Daisychain Summer

  A chat with Cook and Mary and Tilda, just like it used to be, before she climbed into bed and listened to the night sounds she remembered so well; to creaking boards and rattling window frames and outside, in Brattocks, the cries of hunting owls.

  ‘I’ll come with you. Bet you anything,’ Julia smiled, ‘that Cook has made cherry scones.’ Mrs Shaw always made cherry scones on special days. ‘And I do so wish you were staying, Alice. For ever, I mean. I wish you were in the sewing-room again and you and I sharing secrets like we used to. And Andrew with me, still, and Tom waiting for Reuben to retire so he could leave the bothy and live with you in Keeper’s Cottage.’

  ‘I know, love. But those days won’t ever come back.’

  ‘No.’ Julia’s lips tightened, then she shaped them into a smile and lifted her chin. ‘I’ll put Daisy in her cot for you, then take a peep at Drew. You go on down; tell Cook I won’t be a minute, there’s a dear girl.’

  Alice was right, she thought as she quietly opened the door of Drew’s bedroom. Those days were gone. For ever.

  Elliot Sutton studied his newly-shaven face, his freshly oiled hair, the red carnation in the buttonhole of his evening coat. Tonight, he was going to the theatre with Anna. The countess had agreed they could be together unchaperoned, which was tantamount, he supposed, to the announcing of their engagement even though he had not formally asked her to marry him. Anna would accept him for all that, because her mother approved and her brother Igor, too, though he had scowled a lot when asked for his permission to call upon Anna; demanded to know if Elliot’s intentions were gentlemanly and honourable. How very quaint! What would brother Igor have said, he smirked, had he been told the entire truth; that Elliot Sutton was not a gentleman and had the greatest difficulty behaving like one. And his feelings for the young lady were not in the least honourable! She attracted him; and since it was required of him to provide heirs for Pendenys and to reestablish himself in his mother’s esteem, he was prepared to go through the motions of courtship and marriage to achieve that end.

  Yet Anna was undeniably beautiful. That night they met in the garden, at ten, had been quite delightful. She had made a wager with him which she expected him to pay in full; half a crown, though he’d insisted on a kiss, instead. She kept him waiting, of course. Virgin or not, Anna Petrovska knew all the rules of the game.

  ‘Mr Sutton?’ She came out of the darkness without a sound.

  ‘You are lucky. I was about to go inside.’

  ‘About to,’ she whispered, ‘but you did not. And you lost your wager, though I have decided to accept neither the money nor the kiss. I was joking.’

  ‘Then why did you come,’ he demanded petulantly.

  ‘To tell you I had been joking, of course! So thank you, but sadly I cannot stay.’

  ‘Oh, but you can!’ He grasped her wrist, over the wall, holding it tightly. ‘You may wish to call our bet off, but I don’t. One thing you have yet to learn about living in England is that a gentleman always honours his debts – his gambling debts, especially. So I shall pay that kiss – there’s nothing else for it.’

  Still holding her firmly, he swung his legs over the wall to stand beside her. Then pulling her to him, he tilted her chin and laid his lips gently on hers; on lips full and soft and slightly parted; lips he found pleasing.

  ‘If I let go of your hand, will you run away, Anna?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered huskily.

  ‘Good girl.’ He gathered her to him, holding her close, one arm around her shoulders, the other on her small, rounded buttocks. ‘You know my mother and your mother would like us to marry,’ he whispered, kissing her again. Their marriage was what the wager had been about.

  ‘I know no such thing!’ she gasped. ‘And it is neither right nor proper of you to say such a thing!’

  ‘Then why is such a proper young lady allowing me to hold her and kiss her and –’

  ‘I must go!’ All at once, the game had gone too far. This Englishman was not only attractive, he was a danger to a lady’s good name! ‘Call on me tomorrow – in the morning.’

  ‘You shall not go, Anna Petrovska – not until I say you may. Now tell me, dearest girl, will you marry me?’

  ‘Mr Sutton!’ She struggled to free herself. ‘Let me go. At once!’

  ‘I take it you have refused me?’ His voice was indulgent and teasing.

  ‘I have! You are acting very badly and if you don’t let me go I shall call for Karl!’

  ‘And Karl will not hear you because you will not call for him!’ He kissed her again, roughly and with passion and felt her body tremble then relax against his. ‘Now tell me that you find me attractive and would like to marry me and sleep in my bed and – and everything that goes with it. Say, “I will marry you, Elliot Sutton, and be your willing lover and let you teach me things I never dreamed of …”’

  ‘No! I will not marry you!’

  ‘Splendid! You have refused me twice.’ Every young lady refused her suitor twice – it was expected and allowed. ‘And that makes it simpler for when I ask you again. When I ask you, you will say yes, Anna, because your mother wants it and my mother wants it!’

  His hand on her buttocks tightened and he pulled her closer so she might know the need she had aroused in him. Then he cupped a breast in his hand, fondling it until she cried out.

  ‘I shall say yes!’ She lifted her mouth to his, knowing that all the things she had been told about men were not only true but quite delightful.

  ‘Then goodnight, Anna Petrovska. I shall call at half-past ten tomorrow. We will walk beside the river, I think, and I shall tell you about myself and about Pendenys Place, where you will live with me. And better far than all that, I shall tell you how rich I will become when I marry you, and how enjoyable it will be to make children together!’

  He had heard her small moan of pleasure, gratified it had all been so easy. But they were all the same, those so-called aristocrats – no better than servants when it came to parting with their virginity. They would get children with no trouble at all and then he would claim his reward from a grateful, doting mother. He winked at his mirror image, answering the knock on his door with a sharp, ‘Come!’

  ‘Madam’s compliments, Mr Elliot.’ The servant curtseyed deeply. ‘I’m to tell you that the car is at the door.’

  He threw on his silk-lined cloak, well pleased with the way he looked. Tonight, he would ask Anna to marry him and she would accept. He would marry her because his mother wished it and the countess wished it and, though she had kept her eyes steadfastly, modestly downcast in his presence ever since that night in the garden, he knew that Anna Petrovska wished it, too.

  So what choice did a man have but to make the best of it and hope the girl was as fertile as she was beautiful. Because she was beautiful. Properly dressed and bejewelled, she would make heads turn. He could have done a lot worse for himself, come to think of it. A whole lot worse!

  Alice walked the path in Brattocks Wood; past Keeper’s Cottage where now a woodman lived; past the spot where Tom had first kissed her and held a buttercup to her chin. The wood seemed larger and lighter, but perhaps that was because the woodman had cleared thickets that would once have been left as game covers. He had cut down spindly trees, too, and placed a log seat beneath the ages-old oak. The tall trees at the far edge of Brattocks had not changed, though; rooks still nested in the elms.

  ‘Rooks! It’s Alice Dwerryhouse – Hawthorn as was and for a little while a Sutton, an’ all. I was her ladyship’s sewing-maid, if you remember.’

  She told them all; about being married to Tom and about Daisy and living in a gamekeeper’s cottage so near to the New Forest that she could see deer and wild ponies all the time.

  ‘Drew Sutton isn’t my little boy, any longer. This afternoon, her ladyship became his guardian – legal, like. It was the way I wanted it; the way it should be.

  ‘On Friday, I’ll be going back to Tom, and heaven only knows when I’ll be here again; c
ould be a year. Could be longer. So I’d like you to know that I’m grateful for all my blessings and to tell you that I hope – all the time – for Julia to be happy again. Not for her to forget Andrew or even to stop loving him, you’ll understand, but for her to find someone to love in a different way. I wouldn’t feel so guilty, then, about Tom and Daisy and me being so happy.

  ‘That’s about all, I think …’ She remained, eyes closed, her fingers spread wide on the rough bark of the trunk. It was the way you told it to the rooks. You didn’t tell them, exactly. You just connected yourself to their tree and sent them your thoughts. Tom laughed at her for doing it but Tom didn’t understand. No man did. ‘… so I’ll say goodbye, and thank you.’

  There were no buttercups, now, in the fields that edged the wood; only a few foxgloves and a second flowering of honeysuckle and thistle heads, fluffy with seed. Tomorrow would be Michaelmas Day and then it would be October, and the guns would be out. Tom and Dickon would be busy, then, until January with Mr Hillier inviting his friends to Windrush for a weekend’s shooting. And happen they’d see less of Mr Hillier, after that, beside Daisy’s pram.

  She hurried to the fence and the stile she had climbed over so many times in her other life. There was no sign of life at Keeper’s Cottage; no movement, however slight, of the white lace curtains at the windows. She and Tom would have lived in that house if there hadn’t been a war; if Sir Robert hadn’t been killed and Giles hadn’t died of an illness any healthy man would have thrown off.

  She climbed the stile and hurried across the wild garden, glancing to her left and the avenue of linden trees, their leaves yellowing, now; storing memories of Rowangarth to take back with her.

  She found Julia in the kitchen garden, pushing Daisy along the box-edged paths, Drew at her side, and called to them and waved her hand.

  ‘There you all are! Are we going to see Reuben, before it gets dark? Shall Lady sit Drew on the pram, and take him, too?’

  ‘You’ve got it all sorted out, then?’ Julia raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Told it to the rooks, have you?’

  ‘That I have. And they heard me, an’ all!’ Oh please they’d heard her and especially how desperate she was for Julia to be happy. ‘But don’t ask me what I told them, because I won’t tell you!’

  She took a deep breath, then let it go in little sighs of contentment. She hoped the rooks didn’t think she was too happy and that she wasn’t grateful for it. But perhaps it would soon be Julia’s turn? She hoped so, even though her common sense told her it could never be. Julia MacMalcolm had loved too well, and no one could ever take Andrew’s place.

  ‘By the way – I meant to tell you this morning, only with going to Carvers I completely forgot. I had a letter from Mark Townsend, Alice. Aunt Sutton’s solicitor – remember? I’d mentioned to him, you see, that you were going to have to go back to Hampshire alone – and cases and a baby to get across London.

  ‘So he said he’d see what he could do. There’ll be a Miss Edith Jones meeting you at King’s Cross. She’s one of his lady clerks and she’ll give you a hand to Waterloo. So there you are – that’s fixed!’

  ‘But how nice of him. I was a bit worried, I’ll admit it, though I’d have taken a taxi and be blowed to the expense. He’s a thoughtful man …’

  ‘Yes, he is. And much, much nicer than Carver-the-young. I like him very much.’

  But there was no softness in her eyes as she said it; no blush on her cheeks. No matter how kind or nice or considerate the man, he was not Andrew MacMalcolm. It was as simple and sad as that.

  Alice opened the high, iron gate, closing it again after them. Then taking Drew’s hand she whispered, ‘Do you suppose Reuben will have sweeties in his tin for Drew? Shall Lady ask him?’

  Drew. Julia’s son; her ladyship’s ward and heir to all they could see. Little Sir Andrew Robert Giles Sutton, not yet quite two years old and to whom nothing was more important than sweeties in the tin on an old man’s mantelshelf. And please God his generation should never know war, because if it did, then all the killing and suffering and sacrifice would have been in vain.

  She should, she thought, have mentioned something so important to the rooks …

  11

  Alice lay safe in Tom’s arms, listening to his deep, even breathing and the soft sounds of contentment from the cot beside their bed. She was home, because home was where Tom was and it seemed wrong that she should be so happy whilst Julia ached for a love that was gone. Since locking the door on Andrew’s lodgings for the last time, Julia had at least come to terms with her widowhood; that her man was gone for all time. But acceptance was a cold bedfellow when Julia was a young and passionate woman. It was a waste that all her emotions should be centred on one small boy; wrong for Julia and wrong for Drew, Alice frowned.

  Her thoughts wandered to Rowangarth and her green years; to Brattocks Wood and the gamekeeper’s cottage. Strange that someone else should be living in Reuben’s house; that nothing had changed yet everything was different. Cook was still there and Mary and Tilda, and the straight-laced, straight-backed Miss Clitherow. And the rooks, keepers of her secrets, still nested in the tall elms. Rowangarth still pulled at her heart, reminded her of the way it had been. She missed it more than ever she realized; missed Reuben and her ladyship and oh, just everything. Yet now she was home she was contented; grateful she and Tom were together, trying not to remember Julia’s sadness at their parting.

  ‘I don’t want you to go, Alice. These last few days have been almost like old times.’

  Drew had loved Daisy, been gentle with her. It was sad that a little boy should be brought up by two women when he ought to have had a mother and a father and a sister of his own to love. It wasn’t natural and neither was the life Julia was living. Julia was a young woman and needed the love of a man, though she would never acknowledge the fact.

  ‘How is Julia?’ They had talked about it, earlier that night. ‘Is she learning to accept things, now?’

  ‘She tries, Tom. But Andrew was her great love, her life. The man hasn’t been born, yet, who’d measure up to him.’

  ‘Then happen it might help if she were to change her yardstick or find someone who is Andrew’s opposite. Reuben once said he thought her and Nathan Sutton might have made a go of it.’

  Alice sighed impatiently into the darkness. Julia had always thought of Nathan as a brother; as more Giles’s twin than a cousin. He and Julia knew each other too well ever to become lovers.

  Tom muttered in his sleep and turned on his side away from her, leaving her free to move without awakening him. She stretched her body, wriggled her toes, wondered when sleep would come, remembered the butterfly.

  Keth Purvis had been waiting beside the gate when she and Daisy got home. He had been there every day, Tom said; demanding to know how much longer they would be away.

  ‘Open it.’ Shyly, Keth had given her the matchbox he carried. ‘It’s for Daisy. A present.’

  ‘A butterfly,’ Alice smiled. A beautiful, gaudy Red Admiral.

  ‘I didn’t kill it. It was dead when I found it …’

  ‘Thank you, Keth. Daisy will love it – when she’s old enough. Shall we put it somewhere safe, till then?’

  Alice had cut him a slice of bread, then; buttering it, sprinkling it with sugar, and he had taken a large bite, closing his eyes ecstatically.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come home, missis,’ he’d whispered.

  Keth was a good little boy; he was. She had been wrong ever to think of him in Elliot Sutton’s image. It wasn’t the bairn’s fault he’d taken on Mary Anne’s likeness and he wasn’t going to grow up selfish and wicked like that one at Pendenys.

  She sighed impatiently, wondering if Julia too was lying awake, thinking of Andrew, wanting him.

  Please God, send someone for Julia to love – not as she loved Andrew because that wouldn’t be possible. But isn’t there some way You can help her find a little happiness and not have her stay unloved for the rest of he
r life?

  Julia MacMalcolm was not lying awake in her bed. She sat, instead, in the unlit conservatory, thinking about Mark Townsend.

  Shortly after Alice left, his call had come. About her Will, he’d said, and when would she be in London again?

  ‘Not just yet. But there’s no hurry, Mr Townsend. Perhaps you could send me a copy, to look at? I’d thought to come to London about Christmas time – bring Drew to see the shop windows and the decorations …’

  ‘Not before then? There’s another matter, you see – your aunt’s car. I took the liberty of looking at it, yesterday – Sparrow gave me the garage key – and I’m not at all sure you should drive it, Mrs MacMalcolm. It’s very old. Miss Sutton bought it years before the war and it’s going to need money spending on it – apart from the fact that it’s been standing idle for almost two years.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’ she frowned.

  ‘Perhaps I should have a mechanic give it a thorough check. Maybe, in the long run, it would be cheaper to buy a new motor.’

  ‘But Aunt’s car …’ It would seem like a betrayal, almost, to get rid of it.

  ‘That motor is long past its best, in my opinion. There’s a new little Austin just on the market; perfect for a lady. About a hundred pounds and a splendid job. I took a look at one in the showrooms near Marble Arch.’

  Marble Arch! They had met near there, she and Andrew. She didn’t want to talk about car showrooms near Marble Arch; about anything near Marble Arch.

  ‘I don’t know. I’d have to think more about it.’ It wasn’t going to be easy, having a motor at Rowangarth. ‘And Mr Townsend – would you not mention motors on the phone, in future? I am alone, now, but my mother isn’t happy about cars and I wouldn’t want her to hear me discussing them – not yet, at least. My father was killed in a road accident, you see, and she won’t entertain keeping one here. Perhaps some other time …?’