took a deep breath. “A discovery I made regarding the horticultural company you found.”
“Oh, yes, the Green Girls. “
“Indeed. It appears their sales pitch is no exaggeration. Martha Raynalds is, in fact, the descendant of a Land Girl who worked in this area in the 1940s.”
Sian’s eyebrows arched. “No. Did you know her ancestor?”
The link between them had deepened, as he’d suspected it would. Already, he must make an effort to keep information back from her. “Yes, I believe I did.”
The delightful smile dissolved. Her brows drew together as she narrowed her eyes. “How did you know her?”
He gazed down at his plate for a second or two in an effort to gain time. Today, he’d made a grave mistake, one born of his stupid lack of emotional perception. Sian was special in so many ways, but she remained a young woman, with all the emotions of a young woman. She’d not had a couple of centuries to teach her the true depths of his callous selfishness. Cursing his foolishness, he looked at the wedge of tomato on his plate as if it were the latest art offering to the Tate Gallery.
Sian