“So did I,” replied Ruth. “But someone once told me that if a more direct route presents itself, you should be prepared to consider it, unless of course there’s a high wind.”
George laughed, and wanted to leap in the air with joy, until he remembered an encumbrance every bit as terrifying as the Italian police. “Does your father know you’re here?”
“I managed to convince him that, on balance, it wouldn’t be a good thing for the school’s reputation to have one of its masters languishing in an Italian jail just before the new term begins.”
“What about Andrew? Weren’t you meant—”
Ruth threw her arms around him.
George heard the door of the compartment sliding open. He didn’t dare look around.
“Of course the answer’s yes, my darling,” said Ruth before kissing him.
“Scusi.” The policeman saluted before adding, “Mille congratulazioni, signore!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FRIDAY, MAY 1ST, 1914
“YOUR SHOT, I believe,” said Turner.
George lined up the tip of his cue on the white. He could feel his legs shaking as he made the shot. He miscued and the ball careered wildly up and down the table, bouncing off a side cushion before coming to rest several inches from the red.
“Foul,” said Turner. “And four more points for me.”
“Agreed,” sighed George, as his host returned to the table. Turner didn’t speak again until he had amassed another sixteen points.
The past month had been the happiest of George’s life. In fact, he had had no idea that such happiness could exist. As each day went by, he fell more and more in love with Ruth. She was so bright, so gay, such fun to be with.
The journey back to England had been idyllic. They had spent every minute getting to know each other, although George did have a flash of anxiety when the train stopped at the Italian border and a customs official took a close look at his passport. When they finally crossed the border into France, George relaxed for the first time, and even spent a moment thinking about Young and Finch climbing in Zermatt. But only a moment.
He told Ruth over dinner why he’d ordered all five courses on the menu, explaining that he hadn’t eaten for three days. She laughed when he described the last person he’d spent a night with on a train, a man who belched garlic when he was awake and snored fumes while he was asleep.
“So you haven’t slept for the past three nights,” she said.
“And it doesn’t look as if I will tonight either, my darling,” said George.
“I can’t pretend that this was how I expected to spend my first night with the man I love,” said Ruth. “But why don’t we…” she leaned across the table and whispered in George’s ear. He thought about her proposal for a moment, and then happily agreed.
A few minutes later, Ruth left the table. In their compartment she found that the seats had been converted into single beds. She undressed, hung up her clothes, washed her face in the little hand basin, climbed into bed, and switched off the light. George remained in the dining car, drinking black coffee. Only after the last remaining customer had departed did he return to the compartment.
He slid the door open quietly and slipped inside, then stood still for a moment, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. He could see the outline of Ruth’s slim body under the sheet, and wanted to touch her. He took off his jacket, tie, trousers, shirt, and socks, and left them on the floor before climbing into bed. He wondered if Ruth was still awake.
“Good night, Mr. Mallory,” she said.
“Good night, Mrs. Mallory,” he replied. George slept soundly for the first time in three nights.
As George bent down to take his next shot, Turner said, “You wrote earlier in the week, Mallory, to say there was something of importance you wished to discuss with me.”
“Yes, indeed,” said George, as his cue ball disappeared into the nearest pocket.
“Another foul,” said Turner. He returned to the table and took his time piling up even more points, which only made George feel more and more inadequate.
“Yes, sir,” he finally managed, and then paused before adding, “I’m sure you must have noticed that I’ve been spending a lot of time with your daughter.”
“Which one?” asked Turner as George missed another shot. “Another foul. Are you hoping to score anything this evening, young man?”
“It was just, sir, just that…”