Veronica had not touched the scrying stone since Valéry’s return to health, but it comforted her to have it nearby. She let it lie in its usual resting place, hidden well back in her wardrobe. Valéry had moved into her bedroom, since she’d told him she could never be comfortable sleeping with her husband in the room that had been Lord Dafydd’s. They brought in an extra wardrobe and installed a larger bed. At night they lay gazing out her window on the peaceful starry sky, remembering how it had once blazed with explosives.
The only sign that Valéry still thought about his family and his old home was his perusal of the French newspaper he had delivered each morning, which Honeychurch laid beside his breakfast plate. He pored over the pages, studying each report of refugees and reparations.
Once Veronica asked, “Darling, are you searching for your students? The little ones? Shall we go and look for them?”
“There is no point, Véronique.”
“How can you be sure?”
For answer he put his sun-browned hand over his heart and shook his head. Since it was the way she herself so often knew things, she didn’t question him. She left her place, though, to go and kiss his cheek. “So many losses,” she murmured. “I suppose we will always grieve.”
“Do you still grieve for Phillip?”
They had spoken very little about her short marriage. She left her hand on his shoulder and gazed out the window, remembering Phillip’s widowed mother, who had accepted his photograph and the family ring back with tears in her eyes. She had embraced Veronica, holding her tight for several moments and wishing her well in her new marriage. Veronica’s throat had contracted, and as she kissed her former mother-in-law, she’d found it hard to speak.
She told Valéry now, “I do grieve for Phillip. I grieve for him as I do for so many friends who died. As I grieve for my brother, and my father.”
The photograph of Thomas in his uniform, with his medals laid beside it, remained in the morning room, arranged just as her father had left it. That would never change, not so long as Veronica lived at Sweetbriar.
“I wish,” she said sadly, “that you had pictures of your family.”
“The house was destroyed. Bombed to nothing. Burned to ash.”
“I wish I had known your mother.”
He stroked her hand on his shoulder. “So do I.”
Their lives were full and busy. They longed for only one thing more. When it didn’t come, Veronica couldn’t help feeling it was a punishment. Valéry asked once, carefully, “You do want a child, Véronique?”
She never told him what she had done. She couldn’t. He had suffered enough pain, and she knew how it would hurt him. She put her arms around him, and pressed her cheek to his strong shoulder. “I do want a child,” she whispered fiercely. “Of course I do.” But the longed-for pregnancy didn’t happen.
The problem was not a lack of passion. Despite the long hours they worked every day, they often went early and eagerly to bed, remaining in the parlor after dinner just long enough so the staff would not be embarrassed. They made love nearly every night, and slept curled together, their bodies touching, loath to be apart.
Like true country people, they loved watching the countryside change with the seasons. They savored the trees turning green in the spring. They saw the summer flowers blossom, fade, and drop. They exclaimed over the autumn colors, gold and red and rust. They watched the leaves fall, and the fields turn sere, to be purified by winter. The wheel of the year turned once, twice, three times. They were happy enough.
One clear winter’s night, when stars glittered over a frostbitten landscape and the windows were rimed with ice, Veronica shivered, chilly despite their thick comforter and Valéry’s warmth beside her. He slid out from beneath the blankets. “I’ll get you something to put on.”
“My dressing gown is hanging inside the door of the wardrobe.”
He padded barefoot across the room. She snuggled deeper beneath the quilt, waiting for him to return. When a minute passed and he had not come back to bed, she sat up.
Valéry was standing in front of the wardrobe, both its doors pulled wide. She said, her voice catching with a sudden anxiety, “Can’t you find it? It should be right—”
“Véronique. What is this?” He stepped a little aside so she could see for herself.
The light, seeping through the cracks of the wicker hamper behind its barrier of hanging clothes, was subtle, but in the deep winter darkness unmistakable. Veronica pressed her hands to her mouth. Valéry thrust aside the dresses and coats to reveal the Fortnum & Mason hamper glowing steadily through the shadows.
He bent to pull it out. “Valéry, don’t,” Veronica began, but then stopped. What could she say? The crystal was speaking with its own voice. Its own power.
Valéry lifted the lid of the hamper, and the light intensified. He folded back the layers of silk, and when the stone was revealed, he crouched, gazing into it.
Veronica threw back the quilt and went to kneel beside her husband. She trembled now with fear as well as the cold, but he surprised her by putting an arm around her shoulders.
She leaned against him. Together they looked down at the old, old crystal, round and smooth on top, its base jagged and rough. Inside the stone, lights flickered, gold and bronze and ivory. Veronica could think of nothing to say, no way to explain that would be safe. Resigned, she waited for Valéry to say something.
He spoke in French. “I know what this is.”
She started, and jostled his arm free as she turned toward him.
He let his hand fall to his knee, his eyes still on the coruscating lights inside the crystal. He said softly, “You must have a very great power for it to wake on its own.”
“Valéry!” she breathed.
“My aunt had one. It had been my grandmother’s, my great-grandmother’s—I don’t know how far back the history goes. It didn’t look like this. It was small, and smooth all around, an almost perfect sphere. I only saw it once. My aunt made me swear never to speak of it.”
“What happened to it?”
“The Nazis no doubt stole it, as they stole anything they found. It was the only object of value my family owned. We will probably never know what became of it.” He turned his dark gypsy eyes to her, the eyelids heavy with worry. “Do you use this, Véronique?”
“I have,” she said, so softly she wasn’t sure he heard her.
He turned away and began covering the stone, then lowered the lid of the hamper. As he did, the light faded and disappeared, leaving the bedroom lit only by starlight. Veronica was shivering in earnest now, clenching her teeth to stop them from chattering. Valéry got to his feet and took her dressing gown from its hook. As he draped it around her, she looked up into his face. Even in the darkness, she could see that his mouth was set and hard.
Veronica stood up, too. She shrugged into her dressing gown, and thrust her feet into the slippers waiting beside the bed. Valéry still didn’t speak. She walked to the window, her arms folded against the cold, and gazed out. “I’m also sworn to tell no one,” she said. “But I will tell you this, Valéry. My crystal—which belonged to my grandmother, and hers, and hers before that, just like in your family—my crystal was a great weapon in the war. I don’t apologize for that. I feel no shame over it.”
“Do you think I would want you to feel shame?”
She turned her back to the cold glass and gazed at him. “You appear to be angry.”
He crossed the room in three long strides and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to his chest. “No! My darling, no! I’m not angry, I’m—I’m afraid.”
“Valéry!” She wound her arms around his waist and clung there. “Why?”
“If anyone else were to find this … If they knew …” He crushed her against him, burying his face in her hair.
“Valéry, I have kept my secret.” Her voice was muffled against the fabric of his nightshirt. “No one but you will ever know.”
He loosened his gr
asp enough to take her chin in one hand and lift it gently so he could look into her eyes. “Véronique, you must listen to me. You, my aunt, our grandmothers—they were women of power. Men fear such women. They might not put you to the flame, as they once did, but they will not hesitate to harm you in other ways, ways that can make your life unbearable.”
Veronica closed her eyes, remembering Elizabeth saying that very thing.
“You could lose Sweetbriar.”
“I would never let anyone see the stone …”
“Anyone could have found it,” he insisted. “A maid, your butler. It’s not safe for you. Promise me you won’t use it again, Véronique. Put it away. The war is over. There should be no need.”
“There is some reason it called to me tonight, Valéry.”
“What reason could there be? Promise me. Please.”
She opened her eyes and met his with as frank a gaze as she could muster. Though her heart quaked with unease, she whispered, “Very well, Valéry. I promise.”
He blew out a breath and kissed her forehead. “Thank you, my darling. We’ll put it someplace not so easily discovered.”
“All right. D’accord.”
But even as she promised, something stirred in her, sparking like the ember of a banked fire. She had not meant to lie to him, but there was some part of her—some secret part of her soul—that resisted. It was, she thought, her power. Her power, which would not be denied.
As he led her back to bed and drew her into his arms once again, she struggled not to recognize the rebel taking cover behind her submissiveness.
13
Oona’s muzzle and beard had gone gray, but she frisked ahead of Veronica just as she always had. At another time Veronica might have felt like frisking herself on such a day. The sunshine had the golden tint of autumn, slanting through the turning leaves onto the freshly mown lawn around the Home Farm. Veronica paused on the flagged pathway to look up at the house, which was taking shape with remarkable speed.
Valéry had found most of the original stones of the cottage piled behind the barn. One of the farmers had organized that effort while Veronica was in London. The locals either hadn’t known the stones were there, or cared enough about Sweetbriar not to help themselves to the rubble. Only two truckloads of fresh stones were needed to rebuild the walls. They had decided to replace the slanting stone floor in the kitchen with wood. Valéry said it would be level now. He also suggested central heating. Veronica agreed to that, with the proviso that the big hearth, where she and Thomas and Jago had spent so many contented afternoons, should remain.
A workman in coveralls and a flat cloth cap came down the path. When he saw who she was, he snatched his cap from his head and held it in front of his chest. “Lady Veronica,” he said, dipping his head. “Come to see how we’re getting on?”
“I did, Mr. Longstreet. Good weather for the work, isn’t it?”
“That it is, milady. Perfect.” He turned and made an expansive gesture toward the house, which already had the framing and floors in, with the walls growing steadily skyward. “This will look just as it did in His Lordship’s day.”
“That’s marvelous. You should be proud of this job.”
“Oh yes!” He grinned at her and replaced his cap. “Good to see the old place restored.”
“How is your daughter? Phoebe, isn’t it? Just starting school now, I think.”
“Yes, thank you, milady. She’s at the village school, happy as a rabbit in clover. Loves her books!”
“Does she? That’s wonderful. Please tell her she’s welcome to borrow from the library at Sweetbriar.”
“Very kind of you, Lady Veronica. Very kind indeed. The wife will appreciate that.” He pointed to the side of the house. “If you’re looking for your husband, I think he’s back there sorting a load of planks just delivered.”
“Thank you. Keep up the good work, Mr. Longstreet.”
“A pleasure, milady.”
With Oona at her side, Veronica made her way around stacks of wood and stones to the side of the house. Where the barn had once stood, only four foundation blocks were left. She thought perhaps they would rebuild the barn. With the old Shire gone, it hadn’t seemed important, but they might want to keep horses again.
“Véronique.”
She crossed the litter of sawdust to reach him. His deep voice still had the power to make her heart beat a little faster, even with the sad news she carried. He pushed back the battered hat he wore and bent to kiss her, carefully, because he was covered in dust and what looked like plaster. His lips were warm on her cheek.
She put up her hand to brush grime from his chin. “You’re making such progress,” she said. “It’s hard to believe how fast it’s going.”
“We have hard workers,” he said. His English was nearly perfect now, but it still had a French flavor she loved, a slight angle to the vowels, a rhythm all his own. He had steadily gained weight, despite some food still being rationed. He always said he had no need of sweets, but he absolutely refused to touch margarine, and Veronica agreed with him. They and their staff coped well, though, with butter from the farms, and the bread Cook baked each day. Now, working outdoors as he so often did, Valéry’s skin was gypsy-dark. His hair shone blue-black in the sun, starred with silver at the temples.
Clothes rationing had only just been lifted, but since they almost never went to London, or out to social events, neither of them cared much about that. Today Veronica wore a tweed skirt she had owned since her school days, and a light sweater that had been darned countless times. Valéry wore a pair of stained coveralls exactly like those Mr. Longstreet had on. They fit Longstreet better. Valéry’s ankles showed between the too-short trousers and his workman’s boots. His eye patch was as dusty as the rest of him, and she made a mental note to see that he had a supply of clean ones.
“You’re a sight, Valéry,” Veronica said.
He touched his hat brim and sketched a bow. “Milady,” he said.
“Pfft!” She poked him with her finger, and he put an arm around her.
It was a source of amusement to both of them that she was invariably addressed by her title, no matter who was speaking, but that no one knew how to address Valéry. He could not be, of course, “Your Lordship.” “Sir” made him sound like the king. He was not even Mr. Selwyn, although Veronica had returned to the name for the sake of Sweetbriar’s history. Many noble families hyphenated their names, but Chirac-Selwyn, or Selwyn-Chirac, just seemed too much of a mouthful. Valéry, technically, was Mr. Chirac, but he never heard it used. The household staff called him Mr. Valéry. Most people in the neighborhood didn’t use his name at all.
“I’ve brought sandwiches,” she said now, freeing herself and digging into the satchel she carried over her shoulder. Oona, at the mention of food, wagged her tail and pressed against Veronica’s legs. Valéry, too, looked ready for food. “Shall I offer some to Mr. Longstreet?”
“Of course.”
Valéry settled himself on a plank set on two blocks, and she handed him a sandwich, then sat gingerly beside him, wary of splinters. She took a sandwich for herself, and broke off a small bit to offer to Oona.
Valéry took a huge bite of bread and ham and cheese, and began chewing with the appetite of a man who had labored long hours without refreshment.
“I have something to tell you.” Veronica held her sandwich in her lap, untouched except for the fragments Oona was eagerly licking from her fingers.
“What?” Valéry spoke around a second big mouthful.
“I saw Dr. Mountjoy this morning.”
Valéry swallowed and watched her, his thick eyebrows raised. “What does he say?”
“He says—” She paused, hating to say it aloud. “He says,” she tried again, “that there is something wrong with me. That I probably won’t ever conceive.” She saw the way he lowered his sandwich, only half-eaten, to his lap. He averted his gaze, and she knew he was trying to hide his disappointment. “I’m so sor
ry, Valéry. Je suis désolée.”
He responded in English, as he sometimes did when he was trying to control his feelings. “It’s not your fault,” he said, laying aside his sandwich, and putting out his arm to draw her close to him.
But it was her fault. It was what she had done, during the war, and she knew it. She had done it to herself, and her body had never fully recovered. She drew back a little, fearing that the guilt she felt would radiate through her, and he would recognize it.
He released her and looked into her eyes. “We have each other, Véronique.”
“Yes. But I know how much you want a child.”
“I want many things.” He leaned close to her and kissed her forehead. “You must not worry,” he said. “Perhaps it was never meant to happen.” He picked up his sandwich again, but without relish, as if his appetite had subsided.
Except that it had happened. It had happened easily, that first time. It had come about perfectly, but at a perfectly impossible time. There had been no other choice for her to make.
But now …
She stood up, her own sandwich uneaten. “Come, Oona,” she said. “We’ll take a sandwich to Mr. Longstreet. Then—” She glanced at Valéry, and they gazed at each other for a painful moment. He started to speak, but she shook her head. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Véronique …”
She gave a brief wave, and turned away before he could see the tears shining in her eyes.
She noticed, as they moved away, that Oona no longer frisked ahead of her. The terrier’s ragged tail drooped to the ground and she plodded without energy beside her mistress. Veronica thought that if she herself had a tail, it would also droop.
She slipped out of bed when the stars told her it was well past midnight. Valéry, with the exhaustion of physical labor, was sleeping hard and didn’t stir as she and Oona crept out through the door and along the corridor to the attic stairs. The servants’ rooms at Sweetbriar were mostly on the main floor in the back, giving them access to the gardens, the garage, the kitchen, and the tradesmen’s entrance. Only Honeychurch had a room on the second floor, and it was well to the back, where he could keep an eye on the younger staff.
A Secret History of Witches Page 42