Robert picked up the envelope, staring at the handwriting as though at a ghost.
‘Will there be anything further just now, sir?’
‘No, not for the moment. Give me a few minutes, will you Harris, before you draw my bath?’
‘Of course, sir.’
When Harris returned, almost half an hour later, the Major was still sitting exactly as before, the opened pages of the letter resting against his knee. Pausing by the door, Harris glanced from those open pages to the photograph on the desk, and slowly shook his head. For a moment all the old affection and loyalty he felt for Robert Duncannon quite overcame any latent sympathy he had for her.
‘Bit of bad news, is it, sir?’ he asked, setting towels to warm by the fire.
Slowly, Robert shook his head. ‘No, Harris, not really.’ He stood up, replacing the letter in its envelope. ‘Quite the reverse, in fact. An occasion, if not for unmitigated joy, then certainly for a measure of...’ His voice tailed away and, with slow deliberation, he placed the envelope and its contents on the fire. As it blackened and curled, he said: ‘Relief, I suppose.’
The days which followed were even more hectic, if that were possible, than the weeks preceding the outbreak of war. There was much to be done: stores to arrange for a three-week voyage, horses to train and examine for fitness, reservists to integrate amongst the regulars, inoculations against enteric fever to administer, and transport to arrange from Hounslow to Southampton. The news that the regiment was to be transported to South Africa by Liverpool cattle-boat was greeted with very mixed feelings. Fine for the horses, everyone agreed, but less than ideal for the men. The officers in particular were most disgruntled.
‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about,’ Robert said to Tommy one day in the Adjutant’s office. ‘No matter how bad it is, it’ll be nothing compared to what we’ll face when we get there.’ He was needled by all the pettiness, and made the mistake of letting it show.
‘Oh, there’s no need to remind us of your extensive field experience,’ Tommy retorted, ‘we’re all very much aware of it already. And if you don’t mind me saying so, Major, a little weary.’
‘Tommy, just bugger off, will you? I’ve got work to do.’
The Adjutant raised his eyebrows but made no comment. As Tommy left, banging the door behind him, he leaned over Robert’s shoulder to look at the rota of embarkation leave the two men were working on. ‘Nerves,’ he said at last. ‘This whole thing is getting to everybody.’
‘We’ll all be better when we’ve been home and said the goodbyes,’ Robert murmured. With that he put it out of his mind.
He went to Dublin first, and it was late when he arrived. He was tired, despite using most of the journey in sleep. The drag on his emotions was far greater than he had anticipated, and despite the forced brightness, he knew Letty sensed some of his fatalistic dread. Every time he looked at his daughter, with her sharp, intelligent face and too-knowing eyes, Robert wondered whether he would ever see her again. She sensed it too, clinging to him and crying as he left.
Two days later, arriving in York, his mind kept returning to Dublin, wishing his children were not divided. But it could not be otherwise, not now.
His eyes scanned the tossing, windswept trees in the moat. Leaves were blowing everywhere, spinning like moths past dim and isolated gas lamps, catching at railings beneath those massive ramparts, fleeing in huddles across the road. The sturdy cab-horse shied a couple of times, jerking Robert from his reverie. It was well past nine, and no doubt the boys and Tisha would be asleep. In a way he was relieved; he did not think he could bear another scene such as the one with Georgina. Not that they would understand, as she did, but still...
Louisa was another matter.
The tone of her letter had been conciliatory, but in the light of its contents he assumed it could not have been otherwise. Remembering their last parting, he dreaded the coming one. Would she never truly forgive him? Would she stand, stiff as those railings, and utter unfelt words, phrases she only thought he wanted to hear, simply because he was going away? And Edward: what would his reaction be? In possession of the prize, would he gloat?
Dreading it, Robert shivered, pulling his heavy greatcoat around him, glad the coming interview must of necessity be short: the London train left at eleven, and, to be back at Headquarters by morning, he must be on it.
The cab pulled up outside the cottage gate and Robert stepped down; having made his arrangements at the station, he did no more than clarify them before going in.
‘I may be only a few minutes; it might be an hour. Whichever – wait. You’ll get your fare and a handsome tip. All right?’
‘Right, guv’nor. Train at eleven, you say? If you’re more than an hour,’ the cabbie added, with the suggestion of a leer at Robert’s uniform, ‘I’ll give a knock.’
‘There’ll be no need for that.’
Edward answered the door, inviting him into the tiny hall without even the pretence of a smile. Both tense, for a moment the two men simply stood and regarded one another. Robert saw compassion in his rival’s eyes, and for a fleeting second wanted to hit out. It was injured pride as much as jealousy, but knowing it made that look no easier to bear.
‘I’m glad you were able to come. Louisa wanted very much to see you.’
‘I couldn’t go,’ Robert said tersely, ‘without saying goodbye.’
‘She wants to apologize, I think, for treating you badly the last time you were here.’
Sudden embarrassment dispersed Robert’s anger. ‘Oh. She told you?’
‘Well, she told me why you came.’
‘Look, I simply wanted to clear a few things up — no more than that. I wanted us to be friends.’
‘I know. I understand. It’s what we all want.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Robert sighed, and with a weary smile set down his hat and stick on the little table. ‘I suppose I should congratulate you...’
‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Edward said dryly.
Robert laughed. ‘No, you’re quite right, I don’t want to. With envy clutching at my throat,’ he added with disarming frankness, ‘the words would choke me. The stupid thing is — I knew all along she should marry you. It was the only logical thing to do.’
The other man pursed his lips; then, with an ironic smile, said: ‘I hope logic didn’t have too much to do with it.’
The sudden softening of his expression was most revealing. Regarding him for a moment, Robert smiled sadly. ‘Knowing Louisa, I shouldn’t imagine it did.’
‘Well,’ Edward said, clearing his throat, ‘perhaps we’d better go through. She’ll be wondering what plots are being hatched out here.’ Opening the parlour door, he stood back for Robert to enter.
Standing by the hearth, she looked anxious; then she smiled, that lovely curving smile which lit her eyes and a host of poignant memories. For the first time in this house she opened her arms and embraced him.
‘I’m glad to see you, Robert,’ she murmured, and he knew she was. Forgetting the years between, he wanted to kiss her, say foolish things; but most of all he wanted to go on holding her.
With an effort he dropped his arms. ‘I can’t stay long,’ he said brusquely, ‘I have a cab waiting outside. But I wanted to see you. To see you both,’ he added, including Edward in his glance.
Glad of the offered chair, for his knees were suddenly weak, Robert sat down, accepting a glass of wine which he drank too quickly, and a hefty slice of fruitcake which he did not want at all. For a few minutes they were all tongue-tied; then Louisa asked after Letty and Georgina, and he asked about the children. But those polite exchanges were no more than dressings, Robert thought, covering the rawness beneath. That they had done the right thing he had no doubt: he simply wondered why it hurt so much. In a strange way, the fact of their sexual intimacy disturbed him far less than that ongoing spiritual intercourse which he had been aware of from the very beginning. Now, however, it was far more tangible.
They knew one another, he realized, in the fullest sense of the word.
In her new contentment, Louisa seemed to have come to terms with so much else. She could look at him and smile, and all the bitterness and resentment were gone. Robert even felt she loved him in a dispassionate kind of way. That hurt, too.
At ease and confident, even Edward seemed to have grown in stature, exuding tolerance and sympathy as though that separate suffering in the same cause had somehow made them brothers. It had certainly made them equal. After all, Robert reasoned, they both loved her, both wanted the best for her; and the best was here, with the children, in peace and security. He had known that for a long time.
With an eye on the clock, Edward said he would fetch Mary Ann’s mother; on the strength of Robert’s letter, arrangements had already been made for the children to be cared for while they saw him to the station.
‘That’s not necessary,’ Robert protested, but Louisa waved it aside.
‘Nonsense – we want to come with you. I couldn’t bear the thought of you getting on that train alone, without... There’ll be all those others…’ She shook her head, unable to go on.
‘You silly bloody woman,’ he whispered as the door closed behind Edward. ‘After all that’s been said and done, and you can’t let me get on a damn train without…’ Words failed him. Taking a step towards her, he held out his arms; she came straight to him, burying her face against his shoulder.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why, for Heaven’s sake?’
‘For being so horrid to you. I shouldn’t have — didn’t mean…’
‘It’s all right. It’s not important, not anymore.’
As she struggled to explain herself, he placed a finger over her lips. ‘I know,’ he said gently, kissing the little curls on the crown of her head, ‘why you said what you said, and did what you did. If you’d gone to bed with me that night, you couldn’t have looked him in the face again. Am I right?’
She nodded, and Robert sighed, pressing her closer. ‘I just wish you could have said so at the time — it might have saved a lot of bitterness.’
‘I didn’t know it then – didn’t realize. Not until afterwards, and then I hated myself for hurting you. I wanted to explain, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry.’
He shook his head, still hurt by the memory. Full of love and pain and regret, he raised her face to his and gazed longingly into those deep, forget-me-not eyes. With quiet sincerity, he said: ‘I’m sorry too.’ Gently, he pressed his mouth to hers; for a moment she responded, then drew away.
‘I love Edward.’
‘I know. You always have.’
Releasing her, he said, in an attempt at lightness, ‘It was about time you pushed him off that bloody pedestal. I must say he’s a damn sight better for it. You never know, I might even get to like him – and that would be a novelty, wouldn’t it?’ She tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress a grin; pinching her cheek, he murmured: ‘That’s better. Don’t let’s have any more sad faces, I can’t bear it.’
Louisa glanced at the clock. ‘He should be back any minute. Why don’t you go up and see the children? I’ll call you when he comes.’
Lighting a candle at the foot of the stairs, she handed it to Robert. Shadows danced ahead of him; a gusting draught made it flicker suddenly as he ascended those narrow, winding steps. The wind was more noticeable at the top of the house, whistling eerily round the eaves and down the chimneys. Through an open door he thought he saw someone move, then saw it was his own shadow, falling across a large brass bedstead.
Unable to resist temptation, Robert looked into a room as white and neat and shining as the rest of the cottage. Apart from the lace counterpane and a faint scent of lavender, there was nothing soft or sensual or even particularly feminine about it. No perfumes or powder-bowls or pieces of cut-glass. Even the washstand contained no more than the usual items and a single vase of honesty, fragile and silvery in the flickering light. It was so painfully virginal he could hardly believe it was Louisa’s room; then he saw a woman’s shawl across the seat of a chair, and a man’s jacket supported on the back. For a moment his heart twisted. But the woman who slept here, he told himself, was different indeed from the one who had shared his life before. In a way he was relieved: her memory would remain intact.
With a sigh of deep resignation, Robert crossed the landing to the children’s room. Tisha was asleep on her back, golden curls framing her head like a halo, long eyelashes casting shadows over cherubic cheeks. One fist was poised with thumb extended, where it had slipped from her mouth in sleep. Leaning on the wooden side of her cot, Robert smiled down at her, briefly touching one warm, rosy cheek with the back of his hand. As he turned to his sons, one dark, one fair, curled round each other in the centre of their bed, he felt his throat constrict with sudden pain. Robin turned away from the light, but Liam stirred, for a moment blinking and smiling.
‘Night-night, Daddy,’ he murmured indistinctly, burying his face in the pillow. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘Not me, little man,’ Robert whispered. ‘Not me.’
Tears pricked suddenly; hearing a light foot on the stair, he brushed them quickly away.
It was Louisa. Setting the candle down, he pulled the door gently to, and embraced her. ‘Whatever else we did,’ he murmured huskily, ‘we made three beautiful children. Don’t ever regret them, will you?’
‘Oh, Robert, love! I never have, nor ever will.’
‘Take good care of them.’
‘Always.’ Holding him tight, she kissed his cheek. ‘Come on, chin up, it’s time to go.’
Her sudden briskness was intentional. Heartened by it, he straightened and took a deep breath; himself again, he followed her down the stairs.
In the hall, Edward was waiting with his coat on. Through the open kitchen door, Robert caught sight of a pair of curious eyes, eyes which took in every detail of his immaculate officer’s uniform, from the crown at his shoulder down to his knee-length and highly-polished boots.
Louisa thanked the woman for coming over, and said they would not be very long; anxious about the time, Edward hurried them out to the waiting cab.
The station, even at that late hour, was full of bustle and noise. Under that great curving arch, the wind howled in gusts, steam hissed, voices were hollow, and whistles echoed into infinity. As Louisa had suspected, there were many khaki uniforms on the main platform that night, most of them standing by open carriage doors, surrounded by groups of relatives and friends. Railway guards and porters tried ineffectually to usher those who were travelling onto the train, while late-comers like themselves fussed with bags and trunks, nerves fraying by the guard’s van.
With little more than ten minutes to spare, Robert strolled to the left-luggage office and, with a porter already at his elbow, directed the stowage of his single bag to an already reserved compartment. As though he was seeing them away, he guided Edward and Louisa in the porter’s wake towards the head of the train. Heads turned as they passed; the men with varying degrees of envy or grudging respect, most of the women frankly admiring. Even in that new, dull khaki, Louisa thought, Robert cut a very handsome figure indeed; she was suddenly very proud to have borne his sons, and for once in York, cared not at all who saw them together.
Edward, seeing the light of pride and affection in her eyes, smothered a sneaking twinge of jealousy. She needs this, he told himself; needs to feel proud and pleased that he’s going away. That little air of glory surrounding Robert and every other soldier on the station that night was essential. The idea that they were going, like crusader knights, to defend an idea in a foreign land, was equally so; without it, leaving would be impossible.
If we saw them on the field of battle, he thought, those uniforms tattered, smooth flesh hacked to ribbons, could we cheer and encourage and wish them well? If we saw them kill and main, making widows of other men’s wives, orphans of innocent children, could we send them away like this? Shivering suddenly, pitying the m
an who stood so straight before him, Edward thanked God he was required to have no part of it; knowing himself as a creator, he wondered how he would feel if asked to destroy. The poet in him seized on that, using the idea as a defence against these minutes of tension and pain.
Wishing he had changed his mind, wishing Louisa could have come alone, Edward stood back, reluctant to intrude; but Robert seized his hand and clasped his shoulder like a friend.
Behind that sudden and genuine warmth, for a moment other emotions darkened that steady, expressive gaze, as though he wanted Edward’ to understand something which must be shielded from Louisa. Opening his mouth to speak, Edward saw the slight negative gesture and swallowed the words, which would have been pitifully inadequate anyway. Exhorted to take care of Louisa and the children, he could only nod and press that firm hand harder, hoping the other man registered his understanding. In his dismay, he prayed that Louisa would not sense that terrible sadness.
He watched as they embraced; saw tears hover on those heavy lashes, the sudden twist of her mouth in response to something Robert said; and, as the train suddenly clanged and jerked, his hard, lingering, defiant kiss.
With a great gush of steam, the train was already beginning to move as Robert boarded; a guard slammed the door, shaking his head in wry reproach. Moving down the platform, hands linked in farewell, people jostled the two of them where they stood. Robert leaned against the window as the train moved out, not waving, simply watching, his eyes for Louisa alone.
Buffeted by wind which swept down the tunnel of that great arcade, Louisa clung to Edward, weeping against his shoulder. Although she did not voice it, he sensed her fear that Robert may not come back. Fighting his own sorrows, he held her close. Jealousy, old and only partly disinterred, had struggled from its grave as Robert Duncannon took his leave. He wondered if they would ever be free of him.
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