The Gamekeeper's Wife

by Clare Flynn

  He parked the Bentley and went inside the building.

  Without stopping in the administrative section to announce his presence, he made his way towards Sycamore Ward. As he limped along the endless corridor, his uneven gait sounded on the wooden floor and echoed between the brown-tiled walls and the high ceiling.

  He was halfway there when he saw Dr Henderson coming towards him, unmistakeable in his tweed sports jacket and military tie, black patch concealing the missing eye.

  The doctor extended his hand to shake Christopher’s. ‘Glad to see you, Captain Shipley.’ He put his other hand on Christopher’s shoulder and steered him towards the doorway to his office. ‘In fact, your arrival is most timely.’

  Inside the office, Dr Henderson lit his customary cigarette and waved a hand to indicate that Christopher should sit down, before taking up his position behind the desk.

  ‘You have come for a progress report on Miss Walters? I am delighted to inform you that she is doing very well indeed. She has learnt several nursery rhymes and loves to sing. In fact singing appears to unlock something inside her. It helps her remember words and make them flow. Her mother has spent a great deal of time teaching her, and Jane is responding well.’

  ‘Her mother?’

  Dr Henderson smiled. ‘I know about Jane’s parentage. Mar… Mrs Walters told me she is Jane’s mother, and about the circumstances of her birth.’

  Christopher suddenly felt uneasy.

  ‘On behalf of Jane’s mother, I would like to thank you and the Shipley family for so long supporting Jane’s upkeep. But now Jane’s mother and I have reached the conclusion that further visits from you would be counter-productive.’

  ‘Counter-productive?’ Christopher felt the blood draining from his face and a shot of fear ran through him.

  ‘Confusing for Jane and upsetting for Mrs Henderson.’

  The nerves in Christopher’s leg seared through his body like an electric shock and his heart contracted inside his chest. He heard himself say, ‘Mrs Henderson?’

  Dr Henderson smiled broadly. ‘I’m delighted to tell you that the former Mrs Martha Walters did me the honour of becoming my wife two weeks ago.’

  The room lost focus. He struggled to breathe, gulped, trying to draw air into his lungs. Had he misheard? Was the doctor playing some kind of elaborate joke?

  Christopher’s eyes moved round the room, desperately hoping for some sign that this wasn’t real. That he was dreaming. On the wall, a pair of framed certificates hung. Beside them a framed display case containing Dr Henderson’s war medals. An ophthalmic chart, the letters on which swam in front of Christopher’s eyes. Sunshine spilled into the office from the large window. Beyond he could see the extensive lawns, hear the sound of laughter, the clamour of rooks in the trees that bordered the lawn.

  ‘You and Martha have married?’ His words sounded displaced, disembodied, coming from somewhere else in the room.

  ‘It was a small affair. Just ourselves and a witness. Afterwards, we had a little tea party on the lawn. Mainly for Jane. Not that she understands. But these days she is mostly happy. Having her mother with her has been the best tonic for the poor creature.’

  ‘Married.’ Christopher repeated the word, as if uttering it might give the lie to it.

  ‘My wife had been assisting me for some time, working as an auxiliary on the ward. The close proximity which this necessitated caused me to depend on her, to grow an attachment. Fortunately, she felt the same.’ He leaned back in the chair, exhaling the last of his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray.

  Christopher shuddered at the easy way Dr Henderson referred to Martha as his wife. He felt a sudden rush of loathing for the man.

  ‘She keeps nagging me to give these things up.’ Henderson laughed. ‘That’s women for you. They like to keep a fellow in his place.’

  Nauseous, Christopher was desperate to get out of the smoky office, out of the building with its inescapable odour of disinfectant.

  He got to his feet. ‘Congratulations, Doctor. I… I… trust you and Mrs Henderson will be happy.’ Then he turned and left the office.

  He got in the Bentley and drove down the drive, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly and his head pounding, barely seeing the road in front of him. As soon as the car was out of sight of the asylum, he pulled over to the side of the road, opened the door, got out and vomited onto the grass verge. Sweat stuck his hair to his forehead and his chest was heaving. A sour bilious taste filled his mouth and his throat burned with acid. He wanted to close his eyes and never wake up again.

  Christopher barely registered the journey home to Newlands, driving like a machine, unconscious of the scenery, of the passing traffic and of any sense of time. He drove up the drive to the stable yard, got out of the Bentley, shouted to one of the grooms to saddle up Hooker, and walked back to the house, where he changed into his riding gear.

  Back in the stable he breathed in the smell of clean straw, the richness of fresh manure and the scent of leather. Hooker whinnied in welcome and turned to nuzzle his shoulder, eager to be going out after a day waiting inside in his stall.

  Without hesitating, Christopher turned the horse in the direction of the woods. The only place he wanted to be now was the place where he had been with Martha.

  Why had she married the doctor? Was the love Christopher thought he had shared with her completely one-sided? It was incomprehensible. When he had said goodbye to her she had told him she loved him. Why then marry another man and so rapidly? He asked himself why Henderson had asked her to be his wife after such a short acquaintance. Then he remembered he himself had fallen in love with her after only a few hours in her company.

  He paced through the rooms of the house, running his hands over objects that she would have touched. Nothing made sense any more.

  * * *

  That evening he joined his mother in the library before dinner.

  ‘You took the motor car today,’ she said, her tone brusque. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘You know perfectly well where I went. You seem to know everything that happens around here.’ He knew he was being unfairly rude.

  Edwina Shipley raised her eyebrows. ‘Thank you for endowing me with supernatural powers, Christopher, but I can assure you I am not a fortune teller. My enquiry was simply out of curiosity and a concern for your welfare. You’ve been looking pale lately. Thin too. Maybe you should get back out into that garden of yours again. Working there might help you rebuild your strength. And give you a sense of purpose.’ She sipped her drink.

  Christopher gave a bitter laugh. ‘Since when have you given a damn for my welfare? You have done everything possible to make my life miserable.’

  Mrs Shipley groaned. ‘Not that blessed Walters woman again. I thought you’d be over that infatuation by now.’

  ‘Infatuation?’ Christopher narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Come on, darling. It can’t possibly have been anything else.’

  ‘I’ve told you a thousand times. I love Martha. And–’ He was about to add that she loved him too, but now he was no longer sure.

  ‘So that’s where you were today? Visiting her?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘It has to stop, Christopher. I’ve made it clear. I will cut off the payments for her daughter if you don’t stop seeing her.’

  ‘You needn’t worry on that account. I won’t ever be seeing her again.’ He ran his hands through his hair and exhaled loudly.

  His mother’s expression was curious.

  Christopher glared at her. ‘You’ve got what you want. I won’t be seeing her again, as she’s married someone else.’ He flung himself into one of the fireside chairs, his head in his hands.

  Mrs Shipley moved over to stand beside him, her hand stroking his hair. ‘I hate to say I told you so, but I think that proves definitively that what I said about her was correct. A fortune-hunter. She played you for a fool. But don’t worry, my love, you’ll get over her. Especi
ally now that you know what she’s really like.’

  The fight had gone out of him. He didn’t even bother to argue with her. What was point?

  * * *

  It didn’t take long for Christopher to realise that he might as well accede to his mother’s wishes and marry Lady Lavinia Bourne. After all, his life no longer felt worth living. If doing this would make his mother happy, then so be it. He no longer cared what happened to himself.

  The thought of Martha being married to Reggie Henderson was more than he could bear to think about. Not that he had anything against Henderson – he’d actually liked the man when he first met him. And how could he blame him for falling for Martha?

  But Martha herself? How could she have done that to him? And so soon. It seemed out of character. She’d told him that if they couldn’t be together she would rather be alone. She had promised she loved him. Hadn’t she? Had that been a lie? Why marry Henderson? Surely, she couldn’t love him? And there was no need to marry. Jane’s upkeep was being paid. And he would go on paying it, despite this. Of that he was determined. Jane’s birth and condition were a consequence of his father’s actions – Christopher would not walk away from those responsibilities.

  But now his thoughts and dreams were haunted by images of Martha in Reggie Henderson’s arms. Reggie’s hands on her body. Reggie looking into the dark pools of her eyes as they made love. Why? Why?

  * * *

  The meeting with Lord Bourne at his London club was not something Christopher wanted to repeat. His future father-in-law played for every possible advantage, dressing Christopher down, as if he were a naughty schoolboy caught scrumping apples. But ultimately the man’s options were as limited as Christopher’s were, with a shortage of eligible men and Lavinia’s advancing age – she was already twenty-seven; he needed to grasp the opportunity to marry off his only living child, prop up his ailing fortunes and repair his dilapidated property.

  ‘You have my permission to propose to the gal but, I warn you, she may well turn you down. You’ve not behaved like a gentleman. Buggering off, God knows where, when we were your mother’s guests, leaving the poor gal on her own all weekend. Not showing up for Ascot, forcing your mother to cancel the visit to us at Harton Hall. Disgraceful.’

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry, sir. Unless it had been a matter of some urgency, I would not have absented myself.’ He was full of self-loathing as he spoke the words.

  Lord Bourne muttered something to the effect that there could be nothing Christopher might need to do that was more pressing than attending upon his daughter. Christopher let the diatribe flow over him without further comment.

  ‘So, I may speak with Lady Lavinia?’

  ‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘She and Lady Bourne are at my sister-in-law’s in Eaton Square. You may turn up this afternoon and offer to take her to dinner or the theatre or something tonight. Up to you. I know they’re planning to stay at home as I have a late sitting at the House. If she agrees to go, you can make your offer tonight. Don’t waste any more time, Shipley. I won’t have my daughter trifled with. Clear?’

  Christopher assented.

  He called on mother, aunt and daughter and endured a prolonged afternoon tea, in which Lady Bourne and her sister sustained the conversation, while Christopher chipped in when required – which was not often – and Lavinia maintained a nun-like silence unless addressed directly.

  She did look uncommonly pretty, wearing a navy blue frock that stopped a good six inches short of her ankles, a loose tie belt above a dropped waist and pleated skirt. The biggest surprise though, was that she had had her blonde hair bobbed, the source of much disapproval from the older women. Christopher decided that gallantry was called for and told her that the new hairstyle was most becoming. He was rewarded with a radiant smile.

  When he returned that evening to collect Lavinia, she appeared even more stunning. They were to go to the theatre – Christopher had managed to procure tickets for a light opera set in eighteenth century Bath. Lavinia wore a black silk gown, trimmed around the hem with ostrich feathers. As they took their seats in the stalls, Christopher saw heads turn to look at her.

  The musical play was a complicated comedy adventure, involving the heir to the French throne masquerading as a humble barber.

  Christopher was bored, irritated by the trivial nature of the piece. How quickly had England got over the horrors of war, keen now to indulge in a past where life was all masked balls, card games and fighting duels in which only minor wounds were inflicted. No death, maiming, destruction, annihilation and misery. Fancy costumes, clichéd lyrics, and mock sword fights were the diet craved by the London theatre-goers – and lapped up by an entranced Lavinia.

  ‘What a wonderful evening,’ she said as they left the theatre. ‘Usually I find the theatre frightfully dull. I was jolly glad there was singing. And it was so romantic. Such gorgeous frocks. I would have loved to have lived in those times. So colourful. So splendid.’

  ‘I’m delighted you enjoyed it.’

  She beamed at him. ‘Oh yes. Well, apart from the fights. It would have been better if all those parts had been cut out. But the dancing and singing and the love story…’ She clasped her hands in delight. ‘Didn’t you like it?’

  He summoned a smile. ‘Most entertaining.’ But all the while he was filled with dread about the late supper ahead of them and how it would shape the rest of his life.

  Once they were seated in the Savoy Grill and had ordered their food, they remained silent for an uncomfortable period. Lavinia’s post-theatre ebullience had drained away and she seemed nervous. Christopher wanted to wait until they were served before making his proposal, anxious that they should not be interrupted by the reappearance of the waiter. The room was buzzing. It seemed they were the only diners who were not talking – shouting even, such was the cacophony. He glanced about him, hoping to take inspiration from his surroundings for some of the light-hearted banter that came so easily to other people. But all he could think of was that he wanted to be miles away from here, in the small, barely furnished bedroom in the little house in the woods, lying in the arms of Martha.

  The waiter arrived with their Dover soles and, after refilling Christopher’s wine glass, stepped away. They ate in silence, Christopher washing the fish down with the Pouilly-Fumé, finishing the bottle, while Lavinia’s glass remained untouched.

  Knowing he could delay no longer, he caught her eye and said, ‘Lady Lavinia, I was wondering if… if you might… consent to be…’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Captain Shipley. I thought we were going to be here all night. Daddy told me you intended to propose and the answer is yes, I accept.’ She stretched her lips into a smile. ‘Do you have a ring for me?’

  He fumbled in his pocket. ‘Yes of course.’ His stomach hollow, he took out a small velvet box with the Garrard insignia, flipped it open and handed it over the table to her.

  ‘Really, Captain Shipley! Surely you can do better than that! Especially after watching that French man proposing marriage to Lady Mary in the play. Down on your knees, please.’ She looked at him archly.

  Christopher’s face burned and his gaze swept around the crowded restaurant. ‘I was thinking… perhaps when we are alone. In the cab? It’s so public here.’

  Her face creased into a frown, and she narrowed her eyes. For an instant he thought of Martha and how, when she smiled, she became beautiful, while Lavinia frowned and her beauty faded.

  He coughed, embarrassed, then said, ‘Kneeling is difficult for me… my leg…’

  She glared at him and wagged her finger. ‘It doesn’t stop you getting on a horse though, does it?’

  Mortified, Christopher lowered himself awkwardly and unsteadily, choosing the side of the table furthest away from most of the diners. He held out the ring in its box.

  ‘Put it on my finger then.’

  He complied, and was about to rise, when a large party of nearby diners who had observed the scene, got to their feet and began
to applaud. The clapping rippled from table to table, around the whole restaurant. Lavinia stood and acknowledged the homage with a graceful wave, while Christopher stumbled back up, and after a brisk nod at the appreciative diners, sank gratefully back into his chair. Desperate to settle the bill and make a rapid exit, he looked about for their waiter.

  The wine waiter approached, smiling broadly and bearing a bucket of champagne. ‘Compliments of the gentleman over there.’ He nodded towards an adjacent table, where a man raised his hand in a mock salute. Christopher waved his thanks to the stranger. He had no appetite for champagne. It might as well have been the bitterest bile. Lavinia, on the other hand, had perked up. He remembered, too late, that she only drank champagne, watching glumly as the wine waiter filled a flute for her.

  Half an hour later they were in a cab, heading back to Eaton Square. Relieved and tired now that the matter was dealt with, Kit couldn’t wait to be alone.

  Chapter 19

  It was several weeks after Christopher’s meeting with Dr Henderson, that Reggie finally told Martha that Christopher Shipley had visited St Crispin’s and was aware of their marriage.

  Martha was startled. ‘You told him of my condition? He knows?’

  Reggie shook his head. ‘I couldn’t do that to him. The poor man looked wretched.’ He smiled at her sadly. ‘As wretched as you look now, my darling.’

  His lips stretched into a grim smile. ‘But it’s as well he knows we are married. Now we can put all that behind us.’ He hesitated, searching her eyes. ‘Can’t we, Martha?’ His face was still anxious. ‘We must think about the future. Our future.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You are right. We will never speak of this again.’

  He moved towards her and took her hands in his. Bending forward he planted a kiss on the top of her head. ‘You are such a comfort to me, my dearest.’ He placed one hand on her belly, his fingers splayed out. ‘Oh, Martha. It will be my child. I promise you I will love and care for it as if it were my own. From now on I will only think of him or her as my own. And I hope that over time you will come to think that too.’ He pulled her towards him, holding her against his chest, her face pressed against the roughness of his tweed jacket, his hand cupping the back of her head.