The Silver Locket (Choc Lit)

by Margaret James

  ‘I’m still very unsteady on my feet.’ As the sun poured through the dusty windows of the little bath house, Alex looked at her and smiled, and to her dismay her heart turned somersaults of pleasure. ‘I think you’d better stay.’

  He was most insistent he couldn’t wash himself, so she had to do it, carefully dabbing at the half-healed shrapnel wounds that streaked down his left side, soaping him all over, then rinsing him with buckets of cool water from the pump outside. Then she wrapped him in a soft, white towel and rubbed him dry.

  He smelled of cinnamon, she realised. Almost obliterated by the harsh, clean top notes of regulation issue army soap, there were intoxicating undertones of oriental spice and sun-warmed skin.

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’ As she dressed him in some clean pyjamas, then helped him put his dressing gown back on, he’d sighed contentedly. As she turned the collar back, she could feel his gaze upon her face.

  ‘Rose, you’re as red as anything,’ he whispered. ‘You have done this sort of thing before?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Denham?’

  ‘I said it’s looking dark out there.’ He grinned, and Rose was almost sure he winked. ‘I think there’s going to be a storm.’

  She carried the tray of drinks into the ward. When she came to Alex’s bed, she put his cup of cocoa on his locker, and then moved on without a word.

  But as she walked back up the ward, he called her over. ‘May I have a glass of brandy, please?’ he asked politely.

  ‘I think you’ve probably had enough today.’ Rose was getting concerned about his drinking. He was always asking her for brandy, but he never seemed the worse for drink, and she’d been warned this was a danger sign.

  He hadn’t always been a hardened drinker, able to soak up brandy like a sponge and still seem stone-cold sober. She had not forgotten the night he’d lurched across the ballroom at the Minster to ask her if she’d dance.

  The smile he’d given her then had made her feel light-headed, as if she had drunk wine. ‘Go on Sister, be a sport,’ he said, and smiled again.

  ‘But are you in pain?’ she asked, concerned.

  ‘In torment.’ Alex’s gaze was on her face. ‘Sister, you can’t imagine what it’s like, I’m in such agony.’

  ‘Dr Lloyd will be here soon,’ said Rose. ‘I’ll ask if you can have a shot of morphine, so you won’t need more alcohol tonight.’

  The following morning, when Rose, Belinda and the orderlies took round the breakfast trays, they found the men were grinning and nodding knowingly at Rose.

  ‘What’s the matter with you all this morning?’ she demanded, as she put Alex’s tray down on his locker, then took the top off his boiled egg.

  ‘Your notoriety has caught up with you.’ Alex picked his spoon up and started on his egg. ‘Where’s my toast today?’

  ‘The orderly is bringing it in a minute, don’t be so impatient. What do you mean, my notoriety?’

  ‘Your exploits in the field, Sister Courtenay,’ Alex said. ‘One of the chaps in Blenheim ward has a cousin or something on the trains, he had letter from her yesterday. Apparently, you were famous for your pluck. Or should I say for your stupidity?’

  ‘Mr Denham, if you speak to nursing staff like that, I shall report your insolence to Matron.’

  ‘Carry on, report me to Field Marshall French himself,’ said Alex, calmly. He reached across the tray to get some salt. ‘Rose, you look so pretty when you’re cross.’

  Alex had meant it when he’d said he was in torment, but he was also happier than he’d ever been in all his life. The shrapnel wounds were healing very slowly, but they weren’t particularly painful. The almost constant headaches made him nauseous and dizzy, but he could cope with that.

  But he couldn’t help playing up a bit, for when she changed his dressings Rose’s cool fingers were so gentle. When she thought he really was in pain, she was concerned and kind.

  As the weeks went by, she also let herself relax a little. On one or two occasions, she seemed to forget she was a nurse who wasn’t allowed to get too friendly with her patients. She talked to him as if she was a real human being – and as if he was, too. She even brought him presents now and then.

  ‘Look!’ she said one morning, as she put his breakfast tray in front of him and whipped away his napkin with a flourish.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ he asked, amazed.

  ‘We nursing staff were sent a dozen, and that one’s mine, but I don’t like them.’ Rose picked up the orange. ‘Shall I cut it up for you?’

  ‘You ought to have it.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t like them.’ Rose picked up his knife. ‘How would you like it, in segments or in quarters, or shall I squeeze the juice into your glass?’

  The next week, there was chocolate, which she said she didn’t want, because it gave her spots. Then special fancy biscuits which a visiting colonel had left for all the nurses, but which the nurses shared all round the men.

  When she had the time she sat and read to him, and sometimes they played cards, a round of rummy or two-handed whist.

  ‘All four knaves,’ she smiled, one heavy, sultry afternoon, as she put down her hand to show him that she’d won – again. ‘See, four knaves, three sevens. What were you collecting?’

  ‘I was waiting for the queen of hearts.’

  Rose turned over the remaining cards. ‘She’s here, at the bottom of the deck. She’s hiding from you, Alex.’

  ‘No, Rose – she’s sitting here beside me.’

  ‘Mr Denham!’ She tried to frown at him, but it was obvious she couldn’t, because a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘You know you’re not allowed make improper observations to the nurses.’

  ‘What do you mean, improper observations?’ Alex frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Sister Courtenay, but – what did I say?’

  ‘You know full well. You’re nothing but a knave yourself, and now I have to go and do a ward round.’

  She fussed around him, bossily scooping up the cards and tucking all the blankets firmly round him, her mouth set in hard, straight line again.

  But he could see the sparkle in her eyes, and was almost sure that if he grinned she’d start to smile again.

  ‘I heard you were married,’ she said one afternoon as she stripped away the blood-stained bandages, swabbed the wounds with saline, then pressed fresh gauze against his side.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted, dead-pan.

  ‘Celia Easton said your wife was going to have a child.’

  ‘The baby was stillborn,’ he murmured. ‘Chloe nearly died.’

  ‘Oh, Alex – I’m so sorry!’ Rose looked directly at him, and he saw the sympathy glowing in her soft, grey eyes. He had to grit his teeth and look away, or else he would have cried.

  ‘I believe she’s getting better now,’ he managed, when he had regained his self control.

  ‘You believe?’ Rose stared at him in horror. ‘But didn’t they let you have some leave?’

  ‘We were undermanned along that section of the line,’ lied Alex, glibly. ‘I didn’t like to ask for leave, and Chloe has her family around her, anyway. I write, of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Rose.

  ‘A telegram for you, Miss Courtenay.’ The orderly who’d brought the evening post round handed the flimsy envelope to Rose. ‘I hope it’s not bad news.’

  Everybody looked at Rose, and as she slit the envelope she was aware that the whole ward held its collective breath.

  The message was short and to the point. ‘Lady Courtenay very ill,’ it said. ‘Suggest return to Dorset straight away.’

  ‘Rose?’ began Belinda.

  ‘My mother’s ill,’ said Rose. She pushed the telegram into her pocket. ‘My father wants me to go home. I don’t suppose it’s anything very bad. Mummy has always been a drama queen.’

  ‘When are you going?’ asked Alex, who had almost managed to convince himself that this eternal summer was never going to end, that somehow he and
Rose would be together for all time.

  ‘As soon as I can get a lift to Rouen.’ Rose had finished doing the morning’s dressings, and now she was going from bed to bed, straightening the sheets and counterpanes before the sister did her round.

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Probably on Monday week, when the supplies come through.’

  ‘Rose, I’m going to miss you.’

  ‘I – I’ll miss you, too. I’ll miss all of you boys.’

  Alex looked at Rose, she looked at him, and he felt a dreadful, yearning longing – he wanted to grab her hand and cry, don’t leave me!

  But of course he didn’t. He picked up a new book he wasn’t reading and opened it at random. ‘You mustn’t let me hold you up,’ he said.

  The journey back to England was long, involved and tedious, but for Rose it couldn’t be long enough. She was dreading going home.

  How would her parents greet her, and how should she behave? Would her old room be waiting for her, cosy, warm and comfortable as ever? Would Polly still be her maid?

  As soon as she reached Charton, Rose saw everything had changed. As she walked into the Minster, she saw it was now a convalescent home for senior officers. All the Victorian clutter her mother loved was hidden away. The Persian carpets Boris liked to chew had been rolled up and stored. Instead of hot-house flowers, the whole place smelled of Lysol.

  The matron who came up to greet her was a young, attractive Queen Alexandra nurse who introduced herself as Jessie Mason. ‘Your parents are expecting you,’ she smiled. ‘You’ll want to spend some time with them, I know. But do come up and see us here if you have an hour or two to spare. As you can imagine, we can always use an extra pair of willing hands!’

  Sir Gerard, Lady Courtenay and Boris had moved into the Dower House, a tiny Queen Anne box a mile from the Minster. As Rose walked up the path to the front door, she took a few deep breaths. She feared she would be in for a hard time.

  But Lady Courtenay didn’t look fit enough to give her one. She was always pale, but now her cheeks were sunken, her blue eyes were dull and she had lost a lot of weight.

  ‘So you’ve come home at last,’ she said.

  ‘Daddy said you were ill.’ Rose felt the blush creep up her neck. ‘I know you must have worried about me, but–’

  ‘She knows I must have worried!’ Frances Courtenay seemed to choke. ‘Rose, you don’t have children of your own. So don’t insult me by presuming to imagine how I felt!’

  She turned her head away. ‘The doctor gave me chloral, but still I couldn’t sleep. When I closed my eyes, I saw you as a little child. Your clothes would be on fire, or you’d be drowning. You’d cry to me to help you, but I couldn’t. I was paralysed.’

  ‘Mummy, please–’

  ‘I don’t know which was worse, dreaming about you when you were a baby, or waking up to know you’d disappeared, that absolutely anything might have happened, and I could do nothing.’

  ‘Mummy, I’m so sorry.’ Rose crouched at her mother’s side and tried to take her hand.

  Frances Courtenay snatched her hand away. She would not meet her daughter’s gaze. ‘Your father had the Dorset police out scouring the whole district,’ she continued, tonelessly. ‘He and Michael never stopped, they were out in all those autumn downpours, searching the estate and all the area round about.

  ‘I know your father won’t say anything to you. He won’t reproach you, he’s not that sort of man. But I saw him age a month for every single day you were away. He was too exhausted even to lift the telephone and call the chief inspector when you had the kindness to inform us where you’d gone.’

  Boris loped in then. As Rose turned to greet him, he blinked and ambled over to her on arthritic feet, sniffing cautiously. She supposed he must have caught her old, familiar scent. But he was puzzled to find it overlaid with other, stranger smells.

  She held out her hand to him. He nosed at it politely, but then ambled off again to settle down by her mother.

  Rose’s heart contracted as she imagined how he must have grieved. How he must have spent a hundred weary days and sleepless nights plodding and searching all around the Minster, looking for his mistress. He had aged, as well. She could see grey hairs on his black snout.

  As she crouched there, feeling sick with guilt, it was as if the golden doors of childhood closed behind her, for she finally realised what a selfish, thoughtless monster she had been.

  She took her mother’s hand. ‘Mummy, I’ll make it up to you,’ she promised. ‘I won’t go back to France. I’ve said I’ll go and help up at the house, but I’ll stay here and sit with you as often as you wish.’

  Lady Courtenay shrugged indifferently. ‘You father will be home at half past five.’ She stroked the dog’s soft muzzle. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to ring for Mrs Jackson, and remind her he will want some supper.’

  ‘But what is wrong with her?’ persisted Rose, when she went to see her mother’s doctor and have a private talk with him.

  ‘It’s probably her heart.’ Dr Weldon looked at Rose over his half-moon spectacles. ‘She had a fever after you were born. I suspect the valves were damaged irreparably. Now she’s getting on in years, the strain is bound to tell.’

  ‘I never knew.’

  ‘She didn’t like to make a fuss.’ The doctor shrugged. ‘I told her it would be a risk to have another child. She said it didn’t matter – you were perfect. My dear, she’s very pleased to have you home.’

  ‘Dr Weldon, is she going to die?’

  ‘If she doesn’t have a sudden shock or serious illness, she could maybe live to be a hundred.’ The doctor looked at Rose severely. ‘So, Miss Courtenay, don’t upset her or go running off again.’

  As the summer faded into autumn, Rose did her best to be a model daughter. Although she spent some time up at the Minster, helping out and getting to know Jessie Mason well, she took her mother shopping, visiting and paying calls. On sunny days, they went for drives in Lady Courtenay’s little chaise.

  She put up with the veiled comments and insinuations about her past behaviour made by Lady Easton and her crony Mrs Sefton. Lady Easton, Rose observed, was pregnant once again – although she must have been nearly fifty.

  ‘Do you mean to stay in Dorset now?’ asked Mrs Sefton, as Rose and Lady Courtenay sat and drank weak China tea in the drawing room at Easton Hall, and watched the youngest Easton children roll around the floor. Their latest nanny had just left, and Lady Easton was interviewing possible replacements in the dining room.

  ‘I have no plans to go away.’ Rose smiled at Mrs Sefton artlessly, then turned to see Michael’s mother flounder in. ‘Lady Easton, have you heard from Michael recently?’

  ‘Yes indeed, he writes to me each week.’ Lady Easton flopped into a chair. ‘The dear boy’s well and happy. He’s doing his bit and being a stout fellow, I don’t doubt.’ She looked at Rose impressively. ‘He always mentions you with great affection and respect.’

  He must think there’s still a chance I might get Daddy’s money then, thought Rose. ‘I must write soon,’ she said. ‘I hope he gets some leave now and again?’

  ‘He was at home for Christmas, but the poor boy’s been in France since then. Of course, we miss him terribly.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’ After all, thought Rose, you only have another dozen children to keep you company.

  ‘I heard Alex Denham has come home,’ said Mrs Sefton, baring her large teeth. ‘But his wife is not in Dorset. So I don’t know what we should make of that.’

  Rose made a mental note to keep away from Henry Denham’s house, and off the footpaths on his land. Then she stood up. ‘Mummy, if you’re tired, I’ll ring for Payne to bring the car.’

  But she found she couldn’t keep away. She started going for walks with Boris, dragging him along the cliff top, hoping she’d meet Alex going for a morning stroll.

  One day, she did. As Boris wheezed and grunted, grumbling that he wanted to go home, she noti
ced Alex and another person coming down the track. If she turned off now, and if she went down to the beach, she could avoid them.

  She stayed up on the cliff top.

  She couldn’t believe that Charlotte Stokeley had attached herself to Alex yet again. But this time they weren’t laughing. Charlotte looked quite grim, and Alex was looking positively gloomy, tired and depressed.

  ‘Good morning,’ Rose said briskly.

  ‘Good morning,’ Charlotte murmured, and slipped her arm through Alex’s. He didn’t seem to have the strength or will to shake her off – or perhaps, thought Rose, he didn’t want to shake her off?

  ‘Lieutenant Denham.’ Rose hoped her voice was neutral. ‘We heard you were in Dorset, convalescing. I hope you’re feeling better?’

  ‘Thank you, I’m improving.’ Alex shrugged, his eyes met Rose’s, and they seemed to say, we can’t talk here. In fact, we can’t talk any more. Rose, we can never talk again.

  ‘My parents would be delighted to see you and Mr Denham at the Dower House.’ Rose knew she was sounding desperate now. ‘My mother is at home most afternoons.’

  ‘I’m not really fit for company.’ Alex shook his head. ‘But, even if I were, I couldn’t accept their invitation. Soon, I’ll be going back to France.’

  Rose glanced at Charlotte Stokeley, and thought she could see triumph in her eyes. She said goodbye and walked back home.

  Phoebe cowered in a corner, wondering if the blood would stain her dress. Daniel would be furious if it did. The turquoise satin had cost five guineas, and he’d had to pay a tailoress to make it up.

  Also, would her dresser manage to cover all the cuts and bruises, especially the black eyes? If not, she wouldn’t be able to go on and do her spot tonight. They’d have to find another girl, then Daniel would be even angrier, and he might well beat her up again.

  ‘Whose is it?’ he’d demanded, as he kicked her on the shin.

  ‘Yours – I’ve told you half a million times!’ Phoebe shrank away. She folded her arms across her bulging stomach. ‘Dan, I wouldn’t lie to you! I know how mad you get, when anybody lies.’