The Winter Folly

by Taylor, Lulu

  She smiled back, awkward but pleased. No one just dropped by like that for such a flimsy reason. There were plenty of ways of finding out which issue Fort Stirling was going to appear in. ‘Well, it’s lovely to see you. Come into my office.’

  ‘Or . . .’ He looked thoughtful. ‘We could go out for a spot of lunch if you’re free.’ He consulted a chunky wrist-watch. ‘It’s almost one.’

  Excitement sparkled through her. ‘That sounds lovely. I’d really like that.’

  ‘Good. Me too.’

  They’d gone out to a nearby French bistro that Delilah knew, and sat outside watching London go by while they ate buttery garlic snails and then bloody chargrilled steaks with hot salty chips and peppery watercress. All the while they talked about nothing and everything. He was a good listener and wanted to know about her home back on the Welsh borders, her family, her job, her life. She told him about lots of things, but not about Harry, and he told her about his life in the country and that he was divorced. They sat there all afternoon, Delilah ringing in to say she wouldn’t be back in the office, and then she ditched the cocktail party too and they went to a bar near Regent Street and talked on all evening. By the end of the night, they both knew that something had started.

  It had been dizzying and delightful as she began to fall in love. He drove up to see her twice a week until one Friday night they kissed under a street lamp by Embankment tube station, oblivious to the people all around them. He came back to her tiny west London flat and they had frantic, clothes-tearing-off sex in the sitting room, before moving to the bedroom for long, tender hours of delicious lovemaking. She loved his smell, the feel of his skin, the muscled hardness of his back and thighs, and the way their bodies fitted together so perfectly. She was exhilarated at the rightness of it all, and he couldn’t take his hands off her or keep his mouth from hers for any length of time. They wanted nothing more than one another, talking and laughing and confiding, and always ending up in bed again. He stayed the entire weekend and the flat, usually her haven, was empty and soulless when he’d gone. When he returned, he had a bag with him.

  ‘I don’t need to go back for a while,’ he said. ‘They’re filming something at the house. I’ve left my cousin Ben in charge. He works for me. He can handle it all.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ Delilah said with a smile, an effervescent excitement bubbling inside her. ‘I’m glad you can stay.’

  He gazed at her hungrily. ‘I can’t keep away from you. You’re lighting up my life, Delilah. You’ve changed everything, you don’t know how much.’

  She felt reborn into happiness, Harry forgotten in her passion for John. He was funny, charming and witty, with a soulful side that intrigued her. He didn’t speak much about himself or his family, and gave her only sketchy details of his history when she pressed for them, telling her that his father was ill with encroaching dementia, and that his mother had died years before, though he didn’t elaborate. He had no brothers and sisters and he felt the weight of his great inheritance: the house and all that came with it. It was no wonder, she thought, that he had a tendency to spells of silence, when a dark mood descended on him and he seemed to vanish inside himself. When she asked him what was wrong, he would always snap out of it, smile again and tell her that it was nothing. But every few nights he was rocked by bad dreams that made him convulse, twist and cry out in his sleep, and he would wake panting and wild-eyed, in a panic that he could not describe. Then she would hold him and soothe him until it had passed and he fell asleep again.

  The return to Fort Stirling made Delilah feel as though she was in a fairy tale. John drove her back on a frosty autumn day so that they could spend a weekend there, just the two of them, and the house looked impossibly beautiful against the sparkling icy parkland. When the gloomy afternoon fell, it was cosy inside with the lamps lit and the fire burning. The housekeeper had left a stew bubbling and potatoes baking. They drank wine in the small sitting room at the back of the house and made love in front of the fire.

  Lying in his arms afterwards on a pile of cushions and watching the dancing flames, she said with a studied idleness, ‘That portrait hanging in the hall – is it her?’

  He stiffened slightly. ‘Who?’

  ‘Your first wife.’ Earlier in the day, when John had gone to fetch something, she’d been looking at the pictures and had noticed the pastel and watercolour painting of a woman. It had a chocolate-box quality: the hair too blonde and smooth, the eyes too big and the mouth too cupid-bowed to be entirely plausible as a true likeness, but there was nevertheless a defiant air about the face. Underneath a small gold plate read Vanna Ford Stirling. It was obvious she was American, just from the way she’d kept her surname like that. Delilah had stared at it, curious. John had told her that his first wife was called Vanna. They had been married for four years and had split up amicably over a decade ago. She lived back in the States now, and had remarried. She was probably signing herself Vanna Ford Stirling Smith, or whatever her new name was.

  ‘Vanna?’ John relaxed. ‘Yes, that’s her.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit strange to keep a picture of her hanging up?’

  ‘Not really. Once a Stirling, always a Stirling.’

  She paused and said lightly, ‘Why did you two split up?’

  ‘Usual reason. We married too young. She fell out of love with this house, and eventually with me. And I couldn’t blame her. I can hardly bear this place myself.’

  ‘That can’t be true,’ Delilah murmured, nuzzling his shoulder. ‘It’s glorious. And it’s your home. You belong here.’

  ‘So they tell me,’ he said wryly.

  ‘Do you really not like it?’ She couldn’t understand it. The house enchanted her. Everywhere she looked, she saw something beautiful, and each time she passed a window she was dazzled by the views across the lawns, parkland and woods.

  He thought. ‘I like parts of it. But . . .’ His gaze slid to her and then away again. ‘These old houses are saturated with the past – it’s hard to escape it, hard to make the place your own.’ He’d squeezed her hand. ‘But your enthusiasm is helping me to look at it through fresh eyes. Forget the things I’d rather not remember.’ He fixed her with a serious look. ‘I don’t want you thinking that Vanna means anything to me. She doesn’t – not in that way. It was all a long time ago.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said, happy that she had nothing to fear from the past. She had not really felt menaced by the spectre of an ex-wife, but it was good to be reassured.

  When they went up to bed, there was a beautiful package with her name on it nestling on her pillow. Inside was a ring, an antique aquamarine set with tiny flickering diamonds.

  ‘Will you?’ he said, his eyes hopeful and yet trusting. ‘If you can bear a miserable old cove like me?’

  ‘Of course, of course I will!’ She burst into tears of happiness and hugged him.

  The wedding was held as soon as they could arrange it, a small ceremony at a London register office with only close friends and immediate family, mostly Delilah’s. John’s father, he said, was too ill to attend.

  ‘Don’t you have anyone else you’d like to come?’ John shook his head. ‘I can’t be bothered with all my aunts and uncles and cousins. I like to keep things quiet with just friends. Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve got enough family for both of us. You can have as many of my relations as you’d like and you’re very welcome to them.’

  Despite the grey skies and squalling winter rain, the day was all she wanted: romantic and stylish, with a lunch at a very expensive hotel after the ceremony. Then they went to Hawaii for three long and delicious weeks of honeymoon. John taught her how to surf and they spent all day on the beach before returning to their luxurious chalet at the hotel for baths, dinner and bed. She really couldn’t imagine it was possible to be happier. At night, he told her how much he loved and needed her.

  ‘You’re the light of my life,’ he whispered. ‘I mean th
at.’ ‘I love you too,’ she replied, overwhelmed with the bliss of being married to a man she loved and who needed her so much. His mordant wit charmed her; even his black moods were interesting and a little romantic. She felt certain she could make him happy and help him forget the misery of his childhood. Together, they could face anything.

  But as the end of the honeymoon approached, the atmosphere changed. John stopped smiling and joking, and his periods of silent withdrawal became longer. The mood became heavy and no matter how much she tried to bring peace and good humour to the situation, she couldn’t defuse the tension. They had never rowed, not seriously, but she had the sense that something was building and it was beyond her control to stop it.

  The night before they left, John seemed keyed up in a way she’d never seen before and, on an impulse, she arranged for them both to have massages in the hotel spa to relax him. Afterwards, back in the chalet as they prepared to go for dinner, she thought he seemed calmer, though his grey eyes were still flinty in the way that signalled he was not at ease. She kept up an easy chatter to divert him while they got ready.

  ‘I can’t quite believe that on Monday I’ll be back in the office as usual,’ she said lightly, putting on her earrings in front of the mirror. The aquamarine in her engagement ring looked even bluer against the tan she’d acquired, and her face was glowing with the effects of sunshine and seawater. She could see John behind her, leaning against the wall, his hands thrust down low in his pockets. He looked strained. ‘It’s been so wonderful here, I haven’t given home a thought. Goodness knows what’s waiting for me when I get back. My inbox will be a nightmare.’

  John glanced up at her reflection and their eyes met.

  Why is he so tense and unhappy? The massage obviously hadn’t worked as well as she’d hoped. She felt a rush of love and tenderness for him, wanting to take him in her arms and soothe all the bad feelings away.

  He said, ‘It doesn’t matter really now, does it? You won’t be there for long. How long is your notice period? A month?’

  She pushed the back of her earring on and shook out her hair. It fell thick and fair over her shoulders. The sun had lightened it several shades, and her freckles had come out. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll be resigning when you get back, won’t you? I thought you might do it before we left but you had so much on with the wedding, I didn’t bring it up.’

  She stared at him, startled. They had talked only vaguely about what would happen when they returned but she had assumed that the arrangement they had before the wedding would go on for a while longer: London in the week in her little flat, Fort Stirling at weekends and holidays, with John going back when there was an urgent need for him to be there. She’d grown accustomed to his being able to do what he wanted, leaving his cousin in charge when necessary so that they could be together. When John had talked about how they would live at the house, she’d pictured them there at some unspecified point in the future, when she felt ready to give up her London life or when circumstances decreed it. They’d agreed before the wedding that Delilah would come off the Pill and they would let things take their course. She was thirty-four and ready for motherhood when it came, but she had the vague impression that it could take a few months for the Pill’s effects to wear off and so didn’t expect to become pregnant immediately. She turned back from the mirror to face him and said slowly, ‘You mean – stop working?’

  He frowned. ‘Well, how are you going to commute to London every day from Dorset? It’s not exactly practical, is it? Where else would you live but with me, for God’s sake?’

  ‘But . . .’ She stared at him helplessly. It seemed obvious now he said it, but she hadn’t properly thought through the implications: that her career would need to be given up at once. ‘Why didn’t you say something before now?’

  He laughed in a joyless way. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but I thought you understood. I come as a package with the house. I belong at Fort Stirling. That’s just the way it is. It was lovely having time to ourselves but I can’t stay away indefinitely. It’s just not possible. That place is my life and my work. Besides, my father is there and he needs me.’

  ‘What about my work?’ she said slowly. ‘Doesn’t that matter?’

  ‘Anyone can do your job,’ he said. ‘But only I can do mine.’

  She’d been hurt at the implication and he’d become exasperated because he hadn’t meant to imply her job was easy, just that their circumstances were different. They’d begun to squabble and then to shout, and then they were having a proper quarrel.

  ‘So my job and life don’t matter?’ she’d cried. He seemed like a stranger suddenly, and she hated it.

  His eyes flashed with irritation. ‘You married me – you must have understood that meant you were marrying the house as well!’

  ‘We never talked about it!’

  ‘Because it was glaringly obvious. You’ll have to give up your job if we’re going to be together. Besides, when you have a baby, you’ll be stopping work anyway.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve decided that, have you?’ She felt furious. Even though she had half thought the same, his assumption enraged her. ‘Am I supposed to become a full-time mother just because you say so? How dare you make those decisions on my behalf?’

  He stared at her, his eyes steely, and something in him seemed to snap. He shouted, ‘I don’t have a choice – I’ve never had a choice – and now you’ve married me, neither do you! The sooner you understand that, the better!’ He stormed out into the night, slamming the door behind him and leaving her weeping and frightened because she’d never seen him look at her in that terrible way, or heard such a tone of bitter resignation in his voice.

  When he finally came back to bed, she was still awake. She wrapped her arms round him and said she was sorry. She’d thought it over and of course it was stupid of her not to realise that the fort would have to be their home right from the start. She would give up her job.

  ‘I knew in my heart I’d do it eventually,’ she said, stroking his back and feeling him relax in her arms. ‘I suppose I just hadn’t quite admitted it would be sooner rather than later. But you’re right, my life is with you now. It’s what I want.’

  He’d hugged her back and kissed her. ‘Thank you. I do love you, darling, and I’m sorry for that horrible row. I should have talked to you about all this, but I’m not very good at it, I’m afraid. I don’t like admitting things, even to myself. I know what it means to give up your work. If it’s any consolation, there’s plenty to do at the house, believe me. It’s a whole career in itself.’ Smiling down at her, the dimple in his left cheek appearing, he said, ‘You never know, we might have a honeymoon baby and then you’ll have lots to keep you busy.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she’d said, relieved and happy that there was peace between them again. ‘We’ll see.’

  Within a month, her notice was worked out, her flat had been rented and she had taken the first steps towards beginning her new life at Fort Stirling. The vast house was now her home. There was no sign of a baby yet.

  Chapter Five

  1965

  Eastbourne seemed like a strange place for a honeymoon. Alexandra might not know much about such things but she had the vague idea that Paris or Venice were the right kinds of places, or somewhere by the sea in a hot country.

  They had the sea, all right, but apart from that, not even a hotel. The little motor car had roared past The Grand on the sea front and Alexandra, who had expected them to stop, was quite disconcerted. Her husband – the word was strange and tasted bad, leaving a bitterness in her mouth – didn’t so much as flick a glance at the place but continued frowning at the road ahead, a cigarette clamped between his lips or occasionally between his fingers.

  He must know what he’s doing, she thought. Her hands were pressed tightly into the seat on either side of her, her fingertips hooked into the grainy leather. They had barely spoken to one another since they had said their vows a few hours earlier. The bells h
ad been pealing as they emerged from the church, her arm resting on the rough wool of his morning coat, and there’d been a swift glance at each other, a kind of half-smile on Laurence’s lips, and he murmured, ‘Are you all right?’ to which she’d answered, ‘Yes,’ and then added hesitantly, ‘darling.’ His blue gaze slid away from her and he said nothing more. A moment later, they’d been surrounded by people, hustled into a waiting car and driven home again. She walked into the house feeling a little ridiculous now in her dress with its cumbersome train and the long froth of veil around her shoulders, and was greeted by two staring village girls holding trays of asparagus rolls. They’d bobbed curtsies and said, ‘Hello, mum,’ in a way that made her realise that everyone saw her differently since the little ritual in the church.

  The reception passed in a hubbub of noise and a blur of tightly packed people. There was hardly enough room for the guests in the drawing room and some spilled out onto the terrace, as the village girls passed among them offering trays of food and sherry. Alexandra escaped the bunches of inquisitive ladies and with some muttered excuses slipped into the dining room, where the wedding presents had been laid out on the sideboard, displayed for anyone who cared to look. She went over, her train tucked over one arm, and inspected them. They didn’t feel like hers and she wondered if it would be better if she simply left them where they were. The cut-glass vases and crystal looked more at home here than it ever would wherever they were going, not that she had much idea where that was.

  ‘Delightful, aren’t they?’

  She jumped and turned to see Laurence’s brother walking across the room towards her, looking like a comical little bantam with his chest puffed out and his hands clasped behind his back. He had fair hair like Laurence, swept back from his forehead, but unlike Laurence, with his thin, almost gaunt face, Robert was plump and his cheeks were ruddier than his brother’s, as though blood had been pumped hard into the little veins and capillaries and got stuck there.