‘Come here,’ he said.
She knew enough of him to move slowly. She finished sliding the glove from her little finger, readying herself. He’d been away for three weeks; his desire would be strong. Hers was already rising to meet it. She slid the shoes from her feet, turned and crossed the floor in her stockings, raising and placing her feet like a dancer. At the bottom of the stairs she took hold of the railing, curling her fingers around it, sliding her hand along the polished wood as she ascended. If she approached him the right way, she could make him moan aloud before they even touched.
Lillemor had no illusions that she was beautiful. That wasn’t why men hummed around her. It was elemental. They knew, somehow, that she was a woman whose passion could match their own. She didn’t need to flirt. Sometimes she didn’t even need to meet their eyes. They came to her, drunk on some scent that emanated from her. It mattered nothing how conservatively she dressed or how she kept her eyes down. In a roomful of strangers she only had to look up and there’d be male eyes waiting to catch hers.
Women, on the whole, were bemused. She’d seen Sarah Clegg studying her covertly, her brow wrinkled. Sarah was far prettier, and yet men turned from her to Lillemor with rude eagerness.
Freda, with a more knowledgeable eye than most, understood it. ‘Watch yourself,’ she’d said at the opening night of For Services Rendered at the National Theatre. ‘If those Bloomsbury bohemians catch a glimpse of you, they’ll snatch you for their own. I’m a retired old Sapphist now – you’re safe with me – but there’s no telling what they’ll do if they get you in their clutches.’
The thought hadn’t been entirely unappealing but Lillemor knew it was time for her to marry. Her allure to men – and women – wouldn’t last forever. She needed the resources a good marriage would bring. She’d been having a discreet affair with forty-five-year-old Anton Rachlew, the Norwegian naval attaché in London, which had proved an unexpectedly passionate diversion. She wanted him with a strange chemistry that took no account of the difference in their ages or the whiff of wife and children about him, but she was resolved to put it aside and set her sights on marriage. If she could be unemotional about the match, she could snare herself an ambassador, perhaps, or some wealthy businessman smart enough to come through the depression unscathed.
When she advised Anton of her decision, he surprised her. He said he’d leave his wife and children and marry her. Lillemor put it down to the emotion of the moment, but he returned the next day in a taxi with his suitcases. Lillemor extracted one more promise from him before she agreed to the registry office ceremony – that she could keep much of the freedom she’d been accustomed to.
‘It’s a new era for women,’ she’d said. ‘Even England can’t keep us down forever, so don’t think for a moment that you can.’
Lillemor schooled herself not to think of his wife or his children. She presumed they’d have no desire to meet the siren who’d stolen their father and split their family.
She came to a stop in front of Anton, seated on the stair, his face at the height of her belly. She leaned forward, reaching out to tip his chin up, and brought her lips close to his. His breath caught as she lingered, kissed him, parted her lips. He was a navy man, with all the discipline that entailed, and so when he did shudder, Lillemor felt an answering shiver of excitement.
She drew back. ‘There’s a very good show opening tonight at the National.’
He was on his feet in a fluid motion, gripping her hand, the softly-softly game over. He pulled her against him, his kiss demanding, and in a moment they were both breathing hard.
A younger man might have picked her up and carried her but Lillemor was a tall woman and Anton knew his limitations. He took her hand and pulled her up the stairs, into the bedroom and onto the bed. The first time, as had become their ritual, they would barely remove their clothes. Afterwards, when he’d recovered, he would undress her and the second time would be slow and tender. He’d quickly learned the things Lillemor had shown him and he was good at them.
When they were done, they lay next to each other easily. Lillemor longed for a cigarette, but Anton detested them and she didn’t smoke in his presence. She looked down at her rumpled clothing and smiled. She loved the pleasure of their prolonged lovemaking, but she loved the rough and fast of their first reunions too. Though they were never so fast that she didn’t have time to fit her cervical cap.
Freda was right; Marie Stopes and her birth-control clinics had changed the lives of women like Lillemor. Had she been born a decade or two earlier, it would have been much harder to avoid pregnancy. She’d incorporated the act of fitting the device into their lovemaking, letting Anton nuzzle her fingers afterwards. From his response she judged that his first wife, a serving girl he had married for the convenience of it, had no inclination towards sexual adventures.
Anton undid his buttons and pulled his twisted shirt off. Lillemor sat up, adjusted her clothing and leaned back against the bed head. ‘Shall I ring for dinner?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you. An old friend of mine is in town – Captain Hjalmar Riiser-Larsen. I thought you might enjoy dinner with a polar explorer.’
‘You know Captain Riiser-Larsen?’
‘Of course. Known him for years.’
‘You never told me that. He was in Antarctica – when? Just a year and a half ago.’ Lillemor shook her head. ‘I should have met you earlier, Anton, instead of wasting my time with Mawson!’
He grinned. ‘Well I’m glad you didn’t meet Hjalmar any earlier. He’s divorcing. Lucky I’ve made an honest woman of you, or he might have swept you off to Antarctica on his next trip.’
Lillemor stared at him. ‘Don’t tease me.’
His face became serious. ‘I’m not. All jokes aside, I think you should ask if you can go with him.’
‘You wouldn’t mind?’
He paused. ‘I trust you, Lill. He’s a handsome devil, but I know you’ll be true. Won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ she said, and kissed him again. ‘What am I going to wear? Something dashing and adventurous – but what?’
Anton leaned back and laughed as she clambered from the bed and threw open the door of her wardrobe. Devastatingly feminine? Or should she be like Louise Arner Boyd and go to dinner in pants?
Anton was right; Hjalmar was a ladies’ man. But Lillemor had prepared herself for the delicate balance of keeping her husband proud of her and his friend attracted to her without arousing jealousy or suspicion. She’d opted for an attractive but businesslike straight skirt with a pale shirt and a single-breasted jacket, and met his appraising welcome with a firm stare and a wide smile. His quick, almost unconscious glance down her body confirmed that her effect on men hadn’t waned with marriage. She put aside the sneaking thought that if she had married him rather than Anton, she’d have an open ticket to Antarctica.
‘My God, Rachlew, how did you convince this lovely creature to settle down with you?’ he asked as they took their seats. ‘I’d have thrown my own hat in the ring if I thought she’d settle for someone as old as you.’
Anton laughed but Lillemor could hear that the comment had hit home and she patted his hand. ‘Why Captain Riiser-Larsen, none of us know where Cupid’s arrow will strike,’ she said. ‘Anton swept me off my feet and I have eyes for no one else.’
She felt Anton sit a little taller in his chair and she flashed them both a smile as the waiter approached with champagne.
‘Congratulations on your last voyage,’ Anton said to Hjalmar. ‘You were in the paper here every other week it seemed.’
Hjalmar raised his glass. ‘Only because Mawson and I kept bumping into each other. The whole of Antarctica to sail in, and who should I meet?’
‘From the sound of the newspapers I thought you’d avoid each other.’
‘Quite the contrary. When we saw Discovery we blew the horn and they came sailing up close and invited me to come on board. Mawson introduced me to Captain Dav
is and showed me all over the ship. We agreed I would only explore west of forty degrees and he only east.’
Anton shrugged. ‘I’m sure Mawson is a gentleman. But a handshake between two men on the ice doesn’t mean much to the bureaucrats back home. Now the real bickering over claims is underway.’
‘Unfortunately that’s true,’ Hjalmar said. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Rachlew; this must be dull.’
‘Not at all,’ Lillemor said. ‘I’m fascinated by Antarctica. Did Anton mention to you that I applied myself to go on Mawson’s expedition?’
‘Really?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing! According to The Times, twenty-five females applied and Mawson refused to take a single one of us.’
‘What was his reason?’
‘He said he thought the sleighing would be too arduous,’ Lillemor said. ‘But he was kind enough to say that under proper conditions he thought women could probably do as well as men. I doubt he has had many dealings with Norwegian women, or he’d never say such a thing.’
‘Well, he’s a fool,’ Hjalmar said. ‘A woman has a civilising influence on polar journeys. I was on Miss Arner Boyd’s ship during the search for Amundsen. You’ve heard of her?’
‘Of course.’
‘She was braver than some of the men on board. Not to mention her generosity in giving up her own voyage to look for Amundsen. It would have cost her a fortune.’
‘By the sounds of it, she has a fortune to spare,’ Lillemor said dryly.
The three of them laughed and Anton gestured to a nearby waiter. Lillemor was relieved that they turned their attention to the food. The fact that Hjalmar had been on Louise’s ship was one more thing to annoy her about the woman.
When they’d ordered their food, Anton cleared his throat.
‘All jokes aside, my wife is determined to go to Antarctica. I thought you might be able to help.’
‘I’m grounded myself this season,’ Hjalmar said. ‘Along with the whole Norwegian whaling fleet, thanks to Unilever.’
‘But you’ll be going next season?’
‘I hope so.’
Lillemor met his eyes for just the right amount of time. ‘It mightn’t be a bad thing for Norway to be able to claim the first woman on Antarctica.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt our territorial claims at all,’ Anton said. ‘Britain would have a much harder time ignoring Norway’s explorations if the papers were full of a woman having been on board. And it would show Mawson up as an old-fashioned fart.’
Hjalmar was nodding and Lillemor sipped her drink and kept quiet. If she were a man, even without skills, she could simply have asked to go on the expedition, or paid her way. It took all her self-control to act as though she was indifferent to the outcome of the evening. But she was relieved to find that Hjalmar was progressive. He’d have no problem, she thought, in taking her on a sledging run or an exploratory ski trip. She had to keep her flirtation subtle so as not to alarm him.
By tomorrow, if they pressed him with enough wine, Hjalmar would almost start to think the idea had been his. She allowed him a smile more coquettish than before, while dropping her hand to Anton’s thigh to distract him. The trick was to ensure both men finished dinner feeling flattered.
Inside she sighed. What a game to be played.
CHAPTER 7
While Sandefjord blossomed, Ingrid kept her body off-limits to Lars all through spring. Flowers sprang up, the sky was blue and clear, the children fished and swam and picked berries. But the cool that had set in between Lars and Ingrid was impervious to the season. Lars travelled to Oslo and London, desperately negotiating with Unilever and the other whaling companies. Ingrid didn’t go with him.
The lingering chill wasn’t only between them; in town some businesses closed their doors and boarded up their windows and people turned away from Ingrid in the street. It was the soup kitchen and the food handouts, she surmised. The whaling folk were proud people and accepting charity galled them. Lars and Ingrid didn’t go to their hunting lodge that year, a decision that they made without discussion once the snow began to melt and the hills around Sandefjord rang with shots. There were plenty in Sandefjord who had greater need to hunt and fish.
Lars had been in Oslo for a few days when Ingrid heard voices in the hallway one afternoon. She came down the stairs to see who was there. Lars was standing by the door grinning like a schoolboy. She looked at him questioningly.
‘The layover’s finished, thank God,’ he said. ‘I’ve been meeting with Unilever all week and the fleet will sail again this season.’
He caught her by the waist and tried to swing her around as if she were eighteen again, their first playful moment in half a year. Ingrid realised in a flash how much she’d missed it. It was dangerous to layer ice into a marriage; it could harden and lock solid. She laughed too and put her hands on his shoulders. When he came in to kiss her she didn’t turn her face away but met him, coming home to the familiarity of their lips together.
‘That’s good,’ he said, keeping his hands on her waist. ‘It’s been too long, my dear.’
They hugged. In his grip she felt the depth of his worry and the fear he’d kept hidden from her. She regretted her distance. She should have known it wouldn’t work on him. Theirs was a partnership built on kindness. How could she have forgotten?
Lars released her. ‘Hjalmar is back from London and I’ve asked him to come for dinner. There’s so much planning to get the ships and the scientific program ready and only a few months to do it. I’ve invited Aagaard too.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘We need to talk over so many things.’
He hesitated. ‘Don’t keep fighting me on this. My mind is made up.’
She drew back, the disappointment a pain in her chest. He reached for her hand and she kept it limp.
‘It’s just too risky for us both to go,’ he said.
It took all Ingrid had to summon a smile. She didn’t speak, but nodded at him and turned away in case he saw the tears threatening. ‘I’ll speak to the cook about dinner.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat outdoors; it’s such a lovely day.’
Ingrid wanted to pound her fists and kick the wall. But there wasn’t time. She had to instruct the servants, oversee the setting of the table out on the terrace, organise the nanny to make sure the children were clean and neatly dressed, and change her own outfit. She helped Lars with his cufflinks and when he went downstairs, she sat at the dressing table and took out her eyebrow pencil. Her eyebrows had mysteriously disappeared after her fourth child and drawing them back on was a twice-daily task.
She looked into the mirror. Forty years old. She was growing heavier. On the wall of the bedroom in their wedding picture Lars was a dark-haired man with earnest eyes and Ingrid a slender young woman with a curved waist and a long neck. She hadn’t looked like that for a long time now. Even her red hair was starting to fade.
The tears came then, no matter how much she wiped under her eyelids and clenched her jaw to keep them back. She got up and walked around the room, tipping her head back to stop them falling down her cheeks and smearing her makeup.
If Lars went to Antarctica with such a rift between them, and was gone for months, what would happen when he came back? Their companionship was a precious thing and perhaps not impervious to her cold treatment. She would have to yield on this.
Ingrid rubbed her eyes and forced the tears back. She’d look even older than her forty years with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. She sat down again abruptly, shook her head and aimed the eyebrow pencil again. She took a breath to keep her hand steady.
This was the choice then. Lars and their marriage, not Antarctica. But if she stayed behind while he went south, she wouldn’t give him another child. It was time he knew what that kind of loss felt like.
The six children were all at home for dinner. Hjalmar was popular in their household and they never tired of his exploration stories, which Ingrid suspected were emb
roidered for their benefit. Lars had invited Bjarne Aagaard, the Antarctic historian he’d commissioned to write of their explorations a few years earlier. But Bjarne was opinionated and outspoken, and Ingrid hoped he wouldn’t turn the party sour.
Their long table was set up on the terrace in the sunshine when the guests arrived and they assembled outdoors. When the oysters were finished, Ingrid served Hjalmar and Bjarne generous plates of roasted grouse heaped with vegetables, before gesturing for a servant to serve the rest of them and pour the champagne.
‘Thank you, Mrs Christensen,’ Hjalmar said, as she placed it in front of him. ‘Delicious. I’m sick of English food.’
‘Have you been to the South Pole?’ Cato burst in, unable to contain himself any longer.
Hjalmar reached over and ruffled Cato’s hair. ‘No, sweet child. Just in London this time. But last time I went to Antarctica I saw land that no man had seen before, and I planted your mother’s flag on it. I saw penguins and whales, and a leopard seal nipped the end of my nose!’
‘Tell! Tell!’ Cato and Soren chorused. Sofie gave them an older sister’s disdainful look, but she still turned to Hjalmar in fascination as he began the next story.
‘I suppose you’ll be looking out for whales?’ Bjarne asked when there was a break.
Hjalmar shrugged. ‘We usually make note of them. That’s the Consul’s business after all.’
‘Tell me,’ Bjarne said, ‘have you noticed any reduction in their numbers?’
Hjalmar shot a glance in Lars’s direction. ‘I really couldn’t say. It seems to me their distribution varies from season to season. There were plenty last season.’
‘Exactly,’ Bjarne said. ‘The largest catch in recorded history. How long do you think the species can sustain such hunting?’
‘You sound like one of those socialists in the north,’ Lars said.
Bjarne pressed his lips together. ‘If those socialists in the north hadn’t destroyed the Mehamn whaling station, whaling would still be allowed here in Norway and the stocks would be exhausted.’
Chasing the Light Page 6