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  Charlotte was still fifteen minutes early for her lunch date, so she looked at the posters outside, although she knew them by heart. 'This week—Quality Street, by J. M.

  Barrie,' and the cast list with Jeremy Wylde's name nearly at the top. Inside the glass-fronted cases were photographs taken from the play and there was Jeremy of course, looking terrific. She had copies of all these at home, he had presented her with them, but she stood looking, dreaming herself into the picture until Georgy gave a yelp at her ankles and she realised that a dear old lady was about to pat him.

  Then she picked him up and walked into the foyer, had a few words with the girl in the booking kiosk, and went into the theatre to sit at the back of the stalls and watch the final minutes of this morning's rehearsal.

  She couldn't take her eyes off Jeremy. He seemed to her far and away the best actor of them all, dominating the scene, although that might have been because she had arrived when he was the one doing the talking. All the rest had to do right now was listen as Jeremy went into a tirade about corruption in high places.

  This was one of the new plays, and though Jeremy's voice was ringing with sincerity and three other members of the cast were in attitudes of rapt attention Charlotte had doubts whether it would grab the audience. She had read the script and it hadn't grabbed her, but with all her heart she wished it success.

  Her first sight of Jeremy Wylde had been in this theatre. She had gone along with a girl friend to see Shaw's The Devil's Disciple and Jeremy was the new actor who had recently joined the company from a repertory up north.

  As the dashing Dick Dudgeon, she had thought, 'Wow, I could have a crush on him!' and laughed at herself because this was all part of the fun. It wasn't real any more than the play was. But when she went backstage and met him the glamour was still there. The man close to, in the flesh, was exactly like the character he had played. He had stripped off his make-up, but the skin underneath was tanned and, as he lounged in a chair in front of his dressing table in the room he shared with two other actors, the stage manager let Charlotte and her friend in. 'Two young local ladies,' he'd announced, 'come to tell you what they thought of your performance.'

  Jeremy had turned with languid charm, cynical and a shade weary, but when he saw Charlotte his heavy-lidded eyes opened wide. She was wearing a shirt and skirt covered with scarlet poppies on white, her hair seemed copper-coloured in the electric light, and the general effect was stunning. This was no ordinary local girl. This one, he would have sworn, had ambitions to get on the stage herself. 'You've got to be an actress,' he said, and when she shook her head, smiling, 'A model, then.'

  'Only for the family firm.'

  'And they own Vogue magazine.'

  She laughed, 'No such luck. We just make a few rings and things.'

  Next day was Sunday and he came for her after lunch, impressed as much by the house as he was by the girl, noticing the marks of affluence and putting himself out to charm.

  There was a drizzle of rain as they walked around the almost deserted gardens of a National Trust stately house, treading velvet lawns, sitting on the wall of a pond covered with flat lily leaves under which golden fish darted and flashed, while Jeremy told Charlotte the story of his life.

  She was enthralled. She went with him through drama school, with a travelling theatre group, Preston Rep, and now the Little Theatre. Chipping Queanton was on the way to Stratford-on-Avon and she had no doubts, and neither did he, that he was destined for the heights.

  Neither bothered about the rain. It curled the tendrils of Charlotte's hair and put a pearly mist on her skin, and although he lived and worked among beautiful women Jeremy Wylde thought he had rarely seen a lovelier one. They were sitting in a little stone folly that was open to the weather, and he suddenly got up and jumped down the three entrance steps to appear just beneath the window through which she was watching him, straight into the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.

  'But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun!'

  She almost giggled, but he was giving it a serious rendering in his beautiful actor's voice, and there was no one else in sight, and as she looked down into the handsome face she began to thrill to the magic of the words. At the end of the speech she took her cue and sighed 'Ah me.'

  'She speaks—' He was transported with delight and they played out a little more of the scene, all alone, until Charlotte ran out of words and sighed again, 'Ah me!' and spread her hands wide with a rueful expression. Then he came back into the folly and took her in his arms and said, 'I know now why Romeo was ready to die for Juliet.'

  Later she thought that she had fallen in love then. That was less than three months ago, but it seemed to Charlotte that she had known Jeremy for ever. Or perhaps it was because she had always been waiting for someone like him.

  He spotted her now and jumped down from the stage, and she stood up, lifting Georgy from her lap into her' arms. Jeremy kissed her cheek while Georgy grizzled. 'Been here long?' he asked.

  'Not long.'

  'How was I?'

  'Fabulous.'

  He gave a modest grin but would have been irritated by any other verdict. 'And how did it go with you?' He had known the answer to his first question, but this one he asked with some anxiety, and Charlotte sighed, 'Not so good.'

  'But I thought—'

  'I got some sandwiches,' she said. 'Shall we eat them by the river? Everywhere seems to be full.'

  'If you like, but what exactly—'

  'I'll tell you all about it.' She didn't want to talk where the others could hear. Jeremy had assured her he wouldn't mention it to anyone, but she couldn't be sure, and if he had it was going to be a disappointment to them too.

  He hurried her through the crowds, taking the carrier bag in one hand and her arm in the other. She understood his concern, and when they reached the towpath she let him choose the first empty spot on the river bank to dump the carrier bag and have their picnic.

  'Well?' he asked, 'what did he say?' Charlotte opened the bag keeping Georgy tethered to her with the loop of the leash over her wrist, although Georgy (not one to wander) had already collapsed beside her.

  'He said no,' she said, and Jeremy smote himself on the forehead with the flat of his hand and swore. She knew it was a struggle for him to go on in a calm reasoning way, because what he wanted to do was go on cursing. But he said quietly, 'I know I don't seem to hit it off too well with him, but did you explain that this is purely a business proposition?'

  'I tried to.' She pulled back the tags on the lager cans and one foamed out all over her hands. She was puzzled still. 'I really don't understand it myself.' She opened the sandwich packs and Jeremy shook his head, and she began to pull a sandwich apart, tossing the pieces to the ducks and swans that came zooming in from all along the river bank.

  This morning she had knocked on her father's study door. Usually she chose evenings to catch him in a good mood. She had had plenty of experience in cajolement, she had been wrapping him round her little finger all her life, but he had been out for the last two nights and this evening they had guests for dinner. She'd thought she'd ask over breakfast. But he skipped breakfast and took coffee and the mail into his study, and after giving him a few minutes to open the letters she followed.

  His, 'Come in,' sounded preoccupied. Charlotte always tapped, but she always opened the door because she knew he would never want to keep her out, and he smiled as soon as he saw her.

  'I want to talk to you,' she'd said. 'Please.' He looked down at his mail as she took a chair and placed it facing him, and sat with her chin in her hands, elbows on the desk. This pose was a small joke between them. When she was a child she had often sat like that, chin cupped, when she was thoughtful, and her father had said, 'There's my little sobersides.' Now he said, 'A real heart-to-heart, is it?'

  'In a way I suppose so. I want to make an investment.' 'You do?' She never had before. The only business she knew anything about w
as their own, and that had been enough for her. Her father waited and she went on, 'The Little Theatre is having a hard time staying solvent. They need a patron.'

  His face hardened slightly. 'My dear, we're not living in the eighteenth century,' he said. So it wasn't going to be that easy.

  'All right,' she made a funny face, 'that's an old-fashioned word, but I do want us to put some money into it.'

  'And this is Jeremy Wylde's idea?'

  'In a way, I suppose. Not entirely.' Everybody around here knew that the theatre played to good houses while there were holidaymakers, but not many tourists came in the winter and there weren't enough theatre-loving locals to fill it week after week. Inflation was sending expenses sky high and the box office receipts couldn't cover them.

  An appeal had been launched, 'Friends of the Little Theatre', but it hadn't brought in enough, and last week while they were discussing this Jeremy had said suddenly, 'Your father's loaded, isn't he?'

  It was during the afternoon. Jeremy had driven over to Charlotte's home where she was working on pendant designs, sitting at the little davenport desk in the drawing room. 'We get by,' she'd said.

  'How about asking him if he'd consider bailing us out?'

  She had been doubtful at first. Her father, who had always welcomed her friends, had been inexplicably distant with Jeremy. Although when Charlotte challenged him he had insisted she was mistaken.

  But the Little Theatre was a good cause and the more she thought about it the more eager she was to help. Her father was signing a cheque for twenty-five pounds now and she said, 'It's a start, but it's thousands they need.'

  'Not from us,' he said.

  He bought paintings, pieces of sculpture. Not recently, but she could remember him spending what seemed to be vast sums, and acting was an art form. Our culture was poorer with every theatre that closed. She said, 'I suppose it is a lot to ask, but—' But he had never denied her anything before: clothes, cars, holidays, a more than generous allowance.

  'No!' He shook his head as he spoke.

  She had hardly any hard cash, but of course she did have some beautiful things, and even if her father stayed adamant there was no reason why she shouldn't do her own investing. She asked, 'Well, can I sell something?'

  'Sell what?'

  'Some of my jewellery, maybe.'

  'I wouldn't hear of it.'

  Even when she was a child he had never laid down the law. He had always explained his orders and they had always been reasonable and fair. He had to be carrying on like this because he had taken this dislike to Jeremy, and that was so out of character, because he had always been affable to her boy-friends. Several had wanted to marry her and he had always said the choice was hers, he would be happy if she was happy. Now she asked him bluntly, 'Do you know anything about Jeremy that I don't know?'

  'No.' He looked straight at her, and she believed him.

  'But you don't like him?'

  'I don't dislike him, although I found him rather a boring young man.'

  'Boring? Jeremy? You're joking?

  He wasn't joking, and she stopped smiling and said quietly, 'But it's mine, my jewellery, I can do what I like with it.'

  'In the legal sense very little is yours,' he said.

  The fabulous pieces were family heirlooms, she wouldn't have been selling them anyway, and it hurt her to be reminded that the stones her mother had worn, and that she wore now, did not belong to her. She said bitterly, 'I suppose I own my last birthday present?'

  That was the aquamarine ring. The diamond ear-studs had been a Christmas gift, and her father said heavily, 'I can't stop you selling your trinkets and giving the money to anyone you choose. But it would displease me, I'd be very reluctant to replace them. In fact if you did that, I'd take steps to see that you got your hands on nothing of real value while I'm alive.'

  Charlotte had never seen him like this before in all her life. Skin mottled and mouth grim with anger. 'While I'm alive,' he had said. That meant, 'Until I'm dead,' and she realised how much grey there was in the thick light-brown hair. She hadn't noticed that before. He had been fifteen years older than her mother, but with his tall slim figure and almost unlined face he had always seemed a young father. Now she saw his hands shaking and she thought incredulously, 'He's growing old!'

  That frightened her, throwing her into confusion. Losing her temper was easier than facing up to that, and she blazed, 'That's a pretty high-handed attitude to take! You think it's a con-trick, do you, the Little Theatre? It's been there for nearly seventy years, but you still think it's a fly-by-night? Or is it just Jeremy you don't trust?'

  'Put it this way,' said her father. 'I do not feel inclined to invest beyond this amount,' he tapped the cheque for twenty-five pounds still lying on his desk, 'in that young man's future.'

  'What if I do?' Her indignation made her eloquent. 'You say you know nothing about him that I don't know, so your attitude has to be sheer prejudice. I'd never have expected you to make decisions when you've no facts to go on. Intuition, just on its own, can be pretty unreliable, you know, unless you're using a crystal ball.'

  'I grant you that,' said her father. 'But why should your intuition be sounder than mine? I do have years of experience behind me.' He turned back to the letter she had been reading when she came in and told her, 'Tell your friend that you're in no position to sponsor anybody and I'm not in the market.'

  She didn't tell Jeremy this word for word. She tried to make it less personal, but the verdict was the same. Dunscombes were not coming to the rescue of the Little Theatre.

  She felt now that she had let Jeremy down and she was disappointed on her own account. It would have been fun, getting involved with the theatre, but if she helped her father was going to take it badly. For no reason at all he did not like Jeremy.

  'You know what I think?' said Jeremy, skimming a piece of apple across the water into the flapping melee of ducks. 'I think your old man's jealous of me.'

  'Oh no!' But she couldn't help wondering, because Jeremy was the only man, besides her father, who had really mattered to her. She hadn't told them that at home, but perhaps her manner had shown it and perhaps her father was resenting second place. All the same she shook her head emphatically. 'You don't know him. That wouldn't be like him.'

  But this morning hadn't been like him either. She had hardly recognised the flushed, angry man, and she turned the ring on her finger and said with a wry little laugh as though it was a joke, 'Although he did threaten to disinherit me if I sold any of my stuff and put the proceeds into the theatre.'

  'You're kidding!' Jeremy was shocked. 'He couldn't do that. Could he?'

  'He didn't actually put it that strongly.' She wished she hadn't mentioned it now.

  'But he's going to take some getting round?' 'If you're planning staying around me,' she said. 'Yes.' 'Oh, I am.' He leaned across and kissed her, and then smiled at a couple of women who had recognised him from last night's play and were watching with interest. He could charm anybody, Charlotte thought. My father's going to like him before long, because I hope he'll be around for the rest of my life.

  They ate their picnic, with no further reference to financial crises, and by the time she was packing up the leftovers she was feeling happier than she had all day. It was a bore that she had to be home for dinner tonight. She would have liked to meet Jeremy after the evening performance, and have supper with him. But that was out of the question because they were expecting old friends, and a business colleague, and when Jeremy asked, 'No chance of you getting away for an hour or two tonight?' she had to say, 'No chance at all, but I'll try for lunch tomorrow.'

  'Sure.' She was getting into her car and he leaned through the window to kiss her again and said suddenly, 'Don't do anything rash, sweetheart. No sense riling your father.'

  That was considerate, and sensible because she was sure they would win him round eventually, and tonight, some time, she would say sorry for losing her temper this morning. If her father did
n't want to invest in the theatre he was entitled to refuse. It was so much more important that he should put aside his prejudices against Jeremy. That was what she had to work on.

  She thought about it on the way home. She would have to arrange a few more casual meetings. They hadn't really had a chance to get to know each other yet. When they did of course her father would like him. Life had always been good to Charlotte, but love really was a many splendoured thing and it was unthinkable that anything should mar the happiness she and Jeremy were finding together.

  She spent what was left of the afternoon in the garden. It was mostly lawns- now, because the gardening staff had dwindled over the years and was now down to old Tom and he had lumbago. Charlotte liked gardening. She had green fingers and the strength to handle lawnmowers and hedgecutters. She weeded for a while, then came back into the house to change into a bikini and collect sun oil, towel and a novel, and sunbathed for an hour or so.

  The patio with its circular arbour was out of sight of the main building. Bright flowers filled old stone troughs and a purple wisteria and red honeysuckle rambled over the trellises. In one corner of the flagstones was a bigger-than-lifesize carving of a hound, commissioned by one of Charlotte's ancestors, and beside him a cheap modern garden ornament in roughcast of a peke.

  Charlotte had bought that herself, off a market stall when she was seven years old and had an earlier peke, one of the fearless kind, as her pet. She had placed it proudly in the drawing room, on the smooth surface of an exquisite Regency table, and been bewildered when Aunt Lucy screeched and grabbed it, then went down on her knees to start examining the table for scratches.

  It had been explained to Charlotte that this, like the hound, who had probably been lonely for a long time, was an outdoor dog; and fourteen years later he was still here, his bright brown-glass marble eyes still staring.

  Georgy was in the shadow of the arbour, flat, with feet outstretched, his stomach getting the cool benefit of the stone floor, while Charlotte lay, gleaming gold, soaking up the sunshine. She rolled over after a while, unhooking her bra, and the heat was pleasantly soothing on her shoulder blades so that she drowsed off and woke yawning.