She would go for a walk. Out in the grounds. Round the lake. Pick some daffodils. Arrange some flowers in the afternoon. Have tea in the library.
Feel safe.
Be safe.
Resolutely, she walked out of the room.
The long, blowy walk did her good. She always went for a good long walk when she came down to Salton, whatever the weather or the time of year. It was a ritual, so that she could find the peace she knew she would always find here.
Even now.
She had not put Diego Saez out of her mind completely. That was impossible. What he had done to her was so devastating, so frightening, that it would take a long, long time to get over it. He had broken through her defences and destroyed her peace of mind. How he had done it she still did not know.
And that made it even more frightening.
But here at Salton she was safe. Here she would find her peace of mind again. Here she would find the balm that she needed. Her safe, familiar world.
And so very precious to her.
Even more so to Tom.
But then Salton was the Lanchester family. Had been for generations and generations. She could not even begin to imagine not being part of Salton—Salton not being part of her, part of her family. It was a sentiment, she knew, that those who did not have the privilege—and it was a privilege, she was supremely conscious of that—of being so inextricably linked with a house, a place, found it difficult to understand. It was not a question of wealth—a Welsh hill farmer struggling desperately to survive against the hardships of the modern agricultural economy would feel just as passionate about the land he farmed, the land he owned. That sense of kinship, devotion, to a particular piece of the earth, for which no other place, however beautiful, could substitute, a kinship earned through time, hundreds of years, was something that was hard to understand if it had not been experienced.
She experienced it again now, as she experienced it every time, as she tramped in gum boots down across the lawns, around the lake, through the woods and across several fields to come back up to the house by way of the azalea arboretum. She made a swathe through the sea of daffodils again, gathering them up in a bountiful armful and going on to add sufficient greenery from the shrubbery plantings around the edge of the lawn.
By the time she came back indoors she was pleasantly tired—and spiritually refreshed. Her instinct to fly to Salton had been the right one. Here, she knew, she would find the peace of mind that had been ripped from her.
Here she would forget that face with the heavy-lidded, darkly knowing eyes, and the mocking, sensual mouth.
Here, Diego Saez could not endanger her.
She laid down her bounty of daffodils and greenery on the cool marble surface beside the old stone sink, and spent a happy hour arranging flowers in the flower room. It was a soothing occupation, and the sweet, fresh scent of the daffodils was familiar, her fingers working so deftly, that the time flew by.
It flew by for the next three days. Three days in which she succumbed to the peaceful, familiar, uneventful rhythm of life at Salton. She did not go out, did not even phone round her acquaintances to let them know she was there. She didn’t want to socialise. All she wanted to do was stay safe at Salton.
She was not bored. She was never bored at Salton. Although Tom had a professional estate manager to look after the farms, the house and grounds were under his direct remit. And until he married she was, in effect, mistress of the house. While they were in London the Tillets, the couple who kept Salton running on oiled wheels, either phoned or faxed to stay in touch as necessary, but the moment she or Tom appeared in person they were always pounced on.
Now Mrs Tillet, the housekeeper, had a hundred things to check with her, that had cropped up since her last visit, from a spot of damp noticed in one of the upper bedrooms, to whether or not the sun-faded curtains in the music room needed to be relined yet. Outdoors, Fred Hermitage, the head gardener, needed decisions on a hundred more items on his list, from repainting the interior of the orangery to replanting the herbaceous border below the west terrace. And within the community there were regular matters to attend to.
With the summer coming, the list of Salton’s regular open days needed to be decided, and that required her to liaise with the vicar’s wife as to what the parish committee would prefer and which charities they would like proceeds to go to. The local cub pack had requested permission to hold their annual treasure trail in the woods that formed part of the demesne lands, the headmistress of the village junior school wanted the ten-year-olds to tour the house as part of their history curriculum, and the amateur dramatic group wanted to stage A Midsummer Night’s Dream beside the Greek temple folly on the far side of the lake.
It was all safe, familiar, reassuring—a million miles away from Diego Saez and his powerful, disturbing presence.
Here at Salton she was safe from it. From him. He could not intrude, could not threaten her fragile peace of mind.
She was just heading upstairs to change, on the third afternoon after her arrival, when Mrs Tillet hurried out into the hall. Portia paused on the stair. She had come indoors after a vigorous session digging up the herbaceous border with Fred Hermitage, emptying wheelbarrows of discarded vegetation and mulching in fertiliser and humus, and her ancient, baggy corduroy trousers needed a good wash. So did she.
But her mood was good. She loved gardening, even when it left her with an aching back and tired muscles.
‘Hello, Mrs T. What’s up?’ she asked with a smile.
‘Your brother has just phoned, Miss Portia,’ the housekeeper told her. ‘He said to tell you that he’ll be coming down tomorrow.’
Portia’s smile widened. ‘Oh, I’m so glad, Mrs T! Tom’s been overworking horribly, and I’ve been telling him to take a break from that wretched bank and come down here for a while! He can relax and recharge before going back to town again!’
‘He did say, Miss Portia, that he would be bringing a business acquaintance with him,’ answered Mrs Tillet.
Portia’s smile turned to a grimace. ‘Oh, how wretched! I suppose he’s going to stay the night. Is the Blue Room made up? He can go in there. Or is it a couple? Did Tom say? If so, then the Oak Room would be better.’