The Hidden Years

by Penny Jordan

  Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't… There were other methods, but they were too risky, and anyway, by the looks of it, they were going to have a hard time persuading her to do what had to be done.

  She looked so pale and raw, so childlike almost, but Donna wasn't deceived. That type could have the will of a donkey… and the stupidity.

  Lizzie stared at her in shocked disbelief. Get rid of Kit's child… She recoiled from Donna as though she thought the other girl was going to physically attack her, her arms crossing protectively over her belly.

  'Look, you little fool,' Donna repeated grimly, 'he isn't going to come back for you. They never do, no matter what they tell you. Did he give you his address? Did he tell you anything about himself other than his name? Do you even know that that's real? You know what's going to happen to you when it gets out that you're carrying, don't you? You'll lose your job and you'll be sent back home…'

  Sent back home… To her aunt… For the first time fear chilled Lizzie's heart. She gave a deep shudder, totally unable to accept what Donna was saying to her, and yet at the same time terrified by the mental pictures Donna was drawing for her. Just for a moment she tried to imagine what her life would be like if she did have to return to her aunt, pregnant and unmarried. Her aunt would never have her back—she would turn her from her door, and disown her. She started to shiver, suddenly cold and shocked. But why was she afraid? Nothing like that was going to happen to her. Kit was going to marry her—she knew it. There was nothing for her to fear. All she had to do was to hold on to that truth, to have faith and courage, to remember that Kit loved her.

  'Come on, kid—be sensible. You can't be that far along… with any luck, we could get rid of it.'

  'No,' Lizzie told her firmly, and then added with quiet dignity, 'Even if you are right about Kit not loving me— and I know you aren't—I still could not destroy my child.'

  Donna knew when she was defeated. Muttering under her breath about the folly of her own sex, she withdrew.

  Let the little fool learn, then—and she would… It was all right now claiming that she wanted the brat, but let her wait until she was homeless, penniless, disgraced, without a job, without anyone to help her… Then she would sing a different tune. She, Donna, had seen it happen so many times, and to so many girls.

  Just for a moment she thought savagely and angrily of the burdens carried by her own sex, and hungered for a time when things would be different, when women would have the right and ability to govern their own lives. But to do that they would have to cast off the emotional shackles they seemed to be born with, to cease loving and depending on men… She herself had no illusions about the male sex. She never intended to marry and she certainly never intended to burden herself with the responsibility and pain of children.

  It was many weeks since she had heard from Kit… Weeks during which she had slowly grown accustomed to the fact that she was carrying his child. The end of the war in Europe caused nationwide celebration, but for Lizzie what was happening within her was more important. Kit had not been in touch and she had no way of knowing if victory in Europe had brought him safely home or if he was still in danger somewhere. Until she knew, there could be no celebration for her. Her eighteenth birthday, too, passed without any celebration apart from a card and small present sent by her aunt.

  Sometimes, in bed, she pressed her hands to her still-flat stomach in wonder, in love, and sometimes, shamingly, in panic. She knew that Kit loved her, of course she did, but she needed to hear from him, and, even better, to see him… She knew that it was Kit and men like him who were fighting so hard to protect their country, and that she, like countless thousands of other women, must wait in patience and anxiety for his safe return, but she longed so much for the reassurance of his presence, needed him so desperately to ward off the pitying looks of the other girls, for the knowledge that she was now set apart from them, that all of them were silently thanking God that they were not in her shoes, was undermining her courage and faith.

  Edward had noticed her withdrawn mood and been concerned about it. But he had not questioned her, believing it was because she found his company a burden.

  He had been told by his doctor that, with care, and if he lived as an invalid, his lifespan could stretch for another twenty years, and it was a prospect that made him shudder in horror.

  Another twenty years like this… There were mornings when living another twenty hours seemed too great a burden.

  Lizzie, normally so sensitive to the moods and feelings of others, was unaware of Edward's despair. She still spent time with him, but her attention to his attempts at conversation had become perfunctory, her concentration narrowed down to the child she carried and her love for its father.

  The weather turned colder, with squally winds and showers of rain; her cycle ride to work often left her wet and shivering on her arrival, and, despite the fact that she was pregnant, Lizzie began to lose weight.

  She tried desperately hard not to allow her anxiety, her natural fears for the future and her need to be with Kit, to affect her appetite, telling herself that she must eat, if not for her own sake then for her child's, but, no matter how stern she was with herself, once the unappetising plate of food was in front of her her tender stomach rebelled.

  Edward was disturbed to see how frail she was becoming. That she had somehow or other found a place in his heart was something he had already come to accept. Nothing could come of it, of course, he acknowledged bitterly. She was a young and potentially very beautiful girl with her whole life ahead of her once this damnable war was over, while for him the future stretched merely painfully into nothingness… A permanent invalid with nothing whatsoever to offer any woman. Bitterly he contrasted himself with his cousin.

  A letter had arrived for him in the morning's post. It was from the family firm of solicitors, and he hadn't opened it as yet, suspecting that it was probably a formal warning from Kit to him not to expect to make his home at Cottingdean once Kit was married.

  It would be typical of Kit's selfishly egotistical attitude to life to do something like that. What did his cousin think he would do? he wondered savagely as he stared at the envelope—force himself on him? He'd end it all before he'd do that… be forced to live as Kit's pensioner, forced always to be grateful for his contempt, forced to see Kit and Kit's children thriving while his own life dwindled into nothing.

  Lizzie was on duty this morning. As always he was looking forward to seeing her. She had promised him an outing into the park. He looked through the window. It was raining and he could see the wind bending the trees. Normally that wouldn't have deterred her, but she was looking so pinched and thin these days. He suspected that none of them, neither the aides nor the nurses, ever really had enough to eat, and they worked desperately hard.

  There was a bustle lower down the ward which heralded the change of shifts. He stuffed the letter into his pocket unopened and tried not to search too eagerly for Lizzie's familiar face.

  It had rained heavily during the night, and Lizzie had accidently stepped into a huge puddle on her way inside the building. Her shoes were soaked and she was shivering; the last thing she felt like doing was going out again, but as she hurried on to the ward the girl relieving her whispered derogatively, 'I hope you've brought your mackintosh with you. His nibs is ready and raring to go…' She tossed her head in Edward's direction, and Lizzie's heart sank as she saw that the protective blanket and covering had been pulled over Edward's chair.

  Edward saw the tiredness in her eyes as she walked up to him, and said quickly, 'Ah, Lizzie… I'm sure you won't want to go out today… It's been such a wet morning…'

  Without wanting to, Lizzie heard the wistful note in his voice, and wondered how she would have felt cooped up in here, never breathing in fresh air, never seeing anything other than the grim walls of the ward; she fought down her own tiredness and cold, and said, as brightly as she could, 'It is wet, but it has stopped raining now…'

&n
bsp; Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Sister giving her an approving nod as she took hold of Edward's chair and wheeled it towards the doors. Once outside she shivered, and Edward, who felt the faint vibration, frowned.

  That coat she was wearing—little more than a jacket really—was far too thin for this weather. What she needed was something warm and thick in a good tweed, he thought protectively. He remembered his mother had had a coat like that with a huge fur collar.

  Edward had a favourite place in the grounds: a small quiet garden with a stone seat overlooking what had once been a large circular fishpond with a fountain. The fountain no longer worked, and the water was choked with weeds. What goldfish were left were huge and fat, and somehow rather frightening, Lizzie felt—or was it simply that she couldn't help contrasting their overfed, lazy obesity with her own sharp, constant hunger?

  She had been feeling more than usually ill this morning. The sickness had lasted longer than normal and had left her feeling weak and shaky. As she put the brake on Edward's chair and sat down on the bench, she discovered that she was trembling. This morning when she woke up her face had been wet with tears. She so desperately needed to hear from Kit. She was so alone… and, yes, she was beginning to feel frightened as well. Not that he would desert her—never that—but what if something had happened to him? But whatever happened she would never give up her baby. Never.

  Edward saw that she was close to tears, her eyes dark and misty with them, her face surely even paler than ever. He ached to be able to help. He had the sudden presentiment that something was very wrong. As he watched he saw one tear and then another roll down her face, and immediately turned away, wanting to spare her any intrusion into her privacy.

  As he turned awkwardly in his chair, he felt the crackle of the envelope in his pocket, and immediately felt for it, keeping his head averted from her as he opened it, wanting to give her time to recover from whatever it was that was upsetting her so much.

  He knew virtually nothing about her private life, and had never felt he could ask, frightened of trespassing too much on her kindness, not wanting to burden her with his loneliness, his deep-seated need to form a bond with her that was based on more, he knew, than could ever exist between them.

  She was not like the others. She didn't treat him with their rough pity, their feminine contempt for his incompleteness. She was tender and gentle, and he, after all, had his pride, his self-respect.

  He removed the letter from the envelope and read it impatiently, stopping suddenly as he realised what it contained, and then rereading it slowly, absorbing the shock of its contents.

  At his side, Lizzie was grateful for his tact. She would have died if he had asked her what was wrong. It seemed so improbable that this man should be related by blood to the child she was carrying. He and Kit were so different… What would he say if he knew? Somehow she knew that he would not denounce her, that he would not, as the girls had done, laugh at her and tell her brutally that her child was something she should want to be rid of, a burden, a punishment for having allowed Kit to love her.

  She had no idea why she was behaving like this, breaking down into stupid tears. Perhaps it was something to do with the fact that she had received her aunt's monthly letter this morning. It was as chilly and disapproving as all her aunt's missives, cautioning her to work hard and behave herself, warning her against falling into bad company, reminding her that, no matter what kind of immoral standards were set elsewhere, in her household there was only one law, and that was 'Thou shalt not…'

  If only she dared ask Edward about Kit, but how could she when she had promised Kit that she would not? Beside her she suddenly heard Edward say in a low voice, 'Oh, my God.'

  And immediately she pushed her own problems to one side, turning to him, retrieving the letter he had let fall, and asking anxiously, 'What is it? Are you unwell…? Are you—?'

  'No, no, it's nothing like that…'

  His hand closed over hers, surprisingly warm and firm, even though the skin itself was soft like a woman's, not hard and slightly scarred as Kit's had been… Kit… Kit…

  'It's Kit… my cousin. You may remember he visited me here… I've just heard. He's… he's dead… Killed in action. I must get back… there will be things I'll have to do, arrangements I'll have to make for Cottingdean… I'll have to write to his poor fiancée, too… Poor girl, but I dare say she'll soon find someone else, and she's well out of it… Kit would never have made good husband material—'

  He broke off, exclaiming in concern as he saw Lizzie's face. He had never seen anyone lose so much colour. It was as though every drop of blood had drained out of her skin, leaving it as white as though she were a corpse. In fact for a moment he wondered frantically if she was actually still alive—her chest barely seemed to move, her lips, normally so warm and curved, drawn together, only her eyes showing any signs of life, as they glittered with shock and disbelief.

  She was trying to say something to him—her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. She was shivering like someone he had once seen in the grip of a malaria attack, her teeth chattering, her body shaking.

  He was desperately afraid that she was going to collapse. He should never have insisted on coming out this morning. It was too cold, too wet—he had been selfish.

  All his old frustration with his immobility, his wounds, came sweeping over him in a dark, bitter tide. He would have given everything he possessed right now, and that included Cottingdean, to be able to get up and take hold of her, to be able to act as a man, and not as a decaying lump of flesh. As it was all he could do was pray that somehow or other they could get back safely to the hospital.

  Furious with himself for his inability to help her, he said awkwardly, 'You aren't well. I should have realised… We must go back…'

  Later Lizzie realised that she must have heard the words, because she did reach out and take hold of the chair, did release the brake and turn it round in the direction of the hospital, but she was unaware of doing these things. Unaware of anything at all, other than the raw agony of what was happening inside her.

  Kit dead… Kit gone, taken from her… But worse…far, far worse than that was that other knowledge, that frightening, unbelievable knowledge she had been handed so casually, so accidentally almost…

  Kit had been engaged to someone else.

  'I'll have to write to his poor fiancée…' Edward had said, and she knew, no matter how much she tried to escape from those words, that there was simply no way she could have imagined them. They were real enough— too real, she thought dully.

  She had no idea they had reached the hospital until she heard Edward calling out anxiously to a passing nurse, 'Can you help Lizzie? She's unwell…'

  She opened her mouth to deny it, but everything was wavering around her, turning crimson and then black, opening up to swallow her in a terrifying, pain-filled void.

  Edward fretted anxiously all afternoon, asking everyone he could how Lizzie was, and what was wrong with her.

  In the end nurses grew impatient with him, and Sister came bustling down the ward, her mouth prim.

  'Now, then, Major Danvers, there's no use your working yourself up into a state. There's nothing wrong with Miss Bailey. Nothing that you need blame yourself for, anyhow,' she added grimly. Really, these girls… you'd think they'd have more sense than to get themselves into that sort of trouble. Well, this one would be sent packing just as soon as the doctor discharged her and from the talk she had had with matron, who knew the girl's aunt, she'd receive scant sympathy from that quarter. Sister's bosom heaved beneath her starched apron.

  She was fifty-four and unmarried. These girls with their stupidity and their man problems infuriated her. Normally she could tell which ones were going to give her trouble. Never in a hundred years would she have thought that this girl—but there, you were, it just went to show.

  Her mouth pursed again, and Edward sensed uneasily that something was being withheld from him.

  'Come
on, now, Major Danvers—it will soon be time for your medicine…'

  Sister thought she was being kind. After all, what could it mean to a man like this that the stupid girl had gone and got herself in trouble? That kind of thing could no longer be any part of his life.

  All night Edward fretted. No matter whom he asked, no one would tell him what was wrong with Lizzie.

  Lizzie herself, banned from returning to her hostel, was lying in bed, under the grimly disapproving eye of a nurse.

  She had been told immediately the doctor had discovered her condition that she was to be sent home. At first, in the anguish and misery of discovering that Kit was dead, that Kit, no matter how much he might have loved her, had been engaged to someone else, she had had no thought in her head for what was happening to her.

  But now, lying sleepless and frightened, the reality of her situation was beginning to seep into her. She was going to have a baby, a baby whose father was now dead and to whom she was not married… Just for a moment she conjured wildly with the idea of pretending that she and Kit had been married… but that would be dishonest. She knew she could not do it, which left her with having to face Aunt Vi. Always providing that the latter would allow her into the house once she knew why she was being sent home.

  She lay shivering in bed, dreading the morning, crying silent tears of pain and fear.

  Edward too could not sleep. A nurse on her late-night rounds saw how he twisted and turned and, being new to the ward, sent for the doctor.