Poppy sat there weeping helplessly. She rocked backwards and forwards with the pathetic body in her arms, until Mary came home.
'Poppy, love, what is it?' Mary asked in alarm, and Poppy mutely held out the puppy's body. 'Oh, my dear! I am so sorry. How did it happen?'
Suddenly a flood of grief overwhelmed Poppy, mingled with helpless fury.
'Look, he's been sick! He's been poisoned! It was Ivy!'
'Ivy? Poppy, darling, what do you mean?'
'She hated him, she was jealous because I loved him! She said he tore up her drawings and he didn't! She left them on the floor! She's killed him!'
'Poppy, no! Not Ivy! Not your little sister! She couldn't be so wicked!'
'Couldn't she? She's always messing about with those herbs of hers. Some of them are poisonous. She gave him something, I know she did!'
'I know she thinks she's making medicines and such, but she doesn't really know much about those plants. Even if she did, she wouldn't kill your little dog! She's not wicked, and she knows how much you love him.'
'That's why she did it, she's jealous,' Poppy insisted. 'He's the only thing that was ever truly mine!'
'It could have been rat-bait someone put down. You know he's always rooting about in the gardens. Or he might have found something up on the Chase.'
'You'll never believe me against her,' Poppy said bleakly, and rose to her feet.
'Poppy, that's not true, but it's a wicked thing to suggest she'd deliberately poison your dog. Where are you going?'
'To bury him.'
'In the garden? Shall I help you?'
'No, I'm taking him up on the Chase, where he was happy, poor mite. Somewhere Ivy can't get at him again!' she added under her breath, and heedless of Mary's pleas to wash her hands first and clean her skirt, she walked away.
Ivy vigorously denied having anything to do with the dog's death.
'He was perfectly well when I let him out at dinner time,' she insisted. 'He probably ate something then, from the garden. Anyway, why all the fuss? It's only a dog. You can always have another if you're so fond of them.'
'I'll never have another dog for you to kill!' Poppy shouted at her. 'You did it because you knew I loved him!'
Ivy shrugged. 'You're mad!'
When Poppy carried her woes to Marigold her older sister was incredulous.
'You can't believe that of Ivy!' she exclaimed.
'No-one does,' Poppy sighed. 'Especially as she's been all sweet and helpful lately. I don't really believe it myself when I'm not mad at her, but there's always a niggle of doubt.'
'Forget it,' Marigold advised. 'She's growing up, her moods change.'
It was not mentioned again, but Poppy reverted to her former apathy, apparently uncaring. Mary worried, but never guessed that under the apparent acceptance Poppy burned with an even more fierce determination to get away when the first chance offered.
*
'You come with us.' He spoke a gutteral form of French, but by concentrating Richard could understand him. He needed something to divert his mind from the horror of Frank's death. He hoped the poor fellow had been unconscious before the fire began.
The man with the rifle, a plump man in his sixties, gestured to Richard to follow him. Limping, by now weak from loss of blood, Richard walked behind him. He was followed by the second man, not much above his own age, who covered him with the revolver.
To his relief it was not far, just across a couple of fields where cattle, oblivious to the guns pounding relentlessly a few miles away, peacefully grazed. They came to a small farm, built of stone with a grey slate roof, steeply pitched. Round it were various outbuildings forming an irregular shaped yard.
The older man turned and spoke.
'You are English? That was your aeroplane?'
'Yes,' Richard answered. 'To both questions.'
'Come, you must lie in the barn, we dare not take you in the house. Go and fetch water and bandages,' he ordered the younger man, presumably his son, for now Richard could see a distinct resemblance in the broad, flat faces and bright blue eyes.
He took Richard inside and helped him climb a steep ladder into a loft, where he swiftly arranged some bales of straw to form a barricade in one corner. He led Richard behind this and told him to take off his clothes and lie down.
'We will find you some old clothes to wear, but first my son will deal with that cut. It looks bad.'
'Just a bit deep,' Richard replied, breathing heavily after climbing the ladder. 'I am most grateful to you, but you must not endanger yourself or your family by helping me.'
The old man spat contemptuously.
'These Prussian devils attack little Belgium. I fight them any way I can.'
Richard was dealt with most efficiently. The son, by name Gaston, cleaned the deep cut in Richard's thigh, pronounced no muscles torn and, with Richard eyeing the preparations somewhat apprehensively, inserted several stitches.
'I stitch up the animals if they need it,' he explained, grinning as he saw Richard's expression. 'Now eat this food while I fetch some blankets. You must try to sleep, it's past nine o'clock. I will come to you after we've done the milking in the morning.'
To his surprise, Richard slept heavily. He felt rather muzzy when the clatter of milk churns below awoke him, and he suspected the Belgians had dosed his food with something to dull the pain.
Gaston clambered up the ladder soon afterwards.
'Good, you have slept well,' he approved. 'Here is bread, sausage, cheese, and a jug of coffee. I cannot come again until this evening, for any unusual movements would alert the Germans. They are about all the time, one never knows when they will come spying on us. Stay here behind the straw bales, and if one of them pokes his head into the loft he'll never guess you're here.'
'Do they suspect I wasn't killed in the plane?' Richard asked.
'Perhaps, but by this evening I shall know. My brother works at the cafe.'
Richard slept again for much of the day. It was dusk before Gaston returned.
'Here, eat this while I dress the wound,' he said abruptly, handing Richard a bowl filled with delicious rabbit stew.
'What did your brother discover?'
'It's not good news, I'm afraid,' Gaston explained as he tended Richard's gashed leg. 'They know there were two men in the plane, but only your friend's body was found. They have been searching the area all day. We need to move you tonight, before they begin to search the buildings nearby. They are aggrieved because you shot down two of their planes.'
'I'm strong enough to walk now, thanks to your care,' Richard said swiftly. 'I cannot put you in danger, I will leave when it is dark and see if I can get to the coast.'
'You would be picked up by a patrol before you had gone far. No, we have friends to the east, which is the last direction they would expect you to go. They will hide you tomorrow, and take you further away from the lines the next day. Then you should be safe. You speak good French, you could pass for one of us with those ignorant Germans.'
He would not accept Richard's arguments and in the end Richard was thankful. From imagining himself a prisoner, at the very least, of the Germans, he was beginning to entertain hopes that he might somehow get back to France and rejoin his squadron.
'You must promise me that if we are challenged you will leave me? I would not be easy if I had brought harm to your family.'
'It is my war first,' Gaston, dignified and calm, reminded him. 'We are grateful for all your help, you British, but it is Belgium which has been violated. I am prepared to fight too.'
They set off an hour later, and Richard was soon aching all over. He hadn't realised how weak he felt. Gaston set a steady but easy pace, for which Richard gave silent thanks. They walked along little-used paths, keeping to the woodlands or beside hedges to take advantage of the slightest cover. After an hour Gaston called a halt.
He produced a flask. 'Drink this, my friend. It will give you strength.'
The raw spirit burnt Richa
rd's throat, but also poured strength into him. For the next half hour he felt equal to anything. Once they almost stumbled over a drunken German, sleeping off his excesses in a ditch, and Gaston silently produced a knife. Richard caught at his arm.
'No! It will only arouse suspicion and point to the way we're taking,' he hissed.
Gaston shrugged, but put away the knife.
'Perhaps, but there are many of my countrymen who would kill any German if they had the chance. You are too squeamish, my friend.'
Richard acknowledged it. Killing a soldier who would, if he had the chance, kill you, was one thing. He found he could not bring himself to kill a helpless man unable to defend himself.
After that Richard had little recollection of the journey. He vaguely remembered wading through streams. Once they climbed a tree to swing across a narrow river on a rope Gaston had come prepared with. Often they had to dodge sentries, and on the one occasion they had to leave shelter to cross a railway line they were shot at, but managed to get away.
He barely spoke when Gaston thrust him into a disused stable and told him to wait while he roused his unsuspecting host-to-be.
'My cousin Mathilde,' Gaston said briefly when he came back and shook Richard awake. 'She will dress the wound, and her brother will take you further tonight. Sleep well, and good luck!'
He was gone before Richard had time to say anything but an inadequate 'Thank you.'
'Would you like some food now, or in the morning?' Mathilde, a buxom blonde woman of about thirty asked matter of factly. 'You look exhausted.'
'My pardon, Madame. I forget my manners,' Richard said, struggling to rise to his feet.
She pushed him back. 'Sit there. I'll fetch a hot drink, then you must climb up into the loft. On second thoughts you'd better get up there now, you won't stay awake long enough to wait for a drink.'
'What time is it?'
'Two o'clock.'
'Only two? I thought it must be nearly morning!'
'Gaston has to be back for the milking. Now, up the ladder with you, unless you want me to carry you.'
Richard laughed. It was the first time he'd been amused since the plane had crashed.
'I could if necessary,' she said with an answering grin, 'but I confess I'd rather not.'
Richard scrambled up the ladder, and rolled himself in the blankets Mathilde threw after him. He knew no more until she woke him late the following afternoon.
'You must eat as well as sleep,' she told him briskly. 'I need to dress your wound and put on some of the ointment Gaston left for you. He uses it for the cattle, it's very good,' she added with a twinkle in her blue eyes.
He was ravenous, and swiftly demolished the bread and cheese she brought him.
'There will be a hot meal before you have to leave, and I will pack some food for you. It's a longer journey tonight, and Jean will have to stay there tomorrow.'
'Won't he be missed?' Richard asked, frowning.
'He has a sweetheart in the same village, he often goes to spend the day with her. If anyone asks, that is where he is.'
Once more Richard was called upon to exercise great endurance that night. He braced himself with the thought that all the time he was getting further away from the area of the crash, and therefore further away from discovery.
This time they arrived at a small village just before dawn, and Richard was astonished to be led to the neat square house alongside the church.
'The priest will hide you for as long as necessary,' Jean told him, seeing his surprise.
'A priest?'
'Why not? Belgium is his country as much as ours.'
Wondering whether he was to spend the next few days, until he recovered sufficiently to attempt to make his way back across the lines, in a church crypt, Richard waited with interest to see this man.
He was old, incredibly old, with long white hair and twisted, gnarled hands. But his face was unlined, the innocent, untroubled face of a child, and his grey eyes as guileless as a baby's.
The thought made Richard think of Marigold's child. He must get back across the lines and let her know he was safe before the child was born. He'd have been reported missing, and she must be frantic with worry.
The priest, Father Matthieu, beckoned them into the house. There were just the two rooms downstairs, a huge kitchen from which the enticing smell of coffee was already drifting, and a big room used as both sitting room and study.
In the large window embrasure was a desk, awash with heaps of paper. Two deep armchairs flanked the fireplace, and books were everywhere. They filled to capacity the deep shelves which lined every bit of wall not taken up with window or door, and were piled high on every small table and chair, apart from one of the armchairs.
'Welcome, my son. Take the armchair, I am just across to the church to say Mass. My housekeeper will bring you breakfast and we will talk later. Jean, do you come with me? Have you been to confession? I need someone to serve, none of the lazybones is up early enough this morning.'
Jean cast Richard a wry grin and shrugged.
'I'll explain to him later,' he said as he followed the priest out of the room.
*
'I'm coming! Can't you wait a minute?'
Janie muttered impatiently as she answered the strident peal of the doorbell. She had a lot to do and wanted to get on with her packing. She was off to London tomorrow to work in one of the big hospitals there. She rather fancied being a nurse with all those handsome wounded officers to look after. Mrs Cranworth had been very understanding.
'It's not as if we ever do any entertaining now, it must be very tedious for you. I've been thinking of shutting up some of the rooms. Emmie wants to go too and the rest of us could manage easily. In fact I'm wondering whether I ought to volunteer myself,' she said. 'I could be with Mr Cranworth if I did.'
'But you can't leave Mrs Endersby and the baby,' Janie replied. 'He's only four months old.'
'No, and to be honest the sight of blood upsets me too much. But there must be some way I could help. I think you're very brave, and if you want to come back afterwards you know there'll always be a job for you here.'
By the time the war ended she hoped she'd have better prospects than being a parlourmaid, Janie thought. She'd heard of girls who'd married officers, men they'd never have met before the war. Look at Mrs Endersby, though Janie didn't envy her much, her husband probably dead and a baby to bring up.
She opened the door and stepped back slightly. A tall, imperious woman, swathed in black crêpe, stood on the doorstep. A large motor car with a uniformed chauffeur stood on the gravelled drive.
'Please tell Mrs Cranworth Mrs Endersby is here,' the newcomer said, sailing past Janie.
'Mrs – Mrs Endersby?' Janie gaped.
'Do shut your mouth, girl, it makes you appear a lunatic leaving it open like that. Well, are you going to show me where I can wait for your mistress?'
Flustered, and furious with herself for being so, Janie opened the door of the drawing room.
'Please wait here while I inform Modom of your arrival,' she said in her best accents, and stood back while the other swept past her.
Janie abandoned decorum the moment the door was shut, and raced up the stairs. Mrs Cranworth was in the room they had made into a nursery for Master Dick. She and Mrs Endersby had begun to sit there in the mornings because it caught the sun, and sew the endless shirts they made for the troops.
'Mrs Cranworth!' she gasped. 'Mrs Cranworth, Mrs Endersby!'
'Janie, calm down, we're both here,' Lexie said with a slight laugh.
'No, that is, it's the other one!'
'Janie, what is the matter?'
Janie took a deep breath.
'It's her. Mrs Endersby. Mr Endersby's Ma, by the looks of her. Wants to see you.'
Marigold paled. 'Do you think she's heard something?'
'Let's go down and find out. Do you want me to see her first?'
'No.' Marigold shook her head firmly. 'If it's bad news
I'd rather know straight away. Lexie, could she have heard something?'
'There's one way to find out. Janie, stay here with Master Dick, will you?'
Richard's mother was standing by the window, looking out over the garden. She turned slowly as they entered the room, and when Marigold saw her deep mourning, she clasped Lexie's hand convulsively.
'Mrs Endersby, please sit down,' Lexie said calmly, squeezing Marigold's hand tightly and drawing her over to a sofa where they could sit side by side. 'You wished to see me?'
Sophia Endersby sat facing them. She threw back her veil, and Marigold was shocked. The beautiful woman she recalled was gone, and she was looking into a ravaged, haggard face.
'I came to give you some bad news, and I hope to make my peace,' the older woman said.
'Richard? Have you heard? Is he – ?' Marigold could not finish.
'I have heard no more. He must be dead. Now it's Henry too. We had the telegram saying he died in action a few days ago.'
'Oh, poor Henry, he was so kind! I am sorry,' Marigold said impulsively, suppressing the ignoble relief that it wasn't bad news of Richard.
'Both my sons dead. For a war that isn't theirs.'
'I don't believe Richard's dead!' Marigold declared vehemently. 'I'd know if he were!'
'Don't you think I would know too?' his mother said quietly. 'He is dead. But I came to apologise. I acted hastily that day. I was astounded, taken by surprise, and afterwards too proud to make the first move. Oh, how I wish I had! How I wish we hadn't parted on bad terms! Can you forgive me, my dear? Of course I know you are married, and the child is Richard's.'
She held out her arms and Marigold went to her, kneeling beside her and returning her convulsive hug.
'I'm so sorry, about Henry,' she said softly. 'I barely knew him but he was kind to me.'
Sophia drew a deep, rather ragged breath.
'I know you have been under some pressure financially, with the reversion of Richard's share in the partnership to us, but I would like to make it up to you. I want to invite you to come and live with us at The Place. I want you to be able to bring up Richard's son as he would have been raised had Richard lived.'
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