Together for Christmas

by Carol Rivers

  ‘You’re to say nothing of our meetings,’ he warned her as he attended to his open shirt and riding breeches. Brushing his long, black hair away from his face he turned to her and bent close. ‘Our little game must be kept a secret. If my aunt knew I was favouring you, she would dismiss you at once. And neither of us would want that, would we?’ He raised one black eyebrow as he tucked in the loose tails of his shirt and refastened the narrow strip of leather at his waist. Then, retrieving his jacket from amongst the straw, he hooked it with one finger and tossed it carelessly over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh, my lord, I’d never breathe a word to anyone,’ Hilda vowed, forgetting her modesty as she sprang to her feet, exposing the full swell of her naked breasts below her blouse. She hurried to him, trembling, aching for his arms to be around her and his passionate kisses to cover her mouth again. The first time he had brought her to the barn, he had been so impatient to possess her that he had bruised and hurt her. She had been frightened at this first encounter with a man. But Lord Guy Calvey was no ordinary man. He had become a god in her eyes. She hadn’t even tried to fight him off. She hadn’t wanted to. The wine he gave her had helped a little, flowing through her veins and helping her to relax.

  They had come to this place seven times. He would meet her at the stables in the early hours of the morning when everyone slept. Swinging her up behind him on his horse, she’d fold her arms around his waist and feel the thrill of the gallop across the fields. The ride had been exciting enough, but when he’d lifted her down from the big, sweating brown horse, Hilda had almost fainted with desire. Each time she had let him remove her clothes as they lay on the bed of straw. The cattle moved and grunted below them. In the hayloft they were completely alone. He had found the secret places that made her his willing slave. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, about what would happen the next time she saw him.

  ‘Do we have to go now?’ she pleaded as she clung to him. ‘I’ll do anything, anything you want. Only let’s stay a few minutes longer.’

  In reply, he took hold of her chin, clasping it so tightly that it hurt. One lock of black hair fell roguishly over his face as he stared into her eyes. She could feel his heart beating against her breast and smell his sweat-dampened shirt. ‘Patience,’ he whispered, his full mouth curling into a smile. ‘You’re my hungry little kitten, eager to discover how you can use your claws. And mark my words, Hilda, I will show you how to use them.’

  ‘I’m yours, my lord,’ Hilda croaked, her eyes bulging. ‘To do with as you wish.’

  ‘I expect nothing less,’ he hissed, tightening his grip even more. ‘I saw willingness in your eyes when I first looked at you on the stairs. And then when you so brazenly flirted with me in the dining room, I saw wantonness in your gaze. I knew it was a desire that matched my own for pleasures of the flesh.’ He twisted her face to one side, as if scrutinizing her profile. For a moment, Hilda was terrified. His grip was so powerful. His fingers dug into her skin and his black eyes glittered coldly. ‘But remember, you must keep our secret, if we are to continue meeting.’

  ‘I . . . I promise I’ll never tell a soul,’ Hilda choked.

  ‘The other maid in your room – does she see you slip away?’

  ‘No,’ Hilda spluttered. ‘Gracie is too worn out to wake.’

  He nodded approvingly but then frowned. ‘Do you write to your family? A friend? A sweetheart?’

  She tried to shake her head, but he held her fast in his grip. ‘I ain’t got a sweetheart, my lord. Or a family. I’m . . . I’m an orphanage girl,’ Hilda blurted out. She was upset to think that he thought she had anyone else in her life but him. She had never been with another man before. But when she’d told him that, had he believed her?

  ‘You have no one?’ he demanded again. ‘No one at all?’

  Hilda gurgled, her eyes feeling as though they were popping out of her head under the pressure of his fingers. ‘My mother died in the convent laundry and the nuns took me in.’ Hilda gulped what air she could into her throat. She thought that with just a little more pressure, he might break the bones in her neck. His dark gaze felt as though it was burning her skin. She didn’t know what she had said to make him act in this cruel way.

  Then, slowly releasing her, he smiled. He was now back to the man she loved and didn’t fear. He softly stroked her face where his fingers had gripped her so painfully. ‘An orphanage girl. Well, well, Hilda! A side to you I’m ignorant of. How fascinating!’

  Hilda was shaking so much, she couldn’t reply.

  ‘No family, no relatives, no friends.’ Pursing his lips, he blew gently on her eyes, making her lashes flutter. ‘So delicate,’ he whispered, ‘so fragile.’

  Hilda was entranced by his flattery. She would give anything to make him love her as much as she loved him.

  ‘Come now, it will be dawn soon,’ he said abruptly, as he turned away and lowered himself down through the trap door of the hayloft.

  Gathering her skirts, Hilda followed and soon found herself in the darkness. By the light of the moon, he mounted the horse and reached down for her hand. Hilda gave a soft moan as he swung her up behind him; her body ached from their lovemaking. But the pleasurable pain was a reminder of how close they were. Of the bond that had been formed between them. It was to be expected that she must keep their secret for a while. But when he fell in love with her, all that would change.

  As she threaded her hands around his waist, thoughts of the future filled her mind. A future that was beyond all her expectations. The upper-class women he entertained would fall by the wayside. They might wear fashionable clothes and chatter like pretty birds in gilded cages. But they were vain and self-centred. Hilda vowed she would always put his desires before hers. She would never refuse him. He had called her his hungry little kitten. Hilda shivered in delight at the thought. She would be patient, and when he asked her more about herself she would impress on him that he was her world. She loved no one else. She was certain her love and loyalty was what he wanted.

  Hilda closed her eyes. The wind caught her hair and tore at her clothes. Her heart was beating in time with the pounding strides of the horse. What would Flora and Mrs Bell say if they could see her now?

  One day, she would be more than just a servant at Adelphi Hall.

  Of this she was certain.

  Under the high Edwardian ceiling of the hotel, which was decorated by many glittering glass chandeliers, Flora sat beside Michael listening to the three-piece band, consisting of piano, violin and cello. Flora’s pale hand rested lightly beside the white bone-china teacup that was now empty. This West End hotel was the most elegant place she had ever visited. Although, last week, she had thought the same of the Piccadilly teashop where she and Michael had spent the whole afternoon, talking and enjoying the sumptuous pastries. But here, there was not only music to accompany their meal, but a dance floor on which some of the couples had decided to venture.

  Flora had never seen so many luxurious afternoon gowns in one small space before: fur-trimmed waist-length jackets, satin-ribboned and silk-tasselled dresses, short kimono-style overgowns, batwing blouses, three-quarter-length tiered sleeves, black, blue, white and green silk-chiffon frocks and fashionable hairstyles, finger-waved styles with side-partings, as Flora had seen advertized in the department store windows. Some women had added slim fitting head-bands with tall ostrich feathers or a sparkling jewel. Others wore heavy pearl or diamond earrings that glistened and sparkled below their ears. One or two dancers had matched their headwear to their shoes and silk stockings that were now clearly revealed by the daring new calf-length hemlines.

  She eventually managed to return her attention to the waiter who was hovering beside the table asking if there was anything else they desired.

  Michael raised one eyebrow. ‘More tea, Flora?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Flora couldn’t manage even a sip more! It had seemed bad manners to refuse the wide selection of daintily made crustless sandwiches and French pastries.
The waiter had set them out on three-tier stands placed on the spotless white linen of the table in front of them and served them with silver tongs.

  Their waiter, a young man dressed in a white shirt, black bow tie and black waistcoat, removed the teacups and smiled charmingly at Flora. ‘There’s nothing else I can bring you, madam?’

  Flora blushed. ‘No, thank you.’

  When the waiter had gone she giggled. ‘Madam, indeed!’

  Michael laughed. His thick, brown hair was brushed carefully away from his face, which still bore a slight tan. His broad shoulders were hidden under a smart dark jacket and his tie was a subdued navy against his blue-striped shirt. A silver tie pin and cufflinks to match were his only accessories. ‘I must admit the last cream scone almost did for me.’

  As always, Flora felt her tummy tilt and twist when he looked into her eyes.

  ‘I would like to ask you to dance,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘But I would embarrass you, I’m sure.’

  Flora only knew the steps to the waltz, anyway. The dancers on the floor seemed very accomplished and she would be embarrassed if she couldn’t dance as well as they could. ‘You’ll walk without your cane soon,’ she assured him.

  ‘Do you really believe that? After the tumble I took last week, I’m not so certain.’

  ‘But you got up and tried again,’ Flora reminded him. Since Christmas, after each treatment with the doctor, Michael had tried to walk unaided. One day, he had stumbled, unable to break his fall. Despite his great embarrassment, he hadn’t allowed the doctor or Flora to help him. When he’d finally pulled himself up, his face had been full of defeat.

  ‘Perhaps I’m a lost cause, Flora.’ His hand covered hers lightly.

  Her heart beat so rapidly, she could hardly breathe. ‘Please don’t talk like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know how painful the exercises are for you,’ she acknowledged. ‘But when I met you, you couldn’t walk even a few feet without your cane.’

  ‘I know I must be patient.’

  She smiled. ‘Patience comes with practice.’

  ‘You’re very wise for one so young.’ He hesitated, his fingers tightening over her hand. ‘Flora, we have enjoyed these few weeks together so much. And come to know each other so well. If I should get back on my feet and was to return to the conflict, I would hope that perhaps you would correspond with me.’ He added swiftly, ‘Of course, I may presume too much, as you’re already writing to Will.’

  Flora looked into his searching green gaze. How could she give him any sort of promise? It was true, they had become very good friends. After Christmas, he had taken her for drives in the car and short strolls along the Embankment. In the blustery weather of January they had sheltered in bookshops and teashops and had always found something to talk about. But what could come of such a friendship, Flora wondered, if he should ever return to the battlefield? There would be days and nights of endless waiting and worry that he would never come home again.

  ‘I know how much you want to rejoin your men,’ she told him. ‘But that hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘If I’m to recover, as you believe I will, then it may happen.’

  Flora shook her head. ‘I can’t give you an answer, Michael.’

  ‘Because of Will?’

  She hesitated, as her feelings for Michael were growing stronger. To think that what was happening to Will might also happen to him was almost more than she could bear. ‘Must we talk about the war?’

  He looked away and sighed. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’

  Flora looked at the couples dancing. She wondered if the Suffragette in Hyde Park had been right when she had said there would be fewer wars if women had a say in the running of the country. Could any war bring happiness at the cost of so many human lives? She knew Michael believed in the cause, but did she? Enough to give her promise to write to him? Flora looked down at their entwined fingers. ‘Ask me again before you leave,’ she replied, and at once saw the hope return to his face. She added quickly, ‘But the selfish part of me wants you to be here in London where you’re safe.’

  ‘Then let’s enjoy the moment.’

  The trio continued to play and the music drifted pleasurably around them. But all the talk of war had cast its shadow. Flora didn’t want to think of a future where Michael became a soldier again. But neither did she wish to see him remain a cripple.

  Chapter Twenty

  February brought gales and, in the middle of the month, a letter from Will:

  Things are not good here, my dear. Our dug-outs are filled with stinking mud and whatever elements rush into them after a downpour. Sometimes the mules and horses that carry our supplies and artillery are bogged down in the mess. A shell bursts and their remains are scattered, along with the poor souls who guided them. Yesterday, a shell burst in front of us. It knocked me senseless, but I came round to discover I was stuck in a large hole, with corpses flung over me. Some of the dead I knew, or had known. I wanted to give up then. I was finished! Before long another shell burst and I looked up to see a German standing at the top of the crater. His rifle was directed towards me. I thought with some relief that my wish was granted. But then he toppled, and rolled down the incline towards the pile of bodies. I looked in his open eyes; no life was in them. It was his end that day, not mine. And so here I am, writing to you. God only knows how I’ve lasted.

  The letter was signed with his deepest affection. Flora brushed the tear from her eye and thought of her friend. He had been away for fourteen months. The young boy was now a man. He had experienced terrors of all kinds, and narrowly missed death. Flora folded the letter back into its envelope. Will’s story was not unfamiliar to her. Each day, there were more wounded soldiers from the Front returning as well as merchant shipmen who had survived Germany’s U-boat attacks.

  The next morning, she found the doctor sitting quietly in his room. ‘I’ve received news of Wilfred,’ he told her. ‘His remains have been found near Ypres.’

  Flora sat down heavily on the chair. What could she say to comfort him?

  It was some time before he spoke again. Clearing his throat, he continued. ‘They say he is buried close to the firing line. His personal effects will be returned to me.’ The doctor stood up, his shoulders bent forward. ‘I shall write to my sister in Bath, Wilfred’s aunt. They were close and no doubt she will help me to arrange a memorial service.’

  Flora wanted to put her arms around him. But she knew he wouldn’t want her pity. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Nothing, my dear. You had better see to the patients.’

  Flora wondered how it was possible for the doctor to continue as normal. He looked very tired; the grief in his face had made him seem a much older man.

  ‘Perhaps I should send them away?’ she ventured.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ he assured her, patting his pockets gently. ‘I had prepared myself for the worst. Now, let us carry on.’ He walked slowly to the door. Flora followed. It didn’t help when she went into the waiting room to see, amongst the other patients, a young man leaning heavily on his crutch and another sitting on one of the chairs, shaking fiercely. The signs of shell shock were easy to recognize now. These men were suffering the after-effects of a prolonged violent experience, but at least had returned alive. Wilfred, even in death, was exiled. He lay, where so many hundreds of thousands of British men now lay, on foreign soil.

  On Sunday, Flora went to see Mrs Bell to share the unhappy news with her. By the time she arrived at Hailing House, the rain was driving down, sweeping across the road in gusts and forming large puddles in the gutters.

  ‘You’ll catch your death coming out in all this,’ said Mrs Bell as Flora shook the rain from her umbrella. ‘I’ll put your coat by the range. You’d better give me your boots too. And don’t try to hide the newspaper you’ve put inside them.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to buy some new ones.’

  ‘About time too. There’
s more holes than soles in these.’ She held the wet newspaper up and wrinkled her nose. ‘If I was your mother I’d scold you thoroughly for not taking proper care of yourself. But then as I’m not, and am only a bossy old lady, you’ll no doubt think of me as just a wretched nuisance, like our Hilda did.’

  ‘I’ll never think that.’ Flora smiled.

  ‘Can’t you afford a new pair of boots for yourself?’

  ‘I’m saving up to visit Hilda.’

  ‘In that case I’ll see what I can find in the charity box.’ Mrs Bell disappeared, but was back very soon, minus the newspaper and holding a pair of brown leather boots. ‘Lady Hailing gave me plenty of cast-offs for the poor and needy in the soup kitchen. There’s any amount to choose from so you won’t be leaving anyone short. These look about your size.’

  Flora took the boots. They weren’t much to look at, but were of the strong brown leather variety with hard-wearing thick soles. ‘Are you sure you can spare them?’

  ‘They’ll see you all right for now. Slip them on and I’ll pour us a cup of Rosie. Then I can show you the letter I had from Hilda.’

  ‘She wrote to you?’ Flora asked as she sat down at the table and leaned over to lace up the comfortable boots.

  ‘Yes, I’m relieved to say she did.’

  Flora watched Mrs Bell pour the rich brown tea, followed by creamy milk and a teaspoon of sugar, and serve a generous slice of Bakewell tart. Then Mrs Bell sat down beside her and took the letter from her pocket. Placing her half-spectacles on her nose, she began to read:

  Dear Mrs Bell, I was paid my wage at Christmas and should be returning your pound. But Mrs Burns has asked me to make a new dress. Good cloth is very expensive so I hope you can wait a little longer. You’ll be pleased to know I am highly regarded here by someone special and hope to improve my position soon. Is Aggie still with you? We are to lose more staff. James and John, the footmen, may have to go. I shan’t like that at all. Even more jobs will be put our way. I’m already rushed off me feet along with Gracie. But I take comfort from the fact I won’t be a maid much longer. With my best wishes, yours, Hilda.