She was doing a terrible job of the lawn bowls. It was very warm, and her hairline was damp with sweat. Though she wasn’t the only one – dark stains had appeared on Father’s shirt, and Graham’s face had flushed to match his hair. Even Cecil was subdued: curled up beneath the rhododendrons, pink tongue lolling from his mouth. He looked almost sweet.
Only Frederick seemed unbothered by the heat – she supposed he had got used to it, in Libya – and had perked up considerably since luncheon. He rolled his ball so that it hit the jack with a plink and grinned, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. She would have thought he looked perfectly at ease, if she hadn’t noticed that his hand kept straying to the pocket of his trousers and patting something hidden there, as if it were a talisman.
‘I’m going to go and ask Mrs Kirkby for some lemonade,’ she said.
‘Rather you than me,’ said Graham, watching his ball veer away from the jack and into a rose bush. Graham was afraid of all the servants, but especially Mrs Kirkby, who had recently caught him divesting a roast chicken of its legs. She had ardently vowed to box his ears if he ever set foot inside her kitchen again.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Frederick. ‘You might need help carrying the glasses.’
Violet’s stomach lurched.
‘Thank you,’ she said, barely pausing to wait for him as she made her way to the house. Conscious of his eyes on her, Violet moved stiffly, as if she had forgotten the correct way of walking.
He caught up with her as they entered the cool of the house. She thought how quiet it was, in the entrance hall. Although the doors had been flung open to let in the summer air, she couldn’t even hear the bees buzzing outside. Frederick took a step closer to her. Blood rushed in her ears.
‘I’m looking forward to our walk later,’ he said softly.
So he had remembered. Her pulse flared as he moved closer. Why was there this awful thrumming sensation in her veins? Sweat prickled in her armpits. She was merely excited at the prospect of asking him more questions about her mother, she told herself. That was why her heart was thudding. Suddenly, she worried that he would kiss her again. Did she – should she – want him to?
There was the sound of a door opening and closing and Frederick sprang back. They looked up to see Miss Poole at the top of the stairs, carrying a stack of French textbooks that Violet supposed she would have the joy of wading through at some point in the future.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Miss Poole, curtseying as though Frederick were King George rather than her employer’s nephew.
‘How do you do,’ he said.
‘We’re just off to the kitchens for some lemonade,’ Violet said, but Miss Poole merely nodded, her eyes still trained on Frederick.
‘I hope you enjoy your stay,’ she said to Frederick.
‘I’m sure I will,’ he said, looking at Violet.
The lemonade was watery and sour from lack of sugar （‘Anyone would think there wasn’t a war on,’ Mrs Kirkby had hissed, once Frederick was out of earshot）。
When Father wasn’t looking （Graham’s lawn bowl technique required significant refinement）， Frederick produced a golden flask from his pocket. Without asking, he unscrewed the cap and poured a generous amount of amber liquid into her glass.
‘Is that—？’
‘Brandy. Have you never had it? How innocent you are,’ he said. Something in his smile reminded her of the hungry way he had looked at the dining-room furnishings the night before.
‘Drink up, quick,’ he said. ‘Before your father sees. I don’t want him thinking I’m a bad influence.’
The brandy was like fire going down her throat. She coughed, and Frederick roared with laughter.
Father made his way over to them, having given up his attempts to tell Graham how to aim his ball so that it hit the jack rather than Dinsdale’s roses.
‘What’s so funny, Freddie?’ he asked. It stung to hear the nickname on her father’s lips. Father never called Violet and Graham anything other than – well, Violet and Graham.
‘Your daughter is a very amusing young woman,’ said Frederick.
After a while, Father seemed to tire of lawn bowls, and instead had Mrs Kirkby – who looked very disgruntled to have been torn away from the dinner preparations yet again – set folding chairs up on the lawn.
‘The cheek of ’em,’ she could be heard muttering as she walked away. ‘Where they think their meals come from, I don’t know … magicked up by fairies …’
‘I’m afraid we’re rather short on the ground with staff,’ Father told Frederick apologetically. ‘My butler went down on the HMS Barham.’
‘Poor old Rainham,’ said Violet, who had always liked the butler, a whiskery man with a penchant for colourful waistcoats. She’d once seen him carry a mouse – which had narrowly escaped Cecil’s grasp – out into the garden, as delicately as if it were made of glass. It was very strange to think that he would never return to Orton Hall. His coat still hung on the hook at the servants’ entrance as if he had merely gone for a stroll around the grounds.
Violet watched as Frederick drained the rest of his lemonade, before looking down into the empty glass. She saw his hand brush the pocket of his trousers and wished that Father hadn’t mentioned the war.
The canvas of the chair creaked as she settled back into it. She considered fetching a book to read, but the brandy had made her mind heavy and slow. The sun was lovely and warm on her face and the world was a pleasant, green-gold blur. Both Graham and Father had fallen asleep and were snoring almost in unison. Violet thought she might just close her eyes for a moment. She heard the rasp of Frederick dragging his chair closer to hers. She shifted onto her side and opened one eye to see him watching her with that same hungry look. There was a hot, liquid feeling in her stomach.
She could hear a faint buzzing sound – a mayfly, she thought, or perhaps a midge.
‘Ow.’ Violet sat up straight in her chair, her cheek throbbing with a sudden pain. Graham muttered in his sleep, but Father snored on, undisturbed. She pressed her fingers to her face: she could already feel the skin growing hot. Alarm flickered in her gut.
‘Are you all right?’ Frederick asked, leaning closer to her.
‘Yes – thanks. Something bit me. A midge, I think.’
‘Ah. Damned things. I expect you’re used to that, around here.’
‘Actually, I’ve never been bitten by one before.’
He studied her for a moment. Opened his mouth, closed it again.
‘I say – it’s gone rather red,’ he said. ‘I think you need something cold on it.’
She watched as he came closer. He picked up his lemonade glass and pressed it to her cheek, the cool shock of it blotting out the pain.
‘There,’ he said softly. She could feel his breath, the rough edges of his fingertips.
They stayed like that for a moment, Violet’s heart drumming furiously in her ears.
‘Thank you,’ she said finally, and he took the glass away.
‘This’ll sort you out,’ he said, pulling the flask from his pocket and handing it over to her. Fingers shaking, she unscrewed the cap and lifted the flask to her lips. The brandy burned as much as before, but this time she didn’t cough. She pictured it, a fireball glowing down her oesophagus. Dutch courage, they called it in books, didn’t they? She had a strange, portentous feeling that bravery would be required for whatever was going to happen next.