Her father lowered his paper. ‘Really? How do you know he was a pirate?’
‘Because he had an eye patch.’
Her father nodded thoughtfully. ‘Did he have a parrot on his shoulder?’
‘Not that I could see.’
‘Ah. Probably not a pirate then.’
Celine joined in. ‘We did think that he looked as if he could be a pirate.’
‘The child’s imagination is running away with her,’ admonished Rosamund’s mother, looking up from the circle of embroidery now resting in her lap. ‘Celine, you really must try to keep it under control. I’m sure it can only lead to problems.’
Celine suppressed the smile that was never far from her lips on these occasions.
‘Do you think he had any treasure?’ asked Valentine Hanbury.
‘I think it quite likely, sir,’ answered Celine.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Rosamund. ‘Doubloons and gold moidores.’
Mrs Hanbury tutted loudly and returned to her embroidery.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said her father. ‘Good for you. Well, goodnight. Sleep well.’ He smiled, nodded at Celine, his fatherly duty completed for another evening.
Rosamund’s parents would never get over the loss of her brother, Robert, and as she grew up she became wary of reopening old wounds. Like most children, she was adept at recognising atmospheres, much as her parents tried to cover them up by putting on brave faces and pretending that all was well. There is something in the air in families who have undergone personal tragedy, and no amount of cajoling and pretence will ever expunge it entirely.
When Rosamund was ten, a local schoolmaster was engaged to enlarge her education rather more than Celine’s modest capabilities would allow. He was astonished at the child’s grasp of the French language – if rather irritated by the useful shorthand it facilitated between Celine and herself – but he soon realised that in other areas of academic achievement, Rosamund was somewhat lacking. Charles Langstone was young and handsome and valued the extra income this tutelage would provide, for he had four small children and a wife to look after. Rosamund suspected that this state of affairs must have disappointed Celine, for on more than one occasion she caught her regarding him with a dreamy look in her eyes. The family lived in a tiny cottage in the village and Mr Langstone came three evenings a week, on two of which he tried – in vain – to teach Rosamund mathematics. She hated it.
‘What is the hypotenuse?’ he would ask.
‘An animal a bit like a rhinoceros?’ Rosamund would respond, to his endless exasperation.
But Mr Langstone also opened her eyes – and ears – to English literature, when he read aloud to her at the end of each lesson – everything from Treasure Island and The Wind in the Willows to Cranford and David Copperfield. Celine would sneak into the schoolroom for these stories, since Charles Langstone was blessed with a mellifluous speaking voice – lyrical and beautifully modulated. He could make Rosamund shiver with excitement and cower in fear with just a slight inflection or a difference in tone or accent.
In order to make sure that Rosamund had company of her own age, her parents arranged for the daughter of the neighbouring estate to accompany her during some of these lessons. Diana Molyneux had been headstrong since she could crawl, and after the usual tricky start – when two competitive spirits find themselves quite frequently at loggerheads – she and Rosamund had forged a firm friendship based on a common love for the countryside and a willingness to take risks, whether that involved riding horses or taunting the local boys. As the two of them grew up together, the good-natured rivalry manifested itself in attempts to shock one another with tales of derring-do; few of them based on fact, and most of them ending in peals of laughter. The occasions when these rivalries were set aside were invariably when Mr Langstone was transporting them to tropical islands on a pirate ship, to Jane Austen’s Hampshire, to Charles Dickens’s London or Jonathan Swift’s Lilliput. Then they would sit close together in rapt delight, their eyes wide open and their imaginations taking flight.
Those early encounters with English literature would have a lasting effect on both of them, but as they entered their teens, Diana’s occasional trips to London and her parents’ willingness to let their daughter visit relations in Dorchester and Barnstaple would ensure that her wider experiences of life would give her a more sophisticated air than that of her friend whose own adventures were confined to the more rural parts of Devonshire. But by the time they reached the age of fifteen, both had one topic of conversation which eclipsed all others: they loved nothing better than talking about boys.
Chapter 2
DEVONSHIRE
1936-38
‘The wise girl will remember that boys are at best a distraction and at worst a disaster. But wise girls have no fun.’
Margot Lethbridge, Encounters, 1922
Diana Molyneux had long, dark, lustrous hair – the very opposite of Rosamund’s fly-away blonde locks. She also had about her an air of worldliness; a confidence that was foreign to Rosamund and which consequently entranced her. Thanks to her travels further afield than even Salcombe and Dartmouth, Diana seemed to know everything – about boys, and people, and London – and even maths; she could never understand how Rosamund found numbers so puzzling.
But above all, Diana Molyneux had learned how to enjoy herself. It was she who introduced Rosamund to the delights of riding bareback along the beach, clinging on to the mane of her highly strung pony for dear life. It was something Rosamund chose to hide from her mother, lest the pursuit be banned on the grounds that it was foolhardy, which it undoubtedly was. Riding like a lady was one thing; riding like a circus performer was quite another.
During the summer holidays, when Mr Langstone was given a few weeks off, Rosamund and Diana would spend almost all their time outdoors – on the beach or going for long walks in the woods between the two family estates of Daneway and Falconleigh, where Diana’s family had lived for even longer than the Hanburys next door.
On these daily sorties – when Diana would often smuggle out a bottle of beer to accompany their sandwiches – the conversation invariably turned to boys, and the relative merits of those examples of early manhood the girls came into contact with in their relatively restricted world.
‘Edward. What about Edward?’ asked Diana, seeking Rosamund’s verdict on her latest fancy.
‘The groom at Falconleigh?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s ancient.’
‘He’s twenty-two.’
‘As I said, he’s ancient.’
‘But he’s good-looking. He’s got amazing muscles.’
Rosamund turned to face her friend. They were lying on the sand dunes above the beach, their horses tethered to large stones, while their riders watched the incoming tide between bites of their sandwiches and gulps of the shared bottle of illicit beer. Both were dressed in cotton shorts, their floral blouses knotted at the waist, their feet bare and their hair billowing around their faces in the warm breeze. ‘How do you know he’s got amazing muscles?’ she asked, wide-eyed.
‘How do you think?’ asked Diana conspiratorially.
‘You haven’t!’
‘Haven’t what?’ asked her friend, smiling.
‘You know … done it.’ Innocent of such intimate personal experiences though she was, Rosamund had seen enough bulls and cows and horses mating to make any kind of instruction on that sort of thing superfluous.
‘God no!’
‘But how do you know …?’
‘Because he likes to take his shirt off when he’s mucking out.’
‘That’s shocking! Does your father know?’
‘Heavens no! He wouldn’t do it when Daddy is around; he only does it when he knows there’s no one looking but me.’ Diana threw her head back. ‘Last week he let me feel his biceps.’
‘That’s disgusting.’
‘No, it’s not. I bet you don’t even know where his biceps are.’
‘Yes, I do. Mr Langstone has charts – for biology.’
‘Anyway, I think Edward is a bit dishy.’
‘But you wouldn’t …?’
‘Certainly not. I’m saving myself,’ said Diana archly. ‘But it doesn’t stop me admiring someone’s physique.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Rosamund. ‘But you ought to be careful all the same. I mean, you don’t want to lead him on, do you?’
‘Oh, just a little … there’s no harm in it … provided it doesn’t go too far.’
‘Or he doesn’t go too far,’ added Rosamund with a hint of admonishment in her voice.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never been kissed!’ teased Diana.
Rosamund blushed. ‘Alright, I won’t tell you.’
Diana propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes wide and her expression expectant. ‘You have, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I have, as it happens.’
‘Who by?’ There was genuine excitement in Diana’s voice now.
‘I think you’re meant to say “by whom”,’ admonished Rosamund.
‘Oh, don’t be such a tease! Who was it? And was it just the once or did you go back for more?’
‘That sounds dreadful.’ Rosamund paused and turned away, but not far enough to hide the dreamy look in her eye from Diana.
‘I know who it was. Davy Jennings! The boy who helps Wilding in your stables. That’s who it was, wasn’t it? I’ve seen you look at him.’ Then, in a moment of realisation, ‘But he’s only sixteen. He’s a boy!’
‘At least he’s not an old man of twenty-two! And he’s a very good kisser.’
‘Rosamund Hanbury, you dark horse! And there you were, telling me to be careful with our groom. You’re nothing but a hypocrite!’
Rosamund smiled guiltily. ‘Well, I didn’t want to be left behind. You’re so sophisticated and everything. Why should you have all the fun?’
‘I will soon.’
‘What do you mean?’
Diana grinned. ‘Next year I’m moving to London. Daddy has made arrangements for me to stay there with my uncle and aunt. I shall be “coming out”.’
‘What’s “coming out”?’ asked Rosamund, her brow furrowed at such a strange expression.
‘Being presented at court. To the King. You have to wear three feathers in your hair and curtsey to him alongside your mother.’
Rosamund giggled. ‘You’re not serious? Wearing three feathers and curtseying to the King? You’re making it up!’
‘I’m not. It’s what all young ladies like us have to do when we enter society.’
‘Well, I’m not going to. There’s no need to do all that in Devonshire. I mean, people would laugh.’
‘I suppose they would, down here. But that’s London. I can’t wait.’
‘To wear three feathers in your hair?’ Rosamund began to laugh and leaned over to tickle Diana on the waist. ‘This is what feathers are for; for tickling, not for wearing in your hair in front of the King.’
Diana began to giggle, and in a few moments the two of them were rolling round among the sand dunes, incapable with laughter.
When Diana eventually departed for London, the two girls promised lifelong devotion and regular communication. Rosamund kept to her part of the bargain, but when Diana’s letters became fewer and more sporadic, she realised with regret, but without any trace of rancour, that Diana was growing up in the city with all its attractions and distractions and now had more exciting things to do with her life than to write to an old friend marooned in the depths of Devonshire. She accepted the situation for what it was and hoped that one day she would be in a position to rekindle a friendship that had taught her more than she would otherwise have known of the ways of the world. Like other letters and souvenirs of events, they were tied with ribbon and kept safe in a box of treasures at the bottom of her wardrobe.
Rosamund never really talked much to Celine about men. Oh, she tried on occasion to elicit more information about her ‘beau’, but little was forthcoming and enquiries were usually batted off with a ‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder’ sort of comment; swiftly followed by an instruction to clear away the supper plates or go and wash her hair.
What Rosamund also discovered was that Celine seemed to have a sixth sense about her own dalliances – brief and relatively innocent though they might have been. Brushing Rosamund’s hair after a day’s riding, she would hold up a strand of hay found tangled in her charge’s locks and enquire how it came to be there.
‘Horses eat hay,’ Rosamund would explain.
‘Yes, but that hay tends to be in their manger. Funny how it often ends up in your hair …’
Rosamund would glance at Celine in the mirror and see her suppressing a smile as she busied herself with the brush, applying a little more pressure by way of making her point.
‘Just be careful, ma cherie; that’s all.’
‘Oh Semolina! Be careful, be careful …! It’s only a bit of fun.’
‘Mmm. It’s funny what a bit of fun can turn into if you are not careful.’
The words that came from Celine had so often been translated and passed on to Diana. Now she would have no one except Celine in whom to confide.
Celine’s ‘beau’ seemed to be around for quite some time, although Rosamund never saw him. And then Celine suddenly stopped talking about him and for a few weeks her mood was darker and her aspect more stern.
It was some time before Rosamund plucked up the courage to ask after him, fully expecting the usual rebuff. It was bedtime, as it most often was when conversations of any import occurred. A time for reflection on the day or, in this case, on the last year. Celine’s reply was matter-of-fact. ‘He has gone,’ she said.
‘Gone where?’
‘Back to his mother.’
Rosamund was confused. Celine read her expression and said, ‘It’s what happens sometimes. Things do not work out as expected. His mother had become ill and she asked him to go and look after her – in Northumberland. I understood that he must look after her, as any good son should, but when I offered to move up north with him – although it filled me with horror, leaving you and your family – he said that his mother would not approve. In the end he had to choose between his love for me and his love of his mother. Well, he chose his mother and I …’ Here the words stopped and Celine turned away as the tears began to flow.
‘But you still have me!’ said Rosamund.
Celine dried her eyes and managed a brave smile. ‘Yes, cherie, I still have you. Now come on … into bed.’ And that was the last time Celine ever mentioned the gentleman she had always called her ‘beau’.
Rosamund would have been happy to have remained in Devonshire – with perhaps the occasional trip to the ‘bright lights’ of Dartmouth and Salcombe – had not a change in her circumstances occurred quite suddenly.
She came back from riding alone one Friday afternoon, as she did regularly after Diana’s departure for London, to discover Celine sitting on a stout wooden chair in the front hall, weeping uncontrollably.
Rosamund had never seen Celine give way to such emotion: Celine, the one person so in control of her feelings, so unwilling to express herself except when exasperated by her charge’s unreasonable behaviour or annoyed at the inconsiderate or insolent attitude of tradesmen. Her chest was heaving and her words – a mixture of English and French, as often happened when she was overwrought – made little sense. Rosamund crouched by her and asked, ‘What on earth is the matter?’
Celine looked up, and as she did so, the door of Valentine Hanbury’s study opened and Dr Armstrong – the family physician – came out and walked towards her. His expression was grave. Rosamund felt her heart leap.
‘I have spoken to the cottage hospital,’ he said, directing his words to Celine. ‘It is as I thought.’ He shook his head and asked, ‘Are you sure you would not prefer it if I …?’
At this, Celine gathered herself together, rose from her chair and blew her nose
. ‘No. It is my responsibility,’ she said, drying her eyes. ‘Thank you, Dr Armstrong.’
Rosamund stood rooted to the spot, staring at the doctor in his long black coat and pinstripe trousers. He wore a wing collar and his eyebrows were long and upturned, giving him the look of a rather frightening owl. He bowed curtly to the two women and quietly took his leave; the front door closed behind him with an ominous thud.
‘It is bad news I am afraid, cherie. Come with me.’ Celine led the way into the deserted drawing room where the slanting rays of the sun caught the motes of dust that danced like gnats in the still, stale air. A heavy silence enveloped them. Celine dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and motioned Rosamund to sit in a large armchair, then, kneeling at her feet and holding both her hands, she said softly, ‘Your mother and father were driving into Dartmouth.’
Rosamund nodded. ‘I know. They are going to lunch with those friends who have a house above the harbour. What is it, Semolina? What’s the matter?’
‘Their car was involved in a collision.’
Rosamund found herself unable to speak. Her head spun; her chest tightened and she found it hard to breathe.
‘I am afraid they are both … gone. I am so sorry, ma cherie. So very sorry …’
The words echoed around Rosamund’s head and seemed to hang in the still air along with the millions of flecks of dust as Celine tried with all her might to stifle her uncontrollable sobs. Rosamund put a hand on her shoulder, to comfort her but also to steady herself. Her head pounded and a feeling of nausea overwhelmed her.
She had left the house two hours earlier a happy, carefree teenager, off for a gallop along the beach with her favourite pony. On her return she became an orphan, and thanks to the strange processes of English law, an orphan with nowhere to live.
Chapter 3
LONDON
SEPTEMBER 1938
‘Oh, London is a fine town,
A very famous city,
Where all the streets are paved with gold,
And all the maidens pretty.’
The Scarlet Nightingale Page 3