The Winter Folly

by Taylor, Lulu

  ‘Alex,’ he said suddenly, ‘let’s go away. This place has become so gloomy, and we’re too close to your wicked old dad and the gossiping village. After what happened to Laurence, I feel we need to seize the day and live life while we can. Why don’t we get away from it all? Let’s go to Africa. Or India. I want to take my camera and see some heat and dust and some reality. I want to discover what the whole thing is about, what we’re here for. Don’t you?’

  She considered it. The more she thought about it, the better the idea appeared. ‘Yes,’ she said wholeheartedly. She wanted to escape it all, just as he did. Her home was with Nicky – wherever he was she could be happy. They could leave the misery and despair of this place and find new, untainted ones where they would be free. ‘Yes, it’s a marvellous idea.’

  ‘And then,’ he said, clasping her hands, ‘when we get back, and this unpleasant business is forgotten, we’ll get married and be happy ever after – won’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said fervently. She didn’t tell him she was afraid that happiness won this way must surely come with its own price.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twenty

  1967

  ‘Your ladyship! Oh, what a joy to see you!’

  Quite a different welcome, Alexandra thought wryly, to the one she received on her first visit to the house over a year ago. Nevertheless, she was glad. She was respectable at last.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Spencer,’ she said, smiling at the small welcoming party. The servants were beaming, happy to put the old days behind them now that there was all this new excitement.

  The housekeeper dashed forward, eager to get close. ‘Is this the little angel? Oh, may I see?’

  Alexandra lowered the bundle she had pressed to her shoulder and carefully folded away the knitted blanket to reveal the small face inside. Its eyes were tightly shut, the little cupid’s bow lips parted and the round cheeks flushed with sleep. He was the most beautiful thing she could possibly imagine, so it was only to be expected when Mrs Spencer went into raptures over the perfection of the baby.

  ‘So, what do you think of my son?’ Nicky said, coming up behind Alexandra. ‘He’s a little champ, isn’t he?’

  Mrs Spencer gave him a solemn but joyful look. ‘Oh, my lord, he’s the most wonderful baby. You must be so proud.’

  ‘I am.’ He took off his sunglasses. ‘This is John Valentine Stirling – my son and heir.’ He smiled down proudly at the baby and put his arm around Alexandra. ‘Haven’t I grown up, Mrs Spencer? I’m a husband and father now.’

  ‘You certainly have, my lord,’ the housekeeper said. ‘We heard the news about your wedding – what a shame you decided to get married abroad; we’d have loved a wedding here, you know. It’s been many years since we’ve celebrated a proper Stirling wedding!’

  ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ Nicky said. ‘I’m sure we can arrange a party to celebrate everything: the wedding, John’s arrival and our homecoming.’

  ‘Darling,’ Alexandra said anxiously, ‘let’s get the baby inside. I don’t want him catching a chill.’

  They’d been accustomed to a hot climate for so many months now that England seemed abysmally cold, even though it was summer here. They had left on their adventure as soon as it could be arranged, though it took a few months – Alexandra needed a passport, for one thing – and it wasn’t until the spring that they had finally got on their way. As the coast of England disappeared into the distance, she’d stood on board the deck of the boat taking them to France on the first leg of their journey, and had felt her spirits lift. Abroad, she could forget what had happened in the past, and think only of that day, or even of the present hour. Life was just about her and Nicky, and whatever new sights and sounds the day brought her. She felt released from what had gone before, and her past life seemed like a half-remembered dream. The sense of liberation she felt was intoxicating. On the ship, Nicky had slipped a gold band around her ring finger and said, ‘Easier for us if everyone thinks we’re already married.’

  She’d looked at it, marvelling. It wasn’t even a real wedding ring and yet it meant a hundred times more than her ring from Laurence ever had.

  They took their time making their way to India, stopping wherever took their fancy or taking sudden detours when they felt like it; Nicky’s money gave them the freedom to do whatever they wanted. As they left Europe behind, she took in new sights: deserts and mosques, camels and monkeys, long rattling trains that crossed vast distances crammed with people, with even more riding on the roof and the platforms between the carriages. She learned to live with the heat and the dry dust, how to bargain for tea and fruit, and to wear a headscarf when it was required. Most of all, she loved being with Nicky every minute, the two of them against the world. Everyone accepted without question that she was his wife, and she revelled in the way she could be with him without feeling guilty or sordid.

  When they finally reached India, they followed their whim to whichever adventure seemed most appealing. They travelled in battered vans or on crowded trains; sometimes they even rode elephants as they explored the ancient cities or gazed out across the limitless landscape. Everything was strange and new: the colours, the smells, the food, and the punishing, never-ending heat.

  It was in the hills above Darjeeling that they realised that Alexandra was expecting a baby. After a burst of excitement and worry about how to get home, they decided to continue with their journey. They were free of the censorious eyes of the world here; Alexandra could grow bigger without gossip, and they could do things at their own pace. Neither of them thought to wonder what they would do if there were problems with the pregnancy, sharing a simple blind faith that their baby would arrive safely when it was ready, and until then they had six months to do as they pleased.

  Alexandra’s belly grew bigger and bigger and the only causes of anxiety were a nasty night of food poisoning and a dose of flu. The baby always kicked reassuringly afterwards and Alexandra bloomed, happy in a way she had never known before. She was astonished at how pregnancy made her feel: she was in awe of her body’s power to build a tiny human being inside her without her needing to do anything. She felt obscurely that she ought to be frightened of what was happening but she could only welcome it. Nicky’s child was being created inside her and she felt like a precious vessel containing something holy. One day when they were visiting a temple, she was surrounded by women who touched her belly in awe and murmured what she thought must be blessings. She felt like a goddess herself, being worshipped and adored.

  But there was the problem of getting married. Even Nicky’s carefree attitude to convention was challenged by the thought that he would father a child without being married. He had the future of Fort Stirling to consider and it would be no good to have a child out of wedlock, particularly if it were a son who then couldn’t inherit. Even in India, there was no escaping the Fort entirely. They discussed marriage from time to time, and how they would manage it before the baby came, but always put it off for just a little while longer.

  When they arrived on the crystal white beaches of Goa, with fringes of palm trees and huts on the sand within the sound of the waves, Alexandra knew from her tightly swollen belly that they couldn’t delay much longer.

  Nicky was sitting cross-legged at the entrance to their hut, smoking. He had discarded English clothes almost entirely since they’d arrived, and wore baggy white cotton trousers and an embroidered waistcoat over a torso now burnt dark brown. He was watching the rhythm of the waves as they rolled into the shore, while he expelled clouds of sweet, fragrant smoke. He bought the tobacco from a man who wandered up and down the beaches looking for tourists and it always seemed to calm him down.

  ‘Nicky?’ She lay on a soft mattress in the gloom of the hut, one hand on her belly, where she could feel the kicks and twitches of the baby.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘The baby will be here soon. The doctor I saw in Arambol told me that it was only six weeks at the most. The baby is a goo
d size already, he told me. It might even come early.’

  Nicky took a long drag on his cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke but said nothing. It was always a little harder to get through to him when he was smoking.

  ‘I’m scared,’ she said softly.

  He turned to look at her, his face tender. ‘Don’t be scared. Your body will know what to do. It’s a miracle like that, the way you carry inside yourself the power to transmit life. It’ll be fine, you won’t need to do a thing, your instinct will take over.’

  Alexandra was silent for a moment, wondering if it would really be so easy. It was not how she had ever heard childbirth spoken of, even in the veiled, indirect way ladies had used. Then she said, ‘But I don’t want to have this baby before we’re married. I couldn’t bear that.’

  Nicky moved round on his haunches to face her properly. ‘I feel the same – and you’re right, we mustn’t risk it. I’ve got to make sure this little one has a name or there’ll be no end of trouble. I’ll sort everything out tomorrow and we’ll do it as soon as we can.’

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ Alexandra lay back on the mattress, satisfied. This would be so different from the kind of wedding she had been brought up to expect – but then, she had had that and what good had it been to her? Whatever this was, it would join her to the man she loved and create a family for her baby to be born into. That was all that mattered.

  Nicky was as good as his word. After all the months of inaction, they were married a few days later in two separate ceremonies. The first was a dreamy and beautiful occasion. A crowd of the people they had met in Goa, as well as local people, arrived to witness the wedding. Nicky waited on the beach in his baggy Indian trousers, a white collarless shirt and a white spangled waistcoat, next to a local shaman who was to conduct the marriage. Alexandra walked over hot white sand to join him, wearing a red and gold sari that flowed elegantly over her vast bump, and flowers in her hair. She didn’t understand much of the ceremony but at times their hands were joined together and incantations were muttered, fragrant spices burned in the fire that had been set on the beach, and prayers offered to spirits of the earth and sky. At the end, she and Nicky sat together on an exquisitely embroidered rug while local men played sitars and drums as girls in sparkling veils and haram pants danced, and the wedding feast lasted long into the velvety night. The beach looked so beautiful, illuminated by the bonfires burning along it, with music sounding and people drinking and dancing in celebration, that Alexandra felt she was living in a dream of happiness. But she knew that this ceremony was just theatre. It was the other that really mattered.

  The next day, they travelled to a nearby town and paid a short visit to a white-clad Indian man, an attorney at law, who took a sheaf of rupees and in return had them sign some official-looking documents, then gave them a signed and stamped certificate. They were married.

  She held Nicky’s hand, more moved than she had been the day before, silently and deeply thankful that they were united at last.

  ‘So, my darling,’ Nicky said, staring at their certificate as they returned to the beach in a bicycle rickshaw, sheltered from the sun by a tatty plastic canopy. ‘Now you’re officially a Stirling.’ He kissed her. ‘Not that we needed some piece of paper to tell us that.’

  That night, Alexandra made sure that she slipped the marriage certificate carefully into the safest place in their possessions, along with their money and passports.

  Two weeks later, with the help of two village women who, despite having no English, provided support and comfort through a long and painful night, Alexandra gave birth to a healthy son. The rapture and delight she and Nicky felt in the baby was all encompassing. Even their travelling seemed to lose its excitement in the thrill of his existence. The outside world shrank and disappeared as they became absorbed in the baby, awake or asleep or at the breast, in his blue eyes, soft skin and tiny fingers and toes. Alexandra, overwhelmed with love, wanted to settle with her little chick and concentrate entirely on him. Within a few weeks, Nicky suggested that they went home, and Alexandra eagerly agreed. She had been dreaming of forests and rain and the particular green of Dorset, and longed to be there with her baby. Little John needed to be home, in the place he truly belonged.

  They packed their things and Alexandra wrapped John to her chest in the papoose style she had learned from the local women, and he nestled there all the way back to England. The journey took weeks as they rattled back on trains and in buses, leaving India behind and travelling through Pakistan and Iran. It was a more anxious thing to travel now they had the baby to consider, and Alexandra fretted over the heat and the sand and the state of the buses. But as long as she could look down and see his face pressed to her heart, and she could feel his small fingers curled around her large one, or was able to put him to the breast when he cried, she could bear it.

  When they left Turkey and sailed around the coast of Greece to Italy where they boarded a train northwards, she felt suddenly wistful for the freedom of their lives abroad, and the colour and warmth of India. But that was over now. As they were back in Europe, Alexandra unwound the soft cotton papoose and began to carry John in a blanket instead. In Paris, they discarded their travelling clothes and bought new ones. Nicky put a suit back on, and she bought skirts and blouses and summer dresses with belts and buttons, quite unlike the flowing robes she’d grown accustomed to. By the time they arrived at Portsmouth, they looked like a proper English family again, with the baby in a blue romper and a white cotton hat. Only the depth of their tans showed that they had been living a different kind of life altogether, but even those were already beginning to fade.

  Back at Fort Stirling, the past, with its awkwardness, seemed to be erased. With the new generation of Stirlings in the house, any unusual arrangements prior to the wedding were forgotten. It was understood that irregularities had been made right, and soon a stream of visitors were making their way to the house to call on the new viscountess and coo over the baby, who was turning into the most handsome child ever seen – at least, in Alexandra’s eyes. Nicky, too, was a devoted father and now that he was head of the family, he seemed to be able to relinquish his old party crowd and his dreams of a photography career to concentrate on running the estate and taking part in the life of the county.

  Alexandra was soon absorbed in the new demands that were made on her: besides caring for John whenever she could – the nanny that Nicky had insisted on was very territorial and clearly resented Alexandra’s presence in the nursery except at given times – she was called upon to do all manner of civic duties, from opening fêtes and judging winners at the garden shows, to handing out prizes at local schools and visiting hospitals. No one had much cared who she was before, but now she was Lady Northmoor of Fort Stirling, she seemed to embody some kind of authority. When she admired a Victoria sponge at the Women’s Institute, it immediately became something better than it had been. If she considered pansies prettier than snowdrops, or crochet superior to needlepoint, then everyone agreed that was absolutely the case. Perhaps, she thought, she ought to draw confidence from all of this, but instead she felt a kind of mild panic that she was inadvertently leading everyone in the wrong direction, like a reluctant Pied Piper.

  What mattered more was that she seemed to be accepted by the extended family as well. The various aunts, uncles and cousins arriving to inspect the new arrival and welcome Alexandra into the family treated her with friendly kindness, and she apparently passed whatever tests were being set her.

  Nicky’s cousin, George Stirling, lived only a few miles away and yet John was already toddling around by the time he paid his visit. He had been the fat boy she remembered from their childhood games, so Alex had looked forward to seeing him again, but his visit was marked by a puzzling awkwardness and a distinct lack of friendliness. He had grown into a stout man and looked older than his years, with reddened cheeks that hinted at a blood pressure higher than was good for him. He’d smiled and been outwardly polite, hoping s
he might come and meet his fiancée soon, and that they would all become friends, but his stony gaze had quite chilled Alexandra. He had shown no interest in John at all.

  ‘Don’t bother about old George,’ Nicky had said airily when his cousin had left. ‘He’s never had much charm and what there was got kicked out of him at school. Poor kid was bullied to bits. No doubt his nose is a bit out of joint now John is here, as George was the heir apparent, but he’ll get used to the idea. He’s got Home Farm to himself, after all.’

  She hoped that when she met the fiancée, things would improve.

  The following month, Alexandra sat for her portrait and when it hung in the hall of Fort Stirling, alongside those of other viscountesses going back hundreds of years, she began to believe that everything was going to be all right.

  While Alexandra had been in India, the memory of her father had faded to a shadow and she had done her best to forget him. Now his presence began to loom large in her mind and the knowledge that he was a few miles away in the Old Grange, implacably opposed to her new life, haunted her. She had found happiness now, at last, and she wanted him to share in it, and to be glad for her. A fortnight after their return, she wrote to her father telling him about John, enclosing a clipping of his birth announcement from The Times and a photograph of the baby, and asking if she might bring his grandson to see him. A few days later she received a terse note in response.

  You may believe that your elevation to Lady Northmoor has scrubbed out your sins, but I do not. You carry the weight of a man’s death on your conscience. The child is no grandson of mine – there is bad blood in him, the same as your own, and that is that.