“Medicine, surely?” she said, continuing her wilful blindness. “Could you continue with your studies?”

“I suppose I could.”

“But you don’t want to?”

“I don’t know. I suppose”––he fished for the right words––“I suppose I’m enjoying myself at the moment. Working with your brother.”

Working? That was a poor choice of word. Edward realised at once that Chiara would know what kind of “work” Joseph was involved in and pretending it was something else must have been insulting to her. She had warned him against it, too, but if she was offended she didn’t show it. She nodded thoughtfully, and said, “I know I mentioned this before, but please do be careful. What Joseph does––it doesn’t have a future. It’s dangerous. The police might seem hopeless, but they’re not. They watch us all the time. They’ll get there in the end. They always do. There’s nothing I can do about him. He’s too set in his ways. You just accept that he’ll be caught eventually, and then he’ll go away. But I’d hate to see that happen to you. It would be such a shame. You’ve got so much going for you.”

Edward wanted to say something but he felt uncomfortable discussing their criminal exploits with her. Despite her knowledge, it didn’t feel right. A question of manners, he supposed. Something as foolish as simple decorum. But that wasn’t it, or at least not all of it. There was something else, too: he was feeling the tiniest flicker of guilt. Chiara had been blinded by the false image of himself that he had been peddling and he felt guilty at that. He was surprised. Guilt was not something with which he was familiar.

She saw that he was abashed although she did not realise why. “Goodness, I’m sorry. I hope you don’t think I’m lecturing you. I don’t mean to.”

“No, of course not.”

“It’s just––well, I wouldn’t anything bad to happen to you.”

Edward didn’t know what to say to that. They both sat, fiddling with their glasses.

“I’ve put my foot in it again, haven’t I?” she said.

“No, no––not at all.”

“I was wondering, perhaps we could talk some more––properly, you know, without any distractions. Perhaps you might like a trip up to the house? There’s so much I haven’t shown you yet. There’s plenty of lovely countryside––perhaps we could go for a walk?”

He was a little thrown by her forthrightness, but he was flattered. “That would be lovely.”

“Only if you’d like to,” she added tentatively.

“I would. Of course. That would be charming, I’m sure.”

“Next weekend? Are you available then?”

“I believe I am.”

“Well then, that’s settled. I’ll see you on Saturday?”

They talked for a while longer, Edward listening politely and complimenting her opinions whenever she paused to take a drink. He saw that she was a little drunk and she talked freely, ranging easily across a range of subjects: her schooling, Halewell Close, her family, Joseph and the others, the best shows to see in London, her favourite restaurants. There was very little effort required on his part to keep up and, so, as he sipped the excellent champagne, he allowed himself to daydream about his future. The guilt was easily subsumed within the anticipation of his improved prospects as he planned where he went from here.

29

WHEN EDWARD SET OFF AT SEVEN O’CLOCK the sun was climbing into a powder blue sky. He arranged to borrow Joseph’s Humber Super Snipe and as he settled himself behind the wheel he couldn’t help but appreciate what a fine motor it was. It was the drophead coupé version and, since the morning was pleasant, he lowered and stowed the canopy. The breeze was pleasantly warm and Edward couldn’t stifle the smile as he drove west. The roads were quiet and he was able to put his foot down. He allowed his attention to drift. New billboards bore witness to the flourishing shoots of economic life: Guinness is Good For You, Keep That Schoolgirl Complexion, Try a Worthington. He drove quickly, darting out to overtake slower moving traffic. As he headed further west he passed through slumbering commuter towns, new bungalows springing up on their outskirts like crops of mushrooms.

A gardener’s van was parked outside the entrance to Halewell Close, the man painting the gates. He doffed his cap to Edward as he turned off the road and onto the drive. Edward returned the gesture, rattling across the cattle grid and accelerating away. The house appeared as he crested the final hill and he found himself thinking with something like wistfulness of the poor neglected property, quietly sliding into decay. A place like that needed an owner who would cherish it, who would lavish the kind of attention on it that it deserved, and he could not help but think that the Costellos had allowed it to go to seed.

He pulled up and a large black dog trotted from the porte cochère and started to sniff around the car. Chiara followed after it. “Good morning,” she called.

Edward stepped out of the car and kissed her on the cheek. She was wearing a simple cotton frock and a pair of leather sandals. The dog ambled over and sniffed his proffered hand. It was an old Labrador, black with grey tufts on its chin. “Who’s this fine fellow?” he asked.

“This is Roger,” she said. “My old dog. He’d like to come with us on our walk. Is that alright?”

“Of course,” he said.

“How was your drive?”

“Lovely. Your brother has a very fine motor.”

“He loves it,” she said, dismissing the car with a flick of her wrist. “Shall we set off straight away?”

“Where are we going?”

“This way,” she said, linking her arm through his.

They made their way through the gardens to the north of the house. There was a wide lawn, then a copse of fir and ash, and then a wild meadow that stretched away over gently undulating hills. There was a rough path trodden into the grass at the edge of the meadow and they followed it, brambles on one side and the open space of the field on the other. The landscape was open for several miles, fringed in the distance by a thick wood. Edward became aware of the treacly weight and torpor of the air. The last few days had heralded the start of an Indian summer, unseasonably hot for October. From across the fields, dulled by heat and distance, there came the grind and crunch of farm machinery, and calling voices.

They walked in companionable silence for half a mile. Roger trotted alongside them, occasionally picking up his pace to scout ahead. He would disappear around a corner and then wait for them, his tongue draping from his wet muzzle.

“How much do you know about the girl Joseph met at the restaurant?” he asked. “Do you know her?”

“I don’t know her at all. I believe they were seeing each other before he was conscripted.”

“Joseph said they were sweet on each.”

She laughed happily. “That poor girl is going to be completely bombarded. My brother can be very single-minded when he thinks he wants something––women especially. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he really goes after this one. He’s very keen. It won’t matter if she’s cool on him. He won’t accept no for an answer. He’ll try and try and try until she gives in.”

“What a coincidence, to see her again after all that time!”

She shook her head. “He won’t see it that way. It will be ‘providence.’ You know how superstitious he is?”

“Is he really?”

“My goodness, yes! It’s all nonsense, of course, but he doesn’t see it like that. You know he’s religious, for example?”

“Religion?” he said as they crossed a stile. “Joseph?”

“Oh yes. Catholic. Well––most of the family are, one way or another. Violet is especially keen, but it’s only because she thinks it’s the right thing for an Italian family to do. Appearances, you know, same as always. Joseph went through a period when he was younger when he was mad about it. It’s not so bad since he came back again. I suppose the things that you see and do in war are enough to make anyone doubt that sort of thing.”