‘You might have asked me to go with you. Or had you forgotten you are a married man?’ Amelia teased him. ‘We always go walking together, so you could at least have asked me.’
‘I thought you’d be too tired,’ George replied in genuine surprise. ‘Knowing you, I knew you’d say you’d come if I asked you, even though you were half asleep on your feet. So I thought I’d just take myself off for a while and leave you to the fire and one of Mrs Muir’s excellent teas while I exercised the dogs.’
‘I missed you.’
‘I missed you too. But there’ll be plenty of other occasions now. Anyway, it’s a habit I’ve got into. Going for a hike as soon as we get here.’
‘A habit that in future had better include me.’
‘If you say so.’ George smiled, and then raised his glass. ‘To you.’
‘To us,’ Amelia replied, raising her own back at him.
They drank their toast in silence, looking across the table at each other shyly, before returning to their dinner.
‘So what do you make of this place, Mrs Dashwood?’ George wondered. ‘It astounds me every time I visit it.’
‘I think it is absolutely breathtaking, even from the little I’ve seen of it so far,’ Amelia replied. ‘I wouldn’t mind living here for ever.’
‘Oh yes you would. It rains an absurd amount of the time, and it’s very cold in winter.’
‘I wouldn’t mind, really. As long as I had you.’
‘We’ll find somewhere special to live, Amelia, I promise you,’ George said, looking up at her. ‘Soon as we return south we shall start thinking very seriously where we’re going to make our home.’
‘Yes, I’d like that, George. I’d like to find us somewhere secret. Somewhere where no-one will be able to find us. Where we can hide away together from the rest of the world. Somewhere magical.’
‘Magical?’ George opened his eyes. ‘Like an enchanted castle perhaps?’
‘Nothing so grand,’ Amelia laughed. ‘Something much smaller. An old place. Somewhere perhaps that’s been uninhabited for ages. That we can rebuild and make magic.’
In the place surrounded by four tall dark hedges two men sat listening intently to the young Dashwoods’ conversation. The younger man, the Noble One, was clothed in a deep violet robe, his older companion, Longbeard, held a purse containing every known sort of jewel. Around them all was utter silence yet every word they wished to hear they heard.
‘Now.’ Longbeard nodded sagely. ‘Now they will come.’
‘You are sure,’ the Noble One replied. ‘Why? What tells you these are they?’
Longbeard shook his head once then nodded as he took from the leather purse a jewel of no known colour. He held it up and even though it was night-time the great jewel suddenly shone with a light as bright as the sun, a light which shone not on its outside but from within. ‘This is why I know,’ Longbeard said. ‘The Stone of Quiz. When the light shines, the call has been answered.’
‘What’s the matter, Amelia?’ George said suddenly. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I think I’m just tired,’ Amelia replied, with a puzzled frown. ‘It has been quite a journey.’
‘Why? What is it – don’t you feel well?’
‘No. I mean no I don’t feel unwell. I feel fine, in fact. Never better.’ Amelia smiled at George to try to reassure him, but in her mind all she could see was the image. ‘For a moment I thought I had fallen asleep.’
‘Thank you,’ George laughed. ‘Says a lot for my company.’
‘Of course I didn’t,’ Amelia returned. ‘As if I could. But it was really strange. It must have been a daydream. And because of what we were talking about.’
‘We were talking about finding a house. Finding somewhere to live.’
‘I know.’ Amelia frowned again. ‘And then – then I saw a house.’
It was George’s turn to look bewildered. He put down his wineglass and stared across the table at Amelia.
‘You saw a house,’ he echoed. ‘What sort of house? What did it look like?’
‘I don’t know,’ Amelia replied. ‘It was a house I’d never seen before – but it’s gone now.’
‘The house has gone? Or the image of it?’
‘The picture I had of it, George. I had this really crystal clear picture of it, so clear I could have described every inch of the place. But now – now it’s completely gone from my head.’
For a while they both sat in silence with the remains of their unfinished pudding still before them. Finally they resumed their talk, carefully at first in case – as Amelia teased – she had another vision, and then as animatedly as before, once George had convinced Amelia that what she thought she had seen was simply either the result of the wine, or just a daydream. The matter of where they might live had never been actually broached before since George had always been of the opinion that as long as he was in the army they could live at his parents’ house until they decided exactly what his future was to be.
But now, since George had already hinted that he might not care to spend the rest of his life in the army, they had both, quite separately, started to dream the way most young married people do of where ideally they might live, given the choice. It emerged from their conversation that both were more than happy to stay in Sussex, with George stating a strong preference for living by the sea while Amelia was not so sure.
‘You know I love the sea as much as you do, George. But the trouble with living right by it is there’s no green – particularly in the winter. I think I’d miss the trees and the fields and the hills. Looking out at a grey and stormy sea all winter might get me down.’
‘I don’t think so, Amelia. I don’t think you would be got down by anything.’
‘You don’t know me, George.’
‘If anyone knows you I do,’ George replied with perfect seriousness. ‘And what I don’t know I intend to find out.’
Both the remark and the look in George’s eyes silenced Amelia. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks and an odd feeling of excitement took her over, more so even than the first time she had jumped for a dare into the sea off some high rocks with Hermione, or the first time she had sailed the Dashwood dinghy by herself. It was odd that she felt such a sense of thrilling anticipation, since she thought she must have known the sort of adventure she was facing even if only in outline, yet now, as she found herself looking shyly back at her new husband with no absolute idea of what exactly her immediate future held in store, the colour in her cheeks lingered, and this despite knowing George all her life.
Sensing her sudden shyness, George put down his glass of wine and took the edge of the table in both hands.
‘I’m sorry, Amelia. That wasn’t the right thing to say. Will you forgive me?’
‘There’s nothing to forgive, George,’ Amelia replied with a shy smile. ‘It’s you who should forgive me. Forgive my blushes, as they used to say.’
‘I don’t want to make you blush. At least not out of any sense of embarrassment.’
‘It wasn’t from embarrassment, George, I do assure you.’
George looked at her for a moment, then rose from the table.
‘Let’s go and sit by the fire for a while,’ he suggested, smiling back at her. ‘And make plans for the rest of the week.’
They sat by the great fire which had been left ready for them for a further hour, playing cards and talking about how they planned to spend their time together in the next ten days. George wondered if she would like to be taught how to fly-fish properly, since this was something the two of them had never done.
‘You’re more than handy with a coarse rod,’ he said, pouring himself a whisky. ‘And I know how much you enjoy angling, so perhaps if I taught you how to cast a fly--’
‘Is it much more difficult?’
‘It’s a knack to be a fly fisherman, and a skill to be a good one. At least that’s what Eoin has always maintained, and if ever there was a skilled fly fisher, it’s he.’
‘Can we have the first lesson tomorrow, please?’ Amelia wondered, suddenly seeing herself on the river bank with George standing beside her, holding her by the waist while she carefully cast for a salmon. ‘I really can’t wait to get started.’
‘Of course,’ George agreed with a laugh. ‘But in that case we shall need an early start – and seeing that it’s nearly a quarter to eleven now, why don’t you go on up to bed?’
Amelia was about to ask him whether or not he was coming up to bed as well before concluding that George was perhaps being tactful and giving her time to get undressed and into bed before him. Even though she had not considered in any depth what might exactly happen on her wedding night and in what precise order, Amelia still felt a peculiar sort of disappointment that her newly married husband was not going to accompany her to the bedroom, as if he was only going to join her halfway through a dance.
Since the installation of electricity had been confined to the ground floor only, upstairs was still traditionally lit by candlelight at night. Amelia found this wonderfully romantic, and since she was all alone it seemed even more regrettable that George had taken the decision to stay downstairs, for in her mind’s eye she could see him lifting her up in his strong arms to carry her over the bedroom threshold before – and here Amelia gave a shiver of anticipation as the thought struck her – before perhaps helping her to undress?
Much taken by the thought, Amelia closed the door behind her, but instead of getting herself undressed and ready for bed she first extinguished the candles in the wall brackets and the two on the silver sticks placed on the chest of drawers, leaving only the ones by the bedside and on her dressing table alight, before sitting herself down in front of the looking-glass and beginning slowly to brush out her dark hair with long regular strokes.
This was a much-loved ritual and one she would happily prolong for upwards of a hundred strokes, since it provided what Amelia had always considered the best time for daydreaming, so even though George left another quarter of an hour before following her upstairs, when he did finally come into the bedroom he found Amelia still quite happily seated at the dressing table.
‘I thought you might be in bed by now,’ he said quietly, shutting the door behind him. ‘If you’d rather I came back--’
‘No, George, I wouldn’t. I’d rather you stayed.’
From the short silence that ensued Amelia concluded with a certain amount of delight that it appeared to be George’s turn to be at a loss for words.
‘Is something the matter, George?’ she enquired.
‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘I really can come back if you’d rather.’
‘George,’ Amelia said with a small sigh, turning to him but still brushing her hair. ‘It’s all right – we are married now.’
‘I dare say.’ George breathed in slowly, widened his eyes and, puffing out his cheeks, slowly exhaled. ‘It’s just – it’s just that neither of us have been married before.’
Amelia smiled and George smiled back at her, still firmly rooted to his spot. Amelia thought for a moment, then offered him her hairbrush.
‘Would you like to finish brushing out my hair?’ she suggested. ‘It’s very soothing.’
‘For you?’
‘For us both.’
He took the brush from her and frowned at it as if he had never seen such a thing before in his life. To prompt him, Amelia turned round on her dressing stool again to face the looking-glass, leaning her head back slightly so that her hair hung out and down from her head.
‘Long, slow strokes,’ she whispered. ‘And don’t say a word.’
He brushed her hair as if he had been brushing girls’ hair all his life, yet Amelia thought that he could not possibly have done so before. Certainly his mother with her short hair and her oddly detached manner was not the sort of woman who would invite her little boy to come and help her with her toilette. Yet George was brushing out Amelia’s hair carefully and tenderly, now putting the back of his hand under her tresses as he passed the brush downwards in long, slow strokes. Amelia sighed and opened her mouth to say something just as George leaned over her and kissed her upside down.
The next thing she knew she was in his arms and he was kissing her right way round and oh so passionately. For a moment Amelia was caught breathless and had to ease herself away from him. Mistaking her intention George stopped kissing her, but Amelia just smiled, told him not to be sorry and began to return his kisses. He had one arm round her waist now, the other on her back, and he was bending her backwards to the bed, but carefully, so that he could ease her down onto it. She looked up at him in the flickering candlelight and he looked back down at her, slipping off his jacket and loosening his tie, taking it off and undoing his shirt. Amelia lay quite still, thinking that to start undressing herself would not only be forward but would spoil the intense excitement she was now feeling. Instead she just lay as still as she could while George stripped half naked before lying down on the bed next to her. He put a hand out, round her waist, to ease her nearer him, telling her how much he loved her before smothering her soft mouth with more kisses, kisses Amelia returned with ever-increasing passion as she put her hand up to the back of his head to bury it in his hair. For a moment George stopped kissing her, lifting his head to look at her, and in that second he saw only sockets without eyes, and blood streaming, a woman’s face shot to pieces.
‘Dear God!’ he suddenly exclaimed, sitting bolt upright and holding his head. ‘Oh my God oh my God.’
‘What?’ Amelia said, immediately alarmed as she saw his look of anguish and heard the pain in his cry. ‘George what is it? Are you ill? George, what is it?’
She had her hands on his shoulders now, holding him, but his head was bowed and he was sobbing, long racking sobs such as Amelia had never heard before. She had never ever heard a man cry, only girls, or little boys. These were terrible cries that shook his whole being, that made him gasp as if he was drowning.
‘George . . .’ she said urgently. ‘George darling – please – please. Whatever is the matter?’
Still he said nothing, but now he allowed his head to fall on her breasts where he lay still sobbing. She put both her arms round him, rocking him as she would cradle, she imagined, a crying child, gently soothing him, one hand stroking his hair, the same hand pressing his head closer to her.
‘You poor darling boy.’
She held him like that long after he had stopped crying, long after he had tried faintly to move when she would not let him, holding him until she was certain the pain had eased. Then she put both her hands to his face, either side of his tearstained cheeks, and tried to kiss away his sorrow. As she did so he just looked at her as if he did not know where he was, his eyes full of anguish, letting her ease him so carefully under the sheets and covering him with the goose-feathered quilt. He lay quite still on the pillows, white as a ghost even by the warm light of the candles, while she wiped his forehead with a cool flannel, and then his face, before putting her hand to his cheek and shutting his eyes, telling him there was no need to say anything.
‘Sleep is the best thing, and in the morning, everything will be different.’
She waited until she knew he was quite asleep before she moved a muscle. Once she was certain she eased herself up off the bed, slipped out of her clothes and into her nightdress and slid under the covers beside him. The last thing she did was to blow out the candle by the bed, a candle whose last light illuminated the childlike face of her sleeping husband.
When she awoke the next morning, George was already up and gone. It was raining heavily so when Amelia went downstairs for her breakfast she was surprised to learn from Mrs Muir that the ‘young master’ had long gone out to have a few casts in the loch.
‘Hardly fishing weather surely, Mrs Muir,’ Amelia remarked as she lifted the silver lids on the dishes lined up on the sideboard.
‘The young master’s that good wi’ his rod he’d catch fish in a hurricane, ma’am,’
Mrs Muir replied, pouring some piping hot coffee ready for Amelia.
As she ate a delicious breakfast of salted porridge and cream followed by fresh haddock and poached eggs, Amelia thought over the events of the night. Her guess was an obvious one. George was troubled by some terrible event from his war service, which was hardly surprising, since she assumed most soldiers who had been in the front line carried mental images that would possibly last them their lifetimes. What she could not work out, however, was why George should be so troubled at such an ecstatic moment. Had it been in the middle of the night when they were fast asleep it would have been more understandable, but since they were both not only wide awake but in each other’s arms and starting to make love, Amelia could not begin to understand what could possibly have triggered such a terrible and agonizing attack. Did she remind him of someone? And if so – who? For the life of her Amelia could not bring herself to believe that, like some of the married officers about whom Hermione had gossiped to her, George had kept a mistress in France, or made love to some other woman before returning home.
But even if this should be the case, Amelia reasoned, he was not engaged to Amelia at the time, let alone married, so it could hardly be counted as an infidelity. She also knew, from hearing the matter so often discussed between her parents, that given the circumstances of a war soldiers could not be expected to behave in the same manner as would be expected of them in peacetime. The same rules did not apply, and nor could any reasonable person expect that they should.
Nevertheless, Amelia assumed that whatever had upset George so terribly could have nothing to do with his own actions, since she believed what he had told her: that he had kept himself for her, and thought of her, and her only, all the time he was away. It had therefore to be to do with something terrible that he had witnessed in the war.
But what?
Only he could tell her that, but she knew George to be one of those people who clam up the moment they are pressed. When they were much younger Amelia had often pleaded with him too hard for information, with the result that she learned less than she would have done had she kept quiet and allowed him to volunteer the facts. So even though this situation was obviously a far more crucial one, this time the same rules did apply. She simply had to keep her own counsel.
The Kissing Garden Page 7