‘Oh, Robbie, Robbie.’ She had raised herself from the pillows now and, bringing her face close to his, she said, ‘You know something? You have never kissed me. Patted me, hugged me, but you’ve never kissed me.’
‘Oh, Rosie, Rosie.’ His face looked on the point of laughter; then his lips fell gently on hers and he held the kiss for some time. Now, pressing her face from him, he said, ‘That’s merely an introduction. When your cheek is better I’ll do it properly.’ And attempting to smile now, she murmured, ‘Oh, Robbie, Robbie. I love you. I do, I do. I . . . I never felt like this with . . . well, I can say, with Teddy. Looking back, that seems like a girlish dream, something that all girls have to go through. You . . . you believe me?’
‘I believe you, love. Oh, yes, I believe you. And all I want to know now is, how soon d’you think it will be before we can get married?’
She brought a deep gurgling laugh from him when she said, ‘Make it tomorrow, or a week at most. In any case, as soon as we can. But I would like it to be in church.’
‘So would I, dear; although the lady downstairs’ – he laughed – ‘will call me a hypocrite. But there’s something in what you say, ’cos the quicker it’s done, the quicker we’ll get the winter cabbage in.’
The bed shook through their mingled laughter and Annie MacIntosh, who had been about to enter the room, stopped with her hand on the doorknob, hesitated a moment, then turned about and went slowly downstairs again. But when she reached the bottom, she lifted her eyes to the ceiling and said, ‘At last; thanks be to God. But not afore time.’
Twelve
When he first saw the house from the drive, John was asking himself why he had offered to bring them in the trap. Robbie could have brought Rosie on the cart. She wouldn’t have cared how she had got here so long as he was with her.
Robbie’s voice came softly at him now, saying, ‘It’s a bonny house. Lovely.’
‘It’s better inside,’ Rosie said, and he smiled at her but made no further comment.
John drew the horse to a stop at the foot of four shallow steps; but before moving from his seat, he looked to where Helen was standing almost at eye-level at the top, and his heart jerked against his ribs, reviving the old pain and making him chastise himself.
She ran down the steps, hugging Rosie to her, before she turned to Robbie, saying, ‘How nice to see you, Robbie.’
John still hadn’t left his seat and she looked up at him, and her voice changed as she said, ‘Hello, John.’
‘Hello, Helen.’ He forced himself to smile as he pointed to the horse’s head, saying, ‘Where am I to put this?’
‘Oh, Henry will see to it. Look, here he comes.’
A small, thick-set man appeared, and she pointed to the horse, saying, ‘Stable him, will you, Henry, please?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ There was a broad smile on the man’s face; but then his head turned sharply as John, descending from the trap, said, ‘Oh, I won’t be able to stay long. Just put him under shelter because I fear’ – he looked up at the sky – ‘we’re in for a shower, or a thunderstorm.’
‘Good enough, sir. Good enough, sir,’ and the man led the horse and trap away.
Walking side by side with Robbie, John followed the two sisters and for the first time he entered Col Mount.
He recalled the day that Helen had pointed it out to him from Craig’s Tor, and it came to him that the name didn’t really suit the house. It was a harsh-sounding name whereas this hall, with its rose wallpaper, gilt-framed pictures, polished floor, scattered rugs and soft pinkish upholstered chairs and curtains appeared anything but masculine. Perhaps panelled walls and a broad oak stairway would have better suited the entrance to such a named house.
They were in the drawing room now and here the femininity was even more emphasised. But at the moment it did not impinge upon him for he was staring at the man who had pulled himself up from a chair and was shaking hands with Robbie. And he could not believe that this was the man whom he had continued to envy over the years, thinking of him always as a tall man with a military bearing. This man was still tall, but he looked emaciated.
‘Hello, Doctor, so nice to see you again. It’s a long time since we met.’
‘Yes, sir. Yes, it is a long time since we met.’ He stopped himself from adding, ‘How are you?’
‘Well, don’t let us stand here like stooks, as Cook would say. Sit yourself down . . . Hello, my dear.’ He had turned to Rosie but didn’t kiss her or put his arms about her. Instead, his hand went out and gently touched her cheek.
John had not sat down, and Helen repeated her husband’s words: ‘Do sit down, John.’ He had been asking himself why he hadn’t sat down and was still standing like a stook, and he put it down to the change he was seeing in this military man because he recognised impending death when it stared him in the face, even from a distance.
As he sat down, he heard Helen say, ‘I’ll ring for some tea,’ and he realised that she was very ill-at-ease; also that she too had changed: she looked older, yet even more beautiful.
Afterwards, he couldn’t remember what he had eaten for that tea. All he recalled of it was that Leonard joked with the two maids who brought it in, Hannah and Betty, and that they were rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed, middle-aged women. After the tea had been cleared away, a silence had fallen on the five of them until it was broken by Rosie excitedly saying, ‘I’m . . . we’re going to be married, Robbie and I.’ She put her hand out and gripped Robbie’s hand. ‘But . . . but it all happened quite suddenly, and I’m going to let John tell you about it.’ She now turned to him, saying, ‘Tell . . . tell them, John, everything. Please! Every word.’
He felt his face flushing. He had not expected this. He had thought that she would do the telling, and in her own way, and he said so: ‘It . . . it should really come from you, Rosie.’
‘No. No. Please, John. I couldn’t. I mean . . .’ She drooped her head and at this he looked from Helen to Leonard, then after a long pause, he said, ‘Well, it was like this. I was up in London for four days, on a two-day course of lectures and we bumped into each other in the street.’ He stopped here, then said, ‘I’m referring to Teddy Golding . . .’
‘Teddy Golding?’ Helen’s voice was high with surprise, and at this, her husband put out his hand and, patting her knee, said, ‘Shh! Listen, dear.’ And as John went on, so she sat and listened. And now and again she would turn her head and glance towards Rosie, her look saying, ‘I can’t believe it.’
When John neared the end of the tale he left out the scene between Beatrice and himself. But what he did say was, ‘I know I could have kept this to myself, but I also knew how Rosie was still feeling. As she herself said, the feeling of rejection was unbearable at times, more so, I should think, because she did not know the reason for it. Teddy’s rejection of her had seemed to be so casual, and knowing what had previously transpired between them, she had found it impossible to come to terms with it. And another reason why I felt she should be told was that if she ever married, or I should perhaps say, allowed herself to be married, the feeling would have remained with her, for she had lost her trust in men.’ He now looked across at Rosie, to see her gazing at him, her eyes moist. ‘And it had prevented her from showing her real feelings for Robbie.’ He now drew in a long breath and said, ‘The rest Rosie can tell you herself. But I think her expression speaks for her.’
Helen rose from her chair and went to Rosie and, drawing her up from the couch, put her arms about her, but seemingly found it difficult to speak, so Rosie said, ‘It’s all right, Helen. I’m . . . I’m all right now. Since John told me the truth that feeling of stigma has been lifted off my mind, and I no longer feel inadequate. Yet, it all happened at a cost to John. It’s upset his life.’
At this John remarked promptly, ‘You needn’t worry about that, Rosie; it was upset some time
ago.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Helen’s question did not bring an immediate answer from him. And when he gave it, his gaze was directed away from her. ‘I’m leaving her. In fact, I’ve already done so. I have moved into the annexe with Mother. And,’ there was quite a long pause before he added, ‘I’m applying for a legal separation.’
There followed another embarrassed silence, until Leonard altered the course of the conversation as he looked at Rosie and Robbie and asked, ‘When is it to be; the wedding?’
‘Oh’ – Robbie jerked his chin – ‘for myself, it could have been next week. But this woman here’ – he glanced at Rosie – ‘fancies a church wedding.’ And Rosie, smiling now, added simply, ‘The banns go up on Sunday.’
‘Good. Good. I’m happy for you both. And that goes for Helen, too, doesn’t it?’
Helen answered briskly, ‘Oh, yes. Yes. But it should have happened ages ago. You’re a stiff-necked Scot. D’you know that?’ – she stabbed her forefinger towards Robbie – ‘You should have made your feelings clear years ago.’
‘Helen! Helen!’ Leonard, catching hold of her skirt, tugged her gently towards him, saying, ‘Every man has his reasons, and Robbie certainly had his. Not everyone is like me, rushing in where angels fear to tread.’
John did not feel envy, but just a slight pain in that special place below his ribs as he saw the exchanged glance between them. Then Leonard again changed the subject by looking at him and saying, ‘Do you play bridge?’
‘Oh, bridge?’ John shook his head. ‘Haven’t done for years; not since college days.’
‘Whist then?’
‘Oh, yes, whist. I’ve devised a two-handed game with my mother. It’s a bit complicated. You’ve got to do as much thinking as one would at chess.’
‘You play chess?’
‘Yes. Yes, I like a game of chess, whenever possible. But I seem to have so little spare time.’ He was about to go on when Helen, getting to her feet, said suddenly, ‘Come on, Rosie, let’s show Robbie how to grow vegetables. We’ve got a good patch, too, you know.’ And Robbie, smiling at her, said, ‘I’m out to learn, Miss Helen,’ only to glance quickly towards Leonard and apologise, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s . . . it’s habit. I meant . . .’
‘Never mind what you meant,’ Helen put in quickly, ‘just drop the miss, for you will soon be my brother-in-law.’ She smiled widely at him now. Then after a short pause, she ended, ‘And that will be most welcome. But come on, both of you, before it starts to rain.’
Left alone, the two men looked at each other and it seemed that one was waiting for the other to speak.
It was Leonard who spoke and there was bitterness in his voice as he said, ‘This is a stinking disease, isn’t it?’
John found himself blinking rapidly, and he wetted his lips before he could answer. ‘I understand they are researching hard for a break-through.’
‘Yes, that’s what they tell me. But in the meantime one is sent to the South coast, or to Switzerland. And what does it do? Just prolongs the agony.’ Then, his tone altering, he said, ‘You likely know Doctor Peters?’
‘Yes. Yes, we’ve met on several occasions.’ He made himself smile as he said, ‘Yes, he has his patch and Doctor Cornwallis our patch.’
‘Have you many TB patients?’
‘A few. It seems to run in families.’
‘Do you find them ostracised?’
John raised his eyebrows as he repeated, ‘Ostracised?’ Then after thinking a minute, he said, ‘Yes, I suppose they are to a certain extent. But it isn’t deliberate; it must really be through fear.’
‘Yes, fear.’ Leonard’s head now was nodding. ‘We’ve experienced that. But I wouldn’t give a damn for myself; it’s . . . it’s Helen.’ He moved forward in the chair, then turned and looked towards the window as he said slowly, ‘You know, when we were first married and used to come here visiting Helen’s friends the place seemed to be swarming with other visitors, all desirous of giving us a good time. It was the same up in town, especially after I unfortunately came into the title. But when I developed this’ – he tapped his chest – ‘except for one or two here and there, the others melted like snow under sun, especially those who had young sons or daughters. But it’s’ – and he smiled wanly now – ‘I suppose it’s natural. I’ve asked myself, would I not have done the same? But—’ he deliberately turned and looked at John again as he said, ‘I’m not concerned about company for myself, it’s Helen. She hides it, but she has felt the rejection of friends. There were the Maldons, and the Oswalds, and the Fenwicks. They had known her for years, long before I came on the scene. In fact, I understand that the older members had been regular visitors at their house. But now the only ones she sees are the Conisbees and the Maguires, and, of course, Dashing Daisy. Oh, I don’t know how she would get on without Daisy. You’ll have to meet her.’ He gave a mirthless laugh now as he said, ‘Lena Conisbee’s as deaf as a stone, and he has a voice like a roaring bull. You know, I look forward to their visits, because one can’t help laughing at them, especially when she answers the question he has never asked. And then she yells, and he yells at her, and she yells back “I’m not that deaf.” The Maguires are different: they are quiet, too sympathetic. But there again, they never bring their two sons. I understand all this, for myself I do, but when I realise that I brought all this on Helen . . .’
John put in sharply, ‘You shouldn’t think about it like that; I’m sure Helen doesn’t. She’s deeply concerned for you, that’s all, she won’t be thinking of herself. And I feel sure that you are the only company she wants.’
Leonard stared at John for a long moment before he said, ‘Would you come over now and again for a game of whist or chess, or what have you?’
‘Yes, I would like to; but then, it must perforce be a matter of timing. You see, I do surgery most evenings; I have one day off a week, and a full weekend a month. The afternoons would be my best time between half-past two and five.’
‘That would be fine. Yes; yes. But what do you do after you finish surgery? Oh, I forgot. I’m sorry, one becomes selfish. You have your mother with you, and I understand she is rather poorly.’
‘Oh, well, she’s not poorly in what you could say a sick way, but she suffers badly from arthritis in her legs and finds it difficult to get about.’
‘Would she mind meeting me?’
‘Mind . . . meeting you?’ John had spaced the words; then repeated them quickly, saying, ‘Mind meeting you? Mother? She’d be delighted. But unfortunately I could never get her up into the trap, it’s too high.’
‘What about a carriage? I mean, our carriage. It has two detachable steps. Is she a big woman?’
‘No, anything but.’
‘Then she could be lifted into the carriage. It’s very comfortable.’
John thought for a moment; then smiling, he said, ‘She would like that. Oh, yes. She never gets out. Yes. Yes, indeed, she would like that.’
‘We’ll do something about it, then, eh?’ and Leonard returned John’s smile, his gaunt features stretched and John saw a glimpse of the man he had once known as he said simply, ‘Thank you.’ And when Leonard said, ‘I’m so glad you came; I feel it’s going to make all the difference,’ John could not see in what way his visits would achieve that, but then he couldn’t know this man’s wishes were to cut into his pattern of life in the same way as had the taking of the annexe for his mother, and with even more dire results.
Thirteen
‘So you’ve come back at last, Miss Simmons?’
‘Well, Cook, ’tis me half day off,’ replied the kitchen maid. ‘And I was, sort of’ – she grinned widely now – ‘detained.’
‘Detained?’ This came from Frances, who sat at one end of the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea. And she turned her head towards Janie Bluett, sittin
g opposite, and repeated, ‘Detained? She was detained.’ Then looking at the young girl, she said, ‘And who were you detained by?’
Mary now slowly took off her short jacket and unpinned her straw hat before, brightly, she said, ‘The bride.’
When she did not go on, but turned to hang her coat on the back of the kitchen door, Cook, with an exaggerated gesture, pulled out a chair and said, ‘Won’t you sit down, miss?’
And when, quite coolly, Mary sat down, the two maids burst out laughing; and Cook, gazing down on her young assistant, said, ‘You’re askin’ for your ears to be clipped, aren’t you? Well . . . go on.’
When Mary did not go on, Frances, leaning forward on the table, looked at her and said, ‘Tell us about the wedding. How did she look?’
Immediately Mary’s small show of defiance was swept away, and following Frances’s action, she too leaned forward and, joining her hands tightly together, as if to give emphasis to her words, she said, ‘She looked lovely. Beautiful. And he was as smart as smart. It was lovely. Her dress wasn’t exactly white; not white, you know, just like a creamy colour, and it had three skirts, and the bodice was all tucks. And she had elbow sleeves and the frill on the end was embroidered with tiny pink roses. It was the same on the panel in the front of her bodice. Oh, she did look lovely.’
‘Was the church full?’ Cook had now seated herself, and Mary answered, ‘No. No, it wasn’t really full, and they were mostly Robbie MacIntosh’s people. There seemed a lot of them; but Miss Rosie only had the doctor and Miss Helen. He gave her away. Oh, he looked smart an’ all. And Miss Helen. Eeh!’ – she put her hand across her mouth – ‘I always call her Miss Helen – I don’t think of her as Lady Spears – but she looked lovely an’ all. She always did look lovely, didn’t she? And the organ played lovely and when Miss Rosie walked back down the aisle, her arm linked in Robbie MacIntosh’s, I could have cried. There were crowds outside and they followed them across to the George and Crown where the reception was being held.’ She now looked from one to the other as she said, ‘I forgot to tell you that she arrived in the coach with Miss Helen and the doctor. The husband didn’t come; Miss Helen’s, that is. They say he’s bad.’
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