The Snow Angel

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘Well, have you?’ she asked firmly.

  He swallowed and said, ‘Of course, Cressie – with you.’

  She shook her head. ‘Then you haven’t. That’s not love, Adam, I’m sorry to say. Don’t waste any more time on me, do you hear? Go and find a girl who sets off fireworks for you and who you do the same for. The rest of it is a waste of time. I’ve just discovered that for myself.’

  The bewilderment in Adam’s eyes began to clear and indignation took its place. ‘Here, are you saying—’

  She put a hand on his arm to stop him, her white glove stark against his black dinner suit. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings but there’s no point in prolonging it. Go and find that firework girl. She might be here right now, looking for you.’ She passed him her glass of champagne and said, ‘I’m going now. Goodbye, Adam.’ She smiled at him, full of a sudden fondness for him. ‘And merry Christmas.’

  The taxi delivered her back to the Kensington house and she let herself into the dimly lit hall. On the table lay a letter with the handwriting she knew so well now. Gasping, she snatched it up and slipped off her spike heels so that she could run up the stairs. Throwing herself down on the bed, she read it eagerly.

  My darling

  I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write to you. My heart and mind have been full of nothing but you, but I couldn’t bear to scrawl off some nothing. I needed to write something that would reflect what you mean to me. I miss you more than I can say. With every moment that passes, my love for you grows deeper and my hunger for your presence more intolerable. But I can bear it because now I know you feel something of the same for me. Before that, I was dying of it. Now I’m growing stronger every day. Catherine has noticed, of course – how could she not? But she is delighted that her pills are working so well.

  She has spoken to me of you. She’s concerned that we haven’t heard from you and that you’re somehow displeased with us. She wants to write to you again, but I’ve told her to wait until after Christmas before she does any more. She sees the sense in that. As it is, she’s busy with our own arrangements. We’ll spend Christmas here, as we always do, and Catherine will turn the studio into the most Christmassy thing you ever saw: she collects ivy from the common, and holly and branches of pine from wherever she can find them, and makes the place into the most splendid bower. Our tree is decorated on Christmas Eve and we’ll go to Mass at the church. A kind patron of ours sends a hamper each year and we open it with all the excitement of the Cratchit family receiving their largesse, promising ourselves that some year we’ll be able to afford these luxuries and more.

  I usually take great pleasure in it. But I can’t this year. It’s all such hollow frippery when the love of my heart is away from me. It means nothing without you.

  I do not know how to destroy the life I have but I only know that I must. I fear for you and for us, but when the chance – the only chance – for happiness comes our way, we cannot let it go, can we?

  I don’t know when I can see you, darling Cressida, except for every moment in my mind’s eye, of course, and in your portrait – a delightful little instrument of torture that’s turned out to be!

  Wait for me. Think of me. Dream of me. I’m thinking and dreaming of you.

  I’ll write soon. Merry Christmas, my love.

  Your Ralph xxx

  She read it over and over and slept with it in her hand.

  ‘Cressie, you look so much brighter. Has something happened?’

  Her mother was gazing over at her. Lately Cressie had taken to reading aloud from a novel to amuse her in the afternoons when the nurse went off for her break. Cressie looked up from the page, startled. She flushed. ‘Oh. Do I?’

  Her mother smiled, lightening the wanness of her skin for a moment. ‘Yes, you do, my darling. Bright and happy, and distracted and dreamy, and all the other things that being in love do to you.’

  Cressie opened her mouth to deny it, and then couldn’t.

  She smiled instead, a big broad smile bursting out of her. She longed to share her happiness. ‘Yes,’ she said joyfully. ‘I am in love.’

  ‘Ah.’ Her mother’s eyes brightened. ‘Who is he? Someone you met at the school?’

  ‘No . . . no . . .’ She felt her happiness die down a little as she considered what she could tell her mother. Knowing that it was Ralph and that he was married would only make her miserable and unhappy. ‘He’s a friend.’

  ‘Can you tell me about him?’

  Cressie leaned forward and grasped her mother’s hand with hers. ‘Oh Mama, I long to tell you but I can’t . . . not yet.’

  ‘It’s a secret?’ Mama smiled again. ‘All right. As long as you promise to tell me everything when you can.’

  ‘I will, I will.’ She burned to talk about Ralph, to extol him, rhapsodise about him, sing his praises for hours. She couldn’t resist. ‘He’s very handsome, Mama. So tall and with such beautiful eyes. And his nose, it’s perfect! His hands are so amazing, a true artist’s hands, with long fingers. I’m sure he plays the piano—’

  Mama broke in. ‘Is he an artist?’

  Cressie stopped short, discomfited by the direct question. ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Mama looked suddenly unhappy. ‘Is it your portraitist?’

  Cressie flushed at once, knowing she looked guilty. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling despite herself.

  Mama laughed. ‘Oh, my darling, how wonderful that you feel this way! I’m so glad. It’s marvellous, isn’t it? But . . .’ Her smile faded. ‘You know that Papa won’t feel the same at all.’ She looked meaningfully at Cressie.

  ‘I know,’ Cressie replied in a low voice, her pleasure suddenly gone. ‘He’ll hate it.’

  ‘My darling, he’ll forbid it. We both know that.’

  They stared at each other in silent understanding of Papa.

  ‘What can I do?’ Cressie asked desperately. ‘Why does he want to ruin any chance of happiness I have?’

  ‘He doesn’t understand you, or anyone who wants to live in a way that’s different from what he knows. He thinks he’s doing what’s best for you.’

  ‘I can’t live according to his demands! I won’t!’ Cressie declared.

  ‘Of course not, it’s impossible. It’s taken me a lifetime of trying and I’ve never yet pleased him,’ Mama said wistfully. She was lost in thought for a moment and then said, ‘I’ll do what I can for you, but it won’t achieve much. If your love affair is ever to go anywhere, you must be careful.’

  ‘I will,’ Cressie promised.

  Mama smiled at her. ‘You’re braver than I am.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Cressie protested. ‘I’ve never known anyone braver. To live with Papa for so long and not hate him . . .’

  ‘Hate is a terrible thing, Cressie,’ her mother replied. ‘I’ve always tried not to let it poison the life I have. Your father is worthy of love and I’ve given him all I can. That was my story. When you’re ready to tell yours, I want to hear it.’ Her mother smiled again. ‘Now, shall we have a little more of the book?’

  The sweet torment of Ralph’s letter was that Cressie could read it over and over, but she couldn’t write back, only wait for him to contact her again. Christmas passed, her brothers came home, grown plump and respectable in their City jobs, and her mother even managed to descend for Christmas Day, thinner and more wan-looking than ever. The new tonic did not appear to be having much effect but she was determinedly cheerful with her family around her.

  At least there was a little sparkle and activity on Christmas Day: the walk to church, the festive lunch, the traditional jigsaw puzzle in the afternoon while her father read aloud to them from Dickens. Boxing Day dawned chill and grey and she felt bleak.

  What now? This is agony.

  She passed the time the only way she could think of: by opening her paint box and her little sketch pad and trying to draw Ralph. Her effects were amateurish and laughable when she thought of his skill, but it comforted her a
little to spend time conjuring up his face in her imagination.

  The card arrived the next day, a plain postcard in an envelope. She opened it with trembling fingers.

  Catherine is spending tomorrow with Mrs Bathurst.

  Meet me at the bandstand in Kensington Palace Gardens at 10 a.m.

  Rx

  She was there the next day at a quarter to ten, wrapped up against the cold weather in her black astrakhan coat with the high fur collar, and in her fur-lined boots, a silk scarf around her hair. The bandstand stood near the Round Pond, slender white pillars supporting its ornate oriental-styled roof, but the gate in the iron railings that surrounded it was firmly locked, so she stood by it, looking about for Ralph, wondering which side he would approach from. She gazed over at the palace, its dark red brick stark against the grey park with its bare trees, then south towards Kensington Road, not busy at all on this early winter morning with the holiday feeling still in the air, and finally at the round roof of the Albert Hall rising in the distance.

  A train from Blackheath to Victoria. A bus from the station up to Sloane Square and down Sloane Street to Knightsbridge. From there, along the park to the Albert Hall stop. Surely that’s the way he’ll come.

  She leaned against the chilly railings, watching the people pass by, only interested in one figure.

  Then her heart leapt. There he was, coming, as she’d thought, from the south, striding towards her, his hands deep in the pockets of his greatcoat, a grey almost military-looking cap on his head. He was smiling as he reached her, his eyes bright with happiness, his arms thrown wide for her to run inside them and let him enfold her in his embrace. She sought his lips, their coldness giving way to the delicious warm of his mouth.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said with a groan when at last they pulled away from each other.

  ‘Oh, I’ve missed you too,’ she said. She felt complete again, enveloped in bliss by his nearness.

  ‘You’re freezing.’ He touched her cheek softly with his fingertip.

  ‘So are you.’ She couldn’t stop staring at him, absorbing every aspect of his face, each feature a fresh delight. He took her hands in his, clasping them tightly.

  ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful you are,’ he murmured. ‘My picture doesn’t do you justice. I’ve been looking at it all the time and it’s a sad and sorry substitute for you.’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘Because it can’t do this.’ She kissed him again, dropping small touches on his lips and cheeks, inhaling his scent that made her think of old sandalwood and lemons.

  ‘Oh Cressida. Christmas was an ordeal. Nothing brought me joy. I only thought of you.’

  ‘It was the same for me.’ She pressed her forehead against his chest, then looked up, searching out his grey eyes. ‘Ralph, what are we going to do?’

  He bit his lips. ‘I don’t know. But . . .’

  She was anxious at once. ‘But what?’

  ‘Not here. You’re cold. Let’s go somewhere warm. Somewhere no one will see us.’

  They held hands and walked together northwards, finding a small, steamy cafe near Queensway, a working man’s place where Cressida was sure they wouldn’t be known. Two big mugs of tea were put in front of them by a waitress who eyed them suspiciously.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Ralph said a little forlornly, looking at the table with its chipped yellow Formica top. ‘I want to take you to the best places there are.’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ Cressie put her hand on his, trying to convey all the earnestness she felt in her gaze. ‘That doesn’t matter. None of it matters if you’re not there. I’ve been in some of the grandest houses in London lately, and I hated it – because you weren’t there. As long as we’re together, I can live any life. Any life anywhere.’

  ‘That makes me very happy. I just wish I could give you everything you deserve.’ He smiled at her, but his eyes were sad.

  ‘What is it, Ralph? Is it Catherine? Has she guessed?’

  He shut his eyes and a look of pain crossed his face.

  ‘Ralph?’ Anxiety rushed through her. ‘What is it?’

  He opened his eyes and said slowly, ‘She hasn’t guessed. At least, I don’t think she has.’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘There is something very wrong between us – between Catherine and me, I mean. I can’t explain, so please don’t ask me to. All I can say is that the way I’m living right now . . . I believe it’s killing me.’

  She gasped. ‘What?’

  Ralph nodded. ‘I know. It sounds ridiculous. Dramatic. But I’m not well, Cressie. I’m getting sicker.’

  Icy fear gripped her, spreading through her veins and making her fingertips tingle unpleasantly. ‘Your . . . heart?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’ He looked hopeless suddenly. ‘I don’t know what it is. I only know I have to get away from Catherine. She’s . . .’ He stumbled over his words, as though not knowing quite how to say what he meant. ‘She would do something reckless to keep things as they are.’

  Cressie stared at him, bewildered. ‘But she loves you. I’ve seen that since I first met you. Are you saying that she would hurt you?’

  ‘She might not want to,’ he said. ‘But she might not be able to help herself if she felt that our life together was threatened.’

  ‘But surely she would hurt me,’ Cressie said. ‘I’m the one causing the trouble, after all. I’m the problem. Without me, things would be as they were before.’

  Ralph looked sadder than ever. ‘You don’t understand, my darling. Things could never carry on as they were. I told you, our love isn’t what you think. Catherine knows it. She doesn’t want to accept it.

  ‘But why did you get married then? You must have loved her once!’

  An agonised expression crossed his face. ‘Please don’t ask me that. I can’t explain, not now. One day perhaps.’ He took her hand again, his knuckles whitening as he held it in an iron grip. His eyes became intense, the gold in them flickering as he gazed at her. ‘All I know is that I have to get away, and soon. Today Mrs Bathurst came to my rescue. There may not be another opportunity.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her heart began to pound again. ‘Get away?’

  ‘I have to leave. I think it might be the only way.’

  ‘Where will you go? To your uncle?’

  Ralph laughed shortly. ‘No. That would be no escape. Besides, he tolerates me but that’s about it. He’d welcome me like a dose of salts.’

  Cressie’s mind raced. The answer came to her, clear as day in her mind. ‘We’ll go away together,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘What?’ He laughed lightly. ‘I don’t think your father would approve of that. Run away with me? He’d cast you off for something like that.’

  She thought of her father’s anger if he had the faintest inkling of what she was thinking, and imagined his rage if she actually went. She saw him storming around the house, bellowing and threatening the whole household, throwing things and smashing ornaments in his fury. ‘I don’t care about that,’ she replied firmly. Let him throw his tantrums, like a giant baby. I’ve had enough of living my life to please him. ‘Besides, there’s no need for him to know that we’re together. We have a house, a family house in Cumbria. It’s empty and has been for ages. Someone looks after it for us when we’re not there. There’s no way that Catherine would know where you are, if that’s what you’re worried about. We could go there. Together.’ As she spoke it aloud, the plan became more and more obvious and simple. She spoke rapidly to convince him. ‘I’ll tell my father I’m going to give up the idea of teaching entirely, and that I need to recover from the term I spent at Fleming. He’ll probably be so glad I’ve given up the idea of it, he won’t ask too many questions. But we’ll go together.’ She had a fleeting picture of her mother, left alone with Papa, but thought quickly, We won’t stay away for long. Just long enough to get everything clear. Mama told me to be brave, and this is brave.

  Ralph’s eyes were
growing bright. ‘Perhaps it could work, perhaps it really could . . .’

  ‘But it means destroying your life with Catherine. Are you ready for that?’

  ‘I can’t tolerate it another minute,’ he declared, and she could see the fervour in his eyes. ‘I have to leave. It will kill me to stay, do you understand?’

  She nodded. ‘I understand.’ A great happiness swelled inside her. Was it really possible that she and Ralph would be able to be together, undisturbed by the outside world? She felt almost faint with pleasure at the thought. Her mind became focused on it – it must happen at all costs.

  ‘The trains go from Euston station,’ she said. ‘I can telegraph ahead and the house will be ready for us. We could go tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Ralph blinked and laughed almost disbelievingly. ‘Yes, we could.’

  She was eager, bursting with energy now. ‘You go back to Blackheath and pack a bag. We’ll meet at Euston in time for the early evening train. It’s three hours or so to Carlisle. We’ll find someone there to drive us to Howelland. We’ll arrive late but I don’t suppose that matters.’ She felt her cheeks redden as she suddenly realised the implication: she and Ralph would be alone. They would spend the night together. The first of many.

  Ralph was still absorbing the idea, as though trying to think of reasons why it was impossible and being unable to find one. His expression began to change: hope glowed in his eyes, and his whole demeanour altered, as though some burden was being lifted from him. ‘It’s really possible,’ he muttered. ‘She would never guess, surely . . . even if she learned that you’d gone away, how would she know where?’

  ‘Hardly anyone knows of this place,’ she replied. ‘There’s no way she could find out where we were, I’m sure of it.’ I’m wicked, she thought as excitement bubbled through her. I should send Ralph back to his wife, not lure him away. But then she remembered how he had said he would leave in any case. It was obvious he considered his marriage over. I’ll learn more when we’re alone together. Her heart thrilled at the idea of being with him, hours and hours of blissful togetherness, with no one at all to interrupt them.