‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing.’ Chloe turned up the collar of her coat. ‘What’s the matter, Alex? You’ve gone very pale. Where are you going now?’
‘What’s that to you?’
Alex ran out of the breakfast room, then sprinted to the village, where he sent a dozen telegrams. He had to know exactly what had happened. It could not be helped if what he’d written would soon be common knowledge all round Charton.
‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ demanded Alex angrily, as he sat down next to Rose’s bed in the London hospital. ‘Of course, I didn’t expect your father to come dashing round to Henry’s house with news of you. But you could have asked a nurse to write!’
‘I didn’t think you’d hear about it yet,’ said Rose, and bit her lower lip.
‘It was reported in the The Times, but of course they didn’t give your names.’ He was slightly mollified, but still upset she hadn’t written. She hadn’t seemed to realise he would worry. ‘I had to ask an awful lot of people before I found out where the train had come from, and which particular nurses were involved.’
‘I was going to ask someone to write to you,’ said Rose, ‘but I didn’t want you to see me looking such a fright.’
‘Rose, you’re such an idiot.’ Now Alex didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. ‘You could never look anything but beautiful to me.’
‘I’ve got all these cuts across my face – and two black eyes.’
‘You have the loveliest eyes in all the world.’
‘My wrist is broken. They’ve taken out my spleen, and I have this great gash across my stomach. Alex, I’m a wreck.’
‘You’re going to mend. Listen, I’m booked into a place in Aldgate. I’ll come and see you every day. When they let you out of here, I’ll drive you home to Dorset.’ Alex took her hand. ‘Rose, I’m sorry I shouted, I didn’t mean to make you cry.’
Rose turned her head away. ‘I heard the nurses whispering last night,’ she murmured, and her voice was wretched. ‘They say – they say I can’t have children now!’
‘Oh, darling!’ Alex held her while she sobbed her heart out, while she cried and cried and cried.
Boris plodded along the shingle beach, sniffing Alex crossly and doing his best to get between them. Entanglements of rusting wire disfigured the small beach, and these prevented him from running down into the water. He would not be tempted by the ginger biscuits Rose had brought especially for him.
The waves sucked at the pebbles, dragging them down then pushing them up again, indifferent to the concerns of dogs and men. The autumn storms had littered the beach with driftwood and other flotsam and jetsam lately washed ashore from France, wedging these bits of rubbish in the wire, but Boris was too annoyed with Rose to go and look at it.
She linked her arm through Alex’s. ‘How much longer will you be on sick leave?’ she enquired.
‘I have to stay in England until spring. Then I’ll go back to France.’
‘I was wondering if they’d offer you a staff job.’
‘They did, but I refused it.’
‘Why?’ asked Rose.
‘I have unfinished business over there.’
‘You mean your friends have all been killed while you’ve been left alive. But why should you die, too?’
‘I have to go,’ said Alex, and Rose could see the sulky, mulish child he used to be, ‘but I don’t mean to die.’
‘You will if you persist in being so reckless.’
‘I’m not reckless, Rose. I used to be, but that was in the early days, when I felt I had to prove myself. I was scared that if I didn’t do lots of stupid things, the other men would think I was a coward.’
‘Then it’s a miracle you’ve survived.’
‘I’ll go on surviving, too,’ said Alex. ‘Rose, men don’t trust an officer who’s reckless. They won’t follow him. They need to know that if he leads them into trouble, he can lead them out of it again. Anyway, you’ll be going back to France.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘Rose, they nearly killed you!’
‘I don’t go courting death.’
‘I don’t, either. So we’ll both come through.’ Alex pulled her close and slid his hands inside her coat. He kissed her very tenderly at first, but then with passion, and she felt herself begin to glow.
‘If it was summer, and there wasn’t any wire, we could swim round to the cove,’ she whispered, as he kissed her neck. ‘Nobody would find us there, and we could–’
‘Yes, we could – but where can we go in winter?’ Alex’s hands ran up and down her spine.
‘Nowhere’s safe from Mrs Sefton.’
‘God, this is a nightmare.’ Alex groaned into her hair. ‘I want you so much it’s killing me!’
‘Why don’t we go to bed, then?’
‘Where, exactly? You can’t come to Henry’s house, and your father wouldn’t welcome me! What would I say to him? Good evening, sir, your daughter is expecting me. May I go upstairs? In any case, your wrist is not healed yet, and you must still be bruised inside.’
‘I’m feeling better these days.’ Rose smiled up at him. ‘Listen, we’ll go to Charmouth or Lyme Regis. We’ll book into a small hotel or guest house, and stay there for a week.’
‘What will Sir Gerard say?’
‘That I’m a harlot, that I have the morals of a guttersnipe, that I’m not his child.’ Rose kissed Alex on the mouth. ‘But I honestly don’t care. I’ve heard it all before.’
Boris decided he had had enough. He lunged at Rose and shoved himself between them, whining for attention.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Sir Gerard, who had changed. While Rose was growing up, he’d always been a kindly father, generous and indulgent, but reserved. Now he was querulous and always asking questions, like an irritating child.
Rose had told him she would not be marrying Michael Easton, but he didn’t believe it, and kept asking when he should put the announcement in the The Times.
Why did Rose not respect her mother’s wishes, he demanded. When would she leave the VAD? She was always out – where did she go? He’d seen her suitcase in the hall – where was she going today?
‘To spend a week in Lyme,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be back on Sunday.’
‘I would prefer it if you stayed at home with me.’
‘Daddy, Polly will look after you.’
‘You’re a wicked, cruel girl. You drove your mother to an early grave.’
‘My father thinks I’m wicked.’ Muffled up in greatcoats, Rose and Alex sat on the sea wall, their backs to Lyme, staring out across the wind-whipped waves. ‘I suppose I must be.’
‘You’re not wicked, Rose.’ Alex put his arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. ‘He wants you to leave the VAD and marry Easton, then settle down at Charton and start producing heirs. You’re not going to do it. So there’s no solution.’
‘I wish my mother hadn’t died.’ Rose laid her head on Alex’s shoulder. ‘I’ll never forgive myself for that.’
‘You shouldn’t have run away that time, but Lady Courtenay brought most of her troubles on herself. Rose, she smothered you. I don’t know how you stood it for so long.’
The tide was out, and Alex jumped Rose down on to the sand. ‘Come on, you need some exercise. You see the fishing boat that’s hauled up by the bathing huts? I’ll give you a race.’
‘Your legs are longer, so you’re bound to win.’
‘You have a minute’s start.’ Alex grinned. ‘Well, go on. Go on!’
‘God, Alex, you’re so slow!’ Flushed and breathing heavily, Rose turned round to laugh at him as he came panting up, holding his side.
‘I let you win,’ he gasped.
‘No you jolly well didn’t! I beat you fair and square!’
‘Rose, you look so beautiful, scarlet in the face and with your hair all coming down.’
‘You’re so horrid and sarcastic that I can’t think why I put up with you.�
��
‘It’s because you love me. Oh, my God!’ Alex collapsed against the fishing boat, where he lay groaning.
‘What’s the matter?’ cried Rose, alarmed.
‘I can’t stand it any more.’ Laughing, Alex pulled her down on top of him, then began to kiss her greedily. ‘Rose, I know it’s only half past three, but we have got to go to bed.’
‘I hope you had a pleasant stay in Lyme,’ said Celia Easton, who’d called at the Dower House with a bag of khaki wool and some knitting needles, so Rose could learn to knit, and profitably occupy her time. ‘I must say, you’re looking well. You have some colour in your cheeks.’
‘I’ve been out for a walk.’ Rose had just seen Alex off to London, where he had another appointment with an army doctor – not with the psychiatrist, whom he had refused to see again, but with one he thought might let him go back to France before the spring.
‘I’m going to call on Mrs Hobson,’ said Celia briskly. ‘Daisy had a cough last week, but I think she must be better now. Why don’t you come with me?’
Rose jumped up at once. ‘I’ve been meaning to pop over,’ she told Celia, as she rang for Polly to bring her hat and coat.
‘Really?’ Celia grimaced. ‘I thought you had other fish to fry.’
Mrs Hobson’s kitchen was a mass of babies and small children, all dressed in cotton pinafores and staring at the visitors with round, defensive eyes. As Rose smiled at a little fair-haired boy, the child began to cry.
‘Hush now, Donald,’ Celia said crisply, and Donald hushed at once. ‘Good morning, Mrs Hobson. How is everyone today?’
‘We’re right as rain, Miss Easton.’ A large, untidy woman, Mrs Hobson scooped a tiny baby from a cradle by the fire. ‘Mary-Anne, my youngest,’ she said proudly.
‘She’s extremely sweet.’ Celia looked round the cottage kitchen. ‘Miss Courtenay was hoping to meet Daisy.’
‘She’s over by the range with Bob and Nancy. I reckon she’ll be walking any day.’
Rose turned to see a blonde-haired child, gazing at the visitors and sucking two fat fingers.
‘Come on, Daisy love,’ urged Mrs Hobson. ‘Show these nice ladies how well you can crawl!’
The child stared at them with wide, blue eyes. But then she crawled across the flagstones. When she reached Mrs Hobson, she hauled herself up on unsteady feet. She hid her face against her foster mother’s apron.
‘Hello, Daisy.’ Rose crouched beside the child, and saw the little scrap she’d brought from London just a year ago now had chubby legs and flaxen curls. Daisy was going to be a little milkmaid, pink and cream and gold.
Still clinging to her foster mother’s apron, Daisy turned to look at Rose, who smiled encouragingly. The child thought about it for a moment, then smiled back, displaying a row of pearly little teeth.
‘Do you think she’d come to me?’ asked Rose.
‘I expect so.’ Mrs Hobson took the baby’s hand. ‘If you sit in the rocking chair, she might sit on your knee.’
Encouraged by Mrs Hobson, Daisy sat on Rose’s lap. She looked at Rose’s buttons, stroked a lock of hair that had come loose, then found the locket round her neck.
Rose watched her play with it, enjoying the sensation of the roly-poly little body sitting warmly on her lap. So was she Michael’s child? She had Michael’s colouring, but so did half the children in the kingdom. All the same, there was a look of him. Daisy had his eyes, his face, his smile.
Then Rose felt how much she wanted babies, little sloe-eyed replicas of Alex, with his smooth brown skin and thick dark hair, and she mourned the baby she had lost.
‘We must be going.’ Celia had given Mrs Hobson wool and needles, and was pulling on her gloves.
‘Goodbye, Daisy.’ Rose let the child slide off her knee. She watched her crawl across the floor towards her foster brother and sister playing with wooden bricks beside the fire. ‘I’ll come again.’
They walked back through the village. ‘Michael assured me Daisy’s not his daughter,’ Rose told Celia. ‘She’s not your responsibility. I’m the one who brought her here, so I should pay her keep.’
‘I don’t think we need believe all my dear brother says.’ Celia shrugged and turned to Rose. ‘I’m fond of her, you know. She’s such a charming little thing. I don’t suppose you’ll marry Mike?’
‘You mean you know about Alex?’
‘I know you’re seeing him. Well, if you go swanning off to Lyme in the company of a married man, you surely don’t expect the village crones will fail to notice?’
‘All the same–’
‘Rose, you must be careful. Alex is very nice and very handsome, but he’s already got a wife.’
They parted in the village, and Rose took the winding lane back to the Dower House. She saw the woman in a black fur coat, and supposed she was a nursing sister at the Minster who couldn’t bear to be without her fur, even though she should have worn the regulation dark blue overcoat.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Rose, and would have walked on quickly, for it was cold and she was tired.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Courtenay.’ The woman stopped and stared at Rose with prominent blue eyes. ‘I understand you know my husband?’
‘You must be Mrs Denham.’ Rose realised she was being scrutinised and probably found wanting. This woman looked so smart and elegant in her fur and patent leather boots, with fashionably bobbed hair and a discreet amount of rouge stroked high along her cheekbones. ‘I’m so sorry, but–’
‘You’re sorry!’ Chloe spat. ‘I know all about you and my husband! But whatever Alex may have told you, I don’t mean to let him go.’
Rose saw Chloe’s eyes were hard with hatred. ‘I’ll let him have his fun with you,’ she muttered. ‘There’s no way I can stop him, after all. When the bit’s between his teeth, he’s like most men, he needs to have his way. So make the most of it, Miss Courtenay. Enjoy your assignations in disreputable hotels. But remember I’m his wife and he’ll be coming back to me. I’m the one he loves.’
Rose watched Chloe walk off down the lane. She must have lain in wait, she thought, because this track led to the Dower House then to the Minster. The road to Henry Denham’s house was half a mile away.
When Rose met Alex from the London train, she saw at once he was in a temper.
‘I can’t go back until next March,’ he said, through gritted teeth.
‘Well, nor can I,’ said Rose. She wished he wouldn’t scowl like that, it made him look so grim. ‘I’ll have forgotten everything I know.’
‘Why don’t you go and work for Sister Mason at the house?’
‘I don’t think so, Alex. Nowadays I have a rather dubious reputation. Mrs Sefton and her friends have been quite busy lately.’
‘I hate that wretched woman.’ Alex’s scowl deepened. ‘She’s made friends with Chloe, did you know? My wife goes over to her house. I don’t know what they talk about, but I can guess.’
‘Alex, you mustn’t make it hard for Chloe. She knows she’s lost you, and she doesn’t know what to do. Maybe you didn’t break her heart, but you did hurt her pride.’
‘I’m going to live with Mrs Thorne in Weymouth.’
When Alex walked back into Henry’s house, he found Chloe had packed her boxes and made Macnaughten lug them down the stairs.
‘I met that woman yesterday,’ she added. ‘I don’t know what you see in her, I’m sure. She’s supposed to be a famous beauty, but she looks like a witch with all that straggling black hair. She’s got horrid scabs all down her face, she’s scrawny and she’s ugly. But I suppose she’s rich, and–’
‘I’ll make sure your allowance is sent to Weymouth,’ interrupted Alex.
‘Let’s call it conscience money, shall we?’ Chloe sneered.
‘I’ll drive you to the station.’
‘There’s no need.’ Chloe hitched her fur around her shoulders. ‘Henry said Macnaughten would be very glad to take me. He knows you have other things to do.’
&nbs
p; ‘Alex, it doesn’t matter,’ Rose said softly, as they walked along the beach towards the jutting headland, skirting a fresh landslip which had recently revealed a whole new batch of fossils, ancient bones and smooth, round rocks. ‘Everybody knows, or thinks they know. If they want to gossip, we can’t stop them.’
‘I hate them all.’ Alex pushed his hands into his pockets and kicked an ammonite along the beach. ‘God, there’s no escape,’ he groaned. ‘Look who’s coming down the cliff path now.’
‘Good afternoon, Miss Courtenay – Captain Denham.’ Mrs Sefton carried a little hammer and a bag. Now her mouth stretched wide, a comic rictus of a grin, and her three old basset hounds looked almost as delighted.
She pottered on to search for geological trophies, but suddenly she seemed to change her mind, and scurried off along the windswept beach.
‘There, our fate is sealed.’ Rose took Alex’s arm. ‘By the time I get back to the house, it will be all round Charton that she found us in flagrante on the sands.’
‘This country stinks.’ Alex gave the ammonite a kick and sent it bouncing through the waves. ‘The English are a nation of narrow-minded, scandal-mongering spinsters like that Easton girl, and interfering cows like Mrs Sefton.’
‘Darling, do calm down. Celia’s my friend, and when Mrs Sefton sees us walking on the beach, it makes her day.’
‘You’ll be saying next you like the bitch.’
‘Well, I don’t hate everyone, like you.’
‘You’re one of them, that’s why. I’m a nobody, but you’re Miss Courtenay of Charton Minster. Whatever you do, you’ll always be the squire’s precious daughter. Mrs Sefton–’
‘That’s enough of Mrs Sefton! I don’t care what she and all her village cronies think or say!’ Rose spun Alex round and met his sullen, angry gaze. ‘My darling, listen to me. I love you.’
‘So you say.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Alex shook her arm away. ‘It’s freezing on this beach. I’m going home.’
It seemed that Mrs Sefton had lost no time in doing her worst, for when Rose walked into the Dower House, Sir Gerard was waiting for her, looking grim.
The Silver Locket (Choc Lit) Page 20