Susan Speers (18 page)

As for my house in Cornwall, it was too far away. Thérèse and I exchanged regular letters, but I stopped mentioning my return. She congratulated me on my engagement to Dickon with perfect propriety, but I sensed warmth and approval in her crabbed handwriting.

When I told my butler, Henry, about my plans, he said nothing. He looked, quite suddenly, old. He knew I posted a letter to Jeremy every Monday. He knew I never received a reply.

Amalia Pickety found a treasure, a little stone house bequeathed to a London businessman. He was happy to rent it for a pittance and the promise that Dickon and I would refurbish and look after it. I could live there and walk to Hethering every day to manage estate affairs.

Our harvest was bountiful and autumn faded into winter. I spent Christmas Eve with the Picketys and Christmas day with Dora and her family. I was a frequent visitor to this happy home. Their bright, active children gave me all the images and expressions I needed to complete illustrations for my latest book. My publisher was pleased.

“You needn’t have brought us gifts.” Dora ignored the tribute her children had piled around my chair.

“I love to do it. I love to see their faces light up.” I shifted the “baby”, almost two years old, from one shoulder to another, with little care for the damp patch of drool on my crimson blouse. Dora was pregnant, the new baby would arrive with the lambs next spring.

“I had a much loved doll,” I said.

“I heard Master Jeremy rescued her from a pond and got himself sent away for his pains,” Dora said. “How could that be?”

“Well, there was a set of valuable maps,” I began to tell Dora and all the children the story of the fifth folly, about Belle’s mishap and Jeremy’s heroics.

The children listened with shining eyes. “Tell it again, Miss,” May begged me. She was Dora’s eldest daughter, a serious girl, almost twelve years old.

I did, and in the telling realized two things. This was a story my publishers might like. But, more important, Dora gave me a chance to think of Jeremy, to speak about him, to say his name out loud.

She was a kind woman and a true friend to give me this precious Christmas gift.

*****

Early in the morning, early in spring, I waited at the railway station for the London train. Few passengers stepped onto the platform, none of them were Dickon. Then, at the very end of the train, I saw him jump down and I waved.

He looked amazing. Tall and strong, a little too thin for my liking, but I would soon fatten him up. He came toward me, faster and faster until he was running. I defied propriety to throw my arms around him, he picked me up and whirled me around.

Before my feet were on the ground, he began kissing me until my senses swam and I began to laugh, helpless from the wonder of it all. Dickon was home, safe and sound. In a matter of days I would be Mrs. Scard.

He left off kissing so I could get my breath, but held me firm against him, refusing to let me go.

“Did you get the special license?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, and a fine wedding band, too.” He patted his breast pocket. “Are you ready to marry me?”

“Everything is arranged.”

“Can we be wed today?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes.” In a matter of hours we would be husband and wife. My nerves began a fine hum only I could hear. “The sooner, the better.”

Dora waited to drive us home. When she heard our plan her smile beamed. “Wedding in the Vicar’s study, supper at our farm, and your wedding trip?”

“Willow’s cottage,” Dickon said, helping me up on the hard, high seat of Dora’s truck.

“What?” My heart lurched. I couldn’t do that.

“I know you think it’s too cramped for married life, Clarry, but it’s perfect for our honeymoon. We won’t waste time in travel. Think of the memories.”

Think indeed. “I want us to begin in neutral ground, not Marchmont or Scard land,” I protested.

“Willow’s cottage is where Marchmont and Scard made friends,” Dickon said. “Don’t you want her blessing on us?”

I couldn’t answer him. The truth of the matter was too wounding.

“Why not, Clarry?” His voice grew harder, as if he sensed the truth, but had not yet admitted it to himself. In the strong morning sunlight I saw new shadows under his eyes. Worse, I saw them in his eyes.

“Of course I want Willow’s blessing. I’m confused, fanciful. It’s my wedding day, Dickon.”

Dora saw my distress. “If it’s a matter of making the cottage fit for a newlyweds, I’ll be happy to do for you.”

“No, no. I’ll just run over after lunch to be sure all’s in order.” Dora was heavy with child. That was my excuse if questioned.

The furrows in Dickon’s forehead smoothed and new lines bracketing his mouth relaxed.

“There we are,” he said. “My wedding day. I’ve waited long enough.”

Dora left me at Hethering’s gate. I spoke to Henry about my plans for the day and told him I would return in a week’s time.

He nodded once. “Best wishes, Miss.”

“Thank you, Henry.” I knew how much those three simple words cost him.

*

I tried very hard not to think, not to remember, as I dusted and swept Willow’s tiny home. I removed the elaborately embroidered coverlet from her bed and put a quilt made from thousands of little green squares in its place. I wanted to rearrange the furniture, but couldn’t budge her white painted iron bedstead.

In the kitchen I cradled Willow’s Japanese teapot in my hands as though it held heat from my last visit. Jem had reached past me to the nightstand to pour tea into its two matching cups.

“Be careful, darling,” he’d warned. “Hot tea on naked flesh doesn’t bear thinking of.”

The cottage door banged open and the teapot crashed to the stone floor.

Dora carried an enormous basket of provisions over her arm. “Oh, my.” She set it down and hurried to my side.

“Is it bad luck?” I felt a little faint.

“It’s nerves, that’s all, and who can blame you with all this rush.” She swept up the broken bits and tied them in a tea towel. “Ash can mend this.”

She couldn’t know it would always be broken for me.

“Is there another teapot?”

I searched the cupboards and brought down a dun colored glazed vessel with a little ceramic mouse perched on its lid.

“Willow kept this for us, for Dickon and me.” Suddenly things came right and I smiled in relief.

“Good then. No more nerves, now.” Dora put bread and jam and cheese in the pantry, milk, eggs and butter in the larder. She put her hand to her forehead. “How could I forget the tea?”

“It doesn’t matter. I — I keep some here,” I said.

I saw the flicker of a question in her eyes, but she put her half formed thought aside.

“Hurry home now,” she said. “in a few brief hours you’ll be Dickon’s bride.”

After Dora left, I had one last thing to do before I put on my bride clothes. I went slowly through the twisted bracken, not yet cleared after winter’s retreat. I found the fifth folly littered with twigs and leaves. I cleared a place and sat, looking out over Hethering and mourning Jeremy.

He wasn’t dead, at least I didn’t think so. There’d been no official notice, only a numbing silence. No secret message in Greek, no spun glass Eiffel Tower, no warmth in my breast to tell me he still walked on this earth.

Hethering’s heartbreaking beauty glowed in its awakening. I thought of Easter and rebirth. Was my marriage to Dickon a renewal of life in the face of death? If so, must I believe there was a death? It was certain our marriage would succeed only if I left Jeremy behind.

I wasn’t sure I could do that. In the end I decided to behave as if I had, and let one small, secret part of my heart believe Jeremy would return one day. He would pick up the reins of his marriage to Caroline and I would be loyal to Dickon. We would meet on occasion in this halcyon future and I would know he lived on just as surely as he saw me. That was the bargain I made with fate.

Mr. Pickety married us in his study at sunset. I’d walked across the fields to the vicarage alone, my cream silk dress swathed in my best velvet cloak. Henry placed it over my shoulders in Hethering’s great hall, with the staff assembled to wish me well. Cook wiped tears from her eyes and promised to tell Nurse how well I looked on my wedding day.

Amalia met me at the vicarage door and gave me a small posy of flowers to carry. Dora and Ash Cooper were witnesses. I trembled with nerves until I found Dickon’s happy smile and kind eyes to steady me. We said our vows in firm voices and I only wept at the final blessing. I had Amalia’s loan of a pale blue handkerchief to dab my eyes.

Dickon had hired a car to drive us to his sister’s farm for our wedding supper and then on to our honeymoon. Amalia’s toddler showered our ankles with a handful of rice as we left.

Dickon pulled off the road and kissed me thoroughly. “There,” he said. “I’ve just kissed Mrs. Scard. I’ve never taken liberties with a married lady until today.”

A flash of guilt made me blink. I had done far worse with a married man.

As if he’d read my mind, Dickon shook his head and confessed “Until the last, I expected your cousin to break down the door.”

“He wouldn’t do that.” He didn’t need to. I carried him with me. He’d been there in my heart.

Dora made a delicious dinner for us. Two of Dickon’s four brothers were at the front, two were in the Royal Navy. One of his sisters had emigrated to Canada and another was a VAD, so I had the Picketys as guests and Dickon had Dora and Ash. Their children rushed about with the little Picketys and made our evening festive. Cook sent an elaborate cake.

We arrived at Willow’s cottage before midnight and unlocked the door without speaking a word. I was growing shy with what lay ahead. I think my mood was contagious. Dickon brought our valises into the bedchamber and came back to help me with my cloak. He kissed me tenderly, then led me by the hand to our marriage bed.

My husband was a thoughtful, considerate lover. His touches were gentle but never tentative. I answered every loving gesture with one of my own, loathe to cheat him of the blissful night he deserved.

If we had been in a different cottage, a different bedchamber, a different bed, I could have honored my husband. But I’d made rapturous love to another man in this bed, this bedchamber, this cottage. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Jeremy. Every time I opened them, the very shadows brought indelible memories back to me. I hid my face against Dickon’s warm shoulder.

At last my husband lay quiet beside me, fighting sleep.

“It will be better next time,” he whispered. “The first time is always difficult for a lady.”

I nodded my head, afraid to speak.

*****

We had a week of beautiful days, roaming the woods, climbing hills and eating out of doors when we could. When it rained, I sat in Willow’s chair by the fire, embroidering a set of tea towels for our new home. Dickon lay on the sofa, a book on his chest, but he napped as often as not. Time at the front had depleted his every reserve, and I wanted them replenished.

He liked it best when I sat at the end of the sofa, his head resting in my lap, my fingers combing through his hair and massaging his temples until he slept again. We watched the fire. From time to time we spoke of our new digs, the little stone house in the village.

“There’s a splendid pigeonhole desk in the study,” I said.

“Is the light good enough for your painting?” He took my hand and rubbed at the stubborn blue stain on my index finger.

“It’s perfect, despite the mullions. The room faces north and east, it’s filled with light during the day.”

The next afternoon we drove over and inspected every room. “I will paint the kitchen yellow,” I said as he ran his hand across the golden oak table, worn smooth by years of use. “I will cook your dinner,” I said.

Together we climbed the stairs to a bedroom whose papered walls ended in slanted eaves, whose high brass bedstead beckoned. Dickon sat down heavily, raising a cloud of dust from the red velvet cover.

“You have work ahead of you, Mrs. Scard,” he said after he stopped coughing.

“I will love every minute of it,” I declared, dusting off his clothes and keeping my arms around him. “I will love every minute I am married to you.”

“Clarry, look,” he said. Our bedroom window looked out over the fields to the far away hills. “I will love thinking of you here, waiting for me.”

I repressed a shudder. I would have a bad time of it thinking of him cold and wet, his life in danger.

We dined with the Picketys that night, holding hands beneath the tablecloth, the golden lamplight making each course into a rich display.

“Marriage agrees with you,” Amalia said, her eyes twinkling, her smile warm with approval.

A brisk wind blew as we walked back to Willow’s cottage. In the moonlight I saw it pleat the pond water and whip tender green leaves with little mercy. Dickon had me folded against him beneath his great coat, his body’s heat kept me safe. I could feel the great thud of his heartbeat.

Our lovemaking had been tentative as we found our way. Tonight, though, the cold night, his warm mouth on mine, the spectre of the battlefield hanging over our happiness, let me open my heart to him as wide as I could.

“There,” he said, when I lay trembling in his arms, “I knew it would come right for us. It only wanted time.”

We had so little time left of his days at home. “I want more,” I said aloud.

“A soldier knows his duty.” Dickon kissed me and pressed me down beneath him.

*****

I moved into our little stone cottage by myself. I had been a bride and a wife, now I was neither. I was alone again. I did for myself, the house didn’t need much care. I lunched at Hethering every day and ate a hearty tea before walking back across the fields. I never had much appetite for dinner, but Amalia set a place for me at the vicarage table every night.

“It isn’t the food you need, it’s the company,” she insisted and I agreed. Her sympathetic smile, Mr. Pickety’s kind eyes and their babies’ antics kept me connected to family life.