“I shall be firm with her,” continued Adrian, drawing himself up and sticking his chin out commandingly. “I shall tell her that the is behaving like a child. That’s what I’ll do.” He glared at Rosy triumphantly and Rosy gave another small squeak by way of applause.
“You have to be firm with women,” said Adrian. “Look at Lady Fenneltree. That was the way to deal with her. They get above themselves.” Even in his distraught condition, Adrian could not see a single point of resemblance between Lady Fenneltree and Samantha.
“I shall go now, Rosy,” he said, wagging his finger at her, “and get our position quite dear. Otherwise I don’t intend to spend another night under this roof.”
This sudden determination which had overcome him was due principally to the fact that he had been so captivated watching Samantha’s face and the way she laughed and flirted with Sir Magnus, the way her teeth gleamed white as milk when she smiled, the warm colour of her hair, that he had inadvertently drunk a pint of ale belonging to Sir Magnus, which had been heavily laced with cherry brandy.
“I will,” he said, striding to the door and turning to glare at Rosy, “return with my decision soon.”
Endeavouring to look as fierce and implacable as Sir Magnus cross-examining a hostile witness, Adrian strode back to the table. Black Nell was just telling Honoria that the could see her married to a very rich man with fourteen children. Mr. Filigree was down on hands and knees conducting a whispered conversation with a stag beetle. Sir Magnus, his arm round Mr. Pucklehammer’s shoulders, was joining him in a spirited rendering of “Soldiers of the Queen”, to which Ethdbert was doing what he fondly imagined to be an oriental belly dance, and Lord Fenneltree was still lying in a trance on the grass, listening to Lord Turvey.
“Where’s Samantha?” barked Adrian. At least be had meant to bark but he had to clear his throat several times before he could articulate the words.
“Samantha,” said Honoria in surprise, looking round. “I expect she’s gone into the house.”
“Good,” snarled Adrian. He somewhat spoiled the effect of this by almost tripping over Mr. Filigree as he marched towards the Unicorn and Harp. He strode into the big stone-flagged kitchen with its dark beams and its friendly row of gleaming pots. Samantha was standing at one end looking out of the window. Adrian made his way down the length of the room and stood just behind her. He cleared his throat.
“Samantha,” he said trenchantly, “I have got to talk to you.”
“Why don’t you shut up?” said Samantha fiercely.
“Now, it’s no good adopting that high-handed attitude with me,” said Adrian, taken aback He stuck his hand inside his coat in a Napoleonic gesture.
“If you don’t shut up and go away,” said Samantha wheeling on him, her face flushed, her eyes glittering dangerously, “I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“Come, come,” said Adrian backing away a bit, “you’re behaving like a child.”
“And you,” snapped Samantha, “are drunk.”
“I am not drunk,” said Adrian, stunned. “I am as sober as anyone else.”
“You’re drunk,” said Samantha cuttingly, “otherwise you wouldn’t have had the courage to adopt that highhanded tone with me, as though . . . as though you were speaking to a horse.”
“A horse,” said Adrian aghast, “I never spoke to you as though you were a horse.”
“Exactly,” said Samantha, “as though I was a very old and very badly trained horse.”
And to Adrian’s intense consternation she burst into tears.
“Oh, don’t do that,” said Adrian in agony. “I’m sorry . . . I apologise . . . only please don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” said Samantha, the tears pouring down her cheeks
“Well, what are you doing,” said Adrian with desperate joviality, “having a bath?”
Samantha looked slightly taken aback and then, astonishingly, chuckled through her tears.
“You are a fool,” she said affectionately.
Adrian felt as though somebody had driven a red hot skewer through his heart and twisted it.
“Oh, Samantha,” he said, “I do love you so.”
Samantha looked at him. “Well, that’s good,” she said at last, “it makes the feeling mutual.”
“You mean, said Adrian incredulously, feeling as though he had been lifted into the stratosphere by a balloon, “you mean that I . . . that you . . . that you and . . . I that you . . .”
“Well, you’ve taken long enough about telling me,” said Samantha.
“Do you mean to say,” said Adrian, “that I . . . that you . . .”
“You know,” said Samantha, looking up at him, “if you go on stammering like that, we are never even going to get to the honeymoon.”
Adrian pulled her into his arms and kissed her warm mouth. Then he kissed the tears (which were surely the largest and finest tears that any woman had ever shed) from her cheeks, and then he kissed her mouth again because he couldn’t really believe that it had felt and tasted like rose petals.
“You mean to say that you’ll marry me?” he said huskily.
“Well, it may be new information to you,” said Samantha, “but I made up my mind to marry you the moment I saw you lying on that sofa the night you arrived after the train accident.”
Adrian looked at her incredulously—then he kissed her again.
“I must tell somebody,” he said.
He rushed through the kitchen and out of the back door of the Unicorn and Harp.
“Hoy!” he bellowed.
The tranquil and slightly inebriated scene under the oak trees was galvanised. Even Lord Fenneltree sat up.
“I am going to many Samantha!” shouted Adrian.
“Do you mean to say you’ve only just discovered that,” said Sir Magnus, with disgust.
“But . . . how did you know?” said Adrian puzzled.
“I’m not going to divulge,” said Sir Magnus. “There are some trade secrets which one doesn’t bruit about.”
“You’re going to marry Sam?” said Mr. Filigree, getting to his feet with a start, and completely forgetting about his conversation with the stag beetle.
“If you approve,” said Adrian.
“Approve,” said Mr. Filigree. “Why, it’s simply marvellous news. It means that Rosy will be an in-law.”
“You don’t by any chance have any champagne, do you?” said Adrian, light-headedly.
“An excellent thing,” said Sir Magma “Champagne and cherry brandy are the perfect things for a toast.”