‘Certainly not. I hate the game. Grown men knocking a ball into the air with a bat? What’s interesting in that?’ she declared scathingly. Putting her empty glass down, she drew her knees up and wrapped her arms round her legs.
‘It’s clear you know nothing about the finer points of cricket,’ he laughed, leaning back on his elbow and stretching his long, lean body out on the grass.
‘How can I? I’m merely a woman.’ Christina uttered with sarcasm.
Max grinned. ‘I’d have you in my team any day,’ he said softly.
She looked at him with a stirring of respect. ‘Why, thank you for that—but if my tennis is anything to go by, I wouldn’t be any good. I rarely hit the ball and when I do it never goes where it should.’ She looked at him steadily. ‘You bowled well. You must have played a great deal.’
‘I have, but not for a long time—not since my university days, in fact. I’m a bit rusty.’
‘Then you must be quite formidable when you’re on form. There’s nothing wrong with your bowling arm. So far you’ve proved an asset to the team.’
‘Enough to save Leyton from humiliation?’ he enquired, the question reminding her of what she had said last night.
She laughed lightly, her small teeth shining like pearls in the brightness. ‘It might very well be, if your batting is equally as good. We shall have to wait and see.’
‘I will be the last to bat.’
‘Then I wish you luck,’ she said, suddenly becoming aware of his closeness. He looked terribly attractive in his whites, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off the sunburned strength of his forearms, the neck of his shirt open to display the equally sun-browned column of his throat. ‘The village plays Farnley twice a year and they’re tough opposition.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘How did your meeting with my parents go?’
A shadow crossed his face and he looked away. ‘Why do you ask?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m curious as to why Papa isn’t umpiring. As a rule neither fire, famine nor flood would keep him from the village cricket match. I saw him at breakfast and he was as excited and enthusiastic as he always is before the match.’ She frowned and gave him an enquiring look as a sudden disconcerting thought occurred to her. ‘You must have been one of the last people to see him. You didn’t say anything that might have upset him, did you?’
‘I sincerely hope not.’ Max looked towards the pavilion where Peter and his friends were indulging in a spot of larking about. ‘Your brother and his friends are enjoying themselves,’ he remarked suddenly, keen to change the subject, ‘and it’s clear that particular young man has turned your head.’
For the moment Christina’s concern about her papa was gone and she didn’t mind that Mr Lloyd knew how she felt about James. ‘What extraordinary beings young men are,’ she remarked grudgingly. ‘Peter can’t abide anything unconnected with that beastly game. During the holidays on wet days he and his friends play cricket in the gallery, without regard to furnishings and precious objects. I think it unfair that men can be so free. I envy my brother and James. They are able to do as they like, while I strain beneath the restrictions put on me by my parents and society. I do so hate it.’
‘I can see how difficult that must be for one so spirited,’ he remarked with mock gravity. ‘Better had you been born of the male gender.’
Her eyes gently enquiring, Christina found herself quite intrigued by this stranger and their extraordinary conversation. Her mouth trembled into a smile. ‘Do you know, Mr Lloyd, I do believe you’re right. But I do believe it is man who keeps women oppressed.’
‘I agree.’
‘You do?’
‘Absolutely. In an ideal world there would be equality in both sexes. But this is not an ideal world.’
‘Are you a radical, Mr Lloyd?’
‘I do have opinions that do not always agree with those of my friends and associates, so if that is what is meant by being a radical then I suppose I am.’
They looked towards the cricket pitch. James was striding towards the wicket to take up the batting. Tall and fine, he looked splendid in his freshly ironed white trousers and shirt. Her heart quickened.
Max watched her glance at the youth, saw the melting in her eyes, and, as he stood up to join his fellow players in the pavilion, his own were speculative.
Max Lloyd had swiftly established himself as a formidable player, and when he’d buckled on his pads, taken up his bat and begun to score runs in previously unheard-of quantities, hitting his fourth straight six, cutting between two fielders, the cheers from players and spectators were deafening. There was no other player on the field of that class. His murderous treatment of the bowlers caused them to rethink their method of attack. His finest performance, his team mates noticed, had come just before the end of the day’s play when they were most needed and he steered his side to safety.
The crowd melted a pathway before him as he came off the pitch and strode through them, some giving him hearty congratulatory pats on the back. From her place on the grass Christina had a clear view of him. His face was strong, striking, disciplined and exceptionally attractive, the expression cool and unmoved by his fellow cricketers’ mood of good cheer.
Unsurprisingly, the atmosphere among the locals was euphoric, and when Mr Embleton had presented the cup to the captain and people began crowding the stall for more ale to celebrate and commiserate with the losers, it was clear the celebrations would go on for most of the night.
Concerned about her father, Christina hurried home as the sky was a deep, flawless blue fading into a pool of glowing pink and red on the horizon. Against its warm, rosy colours lay the stark black silhouettes of the trees, beyond which stood Tanglewood with the lowering sun at its back.
Christina wasn’t the only one to leave. In no mood for celebrating, Max slipped through the gate to walk along the path that would lead him to his house just a short distance away, there to await the outcome of his meeting with Sir Gerald and Lady Thornton that morning.
‘Mama? What’s happened?’ were the first words Christina spoke as she hurried into the drawing room, dishevelled and with her hair all over the place, descending upon her mother like a whirlwind. Her mother was alone, sitting at her writing desk with a pen in her hand but not writing, just staring into space. ‘I have been so worried. Why didn’t Papa umpire the match? It must be something serious for him to stay away.’
Audine rose and faced her daughter. ‘Ah, there you are. I wondered when you’d be back.’
Christina’s eyes were wide with concern, for her mother’s usually tranquil face was drawn and almost grey and she seemed uneasy. ‘What is it? Oh, Mama, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she replied quickly, a forced smile on her lips—even in her hour of terror she was not going to upset her daughter. Sitting on a small sofa, she made a pretence of smoothing her skirts. ‘Have you enjoyed the cricket match?’
‘No, of course not. You know how I hate that wretched game—and I’ve been worrying all day about Papa.’ Christina sat beside her mother on the sofa, facing her. Audine seemed nervous and avoided her eyes. Her hands were trembling in her lap. Christina could feel the tension in her—that strength of character which had helped her bear the burdens of life with quiet dignity seemed to have been taxed to its limits. ‘Mama, you would tell me if he were ill, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course I would,’ she said, fingering the tassels on a cushion nervously.
‘Then if he isn’t ill, has his decision not to go to the match anything to do with Mr Lloyd’s visit earlier? Mama, what is it? Why are you looking so frightened?’
‘Oh, my darling