Out of Control

'One never quite loses the intonation learnt in childhood,' Mrs Gifford said, her chin resting on one hand. She was wearing a white silk evening blouse, high-necked and long-sleeved, almost Edwardian in style. Her long black skirt rustled every time she moved—Liza suspected she had a few layers of stiff petticoats under it.

'Where were you born?' Mrs Gifford asked and Liza hesitated, aware of Keir listening, leaning against the Adams fireplace, a glass in his hand and his lean body graceful in evening dress.

'Wiltshire,' he murmured suddenly and Liza stiffened, turning incredulous, horrified eyes on him. She hadn't told him—how could he have known that? She had never told anyone at all and she had changed her name when she had come to London so he couldn't have traced her by checking on her birth certificate.

'What part of Wiltshire?' asked his mother, unaware of the undercurrents flowing between the other two.

That was when Pippa Morris joined them, and in the uneasy conversation following her arrival Mrs Gifford forgot what they had been talking about, to Liza's deep relief. Bruno's mother shook hands with Liza politely, but coolly; she wasn't welcoming her to Hartwell, but her manners were too good for her to be rude, especially while her family were watching.

Liza decided to be direct and ask about Bruno; there seemed no point in avoiding the subject. 'How's Bruno settling down in New York?' she asked, and his mother said curtly that he had now moved into an apartment and was finding his feet, it seemed. 'You haven't heard from him?' she asked then, watching Liza closely, and looked relieved when Liza shook her head.

'No, but I expect he'll remember to send me a postcard one day!'

Mrs Morris laughed. 'Bruno isn't very good at writing letters.'

'Nor am I,' said Pam, who had been very quiet since she and Liza came downstairs, perhaps overwhelmed by the grandeur of the house, or just the ambience surrounding the Giffords. 'Young people have lost the art,' said Mrs Gifford 'Oh, I don't know,' Pippa Morris disagreed. 'I've never had the patience to write long letters, either, and I'm hardly young now.'

'You are to me,' her mother said and Pam giggled.

'That's what my Mum always says. She says that even when I'm going grey I'll still be her little girl. She's real soft, my Mum, at times.'

Mrs Morris smiled at her with a warmth she had never shown Liza, and in that smile Liza learnt more about Bruno's mother than she had done before. She under­stood why Bruno had said that once she got to know his mother she would like her; she hadn't believed it possible, but suddenly she thought she might come to like Keir's sister, after all.

They had a delicious meal that evening; a summer dinner party in a Victorian conservatory adjoining the back of the house. Candles on the table, the shadows of vine leaves giving a green and underwater gloom on the white damask tablecloth; a scent of exotic flowers heady in the air.

The food matched the surroundings—a chilled summer soup, followed by melon delicately flavoured with mint, and after that salmon hollandaise: the fish perfectly cooked and flaking as a fork touched it, the salad served with it crisp and unusual. By the time the dessert was served Liza was replete and yawning secretly; good food, good wine, had been too much for her after a very long day.

Pam looked greedily at the rum and chocolate mousse. 'It looks terrific! What is it?'

She had a large helping; Liza shook her head, smiling, and so did Pippa Morris, but Keir and his mother both ate some, and then they all moved back into the drawing-room to have coffee. Liza was having a problem hiding in i yawns by then, and Keir noticed.

Why don't you go up to bed? You look as if you're half-asleep already. We'll look after Pam, won't we, Pam?'

Pam grinned cheerfully, helping herself to a chocolate mint. Liza eyed her sternly.

'You'll put on pounds at this rate!'

'You know I never do,' Pam said, and it was true. Liza made a face at Keir as he raised his brows enquiringly.

'She's one of those lucky people whose metabolism seems able to cope with any amount of food. Mind you, that may change as she gets older. At the moment she's always running around, exercising, working hard, burning up all those calories. When she stops living at that pace, she may not be able to eat anything she fancies.'

Pam took another mint, defiance in her eyes. 'Pooh,' she said, eating it.

Liza said goodnight amid laughter, and made her way into the great hall. She had one foot on the bottom stair when she heard the sound of cars pulling up outside on the drive, and the butler came slowly out of some back part of the house and moved to open the front door as someone crashed down the brass lion door-knocker.

Nicky Wallis and his team had arrived with Terry Lexington and a drowsy young secretary, who looked a little bemused as she followed the others into the oak-lined, vaulted hall.

'It's the House of Usher,' she said to Terry who grimaced at her.

'Ssh . . . our host may hear you.'

Liza turned to greet them a little reluctantly and Nicky looked her up and down, half in admiration, half in malice.

'You look very chic, lovie,' he said, his mouth curling. The rest of the arrivals stared at Liza, too—from her smooth blonde head, over her aquamarine silk dress, to her silver sandals. She had been clever in picking a Georgian-style

dress, Nicky told her. it suits the house exactly—or did you know that? Have you been here before? You said you hadn't, but maybe Bruno did bring you down?'

'No, he didn't,' Liza said coolly. 'But I knew the house was eighteenth century, after all. It wasn't guesswork.'