by Edwards, Eve
Big chocolate-brown eyes darted to his face like some wary wild creature. She glanced behind, fearing to see another cab in pursuit. There was no sign of one.
‘You’re safe now. He won’t have followed us.’
She turned her attention back to him. ‘What was your question, sir?’
‘You have a training position.’
‘Yes, I do. How did you know?’
‘Des told me. Nursing or teaching, he thought.’
‘Nursing. Queen Charlotte’s Hospital, Marylebone.’ The conversation flagged when she gave no more information. Sebastian tried to ignore the warmth radiating through his trousers where their thighs were touching.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said suddenly, ‘but who are you?’
Sebastian re-ran the conversation since they arrived in the foyer and realized that, in the flurry of the escape, Des had neglected to introduce him. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Sandford. I’m Sebastian Trewby, a friend of Des’s, as you no doubt guessed.’
‘Are you in the navy too?’
‘No, nothing like that. I’m in training, but as an artist.’
Her eyes widened as if he had declared himself the Sultan of Zanzibar. ‘Gracious! I don’t think I’ve ever met a real artist before.’
He smiled. ‘I meet rather too many of them so I think you’re lucky. I’m at the Slade, a college for us aspiring Rembrandts and Constables. Do you like art, Miss Sandford?’
But the little flash of interest from her had been bottled up again, like a genie afraid to emerge from the lamp. ‘Doesn’t everyone, Mr Trewby?’ She looked past him out of the window, the faint glow of the streetlights flickering across her face like the end of a newsreel.
‘No, actually, they don’t. My brother Neil thinks the only good painter is one with a bucket of whitewash.’
‘Oh.’ Her lips formed a perfect little circle lifting at the corners. There, he had summoned up another smile.
‘And my mother doesn’t understand why I can’t confine myself to gentle landscapes and still life, the sort of thing she did as a girl in the schoolroom. I tell her that that isn’t art; that is passing the time with watercolours. We have fearful arguments on the subject.’
‘Fearful?’ She wrinkled her nose at that. Sebastian wondered what she would consider ‘fearful’.
‘Yes, the usual thing.’ He imagined the Trewby rows as a series of caricatures. ‘Father burying his head in his soup, brothers deserting the table – or going under the table if we reach the throwing-bread-rolls stage – servants taking sides and laying bets on who is going to come out on top.’
‘And who does?’
‘It’s always a stalemate. You see, we are as pig-headed as each other: an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force.’
‘Which are you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Object or force?’
‘My mother is definitely the object. Definitely.’ He grinned. This was an oddly frank discussion to be having with someone he had only met a few moments ago, but he was enjoying himself.
‘Sounds lovely.’ She nestled down in her coat, only the tip of her nose and eyes now visible.
He chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t think that if you had dinner with us.’
4
THE SOMME, 1 JULY 1916, 7.20 A.M.
Only ten minutes to go until the attack. Sebastian wished the wait was over. If he had any more time to consider exactly what he was about to do, he feared he might go mad. Sweat trickled down his back, his expression locked in a fake smile for the sake of the men.
And then all the air was sucked from the world.
Boom!
An enormous mine exploded under the Hawthorn Redoubt to the right of the 1st Somerset Light Infantry. They threw themselves to the floor of the trench, hands over ears. The earth vibrated like the surface of a bass drum. Chalky soil trickled to the ground from new cracks in the mud walls.
‘Jesus, what was that?’ asked Bentley, shaking his head to clear dulled hearing.
‘Our sappers have been busy, clever buggers,’ commented Cook, drilling his own ears with a grubby forefinger.
Sebastian closed his eyes briefly, kicking away the thoughts of the devastating effect of a mine on the men in its vicinity. The crater was now a new objective for the neighbouring 29th Division to dominate before the Germans recovered. Their own division, the 4th, had been ordered to go straight forward across no man’s land and capture the trenches of the first line of German defence and hold them until the next wave came to sweep on the second and third lines. That was the plan; somehow, Sebastian knew reality was not going to be as simple as the arrows he had seen on the briefing map.
Next to him, Whitworth began to mumble a prayer, his hands trembling on the stock of his rifle. Sebastian felt sick and sorry for both of them, neither yet twenty and the private relying on him for leadership.
‘So, Whitworth, ready to take on the enemy?’ he asked, pulling the boy to his feet. He tried to remember what he had been told to tell the men in these situations. To think he had once worried if he had the courage to ask a girl out; now he was seeking the strength to urge men to hazard their lives.
‘I … yes, sir.’ Whitworth’s pale blue eyes were round with terror.
‘I’ve done this before. Just keep your head down. You go up, walk forward steadily as fast as you can. Hopefully, our artillery will have cleared the barbed wire from our path. When we reach the enemy, we take on any survivors and then occupy their position.’ Listen to him: didn’t he sound just like the commanders he no longer trusted? But what good would it do Whitworth to be unclear about their orders?
‘Yes, sir. I’ve got it.’
‘Stick with us, lad,’ said Cook with more warmth than Sebastian had managed. ‘We’ll show you where to go. Bloody shootin’ party out there, with us as the grouse, but we’ll get through, you’ll see.’
‘Righto. Yes, yes. I can do that.’ Whitworth mustered up a passable smile and took his position with more confidence.
‘Thanks, Cookie.’ Sebastian gave the older man a nod.
‘Just doing my bit, Lieutenant.’
‘And doing it well.’
Private Cook grinned, displaying a gap in his yellowing teeth. ‘Then, if we get out of this in one piece, sir, p’rhaps you can mention it. Always fancied making lance corporal. Wife would be chuffed.’
The wind changed slightly, driving the smoke-mist into their eyes. Cook wiped his with a grubby handkerchief. ‘Won’t be long now, lads.’
CAVENDISH HOTEL, LONDON, 23 OCTOBER 1914
The cab drew up outside the restaurant in Jermyn Street. Sebastian swiped his hand across the misted window, little droplets of condensation racing each other down to the door frame. The roads were noticeably quieter than before the war, but the Cavendish was still popular enough to draw the crowds. The hotel was really a number of town houses knocked together to create a single building so kept to a domestic scale in the rooms. The front door was modest so you could imagine you were entering a private residence rather than one of the most famous dining rooms in London.
Des paid the driver and led their little party inside. The popularity of the kitchen presided over by society’s most celebrated caterer, Rosa Lewis, meant they had to wait ten minutes before being shown to their table. It was an awkward pause: Des and Flora were absorbed in each other; the younger Sandford girl stood apart, rubbing self-consciously at the fabric of her brown dress. Sebastian played with his cigarette case, more to look as though he were at ease than from any wish to light up. It was situations like this that made him acutely aware of his age. At seventeen, he was still not quite used to being treated
as a young man rather than the boy he had so recently been. He knew how to act the sophisticate with his brother’s older friends, like Des, but inside he felt a fraud. Would the girls sense that?
He could sympathize with the younger Miss Sandford’s unease. She clearly felt out of place: the other women – her sister included – were wearing much more fashionable clothes in gay colours, those ridiculous hobble skirts, with fancy turban hats. Her sombre clothes suited her simpler Raphael Sistine Madonna looks. The gown fell in the straighter silhouette women had adopted the last few years, but that did not disguise the fact that she had curves, which was what had brought to mind the painting that once hung in the Vatican chapel. He shared Raphael’s appreciation of a girl who looked womanly rather than like a stick. He wouldn’t mind sketching her if he thought for one moment that he could persuade her to sit. In contrast to her sister’s modern prettiness, her face had a timeless quality, the sort that he would not be surprised to find in a medieval or Renaissance painting. How old was she exactly? Her figure and her face were at odds.
‘Come this way, ladies, gentlemen.’ The maître d’ led them to a table not far from the fireplace. Sebastian held out the chair for Miss Sandford while Des performed the same service for Flora. Des ordered a bottle of champagne.
‘Now, Flora, tell me about the situation with your father,’ Des said. The waiter popped the cork and deftly served them each a flute of fizz before leaving the bottle in an ice bucket. ‘How can we help?’
We? Sebastian had not signed up to anything but dinner. He glared at the menu.
‘Oh, Des, he is a most difficult man.’ Flora took a swallow of champagne. ‘He isn’t very kind to Helen, if you understand me.’
Helen swirled her drink, but did not take a sip, seemingly fascinated by the bubbles winking out of existence as they reached the brim. ‘Flora, please.’
‘No, Helen, Des is on our side: we can trust him. And I’m sure he can vouch for his friend.’ She dismissed her sister with a turn of an elegant shoulder, the silk of her emerald-green gown moving smoothly over her ivory skin. ‘You see, Des, he has a temper. I’m afraid that if Helen is forced back home,’ she lowered her voice, realizing the Cavendish dining room was not a place to mention such things, ‘he’ll start taking it out on her again.’
Sebastian went cold, the feeling catching him unexpectedly like a stroller on a beach misjudging the waves and receiving a wet slap on the ankles in payment. This was not a simple matter of a family falling out over something trivial. There was precious little anyone could do when the head of the house decided to discipline his wife and children with blows. It wasn’t unusual: his own schooling had included a few appointments with the cane. Yet, from the sound of it, Flora was hinting at more than ordinary corporal punishment.
Flora sighed, playing the martyr with attractive pathos. ‘That’s why we left when we did, abandoning everything to make our fortune here. She is better off in London, with me.’
Des raised her hand to his lips. ‘Of course she is, Rosebud. We’ll make sure nothing happens to her. Put it away for now. Try to enjoy yourself.’
Sebastian knew then that Des had no intention of getting involved in this tangle. His only interest was enjoying his girl’s company for a few hours before he had to go back to his ship. That sat uneasily with Sebastian: Des had promised help when he had nothing to offer. There had to be something they could do.
‘Miss Sandford, is there no one you can appeal to among your relatives?’ Sebastian asked the younger girl.
‘Please, Mr Trewby, it really is nothing for you to worry about.’ Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.
Flora cut in like a yacht tacking in front of a little steamer, forcing her to give way. ‘Our mother is from … from abroad, our father an only child. We have no relatives in England. I am the only person Helen can turn to. So here I am – and I will protect her.’
‘And she is very lucky to have you.’ Des signalled the waiter over to take their order. ‘Now, are you going to have the pork or the beef? I’ve heard good things about the Beef Wellington.’
‘Then I’ll have that.’ Flora smiled adoringly at him. Was her affection real, wondered Sebastian? He turned back to the younger sister.
‘Miss Sandford, what would you like?’
Flora giggled. ‘Miss Sandford? Lord, that sounds so formal!’ She had assumed the airs of a hostess trying to enliven a flagging cocktail party. ‘She’s not some old society biddy. Do call her Helen – or Sandy if you prefer.’
Sebastian gave Flora a tight smile, not liking how the older sister rode roughshod over the younger. ‘If she doesn’t mind.’
‘No, I don’t mind,’ Helen said quickly. ‘But call me Helen please, not Sandy.’
‘So, Helen, what have you chosen?’ Sebastian had set his mind on the lamb.
Helen scanned the menu. ‘I’m … I’m not feeling hungry.’ The poor girl looked as if she would rather be anywhere other than this dining room.
‘But you haven’t eaten all day, Helen, not if I know you.’ Flora addressed herself to Des. ‘She came straight from the hospital after an early start. She’ll fall asleep in her soup if we’re not careful.’
‘I did eat. I’m just tired.’
Des closed his menu with a snap. ‘Oh, you should have said, Helen! Here we are – dragging you about London when doubtless you would prefer cocoa and your bed. Look, Seb told me earlier that he had already eaten.’ He had? ‘Why don’t you let him escort you home in a taxi – on me, of course – and I’ll bring your sister later.’
Helen did not look thrilled with that plan either. She pleated the linen napkin nervously. ‘Flora, did you tell Dad where we lived?’ she asked in a near whisper.
Flora shook her head, face arranged in a hurt expression. ‘No, you ninny! Of course I didn’t.’
‘And you don’t think anyone at the theatre will tell him?’
‘No! They wouldn’t without first asking me if I minded and I would never give permission, you know that.’
The waiter arrived to take their order. Des smiled pleasantly and explained that two of their party would be leaving. He then ordered the beef for himself and Flora. Sebastian wondered if he should protest. But then he did not want to stay if Helen left. He stood.
‘Miss Sandford, Helen, shall we go? I think we’ve been given our marching orders.’
She rose, looking uncertain, a passenger on a sinking ship debating whether it was better to jump or cling to the wreckage. ‘If you are sure.’ She was still talking to her sister, not trusting that Flora had kept the secret of their address.
Flora tutted. ‘Go, Helen: you know you have an early start tomorrow morning. Des only has another day of leave.’
Helen looked down, taking to heart the reminder that she was spoiling everyone’s plans by her resistance. The two lovers wanted time alone so she and Sebastian were being packed off, children sent to bed without their supper. ‘Yes, of course. What time will you be back?’
Flora laughed. ‘Good Lord, are you my mother now? Don’t wait up for me.’
Des finally remembered that Sebastian wasn’t his servant. ‘Thanks, Seb. I’ll see you before I go about … well … you know.’
The motorbike. Sebastian’s spirits lifted. ‘Yes, absolutely.’
As they left, he heard Des lean over to Flora and reassure her. ‘He’s a good fellow. A1 at Lloyd’s, as they say. You can trust him with your sister.’
Helen wished she had just said farewell to Des’s friend once they had left the Cavendish and made her own way home. Her skin felt as if it did not quite fit her under his gaze and he looked at her far too much. She
was used to men glancing at her then moving on to the far more eye-catching, vibrant Flora. Sebastian had not just looked, he had studied her: a scientific curiosity, reminding her of a bookplate of Mr Darwin on the Beagle, establishing the characteristics of a new species. Sister Drabius. Now they were stuck together for the long dark drive back to Whitechapel – the other side of the city, miles from the West End. The cabbie had almost refused to take their fare until he realized he could nip home to Stepney, calling it a day thanks to the lavish tip Sebastian had promised him. She should have seized that chance and fled before the driver reconciled himself to the trip up east.
‘Do you think there’s any risk you might find your father waiting for you when we arrive?’ Sebastian asked, writing his initials in the misted window. He seemed fascinated by the patterns made by the faint streetlight through the condensation.
Helen shook her head, but he would barely be able to make out her movements, sitting as she was in the shadows as far from him as she could get on the rear seat of a hackney cab. ‘No, Mr Trewby, I don’t imagine he’ll get anyone at the theatre to talk; we’re like a family.’ The proper sort of family – that kept each other’s secrets and watched out for trouble. ‘And my landlady will be awake. She’ll make sure I’m safe.’
He turned to her, his dark hair and eyes making him a study in contrast when set against the hazy white window – a photographic negative. ‘Mr Trewby again, not Sebastian? I guessed that you did not like your sister and Des forcing you into my company. I’m sorry.’ He gave a charming, self-deprecating smile. ‘For what it is worth, I really do not pose a threat to you. Girls scare me to death.’ He laughed at himself, which made her feel much better.
‘I do not consider you a threat.’ But that was far from the truth. Instinct told her that he threatened her peace of mind. Wary though she usually felt towards men, even she was not immune to a romantic daydream and could weave many thoughts around someone with those poet looks – dark, intelligent eyes and a tumble of mahogany hair. Face perhaps a little too long for perfection, but that only made him seem more, well, collectable. She had always been drawn to the rare, the unobvious in nature, which was why she particularly liked moths, more so than their garish cousins, the butterflies. Seeing Sebastian reminded her of a euphoric sighting of the Convolvulus Hawk-moth as it danced along Bird Brook one summer evening, so big and determined that she could hardly believe it belonged to the Suffolk countryside. A natural spectacle.