The silk stockings might have come from the GIs on the nearby American base, of course. They’d arrived in the spring, much to the disgust of the local lads, who found the village dances entirely different affairs once the American servicemen with their stylishly tailored uniforms and endless supply of forgotten luxuries descended. And Priscilla had been bowled over by the Yanks, Esther thought, declaring to all and sundry that the exuberant GIs had brought a much-needed splash of glamour to the quiet Yorkshire countryside, and making the most of her single status by dating one after another of the snazzy strangers in their midst. In fact Farmer Holden, worried by the British male’s over-exercised and rueful joke about the GIs being ‘overpaid, oversexed and over here’, had had a cautionary word with Priscilla, who had listened dutifully and then carried on exactly as before.
Dear Priscilla. Esther stroked the satin and lace and decided there and then that she would take Priscilla’s dare. She would be a married woman after all, so why not? Smiling to herself, she imagined Monty’s face when he saw her in the wickedly provocative scraps of material. He had been very proper and respectful during their engagement, but more than once in a close embrace his body had made it clear that he was all man. And she wanted to make him happy. More than anything else she wanted their marriage to be one of trust and love and happiness – as different from that of her parents as it was possible to be.
The thought brought her mother to mind and, after gulping down her tea, she pulled her robe over her nightdress and slipped on her fluffy mules. She would go and have a few minutes with her mother before her bath, before the day began properly and the machinery of the wedding took over. She felt she needed to make it clear, in words as well as actions, that nothing would alter the special bond they shared, and that she knew she had the dearest, kindest, most precious mother in all the world.
Chapter Five
Harriet heard Esther as she came along the landing. She had always been so finely tuned to her daughter that it was as if she sensed her presence rather than heard it. Her daughter: the bright, beautiful, strong girl who had filled her life with joy and happiness beyond anything she could ever have imagined. And as well as everything Esther was to her, her daughter had also been the means by which Rose had come into her life. Not having been close to her mother and sisters, Harriet had never known what it was to share her thoughts and feelings with a member of her own sex before she’d met Rose. They understood each other in a manner that did away with the formal standing of mistress and maid, and she didn’t care that they were miles apart in class and social equality. Rose was dearer to her than anyone, apart from Esther, of course. Rose took care of her when her heart was causing problems – something that had begun after her last pregnancy and confinement, but that had got much worse in the last year or two; a fact they both, by mutual agreement, kept from Esther. But not even Rose, dear sister that she had become, knew the true circumstances of Esther’s birth.
Harriet worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. She had dreamed of Ruth last night, for the first time in years. When she had first brought Esther home, all those many years ago, she had thought about Ruth constantly. Her fear that somehow the baby’s real mother would turn up and demand her child back had manifested itself in terrible nightmares, and it had been a double blessing when Theobald had made it plain, on the morning of their return to the estate, that he would not be visiting her chambers at night in future. Her duty was done, he’d said in his ponderous way, and ‘that’ side of things was over between them.
She had never been so glad of anything in her whole life, and his suite of rooms was sufficiently distant from her own for him not to be disturbed by her night-time terrors.
Eventually, as the weeks and months and years had slipped by, the dreams had faded and then disappeared altogether, and she hadn’t given Ruth a thought for a long time. Until last night. Then Ruth had stood at the end of her bed, and she had stared into the young face, which looked exactly the same as it had done that last day at the inn. ‘Tell her the truth, Harriet,’ the apparition had whispered urgently. ‘Tell her about me, and how it all came to pass that you took my baby. She will understand, if you tell her now.’
‘No, no, I’m her mother,’ she had whispered back. ‘I’m the one who has looked after her and brought her up. She’s mine – my daughter.’
‘But not by blood. You know that; you know it’s true.’
‘I don’t care about that. You gave her to me; you begged me to take her, and there’s no reason for her to ever know the truth. She’s happy. What could be accomplished by upsetting her now?’
‘She’ll know one day. Better it’s now.’
Ruth had begun to come towards her, hands held out entreatingly, and she had stiffened in denial, shouting that Ruth was cruel and wicked to demand such a thing; and then she had woken up, bathed in perspiration and shaking.
As Esther opened the bedroom door now and peeped around it, all bright eyes and dancing curls, Harriet thought, It was just a dream, that’s all, brought on by the wedding. But the dread that Ruth might one day appear in the flesh had come to the surface again for the first time in years, and she found it hard to respond naturally when Esther came quickly to her side, throwing her arms round her mother as she knelt by the bed.
‘I’ve just been looking at the dress again, and it’s so beautiful. Thank you so much, darling. I love you more than the stars and the moon – you know that, don’t you?’
The old phrase from Esther’s childhood, which had come into being when the child was trying to express just how much she adored her mother, and which she hadn’t used in years, melted Harriet’s ball of fear and enabled her to hug her daughter to her as she murmured, ‘But I love you more’, which had always been the stock reply.
They laughed together, and as Esther rose and sat on the edge of the bed holding her mother’s hand, she smiled into the dear face. Touching her mother’s hair with her other hand, she said softly, ‘I just want you to know that even when I’m old and grey, I will love you just as much as I ever have. Getting married, and being with Monty, doesn’t change anything and it never will. You’re the best mother in the world.’
Harriet’s eyes filled with tears. ‘And I feel my life began when I had you. Be happy with your Monty, sweetheart.’
‘I will. I know I will.’ Esther paused, wrinkling her nose. ‘But I shall make sure we don’t live too close to his parents. They really are the most awful snobs, especially his mother. In almost every conversation you have with her, she is dropping names of this person and that. And I know she thinks Monty could have made a better match than me, although of course she’s never said so.’
‘You’re not marrying his parents, darling.’ Harriet squeezed Esther’s hand. ‘And I know your father is hoping that Monty will come into business with him and make it a real family affair. After the war, of course. It would mean you would live near us, which would be nice.’
This last was said rather wistfully, and checked Esther’s reply that she had no wish to be near her father, either. She still hadn’t forgiven him for suggesting – or, according to Monty, virtually demanding – that Monty take her maiden name, when he had gone to see Theobald to formally ask for her hand in marriage. Monty had left her father’s study extremely perturbed. There was no possibility of such a thing happening, he had told Esther. She had agreed with him, and had been furious with her father for suggesting such a notion; and even more angry that he hadn’t spoken to her about it first. Eventually – and Esther still had no real idea how it had come about, except that Monty seemed to want to placate her father – it had been agreed that their married name would be Wynford-Grant, and with this her father had deemed himself content.
Squeezing her daughter’s hand again, Harriet said, ‘Tell me about the farm and those wonderful girls you work with. How’s Priscilla? Is she still seeing that rather brash GI you wrote about?’
Esther grinned. ‘Which one? Cilla seems to have a differen
t beau each week. But the Americans are generous, I’ll say that for them. They’re always hosting parties at the base for the local children, and giving them such rarities as ice cream and chocolate bars. Oh, and peanut butter, of course. That’s been an instant hit, although I can’t see the appeal myself. I must bring you a jar to try – it’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted before . . . ’
As Esther chattered on, Harriet sat back against her pillows, content to watch her daughter’s expressive face and to hear her beloved voice. She had been silly to think of the dream as some sort of warning, she told herself. It meant nothing, and was probably just the result of eating too much cheese the night before. Her secret was safe, and would remain so. If they could all just get through this terrible war unscathed, then the future – with grandchildren and family times full of fun and laughter – looked bright. She and Theobald had a good understanding now. He had his beloved business to occupy his mind, and his present mistress (one of many during the last years) to satisfy his bodily needs. She had her home and her friends and, most importantly, Esther, and wanted nothing more. Life was good, in spite of Hitler and his evil horde. She had faith in Mr Churchill and in his promise of ultimate victory, and now the Americans were in the war they couldn’t lose. Everyone said so. Yes, she had been silly to let a ghost from the past cast a shadow over such a wonderful day . . .
Montgomery Grant turned to look at his bride as the organ announced her arrival, and his breath caught in his throat at the beauty of her. She was exquisite, he thought wonderingly, as the ethereal figure floated up the aisle on Theobald’s arm, and at his side his best man whispered, ‘You’re a lucky bounder, old man, but you know that, don’t you?’
Yes, he knew it. He had first set eyes on Esther at a Christmas ball that some mutual friends had thrown, when she had recently turned sixteen. He had known then she was the girl he wanted to marry. He had been a young and fancy-free man of twenty-three at the time, and with war having been declared some four months earlier in September, he had had no intention of falling in love. He had recently completed his training to become a fighter pilot and knew how precarious life might be, but even the threat of death at the hands of the Luftwaffe hadn’t been enough to stop him declaring his feelings before the holiday had finished.
And, miracle of miracles, Esther had been as mad about him as he was about her, and had said so in no uncertain terms. He loved that about her: her frankness and lack of coyness. Esther was one of the few women he knew who was as straight as any man.
Of course their courtship had been far from easy, but then everyone was in the same boat these days. And he was sure it was Esther’s love that had protected him during the Battle of Britain. So many of the laughing Spitfire pilots who had walked with him across their sunlit aerodrome, hair and scarves blowing in the summer breeze, had never come home, their lives ending in blood and pain and burning. All his close friends, apart from Dennis beside him, were gone, and Dennis’s scars were a result of one rabid dogfight in the skies, when he had been shot down in flames. But he himself had remained unscathed thus far, and believed he would continue to do so. You had to believe that; had to believe that, when the Luftwaffe came at you like a flock of crows or a swarm of fat black flies in a big rectangular pack of Heinkels with their escorts of ME 110s and 109s, they wouldn’t win, wouldn’t touch you. It was the only way.
Esther was nearly at his side now and he could just make out her face beneath the swathes of veil, and she was smiling. His heart leapt and then raced like a mad thing. Theobald, beside her, looked like a rather grotesque goblin by comparison. Beauty and the Beast, he thought wryly. How Esther had come from Theobald and Harriet, he didn’t know, but he thanked God that she bore little resemblance to either of them.
And then she was standing by him and the minister was beginning to speak, and as her veil was lifted back, her eyes danced at him. ‘This is all so silly,’ her eyes said. ‘We should have run away and eloped, like I suggested in the first place, and weathered the storm of disapproval when our parents found out what we’d done. It could have been just the two of us, with everything how we wanted.’
But he didn’t mind sharing her, for this one day at least; and he knew that a wedding in Esther’s parish church had meant a great deal to her parents, and his own would have been beside themselves if things weren’t done properly. His mother, in particular, was a stickler for the proprieties. It would go a long way to placate her, over his determination to marry Esther, that his bride was in virginal white and the wedding was an elaborate affair. When Esther had argued that in these days of austerity a white wedding with all the trimmings was wrong, he had agreed with her in part. Consequently the wedding list had been halved and then halved again, and the reception at the Wynford estate was relatively simple in comparison to what it might have been, had Hitler not reared his head. Nevertheless, it was a far more showy undertaking than either he or Esther had wanted – his mother had made sure of that. She was a formidable woman, his mother. And difficult. Very difficult.
‘Do you, Montgomery Hubert Charles Grant, take . . . ’
The minister’s solemn voice brought his mind fully to the matter in hand and, as he gazed down into Esther’s glowing face, he forgot everyone else as he made his vows.
The service and then the reception were voted a resounding success by all those present. Montgomery’s mother even complimented Esther on her dress and was quite fulsome in her praise; she had been convinced that Esther would walk down the aisle in one of those awful suits girls were making do with these days, and had prepared herself for the worst. Instead, for once Esther looked a fit companion for her son. Her beautiful son, who could have had any girl he wanted as his bride, but who had chosen a virtual nobody.
Clarissa Grant’s thin mouth tightened. Lord Bainsby’s daughter, Annabella, a dear sweet girl with impeccable breeding, had made it clear that she liked Montgomery on more than one occasion; and Sir Rudolph Shelton had indicated to Hubert two summers ago that he would have no objection if Montgomery paid court to his eldest daughter. And there had been others – all far more suitable than Esther Wynford.
Clarissa glanced at her husband, who was sitting next to Harriet on the curved top table, where they all faced the assembled guests. She could tell by the silly smile on his face that Hubert had already drunk too much wine, but at least he merely became more and more comatose when he was intoxicated, unlike Theobald Wynford. Seated next to Esther’s father, as she was, she’d had to endure his close proximity for hours, and with each glass of wine he tipped down his throat he became louder. Ghastly little man. How someone with the background of Esther’s mother could have so far forgotten herself as to marry such an individual, she didn’t know. Of course rumour had it that no one else had asked for Harriet all those years ago, and that Wynford had been her only hope of ending her spinsterhood.
Clarissa’s bony chin lifted. She knew what she would have done in the same circumstances.
She stiffened as the master of ceremonies called their attention to the fact that the speeches were about to begin. Goodness only knew what Theobald Wynford would come out with, but at least this charade would soon be over and they could leave for home. Esther’s parents had extended an invitation that they were very welcome to stay with them for a few days, but she had made it plain to Hubert that she would rather be hanged, drawn and quartered than stay one night under their roof. Not that the house and grounds weren’t beautiful; they were, and far better maintained than their own home, which was in a state of disrepair. But that was by the by. Esther’s father was everything she disliked about ‘new’ money, and she had no intention of suffering his company one minute longer than was necessary for the sake of appearances. She had already intimated to Montgomery that in the future he would do well to exert his authority as Esther’s husband and see to it that the girl drew away from her parents – subtly of course, but consistently. She herself would not be averse to taking the girl under her wing, as it w
ere, and instilling the finer facets of high society into her. But that would have to wait until the war was over, of course. And perhaps it might not be necessary; maybe the unpleasant and sometimes dangerous conditions that the Land Girls were experiencing would take their toll. Only last week the newspapers had been full of the death of a Land Girl who had fallen into a threshing machine; and the month before there had been a report that, apart from the perils of working machinery they weren’t built for, the girls had to dodge the danger of bombs being unloaded by German aircraft as the planes made their way home after a city raid.
Clarissa’s pale-blue eyes narrowed as Theobald rose ponderously to his feet, and she mentally braced herself for what was to come, stifling a sigh. A couple of hours more and they could be on their way, and it couldn’t come a minute too soon.
‘So, Mrs Wynford-Grant, how does it feel to be a wife?’ Montgomery smiled at his bride as he drove his little sports car – a twenty-first present from his parents some years before – along the country lane leading from the estate, where their guests had just waved the happy couple off minutes before. It was approaching twilight, and the towering elms and oaks cast faint shadows over the leaf-bound lane, the air heavy with the perfume of eglantine, the wild briar, and the flowers without number that starred the verges.
Esther smiled back at him, thinking it was hard to remember there was a war going on, on such a heavenly day. And it had been heavenly, all of it. And now they were man and wife. At last. She glanced down at the gold band next to her diamond engagement ring. It felt strangely heavy, but nice – very nice. Softly she said, ‘Stop the car a minute. I want you to kiss me, properly.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Monty grinned at her, pulling swiftly onto the grass verge and taking her into his arms even before the noise of the engine had died away. The kiss was fierce and urgent and never-ending, and they were both gasping when Monty raised his head. ‘You’re mine,’ he murmured, a note of wonder in his voice. ‘I’ve been terrified that something – I don’t know what, but something – would stop us becoming man and wife.’
The Colours of Love Page 5