“Here.” Felix bends to unwrap his gift. “This is for you, with all my love.”
Eleanor stares at the painting, catching her breath. She’s wearing the red taffeta frock, sitting in Felix’s attic, with one of the windows behind her, and a band of sunlight streaming over her shoulder. There’s a marvellous thoughtfulness about her eyes and face, the placing of her hands, the turn of her head.
“I love it… Thank you so much. I’ll smuggle it into my bedroom and hang it in there. If Mummy notices, I’ll tell her who painted it. I’ll tell her the whole story.”
“And face the consequences?”
She laughs. “Yes! There’s nothing she can do to stop me loving you.”
“Do you really love me, Eleanor?” His eyes burn into hers.
“Yes, Felix.” Eleanor throws her arms around him. “Kiss me again, so I can show you how.”
A few minutes later she stoops to pick up a blanket in the corner of the studio, and throws it over the chaise longue. Then she leans past her lover to turn out the light.
On Sunday morning Eleanor leaves Anne a note telling her she’s gone out for the day. She meets Felix at The Bear, blushing beneath his gaze, remembering the passionate details of the previous night. They drive into Oxford, walk across the University Parks, drink coffee in town, negotiate a damp Port Meadow to Wolvercote and eat luncheon at The Trout. Then they drive back to Woodstock.
They spend the afternoon in Blenheim, walking again, the sky overcast, the early sunshine gone. They’d talked all morning. Now, as four o’clock approaches, they keep a new, companionable silence, as if there are no more words to be said because none are needed.
They reach Blenheim’s marvellous bridge for the second time. Felix tugs at Eleanor’s hand, drawing her closer to the low stone wall. They stand together, looking over the calm, grey-green water.
“Summer’s nearly over,” Felix says. “Those leaves are beginning to turn. It must be beautiful in the autumn.”
“Will you come again soon?” Eleanor leans her head on his shoulder. “To see the colours for yourself?”
“No.” He stares over the lake. “I’m not driving to Woodstock again. That is, not until you’ve given me an answer.”
“But you haven’t asked me anything!”
“Haven’t I? I’ve been asking you a question since the moment I saw you yesterday.” He turns to face her. “I want you to come back to St Ives with me. I want you to be my girl, every minute of the day and all night long. Will you, Eleanor?”
She catches her breath, unable to speak.
“The work I’ve done to The Hideaway…” Felix lifts her hands to his lips. “It’s all been for you. I’m longing to share it. I want you to look at my paintings every evening. I want to take you dancing on Saturday nights, to walk with you on Sundays. To have you in my bed again.” He smoothes his fingers over her hair. “Give me your answer, darling Eleanor. Will you come back to St Ives with me?”
Eleanor’s eyes fill with tears. “If you only knew how much I’d love to say yes.”
Felix stares at her, his face dark with disappointment. “Are you turning me down?”
“How can I simply pack a bag and leave? Abandon Mummy, Vera, the tea-room?”
“You’re not indispensable. Someone else can run it. You can’t live in your mother’s thrall. You need a life of your own—”
“Of course I do… But not yet!”
“So what are you saying? That you want me to wait?”
“Exactly that—”
“For how long? Three months? Six months? A year?” Felix’s voice hardens. “Month after month with nothing but little scraps of paper full of loving words? Snatched days like these when we skulk around, hoping nobody will see us together? Half an hour of love-making, sliding off an old chaise longue onto a splintery floor?”
They laugh shakily at the memory, but Felix perseveres.
“Maybe we’ll have a week together at Christmas. It’ll fly by, then leave us apart again.” He shakes his head. “I can’t live like that. Love such as ours is as rare as a wild orchid. It’s to be honoured and obeyed. We should thank our lucky stars that Walter’s death brought us together, and do something about it.”
“But we’ve only known each other a few months—”
“I’ve known you for years. That’s what it feels like. As if I’ve been waiting for you all my life.”
“Then wait a little longer.” Eleanor strokes his forehead with her fingertips. “Please, Felix, I beg you… Give me” – she thinks rapidly – “until Christmas. To make sure the tea-room will survive. To look after Mummy a little longer and give me time talk to her, tell her about you… I can do all that when the time is right.”
“The time never will be right unless you make it right! Do it this afternoon. Go home now. Tell Anne everything. Meet me at The Bear and bring her with you. When she sees us together, she’ll see how happy we are.”
“All right,” Eleanor cuts in. “I’ll do it now… At least, I’ll try.” She glances at her watch. “We’ll meet you at The Bear at seven. How does that sound?”
Felix’s arms close round her in a suffocating hug. For a moment he lifts Eleanor off her feet. She sees the sky swaying, the lake’s waters lapping, the sun dying among its gold-stained clouds.
“That’s my girl!” he says.
Tomorrow
Woodstock, 1936
Eleanor drags herself away from the warmth of Felix’s arms.
She starts to run: over the bridge, past the palace, down the gravelly path, out of the Triumphal Arch, into Woodstock. Her breath pounds in her ears. She hardly knows what she’s doing, except that she’s getting away from her lover, putting space between them, giving herself time to think.
She must be mad even to contemplate abandoning everything. The tea-room will never survive without her. She and Vera work as a team because they know each other so well, because Vera’s loyalty towards herself and Anne knows no bounds, because they’re both, in their different ways, looking after Anne. No stranger, however efficient, could understand.
And how on earth will Anne react to being told her daughter’s about to disappear to Cornwall with a man whose very name’s enough to turn her pale with shock?
And yet, and yet… Eleanor longs to be with Felix, to live with him, have time to relax into his love, to stop looking over her shoulder, counting the hours before they have to part. Their love is a rare orchid. If Eleanor turns him down, she might never find anything nearly as wonderful with anyone else. And anyway, she doesn’t want anybody else, only Felix, with his gentle Cornish burr, his hands, his lips, his kisses. She wants the sound of the sea in her ears every night as she drifts into sleep. To share the cottage where her father lived.
Eleanor crashes into the house.
Voices and laughter come from the drawing room. Eleanor peers in. Anne and Sylvia are taking tea together, nodding and laughing like middle-aged conspirators, relishing the gossip of the day.
“Ah, Eleanor!” Anne reaches for the teapot. “There you are! I was just telling Sylvia about your lovely birthday supper. It was so sweet of Jonny… It was his idea, you know. He paid for everything. He’s so considerate, isn’t he?”
“I suppose so.” Eleanor gulps her tea, standing up.
“Vera’s gone out for the evening but she made us something before she left. Do you want a sandwich or a slice of her delicious lemon sponge?”
“Neither, thank you.”
“Do sit down, darling—”
“I need to tell you something.”
“So spit it out!” Anne pats the sofa. “Don’t just stand there like a waif in a storm! Sit down and be friendly!”
Eleanor says through clenched teeth, “It’s a bit private, Mummy—”
“I’m sure Sylvia wo
uldn’t mind listening…”
“No, that’s impossible—”
“You do look a bit flushed, dear. Your hair’s all over the place and your shoes are terribly muddy. I hope you’re not ill.”
“I’m fine.” Eleanor’s courage evaporates. “It’s nothing important. I’ll tell you later… Sorry to interrupt.”
She clumps upstairs to her room.
She paces the floor. The clock on her bedside table ticks relentlessly. She leaves her door ajar, straining to hear what’s happening. When will Sylvia go home? And what exactly will Eleanor say to Anne? She rehearses it in her head.
“You remember Felix Mitchell? I told you we never met properly? Well, we have, and we’ve fallen in love. He’s asked me to go to Cornwall, to live with him. He’s staying at The Bear, and he’d like to meet you. Could we all have supper tonight?”
Eleanor can almost hear her mother’s shriek, her sobs, her words of disbelief and ridicule.
Downstairs, a door opens.
Anne calls up, “Eleanor?… Sylvia’s very kindly asked me to supper. We’ll talk in the morning.”
The front door slams.
Eleanor flings back into her room, furious with herself for not insisting Anne listen to her at once. She realises the house is empty. Seizing the opportunity, she races downstairs and out to the studio. It feels different: she realises why. From now on, its battered chaise longue will always be the place where she and Felix made love. She picks up the blanket they’d lain on, folding it into her arms, remembering.
Then she grabs the painting of the girl in the red taffeta frock, staggering for a moment beneath its weight. She hauls it through the garden, into the house and upstairs. She lays it on her bed. How confident and composed she looks in her scarlet finery: her skin creamy and smooth, her eyes tranquil and shining. The calm before the storm?
“So where’s your mother, then? You haven’t told her, have you?”
Felix sits at the same table in The Bear, a half-drunk glass of beer at his elbow. He stares at Eleanor, his eyes cold and disappointed, his voice accusing.
Eleanor slumps beside him, her legs trembling. “Mummy was having tea with a friend. I couldn’t interrupt.”
“And when they’d finished their precious sipping?” Felix’s voice is acid with sarcasm. “Why didn’t you talk to her then?”
“She went out to supper before I could say anything.”
“Really?” He gulps his beer. “You amaze me.”
“There’s no need to sound like that.”
“So how do you think I should sound? You obviously haven’t tried very hard.”
Eleanor murmurs through clenched teeth, “I said I’d do it when the time was right—”
“No, you didn’t. You said you’d do it now.” Felix swallows the remains of his drink. “I need another beer. Would you like anything?”
“A glass of red wine would be wonderful.”
Felix buys the drinks, plonks them on the table. “So where do we go from here?”
“I promise I’ll talk to Mummy tomorrow.” Eleanor takes an enormous gulp of wine, its sharpness slicing at her throat.
“Tomorrow?” Felix sounds disbelieving.
“Yes, at breakfast. Or during the morning. We shop in Oxford on Mondays. I’ll talk to her in the car.” She gives a shaky laugh. “Every mother wants her daughter to be happy, doesn’t she? Mummy can hardly complain I’ve neglected her since Daddy died. I can leave with a clear conscience—”
“Are you sure?” He swivels towards Eleanor, clasping her hand. “I don’t want you having second thoughts in St Ives, worrying about Anne, wondering whether you’ve made the right decision.”
“I know you’re the only man for me. And I so much want you to meet Mummy. I want you to like her. I’m longing for her to like you… It’s just—”
“Go on.”
“I wish Daddy hadn’t left you his money. That Moira hadn’t been your mother.” She swallows back her secret, that she knows Moira is alive, with the utmost difficulty. “I wish Mummy didn’t hold so much against you.”
“But she does.” Felix shrugs. “All I can do to ‘mend’ things is to love you and offer you everything I have.” He adds quietly, “All that is mine, from this time forward, until death us do part.”
Eleanor catches her breath. “The words of the wedding ceremony.”
“Indeed.” He tightens his grip. “Perhaps you’re wondering why I haven’t asked you to marry me? It’s because I don’t believe in it. I want us to be together because we want to be, not because some silly little civil servant has made us sign a piece of paper. Do you understand, Eleanor?”
“I understand.” She gulps at her wine, amazed at how her heart is thundering with disappointment. “But it won’t help your case with my traditional, conservative mother one little bit.”
That night, in her bed, alone, Eleanor lies worrying. Something nags at her. Something Felix has said reminds her of someone else, somewhere else, in a similar predicament, but she can’t think what or who it is.
Towards dawn she drifts into sleep. She wakes with a start an hour later, remembering. According to Felix, Moira had left Oxford to go to France with Pierre without telling Walter. She’d vanished on the spur of the moment, after only knowing Pierre for a few days – and with disastrous consequences.
Now Felix is asking exactly the same of her.
Eleanor sits up, her head pounding with anxiety. She wonders whether Felix has any real understanding of exactly what he’s expecting her to do.
Give up everyone and everything for him.
Eleanor faces Anne over the breakfast table, her hands clammy.
“I need a new frock, dear daughter of mine.” Anne flaps through a copy of Vogue. “Something glamorous for the autumn. Could we search in that nice little dress shop in Turl Street? We’ve got plenty of time. Jonny’s not expecting me until two.”
Eleanor’s heart sinks. Anne has her day mapped out. She’s looking forward to the new season. There’s colour in her cheeks, sparkle in her eyes. Working with Jonny’s doing her good. She looks younger, happier, contented. In one fell swoop, Eleanor could destroy all that and so much more.
She takes a deep breath, buttering a piece of toast she has no intention of eating.
“That’ll be fine as long as we’re back by one.” Another deep breath. “Look… There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Oh?” Anne pours a second cup of coffee. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Sorry I couldn’t get away. You know what Sylvia’s like.”
The toast stares at Eleanor, slimy with grease. She smothers it with chunky marmalade. “Of course I do.”
“So?” Anne glances at her sharply. “Who is this mysterious person?”
Eleanor stares at the coffee pot, unable to meet her mother’s eyes. Suddenly she understands how many times her father must have tried to tell his wife about Moira: must have promised himself that, today, it would be different. This time he’d force the words out of his mouth. Gently, quietly, without interruption, he’d spell out the whole story. But always, at the last moment, his courage had failed.
So does Eleanor’s. The words she has rehearsed so carefully stand on the tip of her tongue but fail to go any further. Everything’s so difficult, so complicated. She owes her mother so many explanations that she hardly knows where to start. She has waited too long. She’s filled with panic. What if, having heard what Eleanor has to say, Anne barges over to The Bear and orders Felix to leave Woodstock?
Eleanor clears her throat, babbling the first thing that enters her head. “Oh, he’s not a bit mysterious. I’ve been thinking about cleaning up Daddy’s studio so we can expand the tea-room. It might be a good idea if we saw Robin Parker together.”
“Good heavens, Elean
or! Is that all?” Anne scrapes back her chair, stretching slim arms above her head. “You’re the business woman. Go and see Robin on your own. Let me know how you get on.”
She turns at the door.
“Oh, and can we give Sylvia a lift into Oxford? She has an appointment with her dentist in Beaumont Street.”
Eleanor leaves the kitchen, walks mechanically into the hall. She picks up a couple of bills. And a letter, on expensive, ice-blue notepaper, addressed in a clear, round hand. Its postmark is Juan-les-Pins.
She’d almost given up hope of this ever happening. She flies upstairs, stands by her bedroom window, and rips open the envelope.
Cinq Saisons, Juan-les-Pins. 19 August 1936
My dear Eleanor
It was such an extraordinary surprise to get your letter and the small bundle written by my beloved husband. I was sorry to hear of Walter’s death, but overjoyed to learn that Felix wants to see me.
I returned to The Riviera last night, alas without my Pierre. He died in Baden-Baden, in spite of everything the doctors tried to do. So now I am without him in this huge villa, with so much time on my hands and only my painting to fill the long hours. I’m dreading the months ahead.
Please tell Felix I should love to see him again, more than he’ll ever know. I never meant to abandon him, only to leave Walter, but I couldn’t do one without the other. It’s a long story and not one I can explain in a letter.
Congratulations on discovering that bible well. Nobody else ever managed it. And thank you for returning the letters – all the more precious to me now – and for coming to find me. I hope one day we shall meet properly.
Au revoir
Moira
Five minutes later, Eleanor races out of the house, Moira’s letter in her hand, no coat, no hat, nothing in her heart but her burning desire to find Felix. She stands in the foyer of The Bear, asking for him, her breath stabbing at her ribs.
The Choice Page 30