But there had been something a little … desperate about both encounters, Ben thought as he lay alone in bed at the inn later. Nothing had been quite the same. Real life, in the form of Bevan, had intruded. A small part of his story had been told, and more would be told tomorrow—Samantha had consented to listen. Her life, he suspected, was going to be very different from anything she had dreamed of when circumstances had led her to remember the run-down little cottage in Wales she had inherited.
She had a grandfather, a rich and influential man who, it appeared, cared for her. Whether she could care for him depended a great deal upon the story he would tell tomorrow, but she craved the closeness of some family tie, whether she fully realized it or not. Ben suspected that she would come to care for Bevan. And she needed time and space—and respectability—in which to do that. And in which to recover fully from a seven-year marriage.
It was time to leave. Almost. He had promised two more days after today.
Though they had not spoken of it, they had both been conscious tonight of the fact that their affair, their early summer idyll, was almost at an end. Ben laced his fingers behind his head and gazed upward at the ceiling. Part of him was longing to be gone, to be done with the whole business. He wished he could just click his fingers and find himself on the road back to England. He hated goodbyes at the best of times. He dreaded this particular one.
Tomorrow was Sunday. The first day of a new week. Very nearly the end of his week. He had no idea where he would be next Saturday night, except that it would be somewhere far from here. And he had no idea what he would do. No, that was not strictly true. He was going to go to London, though not in order to participate in the social whirl of the Season or to allow Beatrice to matchmake for him. He was going to explore various ways of employing his time, perhaps in business, perhaps in diplomacy, perhaps in law. He would talk to Hugo, to Gramley, to various contacts he had in the Foreign Office. It did not matter that he did not need to work. He wanted to work. And he would work. His elder brother had done so, after all.
But an obstacle stood between him and the rest of his life. There was the end of an affair to live through and goodbyes to be said. It was Sunday tomorrow. He had promised to go to church with Samantha. They were to dine at Cartref later in the day. And then, after tomorrow …
Goodbye.
Surely the saddest, most painful word in the English language.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Ben walked with painstaking slowness and with the aid of two canes but with evident courage and determination, Samantha thought. Or perhaps it was his lean good looks, enhanced now by suntan, and the indefinable air of command that always somehow clung about him. Or perhaps it was simply that everyone loved a hint of romance, even a touch of scandal.
However it was, they were both greeted with smiles and friendly nods when they appeared at church together on Sunday morning. Samantha had been half expecting cold stares or frowns and turned shoulders, for obviously there had been talk. Her grandfather had heard it.
And though Ben looked almost austere much of the time, he was quite capable of charm. He used it that morning on the people of Fisherman’s Bridge and its environs. And Samantha smiled about her too, as she had not been allowed to do after Matthew’s death, and shook the hands of those who extended their own to her. She was sure she would not remember the names of all who introduced themselves and said so.
“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. McKay,” the doctor told her. “We have only two new names to remember, yours and Major Harper’s, while you have a few dozen.”
Other people within earshot smiled their agreement.
Samantha would have felt warm about the heart as they left church if her grandfather had not been there too. He had shaken hands heartily with Ben and kissed her on the cheek—while half the village looked on with interest—but he had not pressed his company on them. He had sat in the front pew, which was padded, though he did not act the part of grand gentleman after the service was over. He shook hands and exchanged a few words with everyone in his path. He dug into his pockets to bring out sweets for the very little children, coins for the older ones.
Other people’s children, Samantha thought with unexpected bitterness. How she would have loved to have a grandpapa to beam at her thus when she was a child and give her sweets and coins. How her mother would surely have loved to have a papa to do those things.
It was a cloudy day, but it was neither cold nor windy.
“Do you want to swim this afternoon?” she asked Ben when they were walking slowly back to the inn.
She was feeling a bit depressed. She wished the sun was shining.
“What is it?” he asked without answering her question.
“It would be more appropriate to ask what it is not,” she said with a sigh—and then laughed. “The vicar was right about the singing, was he not?”
“Well,” he said, “I was disappointed not to see the roof lift off the building. I was watching for it.”
She laughed again.
“But, yes,” he said. “That church really does not need the choir, does it? The whole congregation is a choir.”
“With harmony.”
“In four parts,” he added. “Yes, let’s swim. There will be time.”
She swallowed and heard a gurgle in her throat. There will be time.
Time before they went to Cartref for dinner.
Time before the week of their affair was over.
They went swimming. They raced and floated and talked, and they played silly games, the main object of which seemed to be to swim underwater and come up unexpectedly to submerge each other. It was not a very effective game since there was never any real possibility of surprise, but it kept them helpless with laughter for a time.