by Teresa Crane
‘Isobel—’ He stopped. He didn’t have to tell her yet. Not yet.
Outside the window a tree rustled and was still.
‘Please?’ She slipped her hand behind his head and pulled his mouth down to hers. There was a long moment of silence. When he lifted his head she smiled, suddenly mischievous. ‘Am I learning to kiss properly?’
He laughed a little. ‘You certainly are.’
‘I’ve had a good teacher.’ She stretched, her arms above her head. ‘Make love to me,’ she said again, softly.
In silence he shifted her weight from his lap and stood up, slipping off his jacket, reaching for his tie. Isobel watched with fascinated eyes as he undressed. Almost always their love-making had been in the dark.
Again there was movement by the window. Neither of them noticed.
Naked, he leaned to her, opened the buttons of her blouse, baring her breasts completely. Her flesh roughened suddenly in the cold, and she shivered a little, laughing.
He took off her small boots very carefully, placed them neatly side by side on the floor, lifted her skirt to reveal dark silk stockings. She moved a little.
‘Lie still,’ he said softly. ‘Let me.’
In the quiet winter twilight beyond the window the leaves trembled slightly and were still.
Isobel bent her long, pale legs and held open her arms to her lover.
Poppy, out in the darkness, gasped in anguish and flung herself from the leaf-veiled window, turned to run blindly back towards the house, sobbing as she ran. ‘I hate them! I hate them!’ She stumbled across the wet grass, tripped and fell, lay for a moment winded and crying before she scrambled to her feet. ‘I hate them!’ Within the house, lamps were being lit; the long windows glowed with warmth. The smell of woodsmoke was heavy on the air. Mist lifted from the river. Muddy and sobbing, the child threw herself through the front door and into the hall.
Elizabeth, half-way down the sweeping staircase, stopped in astonishment, poised, one hand upon the curved banister as her daughter clattered into the hall beneath her. ‘Poppy! Why, Poppy – whatever’s wrong?’
The child flew to her, slipping on the stairs, sobs choking her, threw herself into her mother’s bemused arms. ‘Mama! Mama – I hate them!’
*
Isobel’s eyes were tear-filled, huge with misery and affront. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Why didn’t you? Do you think I’m a child? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I—’ Kit shook his head helplessly. ‘Darling, I’m sorry. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to hurt you. To upset you. For Christ’s sake – it’s bad enough that I have to leave you.’
Isobel was curled beside him on the wicker sofa, his jacket about her naked shoulders. The tears welled over, running down her smooth cheeks almost unnoticed. The smoke from his cigarette wreathed in the cold air. ‘When?’ she asked at last. ‘When do you have to go?’
‘In two days.’
‘Oh, God!’ She caught her breath miserably. In silence he slipped a hand into the pocket of the jacket that covered her, and handed her a handkerchief. She mopped at her tears. ‘Two days!’
He took her hand. ‘Yes. We still have two days,’ he said gently. ‘A lifetime. Until the last moment, a lifetime. Don’t spoil it.’
She lifted her head, searching his face in the half-darkness with the drowned, forget-me-not eyes. ‘You really have to go?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But – you’ll come back? You promise you’ll come back?’
There was a long moment’s silence. Then he put a finger to her chin to lift her face to his and kissed her, smoothing her wet cheeks with his finger. ‘If it’s in my power, my darling, then, yes, I’ll come back.’
‘Oh, it’s too unkind!’ She had started to cry again, very quietly.
He turned to her, stopped, his head suddenly lifted. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘You’ll never know—’
‘Ssh!’ His arm tightened so fiercely about her that she gasped. Then she, too, heard it. The sound of footsteps; heavy, authoritarian, no attempt being made to disguise their swift approach. And with them the glimmering flash of a swinging lantern.
‘Jesus!’ said Kit.
’Papa!’ Panic-stricken, Isobel rolled from the little couch and reached for the tangle of her clothes.
‘No.’ Kit’s voice was crisp. ‘No time. Put this on.’ He slipped the jacket back over her shoulders, buttoning it firmly into place. Before he had finished, the door crashed open.
In the brief silence that followed, Kit, still naked, placed himself between the sobbing Isobel and her father.
Very precisely but with a hand that shook, George Brookes placed the lantern he carried on the table, turned to face them. ‘By Christ,’ he said, and, like the hand, his voice trembled with anger and outrage, ‘the child was right, then! By God, young man, I’ll have your hide for this.’
‘Papa—’ Isobel’s voice was a frightened breath.
‘Quiet! I’ll deal with you later, my girl.’ The man stepped forward and raised his hand. Kit did not move. The back-handed blow brought blood, which trickled down his chin from his split lip.
’Papa – no! Please!’ Isobel slipped from behind Kit and caught her father’s arm. ‘Don’t hurt him. Please!’ He shook her off roughly, and she stumbled. George Brookes hit Kit again, this time with the flat of his hand, rocking his head. Still Kit neither moved nor spoke.
‘Well?’ Brookes reached out and caught Kit by the hair, bringing his bloodied face close to his own. The lantern flickered and steadied, casting long shadows about the room. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, you limb of Satan?’ He twisted his hand viciously into the thick hair. ‘By Christ, I should kill you for this.’
‘Papa!’ Isobel was crying uncontrollably.
Her father threw Kit from him and turned to her. She recoiled, flinching, at the look on his face. ‘Slut!’ he said very quietly. ‘Wanton slut! Get dressed. Now. Get back to the house. Your poor mother is waiting for you. And as for you, sir—’ the quiet, venomous emphasis on the last word was the worst of insults ‘—get off my property now, before I whip you off it. And never – you hear me? – never come near it or my daughter again. You will never see her, never speak to her, never mention her name again, you hear? Or, by Christ, I will swing for you.’
‘Sir—’ Kit’s voice was very quiet ‘—I must protest! Please don’t blame Isobel. All of this is my fault entirely.’
‘I don’t doubt that for an instant,’ Brookes said grimly. ‘You, sir, are a knave and a scoundrel. You have taken advantage of an innocent young girl. You have ruined her. Ruined her! And as to the harm to which you have exposed her small sister – there are no words for that. There are names for men like you; and I shall make quite certain that both your uncle and your commanding officer hear them all.’
Isobel, sobbing incoherently, was struggling into her clothing. Her father bent to pick up Kit’s trousers and flung them at him. ‘For God’s sake, man, make yourself decent and go. Before I lose control of myself entirely.’
Kit did not move. ‘I will go. But not before I’ve spoken.’
The other man’s face suffused. ‘You whippersnapper! Get out! Now!’
Kit’s eyes were steady. Dark blood dripped from his chin, staining the trousers he held. ‘I wish to apologise. Sincerely. I’ve already told you, the fault is entirely mine.’
George Brookes made a sound so close to a growl that Isobel jumped and backed away from him fearfully.
Kit’s eyes moved to her. ‘I also want to say,’ his voice was firm, ‘that I love Isobel. And I believe she loves me.’
The sound this time was more like a roar. Isobel began crying again, truly frightened. ‘Kit – Kit, please go! I don’t want him to hurt you again. Please!’
Stubbornly, Kit shook his head. ‘He can do as he likes to me. I want a promise that he won’t harm you.’
Brookes stepped forward swiftly and surprisingly lightly for such a big ma
n. The fist that caught Kit on the point of his chin sent him reeling and flung him crashing through one of the wicker chairs, splintering it, and on to his hands and knees on the floor. ‘Impudent puppy! You’ll demand nothing. I’ll deal with my daughter as I see fit. Isobel! Come!’ He caught her arm and pulled her to the door.
‘Kit! Kit!’
Dazed, Kit shook his head, like a dog coming out of water, attempted to get up, collapsed and fell, hitting his head as he did so. In the shadowed light of the lantern the last the distraught Isobel saw of him before her father, hand vice-like about her wrist, dragged her, weeping, across the lawns towards the house, was his still, marked face and a long, lax hand, the fingers smeared with blood.
*
The disaster was complete. No one in the household was unaffected by it. Isobel, pale, haggard and almost constantly in tears, was confined to her room. Her mother too took to her bed, prostrated, she declared, by a migraine brought on by shock. Poppy crept about the house like the mouse Kit had nicknamed her, crushed by guilt, alternately angry; confused and miserable. It was almost twenty-four hours before, in defiance of her father’s orders, she could bring herself to creep to Isobel’s door.
‘Isobel? Isobel, are you all right?’
‘Go away.’ The words were flat, Isobel’s voice hoarse with tears.
‘Please, Isobel—’
‘I said, go away.’
Poppy hesitated for a moment, half-turned from the door, then, mouth set in a sudden stubborn line, changed her mind and pushed it open. Isobel stood in her dressing-gown at the window, looking out into the cloudy afternoon. At the sound, she turned. Poppy gasped. Her sister’s face was ravaged, eyes swollen and reddened, skin pinched and pale. Her hair, usually so smooth and shining, was an unkempt mop. A tray of cold, congealing food stood untouched upon the table. ‘I told you to go away. I never want to see or speak to you again.’
Poppy was trembling, tears welled in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Isobel. Truly I am. I was just—’ The words trailed wretchedly to nothing.
‘You were just poking that stupid nose of yours in where it had no right to be.’ The words were vicious with anger and misery.
‘I’m sorry—’
’It’s too late to be sorry!’ Isobel had locked her hands together as if in an effort to prevent herself from slapping Poppy. ‘You’ve ruined my life! I’ll never forgive you! Never!’ In a sudden paroxysm of tears she threw herself face down on the bed, her face buried in her arms. ‘He’s going away tomorrow. He’ll be killed. I know he will. I’ll never see him again! And it’s your fault! I hate you!’
‘Isobel, don’t say that – please don’t say that!’ The child, too, was crying helplessly. ‘What do you mean about Kit going away?’
‘He told me yesterday. He’s got to go back to France. He told me just before Papa—’ Isobel could not bring herself to go on. Her sobs were hoarse and exhausted. Poppy watched in awed and anguished silence. ‘He could be dead by next week,’ her sister said at last. ‘And I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye!’ The thought brought a new flood of tears. ‘Oh, go away, you little monster! I want to die! I just want to die!’
Poppy backed away from the bed and stood for a moment before creeping out on the landing and closing the door quietly behind her.
Ten minutes later, scarfed and gloved and booted against the winter chill, face still tear-stained, she had slipped from the house unnoticed and was running along the muddy path to the village.
*
‘Why, my dear, whatever is the matter? It’s little Poppy Brookes, isn’t it?’ Harold Matthews, rector of the tiny village church of St Peter’s, was a tall, thin man with a large, bony nose upon which perched a pair of wire-rimmed half-spectacles over which peered a pair of shrewd, kindly eyes.
Poppy was sobbing for breath. Her small, distraught face was pinched with cold. ‘Is Kit here? Oh, please – is Kit here?’
‘He is indeed.’ The man stepped back. ‘Come in, come in. Martha will make tea.’ He shut the door and went to the foot of the stairs. ‘Kit? You have a visitor.’ He turned back to Poppy. ‘He’s packing. He has to leave tomorrow.’
Poppy, with an effort, remembered her manners. ‘I know. And I’m sorry to bother you like this—’
The man put up a hand. ‘It’s no bother, my dear.’ Some two years before Poppy was born, George Brookes had objected vehemently to the then new rector’s plans to reorganise the extremely limited seating space in the ancient village church, that would entail doing away with the traditional family pews. No member of the Brookes family had since set foot in the church, preferring to attend the larger St Michael’s in the next parish. ‘Let me take your coat. Come – there’s a fire in the study.’ He led the way to a small, comfortable, book-lined room. The leather furniture was cracked and battered, the curtains and rugs faded, but a fire roared in the small fireplace and it was cosily warm. ‘Sit yourself down. Kit won’t be a moment. Would you care for biscuits with your tea?’ Somewhere here, he was certain, lay the explanation of his nephew’s grim demeanour and marked face; the laboured story of lost footing in the mud of the woods had been far from convincing.
‘Yes, please.’ Poppy’s voice was a whisper. The thudding of her heart was easing, but tears were still very close.
The kindly eyes were concerned. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing more I can do?’ Poppy shook her head. The man patted her shoulder. ‘Then I’ll go and organise tea. Ah – Kit—’ The door had opened. At the sight of Kit’s bruised face, Poppy’s tears brimmed over again.
‘Poppy! What on earth are you doing here?’ Kit came swiftly over and knelt beside her, taking her hands. ‘What’s happened? Isobel – she is all right? Tell me—’
‘She hates me – she said she hates me – it’s all my fault – I told on you – I looked through the window—’
‘Ssh.’ He pulled her head on to his shoulder and held her for a moment as the sobs shook her small body. ‘Hush now. No one hates you, believe me. Now, tell me what’s happened.’
‘Isobel can’t leave her room and Mama says it has all made her ill, and Papa is so angry he frightens me, and now Isobel says she hates me and wants to die.’ The words were all but incoherent. ‘And she says you’ve got to go back to the war and she didn’t have a chance to say goodbye—’ She raised her head. ‘Oh, and look at your poor face!’
He smiled a little grimly and more than a little lopsidedly. ‘Never mind about that. Come on now, calm down. You’ve been a very brave girl coming here. Now – will you be an even braver girl and do me a favour?’
‘Oh, yes! Anything.’
He smiled again. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea. Then, if I write a note, will you take it to Isobel for me? And be very careful not to let anyone else see?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes! Of course I will.’
He reached a hand gently to stroke her hair. ‘My dear little Mouse.’
*
‘Do you like me a bit better now?’ Poppy asked, eyeing her sister doubtfully. ‘I couldn’t think of anything else to do to show you I was sorry.’
Isobel turned a tired face to her. Her eyes were almost feverishly brilliant. She held out a hand. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Sisters shouldn’t say such things to each other.’ The eyes dropped again to the note she held. She lifted it to her lips. ‘Will you take a note back for me?’ Poppy nodded. ‘And – he’s given me an address to write to. Will you post the letters for me?’
‘Yes.’
Isobel threw herself backwards on to the bed, arms outflung, still clutching the note. ‘He loves me,’ she said softly.
Poppy hunched her shoulders. ‘I know. He told me.’
*
Three days later, with Kit still on his way to rejoin his unit, the war that had taken so many souls, that had caused immeasurable destruction and misery, was over. The news transcended even the troubled atmosphere of Tellington Place. A pale, subdued Isobel was allowed downstairs to the celebration dinner and after a bo
ttle of Madeira was emptied, Elizabeth was inclined to tears.
‘My poor boys.’ She stood in the Orangery before the portraits. ‘So full of life. Why did they have to die?’
‘For King and country, my dear.’ George put an awkward arm about her narrow shoulders. ‘For King and country. Never allow yourself to think otherwise.’
In the dining-room, Poppy surveyed her sister with pragmatic brown eyes. ‘Why haven’t you eaten anything?’ She herself had polished off every morsel on her plate. ‘The pie was awfully good.’
Isobel’s dreaming eyes, too big for her thin face, turned upon her young sister. ‘I’m not hungry.’
Poppy dipped her spoon into the trifle. ‘Kit will come back now, won’t he?’
‘Yes.’ Isobel’s lips twitched to the smallest of smiles.
‘Papa will be watching you.’
The smile became wider, and sweeter and was bent full upon her. ‘I know,’ Isobel said gently. ‘But he won’t be watching you, will he?’
In the event it was a couple of weeks from Christmas before the first word of Kit came, and it was Lucy who brought it. In the intervening weeks Isobel had given everyone cause for concern. She ate little or nothing, spoke hardly at all. Her shining good looks were transposed to a brittle beauty, the sharpness of her bones gleaming through her pale, almost transparent, skin. She was lethargic, constantly tired, and took to spending long hours lying on her bed, eyes fixed wide upon the ceiling. Even her father was moved to a more gentle attitude towards her, but she would have none of it. With the stubborn inflexibility that so often masks weakness, she ignored his overtures. She wanted one thing and one thing only.