12th June 1925. 7.20 am
He recognised her voice. He had always liked Eleanor's giggle, a little rough around the edges with a touch of coquettishness, an enticing fusion of sensuality. So many years had passed since he'd seen her, since she'd become Mrs Quarrie, wife to a Major he'd never met. The Great War had left its haggard mark on everyone and he'd heard that she'd suffered her fair share of loss. More so than him.
The woman whom he had thrown Eleanor over for in the race to become Mrs Finn O'Neill was dead and buried, succumbed to the Spanish flu. A sweet, gentle woman who had lacked the fire that Eleanor Bramwell had. A little too much fire, perhaps. He hadn't appreciated Eleanor's hysterical public outburst upon seeing his new bride. He hadn't meant to hurt her but he needed the influence and wealth that his debutante American wife could give him. His wife had never asked him but he was sure that she had started to suspect that there was always a space in his heart for Eleanor. If she had asked, he wasn't sure he could lie.
He had arrived at her friend's townhouse early on Saturday morning, hoping to catch her unawares. The maid had let him in with the instruction that he should wait in the living room. He took his time considering the décor. He was surprised to see a family picture of Eleanor despite this not being her house. He looked closely. That must be her husband and son. Both dead in the war, an old Major and a young lad of only 16. He must have lied to get into conscription; strutting off to glory, only to be trampled and broken up on the battlefield, his bones sinking into the mud and mire, swallowed up into the earth, never to see the sun again. Such a waste of life. He could have become a doctor like his mother. O'Neill felt an unaccustomed stab to the heart at that. He and his wife had never managed to conceive, despite begging Eleanor to save her. When he'd heard that Eleanor had married and had a son, named him after her father, Robert, he'd wished her luck in his head, never imagining that her heart would be broken so soon.
Looking around him, he observed that the coast was clear. He crept up the stairs, hoping to a glimpse of Eleanor in her nightdress. He loved to see a woman in a frothy feminine nightdress, made it so much sweeter when the skin beneath was revealed. Having been directed to the house, he stopped to consider the owner. He'd never heard of Dr MacMillan but hoped he was a decent chap, a good friend to Eleanor, nothing more.
He'd changed his mind when he heard Eleanor's voice raised in what he recognised to be passionate ardour. She'd graced their bed with that voice before, he'd thoroughly enjoyed it. He'd done everything he could to her to make sure she responded towards him that way. But whatever his tricks, this man was doing it better, he realised, with a scowl. She was being positively brazen, especially so early in the morning. Damn that Dr MacMillan! Either Eleanor had sneaked an admirer into her room or the dastardly doctor was showing her a good time.
It still didn't occur to him when he peeked through the crack in the door in a most ungentlemanly manner. He could hear her but he could hear someone else too. Definitely not English. An accent from the Colonies. He bristled at that. He couldn't decide on who it might be. He turned to go and the floorboard creaked. The occupants of the room went silent and he cursed his clumsy tread. A voice rang out in irritation.
'Who's there?'
He sighed, turned around and pushed the door open, getting quite a shock so early in the morning.