Beth’s feelings about her husband’s ex-wife’s daughter were mixed. Helene seemed pleasant enough, and was certainly no trouble. She disappeared for most of the day, and was always polite when spoken to, always ready to help with any of the chores about the house. She had been doing the flowers while Christine was away.
Where was Helene at the moment? Beth was aware that she really hadn’t spent a great deal of time talking to their guest other than on her arrival. She was always busy, of course, but she ought to make an effort, make sure the girl was settling in all right. Helene insisted she didn’t need to be entertained that she could amuse herself, but perhaps the family had been neglecting her. She would suggest they went for a walk together after the Vicar’s visit.
She went upstairs. Helene probably spent most of her time in her own room. “Helene…” She opened the bedroom door. “May I have a word…”
The room was empty, but she knew Helene wasn’t downstairs, because Millie had told her she hadn’t come down that morning. Beth turned away, then noticed that the door of Christine’s room was slightly ajar. Instinct told her she would find her guest there.
Helene was looking through the clothes hanging in Christine’s wardrobe. Beth watched for a few seconds as the girl stroked the fine materials of clothes that had been bought before the imposition of rationing. A vague feeling of unease mixed with sympathy as she saw Helene’s wistful expression. Was she thinking of her own things, which must have been destroyed when her home was bombed?
Helene’s expression turned to apprehension as she turned and saw Beth looking at her. “I wasn’t doing any harm.”
“You ought to have asked Christine first,” Beth said. “But there’s no harm done.”
“She has some pretty things…”
“Most of them were bought years ago and no longer fit her – that’s why she has to have new clothes.” Beth was aware of guilt. They had used all their spare coupons for Christine, and this girl had only what she’d been given by the charity that had received her when she arrived in this country. “When I’ve saved some more coupons I’ll let you have them.”
“Would Christine let me have the dresses that don’t fit her anymore?”
“They wouldn’t fit you either, Helene.”
“The material is so good, much better than you can get here now. If I had two or three of her old things I could make myself several garments.”
“Could you?” Beth looked at her doubtfully. There were at least three dresses that Christine would never wear again. “Let me see…there’s this white one, the blue striped and this floral,” she said. “And perhaps the plain blue. Are you sure you want them? Jack can probably get you some coupons if I ring and ask him.”
“I would rather have these.” Helene looked excited. “I am good with my needle. You will be surprised at what I make of these.” She held the material reverently to her cheek. “Christine won’t mind, will she?”
“She told me to give most of them to the jumble sale. I am sure you are welcome to them, my dear. I’ll look in my wardrobe and see if there’s anything you could use.”
“It will give me something to do,” Helene said. She gathered up the clothes. “You won’t tell her I was in here, will you? She might be angry – and I really only wanted to look.”
“Christine is seldom angry. But I’ll tell her you rescued these from the jumble – which in a sense you have.”
Beth closed the wardrobe door. She was aware of a slight unease as she followed the Frenchwoman from the room. Had she done the right thing in allowing her to have Christine’s things?
Beth hadn’t missed the slight hostility between the two when they met, which was why she had allowed Caro to persuade her to let Christine go back with her. It would give her daughter time to become adjusted to the situation.
Penhallows was surely big enough for all of them. They were so fortunate in this quiet spot, the worst destruction of the enemy bombers having passed them by. It was good for them all to be reminded of what others had suffered, to share what they had. Christine would never wear those dresses again – but she might resent Helene having them. Beth hoped not, because she didn’t like to think of Christine as selfish, though if she was it was the fault of her family who had spoiled her for years.
Outside the bedroom Helene paused, looking at her hesitantly. “You have been so kind to me, Beth. I can’t tell you how much it means to me staying here. I really want Christine to like me.”
Beth immediately felt guilty again, though she wasn’t sure why. It was just that they had so much – and this girl had lost everything.
“Do what you can with those,” she said, indicating the dresses, “but as soon as we have more coupons, you shall have them.”
Helene darted at her, kissing her cheek before turning away to her own room.
Beth watched her disappear inside. It was silly to worry, she decided. Christine wasn’t going to be upset over a few old dresses…but it wasn’t just the clothes.
Something deep inside Beth was telling her that she ought to be on her guard – but against what? She really had no idea, she just sensed that something wasn’t as it should be…
But she had another guest to worry about. She had better go and see where young Matthew was; he was almost bound to be hungry by now.
Christine glanced at the man sitting so silently beside her in the back seat of the comfortable Bentley car. It was such a luxury to ride in a limousine like this with its soft leather seats and all the space it provided. She had been trying to decide what was different about Simon for the past two days. It wasn’t just that he seemed older than his twenty-five years or that his face was thinner, his eyes colder: there was something more fundamental.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked, noticing that he held his leg stiffly in front of him. “It was kind of Sir Freddie to lend us his car, wasn’t it?”
“Guilty conscience,” Simon said in a harsh tone that grated on her ears. “He’s like a good many others of his kind…made a killing out of Government contracts while stupid bastards like me couldn’t wait to get out there to be blown to pieces.”
“Simon…” She looked at him in dismay. “That’s not a very nice thing to say, especially when he was so generous. Besides, he was in the last war. I know that, because Caro told me he won a medal.”
“He only lent us the car to please you. It makes no difference to him, he has others.”
She caught the note of bitterness in his voice and knew it was the answer to her question. Simon was harder, much harder. He hadn’t been like this the last time he’d been home; he’d been fresh out of his training then and eager to fight for his country.
“Does your leg hurt?” she asked, thinking he might be in pain.
“Not particularly. It throbs if I walk far and sometimes at night I think it’s not there. The chap in the bed next to me in the hospital out there lost both of his…there were plenty like him. I got off lightly.”
“How awful. I’m so sorry your friends were hurt like that.”
“Why should you be? You didn’t know him – nor did I, really. You learn not to have friends after you’ve been out there a while. It gives you bad dreams when they get blown to bits in front of your eyes.”
“Please don’t!” Christine was shocked, as much by the bitterness in him as what he was saying. “It’s too awful…”
Simon turned his slate grey eyes on her. He looked angry and resentful. So strong was the contempt in his face that she recoiled as if he had struck her.
“Of course I’m sorry for anyone who has been injured, you know I am,” she said defensively. “Anyone would be. It’s just that…”
“It upsets your cosy view of the world?”
“That’s not fair. It’s not my fault there’s a war on – or that I didn’t take any part in it. I was too young. I did help with fund raising and knitting for the troops when I was at school.”
“You were probably to blame for the revolting
socks they sent us then,” he said, but there was a lighter note in his voice. “Life is bloody unfair.” He took a cigarette from his silver case and tapped it against the metal before looking at her. “Do you mind? It steadies my nerves.”
“No, I don’t mind.”
He lit his cigarette, a smile coming reluctantly to his thin, sculptured features. “Why don’t you get mad, Christine? Tell me I’m a thoughtless bastard? I shouldn’t take my temper out on you.”
She felt the tears sting her eyes but blinked them away. “I expect you’re just tired. You’ve been ill…”
“Something like that,” he said. “It was hell out there if you really want to know. Especially the last bit – but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I wasn’t going to ask – and if you want to sulk you can get on with it. Once we’re home I’ll stay out of your way, and then I shan’t get on your nerves.”
“That would be a pity.” Simon laid a hand on her arm. “Sorry, brat. Be an angel and forgive me?”
“I’m not sure I should,” she said but was melting inside. “And I’m not a brat, that means I’m a child – and I’m nineteen.” But she was too forgiving for her own good!
“Quite the young lady,” Simon mocked. “I had noticed – and I’m not the only one. Freddie is after you. How do you feel about being the wife of a stinking rich man? I should imagine his fortune makes the Kavanagh inheritance seem a mere pittance, though both you and Harry are beneficiaries of your father’s Will. You’ll never be exactly short of money.”
Christine glanced out of the window again, her throat tight with emotion. Had he any idea of how cruel he was being? How much it hurt her to think about the tragic death of her father?
“I don’t care how much he has. I’m not going to marry him even if he asks, which I doubt.”
“He’ll ask,” Simon said and frowned as she turned to look at him. “Maybe you should marry him. He’s potty about you. You can see it in his eyes.”
“I don’t know why he should be. I haven’t given him the least encouragement.”
“I don’t think that matters. Sexual attraction is something that just happens. A man looks at a woman and if she’s the one for him something hits him. You don’t plan it – it just happens.”
“Oh…” Christine bit her lip, keeping her gaze fixed studiously on the back of the chauffeur’s head. “What happens if one feels it and the other doesn’t?”
His eyes were thoughtful as he stared past her. “Depends on which one feels it. Women are sometimes willing to settle for comfort and a respectable marriage…”
“That’s a rotten thing to say!” Christine moved away from him to the far side of the car. She needed to put distance between them. “Men have been known to marry for money, you know.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you would sell out,” Simon’s mouth twisted wryly. “Just that you should be aware of the situation. Freddie Steadings is looking for a wife who will fit into his world with the minimum of trouble, and he thinks you’re it.”
“You are impossible!”
She turned her face away from him, gazing out of the window at fields full of grazing cattle. It all looked so peaceful that it was sometimes hard to remember there was a war on.
How could Simon be so blind? He must know how she felt about him! Surely he wouldn’t say hurtful things like that if he cared for her at all?
She was silent for several minutes as she fought for control of her emotions. Did he really not know that she cared for him – or was it that he didn’t care?
When she was sufficiently in command of herself, she risked a glance at him. He was leaning his head back, his eyes closed. His face looked drained and slightly grey, and she realized that he had been under far more of a strain than she could ever know. It was foolish to get upset just because he seemed moody and said things that hurt her. She ought to be adult enough to make allowances.
They were on a road that wound beside a river now and she caught glimpses of willows with fine, feathery fronds kissing the surface of the slow flowing water. Tears threatened to spill over but she held them back. Simon hadn’t meant to hurt her. It was all the fault of this beastly war. He had suffered so much, seen so much that she couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Of course he was right, she thought, feeling naïve and stupid. What did she know about anything? She had been safe, loved and protected all her life. She knew nothing of the outside world, for even at school she had been sheltered by the teachers and their strict rules.
The world outside Penhallows was much harsher than she could dream, and just for a moment she wished that she had been allowed more freedom to experience these things. Simon had and he’d grown away from her.
Chapter Five
France 1930
“Where are you little pig? If you hide from me it will be the worse for you. I shall fetch the stick and then you will be sorry.”
Securely hidden in the barn, Clothilde heard the woman calling to her and scowled. It was she who was the pig, a fat old sow who stank worse than any of the swine in the yard. She was ugly with thin grey hair that was thinning and hairs sprouting from her double chin. Clothilde hated her.
“Do not be frightened, ma petite,” the woman’s voice took on a coaxing note now. “Your grandmere wants you. You are not to be punished for your wickedness this morning – though God knows you deserve it. Left to me…” her voice grumbled on as she shuffled out of the barn.
Clothilde remained where she was for some minutes after Blanche left, knowing from past experience that the woman was crafty and might hide behind the door, ready to grab her if she came out too soon. She would take any chance she got to hit Clothilde with anything that came to hand, but her chances came less often now. Clothilde had learned to stay out of her way as much as possible. When she was sure it was safe she would slip away to the woods. They were her favourite place, the place where she could be alone with her dreams and not get caught with a sudden slap from either Blanche or Betrand.
She did not believe that she would not be punished for her wickedness that morning. The broken vase was an accident. She’d chased a mouse, and in her excitement the vase went flying. It shattered into so many pieces that it could never be repaired. It had been worth a lot of money, and one of the few things of value left to Grandmere.
Clothilde would have apologised to her grandmother but Blanche started to shout at her and hit her. Something snapped in her head as it did sometimes when she was upset, and she’d kicked and punched the woman.
She ought not to have done it, of course, but it gave her satisfaction to get back at her tormentor. She hated both Blanche and Betrand, knowing them to be sly and lazy. They cheated Grandmere. Clothilde knew they stole things, because she had seen them.
Once she’d tried to tell her grandmother, but she merely shook her head. “It does not matter, Clothilde. Nothing matters but food in your stomach and a warm place to sleep. If I dismissed them no one would come to take their place, and I could not cook or clean. People are frightened of this place, and who can blame them? Blanche and Betrand stay and so we must accept what they do.”
Clothilde wished that they would go away, but there was nothing she could do to make them. She was too young to cook and do all the heavy jobs Betrand did, and Grandmere could not because she was not well enough.
One day, when she was older, Clothilde would send them away and she would look after Grandmere herself.
Thinking about a future with no Blanche or Betrand gave Clothilde a warm feeling as she entered the woods. It would be so sweet to take her revenge on them for all the slights and blows she suffered at their hands – but they were not important here.
Clothilde was awoken from her reverie as she suddenly saw the boy standing a short distance ahead of her. He hadn’t seen her, because he was on his knees looking at something on the ground. She crept up to him, wanting to speak to him and yet hardly daring. Most of the village children ran away screaming whe
n they saw her, though she’d never known why.
“You needn’t be afraid,” the boy said without turning his head. “I know you’re there.”
“Who are you? What are you looking at?”
“I was looking at this,” the boy said holding up the body of a young fox. “It is dead and I was thinking it ought to have a Christian burial – don’t you think so?”
“The church doesn’t bury animals,” Clothilde pointed out. She reached out to stroke the tiny creature’s fur. “Poor little thing. Why did it die?”
“I don’t know; there are no marks. Maybe its mother got killed and it couldn’t feed itself.” The boy took a penknife from his trouser pocket. “I’m going to bury him here. You can help if you like, and then we’ll say prayers over him.”
“Yes, if you want.” Clothilde was sure Father Caillebotte would disapprove but made no objection. “What can I do?”
“Find some twigs we can make into a cross,” he said. He began to dig with his knife. The spot he had chosen was soft with the debris of years of leaf mould and after a moment he enlarged the hole with his hands, laying the small creature tenderly in its grave. He covered it with soft earth and leaves. “Thank you,” he said as Clothilde gave him the twigs. He made them into the shape of a cross, binding them with string from his pocket. “There – now we’ll say prayers for his soul.”
Clothilde stood with her head bent respectfully as he conducted the service. He gave her a long, careful look.
“My name is Andre – and you are the granddaughter of the mad old woman who lives at the big house.” He stated it as a fact, and Clothilde’s mouth dropped open. He laughed, delighted at her reaction. “You’ll swallow flies.”
“No, I shan’t,” she answered, finding her tongue all at once. “Grandmere isn’t mad. She’s just sad and lonely…and sometimes she forgets…”
Grandmere sometimes forgot about Clothilde for days at a time now. She had become worse this last year or so, often staring blankly into the fire for hours and hours, that was why Blanche and Betrand were so lazy about their work. They knew that Grandmere would forget she had asked them to do whatever they had neglected.
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