The Gamekeeper's Wife

by Clare Flynn

The structure included a pair of small rooms that before the war had housed the man who had been the undergardener. A bachelor, he had died on the Somme. All that remained of his presence was a photographic studio-portrait of what Kit took to be the man’s parents, posing formally to mark their wedding. The image was pinned to the wall, curling at the edges and covered with green mould on one side, where it had been water-damaged by a leak in the roof.

  ‘I got here a little early today to make a start,’ Martha said. ‘Only I might be late tomorrow. I hope that’s in order?’

  Kit nodded. ‘Of course.’

  He gestured at the sparsely furnished room. ‘If my mother gets her way and we do have to hire a new gamekeeper, you could move in here. It’s not much at the moment, but there’s a stove, a table and chairs, and a bed. I could order some furniture, a new mattress. I’m sure you could make it a comfortable home.’

  Her expression was dubious.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ he said.

  ‘I like it well enough. And I’d love nothing more than to be somewhere that has nothing to do with Bill Walters. No bad memories. But your mother would never agree.’

  ‘It doesn’t concern her. I’ve told you. She never comes here. And what I do with the estate is my concern.’

  ‘I’d heard it said she’s got the final say until you’re thirty.’ She held his eyes, her gaze steady.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Servants talk.’ Her expression was challenging. ‘Isn’t it true, then?’

  Kit felt a silent thrill at her boldness in addressing him so directly. Not as a servant. ‘Yes, but my mother has no interest in the day-to-day running of the estate. All she cares about is getting it back to what it once was.’

  ‘But the cost of making this place habitable?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll make sure it’s more than habitable. Money is the one thing I have in abundance. Even if the source of it plagues my conscience.’

  ‘Why?’ Again, that steady look, straight into his eyes.

  ‘Armaments. The real winners of the war were companies like Shipley Industries.’

  ‘The war’s over. And they’ve said there’ll be no more wars now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t lay money on that. As long as men have lived, they’ve fought wars. The carnage of this one will soon be forgotten. And there are colonies to defend, new ones to acquire. Besides, Shipley’s has an automotive branch too. The need for motor cars is going to grow and so will the need for Shipley’s engines to power them.’

  She stared at him with her habitual inscrutability. Kit turned away, afraid that his own emotions were not so well concealed.

  ‘That pile of tools I’ve put over there will need to go to the blacksmith’s,’ she said. ‘They need sharpening and re-grinding.’

  He turned away, avoiding looking at her legs, their shape visible under the serge breeches.

  ‘I’m meeting a builder in a few minutes,’ he said. ‘He’s coming to do an inventory of repairs. I’ll tell him this place needs to be a priority. We’ll have it watertight, furnished and ready for you to move into in no time at all.’ He went towards the door and turned to look back at her again. ‘And I’m going to ask him to include bathing facilities. He can build an extension at the back. A coal store too.’

  A few hours later, after he had dealt with the builder – who was now a happy man, eager to return to his office to draw up and price what was an extensive schedule of works – Kit went back to find Martha. The tool store was now cleared, floor swept, useable tools and implements hanging from hooks on the walls. She had even washed the windows.

  Fred Collins had gone home for his tea and Martha was putting on her coat when Kit walked in. He stood in the doorway, watching her as she fastened the buttons. One side of her hair was laced with cobwebs. ‘Wait,’ he said, and moved towards her, lifting his hand to brush them away.

  The deep dark pools that were her eyes fixed on him. Fearing she would misinterpret his gesture, he quickly said, ‘Cobwebs… in your hair.’

  Martha relaxed, but there was a slight flush in her face. His hand shook as his fingers traced the surface of her thick, dark hair, catching up the fine grey lace of the spider’s web and casting it aside.

  Without a word, she moved past him and he followed her outside. The sun was low in the sky and the clouds were tinged with pink. In silence, they walked together towards the only bench that was not overgrown with moss and grass. They sat down, and Kit was suddenly self-conscious. The badly cut, baggy breeches did nothing to cool his ardour. Her thighs, outlined under the coarse fabric, disturbed him; he wanted to put his hand on her leg. He resisted the urge, crossing his arms instead.

  After a few minutes’ silence, the tension between them was an electric current. If he stayed there beside her, reaching out to touch her was an inevitability.

  He got to his feet. ‘I’ll be late for dinner. Mother will never forgive me if I don’t show up for cocktails with our guests.’

  ‘Cocktails?’

  ‘Fancy drinks. Strange concoctions of all manner of things. Mother thinks it’s impressive serving them. But completely wasted on the Bournes. The women prefer champagne and Lord Bourne hates his whisky to be polluted by other ingredients.’

  ‘What an exotic life you lead, Kit. Yours is such a different world from mine,’ she murmured.

  ‘A world I don’t belong in.’

  A ghost of a smile reached her eyes. ‘Will you be here again? Tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll try. I intend to be here every afternoon, if possible. But tomorrow it will be hard to escape since there are guests. There’ll be more arriving tomorrow evening. Mother is holding a dinner party.’

  ‘And you must pay attention to Lady Lavinia.’

  Kit’s head jerked in surprise. ‘What of her? How do you know of her?’

  ‘Everyone at Newlands knows you’re going to marry her. It’s common knowledge. She’s a beautiful woman.’

  ‘You’ve seen her?’

  ‘I was there the night she became engaged to marry your brother, before the war. Mrs Harrison had extra servants brought in to help in the kitchen and to fetch and carry. I caught a glimpse of Lady Lavinia when the dining room doors were open. She was the talk of the kitchens. So beautiful. The perfect lady. You must be glad to be marrying her.’

  ‘I’m not marrying her. There is nothing between me and Lavinia Bourne and there never will be.’ He picked up his hat from the bench, stood and turned towards the pathway.

  She rose, stretched her hand out and touched his arm. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve upset you. I didn’t intend to. I wanted you to know that I know. That… that you’re going to marry her… because…’

  He turned around and, without thinking, pulled her into his arms. This time he bent his head to find her mouth. Then they were kissing with abandon, with hunger, their mouths greedy, their bodies pressed against each other. He felt her breasts against his chest, rising and falling with her breathing.

  Martha broke away first. ‘Go. You must go, Kit. You’ll be late.’ She pushed him away.

  He stood in front of her, hat in hand, head pounding, then walked with his jerky gait towards the archway and out of the walled garden.

  Chapter 7

  Edwina Shipley threw a surly glance in Christopher’s direction when he walked into the drawing room, but quickly masked her irritation behind a beaming smile for the benefit of her guests.

  ‘There you are, darling. I was just explaining you had urgent business this afternoon.’ She turned to Lord and Lady Bourne. ‘Such a bore, but duty calls.’ She stretched her hand out to welcome her son into the room. ‘Bannister has mixed some Manhattans. You will have one, won’t you, Christopher? Do please keep me company – I can’t persuade Lady Bourne and Lavinia to succumb. And you know Lord Bourne is as bad as your dear departed father and won’t even allow so much as an ice cube in his whisky.’ She laughed.

  Christopher could tell she was nervous, so he decided the best
course was to accept.

  From across the room, Lord Bourne bellowed, ‘Ice in scotch is an abomination. Something else I fear your fellow Americans are responsible for, Mrs Shipley.’

  Edwina’s laugh was forced. She hated being reminded of her origins.

  Holding Christopher’s drink, she pushed it into his left hand. ‘Go!’ she said, ‘Lavinia is waiting.’

  Christopher took the glass and moved across the room to greet the guests.

  This weekend was the first time Mrs Shipley had formally entertained since the death of her husband, and she was working hard to project the image of the perfect hostess. Christopher felt sorry for her, for her desperation, her determination to play the part of the grande dame flawlessly. It had never ceased to surprise him how much her acceptance by the English upper class mattered to his mother. Under her immaculate and expensive clothes, perfect manners and cultivated cut-glass English accent, there was a large chip on her shoulder and an abiding fear that, as an American, she could never be the genuine article, but always a hopeful postulant, falling slightly short.

  Lord Bourne looked as though he wished he were a thousand miles away or, more likely, ensconced within the marble portals of his gentleman’s club or in the bar at the House of Lords. He settled himself in a seat in front of the fire and focused his attention on his whisky. Lady Bourne sat down opposite him, beside Edwina Shipley, and the two women were soon absorbed in conversation, leaving Christopher and Lady Lavinia to each other, as was clearly the intent.

  Lavinia was undeniably pretty. Tonight she was wearing a gown the same colour as the champagne in her glass. Her figure was slender, and the gown showed it to advantage, with a pearl encrusted bodice above a taffeta skirt, which skimmed her body closely around the waist and hips before falling to a few inches above her ankles. The bodice revealed her shoulders in a way that a few years earlier would have been described as shocking rather than daring. Her blue eyes were framed by improbably long lashes and her lips formed a perfect Cupid’s bow. She smiled at Christopher, lowering her gaze flirtatiously. Yet it seemed to be practised rather than natural, and he had no illusions that her manner would have been any different if directed at a man other than him.

  They went to stand by the full-height windows that gave onto a paved terrace, beyond which the lawns extended as far as a ha-ha – a completely unnecessary feature in the absence of any cattle in this part of the estate. It was still light, the evenings already lengthening with the promise of spring, and the first signs of sunset were appearing in the rose-tinged sky.

  ‘It’s a beautiful evening,’ Christopher said after a few minutes’ awkward silence.

  ‘I suppose it is.’ She gave a little giggle as though he had said something witty.

  ‘Looks as though we’re about to get a wonderful sunset.’

  ‘Really? How interesting.’ Her tone indicated that she deemed it anything but.

  ‘Mother suggested that I show you around the grounds tomorrow. Would you like that?’

  ‘Actually no.’ She rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Unless you absolutely insist on it.’ She tilted her head on one side and smiled at him in mock apology. ‘I suffer from hay fever. It’s a frightful bore. I don’t care to be outdoors especially near freshly-cut grass or lots of flowers. It makes me sneeze horribly. Winter’s all right. But who wants to be out of doors when it’s cold?’

  ‘I see.’ Christopher tried to imagine what kind of life she must have if she rarely went outside. ‘That must be hard for you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She spoke with a drawl, the same lazy, upper class cadence as her father’s – as though everything around her, and any possible topic of conversation was too tedious to bear contemplation. ‘I spend most mornings in bed.’ She peered up at him with her bright blue eyes, then dropped her gaze. He wondered if she practised in front of the mirror. ‘Do you think that’s awful of me? Mummy says it’s very naughty but I think I might as well, while I can. Before I have to be married and get up to do all kind of boring things like telling the servants off.’ She giggled again and turned her dazzling smile on him. ‘I do go outside to walk my dogs in the afternoon. I have two chihuahuas. I’m heartbroken they’re not with me now. I jolly well hate leaving my babies behind.’ Her mouth formed a pout and she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. ‘Do you like chihuahuas, Captain Shipley?

  Christopher swallowed. This was going to be more of an ordeal than he had anticipated. ‘I’ve never actually come across one. Mother has a pair of spaniels.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to introduce you to Popsy and Petal. They’re completely and utterly adorable. Everyone loves them. Well, apart from Daddy. He’s always complaining that they get under his feet. Calls them my little rats. What a beast he is.’ She gave a tinkling laugh and told Kit how she liked to hide the dogs in her handbag. He tried to picture this but his imagination failed him.

  ‘I haven’t seen you since the night you became engaged to my brother,’ he said, keen to change the topic of conversation. Then after a moment’s hesitation added, ‘It must be hard for you, losing Percy so soon after you were engaged.’

  She frowned. ‘Yes of course. Jolly rotten luck. Percy was an absolute darling. Such fun. I was so looking forward to marrying him.’ She made a little sniffling noise then dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief. ‘Then of course everything had to be cancelled. So sad. My brother died soon after. Horrible, horrible war.’ She turned to look out of the window. He thought she was going to say something else about Percy but she said, ‘My wedding dress was already made. It was so pretty but Mummy said I had to put it in mothballs. It would have worked as well as a ball gown but there weren’t any balls once the horrid war started. Now Mummy says I have to wear it when I get married as it was frightfully expensive. Don’t you think that’s mean of her? That gown is now three years old and fashions are changing all the time. I would so hate to look frowsy and dowdy on my wedding day.’

  She smiled at him, again dropping her eyes.

  ‘That would be impossible in your case, Lady Lavinia,’ he said. She smiled in acceptance of the inevitable compliment.

  Barely a word to spare for his poor dead brother. Christopher slugged down his Manhattan. He was going to need several drinks to get through this evening. Especially as all he could think of was the memory of kissing Martha and how desperate he was to rush out of the room, saddle up his horse and go to her.

  He was about to replenish his drink, when Bannister came into the room and announced dinner.

  Over the course of the meal, Christopher made further attempts at conversation with Lavinia but failed to find a sustainable topic. The only subjects that seemed to enthuse his prospective fiancée were her dogs, her collection of porcelain dolls – she told him she now had thirty-six, which were displayed in a glass cabinet in her bedroom – and her recent trip to Paris with her mother. ‘Daddy told me to make the most of it,’ she whispered. ‘Funds are a teeny bit tight at the moment. Such a bore.’ She clapped a hand over her mouth then whispered to him, ‘Gosh. I wasn’t supposed to say that. Mummy will be jolly cross. Do you think she heard me?’

  Christopher told her it was unlikely, and assured her that the secret was safe with him.

  He asked what she thought of the granting of the suffrage to women the previous year.

  ‘I’m not thirty,’ she replied, sounding outraged.

  ‘I didn’t intend to imply that you were. I merely wondered whether you were pleased that the struggle is over.’

  ‘I find politics boring. And as for the suffragettes, I think they behaved disgracefully and should still all be in prison. Politics is one of those things like war and driving motor cars that should be left to men, don’t you agree, Captain Shipley?’

  Christopher swallowed, scarcely believing what he was hearing.

  They passed the rest of the meal with little more to say to each other, while their mothers kept up a valiant attempt at small talk, drawing them in where possible.

/>   When the ladies retired, leaving the two men to port and cigars, Lord Bourne got straight to the point.

  ‘So, you’re intending to marry my daughter?’

  Christopher swallowed, shocked at the bluntness and the speed at which his lordship had got to the crux of the matter.

  His hands shaking, he put down his port and stammered, ‘I barely know her. Tonight’s only the second time we’ve met.’ He quickly added, ‘Lady Lavinia is a charming woman.’ He realised he had had too much to drink in his attempt to make the evening tolerable, and Lord Bourne’s face was slightly out of focus.

  The older man puffed on his cigar. ‘Damned good cigars. George always did keep a good Havana. You not smoking?’

  The thought of a cigar made Christopher feel nauseous.

  Lord Bourne returned to his chosen topic. ‘Lavinia’s an empty-headed creature. Her mother’s always spoiled her. Pretty little thing though. That’s all that matters in a woman, I suppose. She certainly knows how to twist me round her little finger.’ He inspected the end of his cigar. ‘So, young man. What about it?’

  Christopher opened his mouth like a fish, at a loss for what to say.

  ‘I don’t believe in beating about the bush. I’d have preferred her to marry your brother. Good man, Percy. Chip off the old block. Just like George. Clubbable. Damn shame he copped it. My son too. Terrible business.’ He shook his head and refilled his glass from the decanter. Christopher saw it was already half empty.

  ‘I hear you’re a botanist. What kind of nonsense is that?’ Without waiting for an answer, Lord Bourne added, ‘But your mother says that from now on you’ll be devoting yourself to the management of the estate and the family business.’ He spoke the last word as if it was slightly grubby. ‘Never really understood commerce myself. But you can always pay someone else to manage the company for you while you concentrate on getting Newlands back to its best.’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet what I will do. I’ve been concentrating on recovering my health.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Lost a leg. Shame about that. Don’t suppose Lavinia is too thrilled about having a one-legged husband.’ He drew on his cigar, then rolled it around between thumb and first finger. ‘Still, she’ll have to get on with it. Same as you’re doing. Sacrifice for king and country. Can’t ask more than that, eh?’ He swirled the port around in his glass. ‘Damn fine port too.’ He took another sip, then added, ‘Leg won’t stop you, you know, doing what you need to do, if you follow my meaning? Didn’t lose any other parts I hope?’