“Good idea,” Bill said. “I imagine we’ll make a long day of it, if the weather holds. Best to take advantage, if there are storms coming.”

“Storms?” Fen repeated. “You mean, you might not be able to go out shooting?”

“Yes, we might all be confined to the house together,” Pat said. “That will be jolly.”

“Won’t it,” Fen said faintly. “Mr. Keynes is right: I shall go to bed. I need to gather my strength.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

The day started magnificently, in large part because Maurice Haworth wasn’t there.

Pat had lain awake for a couple of very uncomfortable hours the previous night, torn between guilt and desire, with the memory of Fen a palpable presence on her lips and a tempting ache between her legs.

It wasn’t the first time she’d kissed, or been kissed. She and Louisa Maitland had been inseparable at school, a passionate friendship that had meant significantly more to Pat than to Louisa, because the latter had married her Hugo eighteen months ago. It was the way of things, she knew. Schoolgirl passions happened and were forgotten, everyone said so. Perhaps Pat should have grown out of them by now.

But she hadn’t, because Fen was taking up a very large space in her thoughts. It was desperately sweet, badly tempting, and wrong. Fen was engaged, for heaven’s sake, and Pat ought to keep her admiration to herself. Girls crushed on other girls; grown women left that sort of thing behind in favour of men. Or, at least, that was what she’d been told at school, though the headmistress’s speech had been so vague and allusive as to be near-incomprehensible. The gist of it all had seemed to be that she would discover an interest in men along with interests in all the other adult things that seemed so tedious, like painting, or playing the piano, or embroidery.

The throb at her core was a reminder that she hadn’t. She wondered uncomfortably if Maurice Haworth had somehow sensed that, in that comment about not being like other women; she wondered again why Fen had kissed her. If she’d had passionate friendships at school too; if she’d outgrown them; if she would soon marry, just like Louisa. If, if, if.

Pat felt somewhat frowsty in the morning, but her crochets were quickly blown away by the breeze. The day was bright, early September sun giving the world a golden glow, and it was possible for a while to think of nothing but the hunt.