Leaves Before the Storm

by Angela Arney

He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. ‘I’ll tell you what came over you,’ he said. ‘It was lust, Megan. Pure simple lust. You and I were made in the same mould. We know what we want and we know how to get it.’

  He let her go and Megan ran back to the house, praying that no one had seen her and that Henry hadn’t returned.

  When Henry arrived ten minutes later Megan was ready for him. Fresh and fragrant in a demure cotton nightgown.

  ‘Darling,’ said Henry holding out his arms. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. But I’m here now.’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ Megan replied, fixing a smile on her face, praying that the weight of her monumental guilt did not show. You are here now, but you are too late, she thought, letting herself be enfolded in his embrace. But as she raised her face to his she could only remember Gerald and feel his rough urgent mouth on hers. So different from the smooth, cool kiss of Henry.

  CHAPTER THREE

  August 1939

  Gerald returned to Sheffield the next day, much to Megan’s relief. She would forget him, she told herself firmly. But every time Henry made love to her she found she was comparing his slow, gentle love-making with Gerald’s fiery passion. Not that they made love very often; Henry was away in London, and never seemed to have time to come back to Folly House. Megan suggested that she should visit him in London, but there was always a reason why this was not possible. Henry’s war work was taking up more and more of his time. ‘I’ll come down to the New Forest,’ he promised. But his visit somehow never materialized.

  One day while looking at her diary, trying to find a date when Henry could visit, she realized that they had been married four whole months, and she hadn’t had a period in all that time. Surely it was not possible to be pregnant so soon? Besides, she felt very well. No morning sickness. But what were the other symptoms? She didn’t know, and she didn’t know Lady Lavinia well enough to broach such a delicate subject. There was no alternative but to visit Dr Crosier, the village GP.

  He confirmed her suspicions. She was pregnant. ‘Four months gone, if I’m not mistaken,’ said Dr Crozier in his broad Irish accent. ‘You must have conceived on your honeymoon. Well done, lass.’

  Well done! Megan didn’t think so, and Dr Crozier mistook her worried expression for fear of the coming confinement. ‘Don’t worry lass,’ he said. ‘You’re a good strong country girl. You’ll have your baby as easy as shelling peas.’

  But Megan’s worry was that it might be Gerald’s child, not Henry’s. How could she tell? How could anyone tell?

  Of course Henry was delighted, as was Lavinia. Everyone in the household thought it was good news too, only Megan worried about it. Unable to sleep at night she often sat by the bedroom window gazing out into the garden towards the folly where she and Gerald had made love on her wedding night. Whose child was it? Guilty thoughts scurried round and round in her mind. To make matters worse she had nothing to do to take her mind off her worries. Everyone wrapped her in a cocoon; she was not allowed to ride the pony or her bicycle; they seemed to expect her to sit around and look decorative.

  Before her marriage Megan had thought she would run Folly House, and had made plans. But this was off limits too. Bertha insisted that she and only she should oversee the purchase of all provisions, as well as deciding the weekly menus.

  ‘I’ve always done it, Miss Megan,’ she said firmly, puffing up her not inconsiderable bosom. ‘I’m well known with all the purveyors of produce in these parts. They’ll not get inferior food past me for Folly House.’

  ‘But I thought I ought to be getting my hand in, get some experience as the new Mrs Lockwood.’

  ‘Lady Lavinia never wanted to get her hand in,’ replied Bertha woodenly. ‘She was content to let me do it.’

  And that was where the conversation ended.

  Lavinia was no help. ‘It’s best not to upset Bertha, dear,’ she said. ‘Don’t interfere.’

  ‘But I thought that was my responsibility,’ Megan objected.

  However, Lavinia was firm. ‘She’s always done it and I don’t see the need for change. That’s another thing you need to learn now you’re in charge. It’s essential not to upset the staff.’

  Megan fumed silently. The trouble was she wasn’t in charge. Henry didn’t care who did what as long as the house was in order and his meals on time when he came back from London, which was not often. So Megan had nothing to do, and often no one to talk to. Being Mrs Lockwood was not how she had imagined it.

  Lavinia changed the subject. ‘I’d like you to meet Violet Trehearne,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ asked Megan mutinously. She’d seen her once or twice at concerts she’d attended with Arthur, but had never formally met her. Neither did she want to. Violet was small, plain and timid, and apparently filled her time doing good works for the poor. Not Megan’s type at all.

  ‘Because,’ said Lavinia, ‘she and Gerald are to be married.’

  ‘Gerald? Married?’ Conflicting emotions suddenly raged in her. Megan didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry. Vanity demanded that Gerald should still be attracted to her, although she had every intention off rebuffing his advances; but there was also disappointment that he’d found someone else, and was marrying. ‘I shouldn’t have thought Violet Trehearne was Gerald’s type,’ she said.

  Lavinia had smiled wryly. ‘She’s not, my dear. But she’s recently come into a fortune. She’s inherited Brinkley Hall in Wiltshire, a mere thirty miles from here, and more money than she’ll ever know what to do with. That makes her Gerald’s type, as I dare say he has plans for her money.’

  So Megan spent several very boring afternoons with Violet, not choosing wedding gowns, which she would have been quite happy to do, but talking about Violet’s various charities.

  ‘What does Gerald think about your charity work?’ she couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘He’s not interested.’ Violet was quite honest. ‘He says I can do as I like once we’re married. He’s going to be too busy making more money.’

  ‘Oh!’ Megan was surprised at the bluntness of Violet’s answer. ‘Don’t you mind?’

  Violet looked at Megan, who noticed for the first time how steely grey were her eyes. ‘I know he’s marrying me for my money, not my looks,’ she said quietly. ‘The deal is I get a husband and respectability. A married woman has much more freedom and opportunities than a single one. I get that, and Gerald gets Brinkley Hall plus some of my money. The only other thing I have to do is provide an heir. Something you seem to have managed spectacularly well.’

  Megan felt her face flushing. What would Violet say if she knew the baby might be Gerald’s? But she didn’t know. No one did.

  The marriage between Gerald and Violet was a discreet affair held in the small family chapel in the grounds of Brinkley Hall. Only a dozen people attended: some aunts, uncles and cousins of Violet, plus Lavinia, Henry and Megan from the Lockwood family. The wedding breakfast served in the ballroom of Brinkley Hall was absolutely sumptuous. Oysters, champagne, caviar, beef Wellington, suckling pig, stuffed mushrooms, glazed vegetables and mountains of fruit with flowers flown in from southern Italy, as well as ice-cream made to a special recipe for the occasion, containing champagne.

  ‘Gerald likes to impress,’ said Violet wryly to Henry when he remarked on the quantity and quality of the food.

  Megan was very impressed. So this is what money can buy, she thought, remembering the simple fare for the wedding breakfast at Folly House. For a moment she envied Violet, but only for a moment. Gerald drank too much, was rude to Violet and flirted with one of her younger cousins. Violet said nothing, but Megan knew she was hurt from the expression on her face.

  Later, before the couple left for their honeymoon, Gerald managed to waylay Megan on her way to collect her wrap. Before she could escape he drew her from the corridor into the library and shut the door. Holding her in a tight embrace he kissed her roughly, his tongue exploring her mouth as if he would devour her. Against her better ju
dgement Megan found her treacherous body responding.

  He drew back a little, and whispered against her cheek, ‘Well? Whose child is it that you’re carrying? Mine or Henry’s?’

  ‘Henry’s of course,’ Megan whispered back.

  Gerald held her tighter. ‘Lavinia told me it is a honeymoon baby. That means …’

  ‘It means I conceived on our honeymoon,’ interrupted Megan, vainly trying to struggle free from his embrace. ‘It is Henry’s baby, and you should keep away from me. I’m married and I’m pregnant and—’

  Gerald gave a low laugh, and dropping his hand down caressed her rounded stomach. ‘It doesn’t make any difference. I still want you,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t feel the same, because I wouldn’t believe you.’ Cupping both her breasts with his hands, he bent his head and kissed her again.

  Megan closed her eyes and kissed him back. Why couldn’t Henry make her feel like this? Then the very thought of Henry galvanized her into action, and she tore herself free, pushed Gerald away, wrenched open the library door and stumbled down the corridor to the room where the ladies’ cloaks and wraps were laid out. Collapsing on the couch just inside the door, she whispered to the maid, ‘I feel a little faint. Do you think you could get my husband to come and escort me to our car?’

  It was a lie, but the maid bobbed a brief curtsey and went to get Henry. Anything, thought Megan, to make certain she couldn’t bump into Gerald again when she was alone.

  When leaving on Henry’s arm, with a concerned Lavina in attendance, Megan caught a brief glimpse of Gerald and Violet. He was laughing, and Violet was looking rather lost and miserable. Megan felt sorry for her. At least she knew Henry loved her, even if he wasn’t a very good lover.

  ‘They are going to bloody Italy for their honeymoon,’ said Henry savagely. ‘He’s got some armament deal going with Mussolini’s lot. It’s a business trip, not a honeymoon.’

  ‘Poor Violet,’ said Lavinia. ‘But she has her charity work to keep her mind occupied.’

  Megan said nothing. She remembered Violet’s steel-grey eyes. Yes, Violet had a purpose in life, whereas she didn’t. I need something to do, she thought. I need something to stop me from thinking about Gerald. He threatens my happiness, mine and Henry’s. I’ve made one mistake, but there’s no need for me to make another. Like Violet, I must find something to do.

  The week after Gerald and Violet’s wedding Henry told Megan he was engaging an estate manager.

  Something clicked. This was her opportunity. She could do it, and she had to make Henry see that she could. ‘I can do it,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Henry firmly. ‘I need someone I can trust. I’m needed more and more in London now, I haven’t time to do the accounts and all the other things that are needed here.’

  Megan pressed home her point. ‘All the more reason to let me take over running the estate. I could do it. I’m competent, and anyway, if you get a man in he’ll be called up to go into the army before you know it. Everyone will be called up soon, that’s what the papers say.’

  Henry looked at Megan in surprise. ‘I didn’t think you bothered with the news.’

  So she had surprised him. This was her opportunity. ‘Well, I do read and listen. I know what’s going on, and I know how it’s going to affect us. We’ve got to make the estate and the home farm much more productive. Every bit of spare land will need to be turned to the plough, because England has to be self-sufficient. Nazi Germany has plenty of U-boats, which will sink our merchant shipping; we won’t be able to import food.’

  Henry looked even more surprised. ‘I didn’t think you took any of this seriously. I’m glad you do, but you’ll have your work cut out looking after our son.’ He was determined that the baby was a boy.

  Megan grasped his hands. ‘I’m not a silly little girl any more, I’m a married woman, and what’s more I’m a country woman. I know a lot about farming, and what I don’t know Silas Moon and George Jones can teach me. I’m good at maths and can do accounts. I’ll make Folly House and the home farm the best-run business in the whole of the New Forest.’

  ‘But the baby …’ began Henry.

  ‘Will be looked after by me, Lavinia, Bertha and Dottie. In fact, I suspect I’ll have to fight to get my hands on it. They are all waiting with bated breath for me to give birth.’

  Henry suddenly laughed. ‘That’s true,’ he agreed. ‘All right, I’ll give you a year to show me what you can do. You’d better come into the office now and I’ll show you the accounts, which I’ve had set up ready by my accountant in London. From now on they will have to be done down here as I can’t keep carting files of paperwork back and forth from London.’

  So Megan officially became the manager of Folly House Estate and the home farm. There was united opposition from Lavinia, George Jones and Silas Moon, as well as Bertha, who as usual had the last word.

  ‘It don’t seem right,’ she told her friends in the Women’s Institute. ‘She should be sitting at home knitting and being quiet. Everyone knows a woman’s mind is not normal when she’s pregnant.’

  But these pearls of wisdom went unheeded by Megan, who set to work with an enthusiasm that amazed everyone. Her first task was a confrontation with Albert Noakes. As well as being the air-raid warden he’d been appointed a government inspector for the East End area to designate land that needed to be put into arable production. Soon inhabitants of East End were wishing there would be an air raid to keep him occupied, anything to stop him officiously demanding that rose beds and lawns be dug up and planted with vegetables. He arrived one rainy morning at Folly House full of zeal, officiously demanding to see the farm manager.

  ‘Do you mean the manager, Mrs Lockwood?’ asked Bertha, equally officiously.

  ‘I mean the man in charge,’ said Albert.

  ‘There isn’t a man in charge. It’s Mrs Lockwood.’ Albert opened and closed his mouth as Bertha continued. ‘I’ll see if she can spare a moment. Wait there.’ She shut the kitchen door in Albert’s face, leaving him outside in the rain, and went to find Megan. She was in the office deciding how many pounds of runner beans they could spare for sale in the newly opened farm shop. Bertha was to salt down as many as possible for Folly House for the coming winter, the rest were for sale.

  ‘Albert Noakes is here,’ Bertha told Megan. ‘I’m thinking he’ll be wanting us to dig up the lawns. He’s made everyone else dig up theirs.’

  ‘I’ll see him in five minutes,’ said Megan. She’d already decided where the new vegetable plots should be and had no intention of destroying the lovely expanse of lawn, which stretched from the house to the sea. This would be her first battle as the new estate manager and she was determined to win it. And win it she did. Albert Noakes retreated with the compromise that the scrubby area with a few wild rhododendrons in it would be grubbed up and put to the plough. Oats would be planted there, and all the fallow beds in the kitchen garden would grow leeks and swedes for the coming winter.

  Albert happily put all this on his maps and left, not realizing that he’d fallen in exactly with Megan’s plans.

  Megan was happier being occupied, but wished that Henry would sometimes visit Folly House, not dash off to Biggin Hill where Adam was stationed, whenever he had a spare moment.

  Lavinia defended Henry. ‘I think it’s because he feels guilty,’ she said. ‘He feels he should be in uniform too, and doing something for his country.’

  ‘Why should he feel guilty? We’re not at war yet.’ Megan couldn’t help feeling jealous of Adam, who always seemed to demand Henry’s attention.

  ‘We soon will be,’ replied Lavinia sombrely. ‘And then Adam will be a fighter pilot, a dangerous job.’

  Megan didn’t reply. What could she say without appearing selfish and petty?

  Megan decided to fill in one afternoon by driving to Stibbington to the bookshop. She’d buy a book, then have some afternoon tea in one of the hotels before returning home. Driving across the cobbled yard on the wa
y out she caught sight of Dottie walking along, clutching a piece of paper in one hand and a shopping basket in the other; her gas mask slung across her back. ‘Where are you going, Dottie?’ she called.

  ‘Stibbington,’ said Dottie. ‘I knows the way,’ she added proudly. ‘Mum says I can walk there on my own. I’m going to Clarence Stores. Mum wants some more Kilner jars for the runner beans. I’ve got it written down.’ She waved the piece of paper.

  ‘Well, hop in,’ said Megan. ‘No point in walking all that way when I’m going into Stibbington as well. You might as well come with me.’

  Dottie didn’t need a second invitation. Throwing her gasmask box onto the back seat first, she clambered in and settled herself down with the basket on her lap. Megan tried to ignore the gasmask. It wasn’t necessary to carry them yet, although Dottie always did. To Megan it was yet another reminder of war. War, always war, she thought crossly. Even here on a peaceful sunny day it poked dark unwelcome fingers into the tranquil life of rural England. It was impossible to escape it. The reminders were everywhere.

  Dottie sat up straight beside Megan in the front of the car. She was beaming from ear to ear and Megan felt a flash of tenderness at the girl’s obvious delight in such a simple thing as a ride in the car. It must be nice, she thought, to get pleasure from something so ordinary.

  Dottie retrieved the gasmask from the back seat and put it in her basket on her lap. On the way they passed one of Silas Moon’s children walking down the lane with a raggedy lurcher dog in tow.

  ‘Hello Bert, hello Tigger,’ called Dottie, waving vigorously, determined not to miss being seen having a ride in the car. The boy waved back and Megan smiled.

  ‘Has Tigger got a gasmask?’ asked Dottie.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Megan. ‘They weren’t issued to animals.’

  Dottie looked worried. ‘What will happen to him when the gas comes?’

  ‘There won’t be any gas,’ said Megan firmly. But Dottie’s remark depressed her. Poor old dog. He’d die if they were gassed, and so would all the other animals. It was not something she’d thought of before. Waves of melancholia suddenly washed over her.