Katherine smiled, remembering how they had kissed the night before in the Orangery at Chevrons – which was when she had come across the vixen and her cubs enjoying the scraps that Caro had left for them. David had looked handsome then, but now, as always after a meeting, he was looking most especially so; so handsome, in fact, that she knew that everyone at the meeting had been unable to pay proper attention to what he was saying, feasting their eyes instead on the looks of the ravishing young man standing before them on the rostrum.
‘The meeting went well, didn’t it, darling?’ she said, a little over-brightly, because the mere handful of hours’ sleep that she had managed that day were at last beginning to make themselves felt.
‘Very well,’ David agreed. He smiled, his handsome features, with their particular look of lazy charm, giving way to a brilliance of expression that Katherine always imagined was an echo of the faces of heroes of long ago.
‘The Führer would be proud of you,’ one of the older ladies at the meeting told him as she came up to shake his hand.
‘He certainly would,’ agreed another. ‘He would be proud of you, and so would everyone in the Party. If they could they would be here cheering, and not in exile in France.’
‘We will have Edward VIII as crowned king one day,’ Katherine murmured.
‘Of course we will. Mark my words, his brother will be proved to be powerless over our movement, as will everyone in this country who does not agree with us,’ the respectably dressed older woman went on, before making a vaguely fascist salute and stalking off towards her car.
David stared after her, a thoughtful expression on his face.
‘Without women like Mrs Billington and Mrs Raven the Party would be foundering.’
‘It most certainly would,’ Katherine agreed loyally, before she was forced to turn away and stifle a yawn.
‘I will see you tonight, perhaps?’
‘Not tonight, no. My father is giving a dinner for the newly arrived painter person.’ She shrugged as David regarded her with a jealously protective look in his eyes. ‘Nothing to do with me, I assure you. It was Caro who persuaded Daddy to hire Walter Beresford to do a mural in the Long Room.’ Katherine looked helpless. ‘I ask you, as if we have not enough on our minds with all this talk of war. Cook is already planning to leave to go to a factory where she can earn yards more money.’
‘We will prevail before there is a war. Lord Halifax is on our side. He will not oppose the Führer and his Nazi Party, as some in the government want us to do.’
‘I know that, David, you know that; if only we could persuade other people of the same.’
‘We shall. One way or another, we shall.’
All this was overheard by people returning to their cars, with whom Katherine and David made sure to shake hands.
‘We need more funds, truly we do, David. I have a bequest coming to me soon. I shall use it to help the Party.’
‘And I too shall use whatever I can lay my hands on to help the cause.’
They smiled and shook hands with yet more of the Party members and officials, before climbing into David’s car and driving off towards Chevrons.
‘Goodbye, darling. See you tomorrow night at the Orangery, perhaps? It’s safest for us to meet there.’
They kissed, and kissed, and kissed some more.
‘It’s so difficult to be parted.’ David let go of her, most reluctantly.
‘It certainly is,’ Katherine said, feeling a little faint, as she always did after David had kissed her.
‘But soon we shall not be parted any more.’
‘You’ve heard something?’
‘Yes.’ The expression in David’s eyes was sombre. ‘We have to leave England, and sooner than we think. I have heard if things go against us we will be rounded up and imprisoned.’
Katherine nodded. Everyone knew that since spring of the previous year, the Anschluss, the Führer’s invasion of Austria, had changed a great many things, and British people had at last come round to the idea that war could, after all, despite what Mr Chamberlain might say, be inevitable.
‘I am due to hear from our people in Victoria. I’ll let you know tomorrow night. It might all happen rather quicker than we imagined.’
Katherine’s heart sank. She loved David deeply, but it was only now, after two years attending Party meetings, that the enormity of what she was doing was becoming a reality. She would have to leave home and follow David, no matter what. She might never see Chevrons again.
She reined in the sudden despair that was threatening to cloud her patriotism. They believed in England, in England’s future; they must do their duty. Besides, it was too late to turn back now. They were beginning to go from an easy canter to a full gallop, about to face the biggest fence of them all, and they both knew it. They also knew that on the other side lay, not the sweet green grass of her father’s meadows, but exile.
Following an enjoyable dinner with the family, Walter resumed working. A small interruption came when Caro brought him in a glass of whisky, and teased him that he had shot back to the Long Room because he was afraid of Mrs Grant and her bucket of whitewash; but the truth was that he had to prepare a great deal before the Proud Beauty, as Caro called her sister, came to sit to him, which she did, shortly after ten o’clock the following morning.
‘You’re late and you’re not wearing the blue ball gown,’ Walter said, speaking from the top step of his ladder.
Katherine looked up at him, and slowly raised a haughty eyebrow.
‘I thought black would be more appropriate, given the present situation in Europe, everyone determined to misunderstand each other.’
Walter stared down at her, trying to read the expression in the young woman’s beautiful blue eyes.
‘Black is very smart, and of course, fashionable,’ he agreed tersely, turning back to the wall while sighing inwardly, because the blue gown showed off the blue of her eyes, and he liked the great sweep of the sleeves. ‘Black, I must admit, does show up your necklace and earrings to a great degree.’
‘How do you want me to sit to you?’
‘I don’t want you to sit to me,’ he said firmly, at which Katherine gave a sharp glance up only to be rewarded with the back of his head. ‘I want you to stand. You don’t mind standing, do you, Miss Garland?’ he finished.
‘Why should I mind? I didn’t commission you.’
Walter glanced at her as she pointedly tapped at her watch, before giving him a look that he immediately took to mean ‘if it was up to me I wouldn’t have commissioned you at all.’
Walter turned back to the Long Room wall, his wall, as he had already started to think of it.
‘I am placing you walking beside the water here, as you said you wished,’ he told her, pointing to the place with his paintbrush.
‘Why beside? Surely you should have me walking on the water.’
Walter laughed.
‘Why do you laugh? It’s not funny. I meant it,’ Katherine murmured, before turning her attention to straightening her skirt.
Walter turned back to the wall. Just for a second what her younger sister might have called ‘the old Katherine’ had seemed to be there – humorous, intelligent, even kind – but seconds later the look was gone, to be replaced by the cold, detached expression that he assumed was the new Katherine Garland, of the black dress and the even blacker views.
He began to sketch her figure and her dress in total silence, looking from her to the wall and back again. Minutes went by, and more minutes, and still he said nothing, until finally he stopped.
‘It’s no good, Miss Garland. I can’t paint you, really I can’t. The black gown, it’s quite wrong for the composition, and most particularly in a bucolic setting. If you want to be by the water, as you stated, you will have to wear the blue dress.’
Katherine’s mouth set in a mulish fashion. ‘This is the dress I want to wear.’
‘Yes, but unfortunately it is not the dress in which I want to p
aint you.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m afraid, as I said, it is wrong for the painting, and besides, it doesn’t inspire me. If you wish to be included in the mural I must insist you wear the blue dress.’
There was a long silence, broken at last.
‘You can’t force me to change. It is just not fair to force someone to wear something that they feel is wrong for them.’
Walter gave her a cool look. ‘I agree with you. It is quite unfair to force anyone to do anything. I am quite against anyone forcing anyone. That is why certain political ideals are so wrong, don’t you think?’
There was another long silence.
‘At Chevrons we make it a rule never to talk politics with our guests,’ Katherine finally stated, giving the painter’s back a haughty look, which was naturally wasted on him.
He turned at this. ‘Mmm, very wise, really, very wise indeed, but the fact remains, Miss Garland, if you want to be in my painting, you will please go and change into the blue gown with the silver winged sleeves.’
Katherine drew in a sharp breath, and then she finally laughed, at the same time colouring, which caught at Walter’s heart because it made her look yards younger, and endearingly vulnerable.
‘Oh dear, I think you must win this one, Mr Beresford.’
‘I hope so, Miss Garland.’
Katherine disappeared back up to her bedroom to change, finally emerging in her blue gown with the silver sleeves like great swan’s wings, and looking more than ever like something dropped from heaven.
Walter studied her up and down, before walking round her.
‘Much better,’ he said, his tone not serious, but grave, as well it might be, because he knew with each glance from her to the wall, and from the wall to her, that he was becoming more and more fascinated by this tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty.
He walked back again, and then took another turn around her.
‘No gloves,’ he said commandingly. ‘You can put those aside, if you would, please. What I want you to do is to raise your arms a little, like so.’
Katherine started to laugh.
‘You look rather good like that!’
Walter took no notice. ‘Come on, come on,’ he said, not smiling.
Katherine raised her arms.
‘Good, that’s better. Now we can begin.’
He picked up his palette and brushes, and climbed his ladder.
‘The look in your eyes is becoming increasingly sad over these last sittings, were you aware of that?’ Walter remarked some days later. ‘I shall not ask you why, although there must be a reason.’
Katherine’s expression became wry.
‘Oh, don’t you worry. That’s just put on for you, Mr Painter,’ she stated with sudden assumed gaiety. ‘You should never smile for posterity – always look grave, full of thought, or else they will see you for the lightweight that you are!’
But Walter did not believe her because it was not just the look in her eyes that was sad. Katherine Garland’s whole aura, in contrast to her beautiful gown and her breathtaking looks, had become tense and dark. It was as if she had just been told the day the world would end, or perhaps as if she had just been told the day her world would end.
‘I wonder if you could do me a favour, Mr Painter?’ she asked, quick to change the subject. ‘I wonder if you would paint something on my finger? It’s only very small, but if you could paint it where an engagement ring would be, if I had one, if I was engaged, I mean …’
‘Very well. What is it?’
When she told him, Walter laughed. ‘A ladybird – oh, very rural, and no trouble. Besides, I love them; they intrigue me.’
Katherine smiled. ‘Yes, they are intriguing, aren’t they?’ she agreed, and the expression in her eyes became oblique. ‘Somehow not quite what they seem.’
A week later found Caro going to lunch with Robyn Harding. She put on a checked jacket with a large collar, and a wide matching skirt. It was a two-piece that Katherine had handed down to her, and which, slightly altered, the hem shortened and so on, she was pleased to think now fitted her without a trace of a hand-me-down look to it. At least she hoped it had none of that altered look that could come about when something was second-hand; but at any rate, to make quite sure, she had teamed it with a new silk blouse, because Robyn Harding was nothing if not chic. Older than Caro, she might more probably have been Katherine’s friend, but Caro and she had more in common, sharing interests as they did in books and paintings, something for which, as it happened, Robyn’s family, the Hardings, were not exactly famous.
Caro wandered into the back pantry where every key was carefully hung with a little gold notice above it, where all the bells for all the rooms were placed, their names also placed above them. Caro loved the decorative order of it all, which meant that, as always, she stared up at each name ‘Mrs Garland’s dressing room’, ‘Maids’ recreation room’, and so on, before beginning to search for the keys to Katherine’s Fraser Nash six-cylinder BMW, with its fold-back blue roof.
‘Can I help you, Miss Caro?’
Smith had appeared from nowhere, as he always seemed to when Caro wanted to go for a drive.
‘Oh, yes, Smith, as a matter of fact you can, I’m looking for the keys to Miss Katherine’s car.’
‘You’re not going to drive her, are you, Miss Caro?’
‘As a matter of fact I am, Smith. Miss Katherine has graciously given her permission for me to do so, while she’s sitting to Mr Beresford. Meanwhile I’m off to have lunch with Miss Harding at Brookefield.’
‘I’ll accompany you while you drive, Miss Caro. Rather that than you drive on your own,’ Smith told her, as she wandered on ahead of him.
‘Oh, don’t worry, Smith, I shall drive quite slowly.’
In answer to this Smith himself breathed in and out quite slowly – so slowly and not a little noisily that, as Caro took the keys for the Fraser Nash, she was compelled to turn to look at him.
‘As I remember it, we did end up in the ditch the last time we went to lunch with Miss Robyn, did we not, Miss Caro? And that was with me in the motor beside you.’
‘Did we, Smith?’ Caro was careful to assume her most innocent expression. ‘Goodness, so we did. You were very good; you said nothing to my sister. I was grateful. But the car survived all right, didn’t she? I mean, no dints or anything?’
‘No dints, no, Miss Caro, but you, if you remember, were somewhat the worse for wear afterwards.’
‘A few bumps and bruises, nothing to write home to Mother about, Smith. Anyway, serve me right for driving too close to the ditch. I’ll be more careful this time. Promise.’
She put out a small gloved hand for the keys, and Smith, with every show of reluctance, but having given yet another heavy sigh, this time accompanied by eyes raised to heaven, reluctantly placed them in her outstretched hand.
‘Try not to drive so fast, Miss Caro.’
‘Of course I will try, but it is difficult, Smith. It is more Blue Angel’s fault than mine. You know how it is: one puts one’s foot down and you can almost hear her shouting, “Hurray for the open road.” She is such a beautiful car. But I promise I will be careful of her. Anyway, you can comfort yourself that Brookefield is only a few miles away.’
Smith watched her walk off towards the garages. Miss Caro might seem to be quite the young lady now, but, since he had known her all her life, the chauffeur knew different. Very well, nowadays she was dressed in silk and tweed, but at heart she was still a tomboy, liking nothing better than to get into a scrape. And as for her driving – well, it chilled him to the marrow to think of what might happen if she met another car. Happily the distance between Chevrons and Brookefield House, as she had just stated, was only a matter of a few miles.
The distance between the two houses might be only a matter of a few miles, but if a measurement could also have been made of the distance between the lifestyles of the two houses, it might have stretched to a hundred, or
even a thousand miles, such was the change in atmosphere once you entered Brookefield.
Robyn, tall, thin, and always accompanied by two small Cairn terriers, was already standing on the steps of the house, when Caro drove up with what she was now sure was practised élan, finally stopping at the bottom of the flight of steps that led to the front door.
‘Well done, well driven! Gosh, she is a beauty, though, isn’t she?’
Caro stepped out of the Fraser Nash. ‘Hello, Robyn. Yes, she is. Just wish she was mine.’
The two girls kissed cheeks, and Robyn smiled appreciatively as Caro bent down to pat the terriers.
‘Greetings Freddie, greetings Danny.’
Robyn found herself watching Caro with a detached eye, as if she was a camera photographing her friend. The world seemed yards warmer whenever Caro was about, probably because she was always so anxious for everyone else to enjoy themselves. Certainly it seemed to Robyn that Caro’s underlying anxiety, her questing spirit, must actually fuel her enthusiasm for life.
‘How’s the Bentley?’
Robyn smiled. That was another thing about Caro, she always did ask all the right questions, and straight away.
‘Very fast.’
They walked into the house.
‘How’s your father?’
‘Quite the opposite.’
‘How’s your aunt?’
‘Also quite the opposite.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, quite. “Oh” is about the only reply possible in the circumstances.’
They both laughed affectionately. Aunt Cicely had always been a law unto herself, and herself alone.
Caro followed Robyn across the freezing cold hall. Although it was early summer outside, no matter what the weather it was always deep winter at Brookefield, due entirely to Mr Harding’s refusal to entertain any form of heating other than the tiny and very desultory log fires that were permitted to be lit in the drawing room and his study, and then only really when it was snowing outside. Whatever the weather around the rest of the county Caro never expected life at Brookefield to be any different, which was why this morning she had taken care to wear a silk blouse and wool suit, and not a cotton frock.
Goodnight Sweetheart Page 5