Stephen smiles kindly. ‘A different generation. But I’m the domesticated sort – I enjoy this kind of thing. Well,’ his smile softens, ‘I like doing things like this for people whom I believe will enjoy them.’
There’s a slight nervousness in him too; Margot can see and hear it in his voice. He couldn’t be nervous about what she would think, surely? Not when he’s shown her such kindnesses?
‘This is so lovely,’ she says. ‘I can’t …’ She wants to say she can’t believe it – except by now she should, of him. Over the past few weeks he has shown her multiple times that she can believe in him.
Stephen holds out his hand. ‘Shall we sit?’
She lets him help her down to the rug, and spreads out her skirt around her. She’s wearing the shirtdress Daphne gave her and Stephen has already complimented her on it.
Taking the lid off the thermos, Stephen pours black tea into their cups, then offers milk contained in a small bottle. Margot takes her tea black but she so appreciates his thoughtfulness.
He produces two delicate china plates with a flower pattern on them and offers her the sweet treats to choose from.
‘I haven’t had a tea party since I was a child,’ Margot says, feeling herself relaxing.
Being looked after has that effect on her, although it has taken her a while to identify that’s what it is, because no one has really looked after her since she was in her early teens. Lavinia tends to her emotional life, but the practicalities of existing – the things that can really wear a person down when they’re doing them for years without help – have been mainly her responsibility. Even with small gestures, Stephen takes some of that from her. It is an enormous gift.
Stephen looks delighted. ‘Then I’m very pleased to be the one to create this for you. I love picnics.’ He reaches across and takes her hand. ‘We should do this again.’
‘I’d love to,’ Margot says, with no hesitation. For she feels, for perhaps the first time in her adult life, certainty about what she wants. And it is this: being with him, being supported, being … cherished.
Yes, that is it. Perhaps it’s old-fashioned to want to be taken care of, but it is indeed what she wants; and the more he takes care of her, the stronger she feels. More capable, more courageous. The Margot of even a few weeks ago wouldn’t have insisted toLavinia that they establish a bedroom downstairs. The Margot who knows that Stephen supports her is brave.
Perhaps this is what love is – or part of it. If so, no wonder people seek it out. No wonder they write songs and books and plays and movies about it. For this is changing her, whatever it is.
Stephen frowns slightly. ‘If you still have time,’ he says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lavinia said something …’ He pauses. ‘About you looking for work. Perhaps you’ll have a job. They take up a lot of time.’
‘Oh.’ She hasn’t thought any more about looking for work since Lavinia’s fall, because looking after her aunt has been her full-time job. ‘Yes, they do.’ She laughs. ‘Although I’m not qualified to do anything, so I still don’t know which sort of job I could get.’
They look into each other’s eyes and she trusts him enough to feel she can be honest.
‘I have dreamt my life away,’ she says.
‘It’s not over yet,’ Stephen says quickly.
‘No, but …’ Margot looks around at the people promenading by the beach, some with children, some arm in arm with a lover or a parent or a friend. ‘I don’t even know where to start if I’m to begin again.’
They stare at each other again, and in his eyes she sees only understanding.
‘I don’t want you to worry about work,’ he says. ‘I can help you.’
‘You can’t do that.’
Now it’s his turn to laugh. ‘Margot, I am quite a bit older than you and I have earned my right to know what I want.’
Still feeling the urge to be honest, she decides to ask him something. ‘Why are you so good to me?’
Now his gaze holds softness, wonder – and something more powerful than that.
‘Because you inspire me to be,’ he says. ‘I know your life hasn’t been easy. I know you think you should be further along with work and other things than you are.’
‘I’m not anywhere at all!’
He grins. ‘I think you’re wrong. I think a woman who cares so deeply for another, as you do your aunt, is someone who brings so much to the world. That love – that pure love you have for Lavinia – is a contribution,’ he sweeps his arm to take in the beach, ‘to the whole of humanity.’ He tilts his head. ‘A man could only hope to be worthy of it. So in the meantime I shall settle for honouring it.’