by Gloria Cook
She stole a little closer to him, then closer still. She heard him talking. In a rusty voice, he was talking to the deceased. Louisa caught a few words. ‘Ursula… regret… the only… had to come…’ Louisa sensed the overwhelming sadness in the man and felt sorry for him, wanting to offer him a few consoling words, but that would be inappropriate. She must go before she unforgiveably disturbed him.
To her dismay, the man looked up and saw her. It was obvious she was watching him. She couldn’t make a hasty retreat: she would seem like a callous nosy parker riding off on a moral high horse. Flushing in shame, she went forward. ‘I’m so sorry. Forgive me. I was bringing the blossom for my late uncle, and I, um…’
‘Was curious about me?’ he finished for her. He straightened up as much as he was able. A gentleman acknowledging the presence of a lady. Louisa revised her impression of his age. He was several years younger; illness and lack of nutrition had taken their toll of what must have once been finely honed fair looks. His blue eyes were pale and watery, yet compelling and expressive. He crumpled back over, coughing and breathing huskily. He banged a fist to his thin chest. He was shaking, growing ever more pale. ‘My apologies, Miss, Mrs…?’
‘Mrs Carlyon. Please don’t think me impertinent. May I fetch you a drink of water? There’s always some left in the church. Perhaps you’d like to sit a moment on one of the pews.’
With an effort that cost him another fit of coughing, he turned back to the grave. ‘I can’t leave her yet. It’s been years and years, you see. And I may not be able to come again.’
He could only be one person. ‘You were Mrs Harvey’s… gentleman friend?’
‘Her lover, yes. Bruce Ashley. I won’t deny it. I was a cad, a good-for-nothing. I denied Ursula and she paid for it with her life. I abandoned her while she was giving birth to my child. It’s down there with her. No mention of it on the headstone. It’s as if it never existed. Excuse me speaking so frankly, but there’s nothing to be gained now by false sensitivity, and you seem a sympathetic young lady. I don’t even know if my child was born dead or died shortly afterwards. Or if it was a boy or a girl. Or how long Ursula lasted. As you can see, my own health is, to say the least, not so good. I have to know. Do you understand, Mrs Carlyon?’
‘I do, Mr Ashley. Please allow me to make another suggestion. There’s a high grass verge just over there. I happen to know something about Mrs Harvey and your child. If you would like to sit there, where you will be able to see her resting place, I’d be happy to inform you of what you want to know.’
‘Why should you do that for me?’ He displayed incredulity. ‘Apart from my dubious reputation, I’m a stranger to you.’
‘There’s a war on, Mr Harvey. There’s suffering enough. You’ve come to make your peace. There’s not a better thing anyone can do.’
‘I will be in your debt. But please, do lay your flowers and join me in a little while.’ He dropped his head and Louisa fancied he had executed an old-fashioned bow. He shuffled off in the direction of the verge. She knew he was trying to retain his dignity, but she couldn’t help glancing back to make sure he was making a safe passage. He was moving awkwardly, bit by bit. She took her time arranging the apple blossom on her uncle’s grave and filling the flower pot with water, unaware that the dead young man had been present in the house when Bruce Ashley’s child had been born, and that she was, in fact, the supposed dead baby.
When she joined Bruce Ashley he was sitting with both hands on his stick and his head bowed as if in prayer. ‘Mr Ashley.’
‘Oh, Mrs Carlyon. You came. I wondered if you’d think better of it. It’s all rather unsavoury for a fine person such as yourself.’
Louisa sat down beside him. ‘Mr Ashley, are you ready to hear the information?’
Never had she seen such an expression of longing, which he aimed at the grave. ‘Yes. Please do go on. Tell me what I’ve wanted to know these past twenty-five years.’
‘Your child was a girl. She was stillborn. Mrs Harvey haemorrhaged. There was nothing that could be done to save her. I know these facts because I am friends with the Harvey family of Hennaford.’
‘A girl. I had a daughter.’ He stared into space, as if making up images. ‘I’m sure I would have loved her if she’d lived and I’d stayed around. But I wouldn’t have made much of a father. Too irresponsible, too selfish. Perhaps it’s better that she… Tell me, was it in Ford House, down the hill from the farm, where I last saw Ursula, that she died?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘So Tristan Harvey never had her moved when she went into labour. The Harveys must hate me, especially the boy, Jonny. I deprived him of his mother and his half-sister. So you’re friends with the family, Mrs Carlyon? I’m curious to know how Jonny turned out, if you’d be so good…’
Louisa always smiled when she talked about Jonny. ‘He’s intelligent, fun and free-spirited. He was already making a career in the RAF before the war started.’ She related the rest about her friend.
‘Well, I’m very pleased to hear it. I hope he continues to make it through.’ Bruce Ashley lifted his jacket cuff as if to consult a wristwatch.
Louisa saw that the cuff was frayed and there was nothing to tell the time by. Once, his clothes, of the highest quality, had been smart. He must have fallen on hard times. By the fresh smell of him, the neatness of his hair, his close shave in an age when shortages required men to sharpen razor blades on glass, he was a man who cared about his appearance. She wondered how he had got here. There was no vehicle parked outside the churchyard. There was another approach, by many steps that led down to the road that wound to Idless. He appeared too frail to have mounted them. ‘Do you have to go, Mr Ashley?’
‘Shortly. I don’t want to. I want to stay close to her. But…’ he gave a thin, apologetic smile and indicated his woefully thin chest, ‘I’m not quite up to it. Had a touch of pleurisy and pneumonia recently.’
‘I’ll leave you in peace. Goodbye, Mr Ashley.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Carlyon. Thank you for being so kind. I really don’t deserve it.’
Louisa left but lingered on the path where she had a clear view of him. She owed him no more consideration but she couldn’t bring herself to carry on her way and forget all about him. Where was he staying? Was he expecting a taxicab to come for him? She had to make sure he went safely on his way.
Moments later, awkwardly using his walking stick and the verge as levers, Bruce Ashley got to his feet. He coughed and fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, returning the handkerchief back to his breast pocket with a shaky hand. His balance was precarious. Louisa caught her breath, afraid he’d fall over. He took a step, wobbled, threw out a desperate steadying hand and tumbled to the ground. He broke into a fit of coughing, a horrible hacking sound.
Louisa cried out and rushed to him. He was floundering, trying to get up. ‘Mr Ashley! Please stay still. Let me help you.’ She crouched down beside him. His coughing persisted and now he was gasping and choking, and sweating in streams. He kept his head lowered to his chest but what she could see of his face was a ghastly red and purple. He could hardly breathe. She patted his back, then pounded, careful not to hurt him, wrapping her arms around him in a manner to give him the best support and take his weight. ‘Try to take a deep breath through your nose.’
The coughing, the pounding, her encouragements seemed to go on and on. Finally, he managed to snatch a longish breath, then after a few more fearsome seconds another one. Gradually, painfully slowly, his coughing eased. Louisa rubbed his back with the heel of her hand. ‘That’s right. Just keep breathing. Concentrate only on your breathing.’ She reached round and pulled out his handkerchief, put it into his hand then lifted it up to his face.
His fingers trembling inside her firm grip, he dried his streaming eyes and mopped his chin and brow. ‘Th… thanks,’ he rasped feebly.
‘There’s no need to say thank you. Just stay calm. I’ll get help.’ She looked all around, hoping to see som
eone, but they were alone with the dead. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t leave you.’
They stayed as they were for some time. Louisa was thankful that he was able to be calm. They were facing Ursula Harvey’s grave, nine graves away, and with his head resting against her shoulder, he gazed at the bleak headstone. Louisa angled her head to peer around monuments and yew trees, and through the wild flowers and grasses, but no one came. It was still and silent. Even the rooks up in the dark trees neither stirred nor cawked.
His breathing was noisy but reasonably stable. She said, ‘Mr Ashley, do you think you’ll be able to stand now? I’ll help you.’
‘I think so. If I can get on to one knee…’
With a struggle that made him sweat again and cough and sniff and gulp, with Louisa plying every ounce of her physical strength, while remaining gentle and thoughtful, Bruce Ashley was righted. The stick in his hand shook. Louisa placed his free arm round her shoulders and put her arm firmly round his waist. ‘We’ll take one step at a time. When you need to rest you can lean on the tombs and the banks and then sit on one of the granite rests under the old schoolroom. I live not far along the road. I’ll get you there and make you some tea. You can freshen up. Then, when you’re ready, I’ll phone for a cab to take you to your hotel.’
He said nothing, but with his eyes moist he gave a weak smile that spoke of gratitude.
They crept along and halted often. When finally they got to the lychgate, he pointed back with his stick to the holy well. ‘I dropped my things beside it… if you’d be so kind.’ She assumed he’d put something there to save the effort of carrying it. She found a small, scruffy suitcase. He must have come straight here from the railway station.
Clearly embarrassed, he was trying to hold himself upright. ‘Perhaps you can recommend somewhere of reasonable price where I might find a room, Mrs Carlyon.’
‘Let me get you settled into a comfortable chair, Mr Ashley, and then I’ll make some enquiries for you.’
‘I owe you a great debt of gratitude.’ He flashed a smile. It was only there for an instant and she saw something of his former charm, the beguiling charm that had led Ursula Harvey to her tragic fate, and no doubt other unfortunate women, rich women, to heartbreak. Louisa felt a qualm of disquiet, but as Bruce Ashley’s frailty threatened to overwhelm him again she saw only a broken man. He was very ill, he had come to visit the grave of the only woman he had ever loved. There could only be one reason for it. She felt distressed and it showed in her face.
He sighed, as if with the greatest regret. ‘I’m practised at reading the thoughts of ladies, Mrs Carlyon. You’re absolutely right. I am dying. I had to come to Ursula, to say how sorry I was. To tell her that I’d never forgotten her and how much I’ve always loved her. I’ve led a wasted life. All I want now is to join her. I’m sorry. I have no right to unburden myself on you. If you want to change your mind about your offer of hospitality, I’ll understand.’
‘The offer was genuine, Mr Ashley. Thank you for being so frank.’
She carried the suitcase. He had gained enough strength to enable him the dignity of walking to the house with her giving him no more than a supporting arm.
Chapter Twelve
Emilia was in the nursery, enjoying the delight of pulling off the dust covers of the cradle, the cot, the nursing chair, the rocking horse. It would be marvellous to soon be able to use these things again. Perry, the dear, wonderful man, didn’t mind at all that these items had seen generations of Harveys. ‘There’s a war on, darling. New things aren’t important, only our love for our baby is.’ It was easy to love a man who was never jealous, never critical.
She was hit by a tight foreboding, followed immediately by a strange, terrible bareness which engulfed her whole being. Will! She was compelled to rush along to the end of the corridor to Will’s room. Her nerves on edge, she groped for the door handle and went into the room where her firstborn child had slept a few weeks ago. Was it only weeks since she had last seen Will, had him at home? Looking after him. Doing all the motherly things, seeing to his laundry, brushing down the tunic that sat so proudly on his broad shoulders, making sure his favourite plum pudding was served at Sunday lunch. Playing chess with him; Will was unbeatable. Listening with satisfaction and pride at his enthusiasm to start up a photographic career. She was delighted he had inherited his father’s love for the camera. She had a new album of photographs of the family which he had taken and developed in the darkroom built by his father.
‘You’d be so proud of him, Alec,’ she whispered through the quietness. Her words emerged as a strangled choke.
The curtains were kept drawn so the room was never forgotten in the nightly blackout. She could just make out the things in the room. The shelves and shelves of books; Will devoured information on all topics. The balsa wood and matchstick models of planes, ships, tractors and a gypsy caravan he’d made in boyhood. The precious rugby ball he’d been allowed to keep after leading his college team to its umpteenth victory. There, on his pillow, was the golden-brown teddy bear, somewhat reduced in fur and fatness, which he swore he kept not for sentimental reasons but to please her, his mother.
From somewhere up high came the distant grumbling of a solitary plane. It could be Will up there in the cold sky. Hopefully, he was safely at base. He had mentioned that he wasn’t very far away and she had taken this to mean he was stationed in the county. She prayed he was safe. But she had this dread that he was not. She knew somehow, in the tiniest deepest place within her, as his mother, she knew he was not.
Unable to control her shivers, on feet she could barely bring to move, she went to the window. She had stood here before, during the last war, which had been fought at colossal cost and suffering to prevent another war on this horrendous scale ever happening again. The room had belonged to Henry Harvey then, the second son of the household. She had been a seventeen-year-old dairymaid, running the house entirely on her own, seeing to all the yard work, and responsible for the care of Alec Harvey’s senile grandmother, the first Lottie Harvey. At Alec’s request she had moved into the house after the old lady had wandered off outside and fallen in the dark. The incident had led to Ben’s blindness; in her panic, Lottie Harvey had thrust a handful of stones into his face. Ben had been her sweetheart. How different things were now.
Now, here she was again, praying and pleading, not as before for the safe return of Henry Harvey and her brother Billy – neither had survived the fighting on the Western Front – but for her son. Back then, Alec had joined her. Today, it was Perry.
Perry was a persistent guardian over Emilia. She had slept poorly since Will had gained his wings. She had hardly slept at all since the bitter confrontation with Ben. ‘It’s not so much because Alec went with Brooke, that her son is Alec’s that’s shaken me so,’ she’d said, immediately on her return. ‘After all, I fell in love with you and I was unfaithful to Alec. It’s Ben’s hatred that chills me. He’s turned into a monster.’
Next day, he’d pointed out, ‘Try to put it out of your mind, darling. He can’t hurt you at the moment while he’s away.’
‘I’m concerned about Faye. He’s hurt her so much, he could really bring her down.’
‘She’s gone away too. She might decide to stay on with her friend in the Highlands. It will be sad not to see her again but at least she wouldn’t come under Ben’s influence, have the youth frozen out of her. Ben might not come back. I hope to God he doesn’t! I hope he stays wherever he’s so mysteriously gone to. Life would be good with Tris running Tremore permanently. It’s certainly been good for Tris.’
He and Emilia had another worry. Lottie’s friendship with Nate Harmon. Although she saw little of him, and he didn’t seem a forward young man, there was obviously something deep between them. Emilia, wise in her ways, had decided not to issue Lottie with any advice, saying that anything Lottie considered as a warning might drive her into Harmon’s arms, and adding hopefully, ‘It might not come to anything anyway.’
/> Perry found it hard not to pester Emilia with his troubles over the friendship. He might not be Lottie’s father but he loved her as though he was, his love made strong and abiding when, during the same year, Lottie had lost her father and his own daughter had been drowned in the sea at Watergate Bay. His first fear was that Lottie, usually so down to earth, would be dazzled by the smart medical NCO. Although Harmon came across as a pleasant chap, although he had prospects in the vast acreage he now owned, had everything, it seemed, a caring stepfather could desire for his stepdaughter, Perry couldn’t bear the thought that if Lottie became a GI bride he could lose her to Harmon’s homeland. Also, in the not too distant future, when Harmon was inevitably pitched into battle on European soil, his possible death could mean heartbreak for Lottie.
At Will’s bedroom window, Perry said, ‘Darling…’ Only that. He didn’t offer useless platitudes. He couldn’t promise her that Will would be all right.
It was a comfort to Emilia to have him with her. He wrapped his arms around her and she leaned against his strength and protection. The baby she was to bear moved inside her. It was a reassurance that it was alive and growing. But the fear, the wretched emptiness she felt for its eldest brother grew and grew into an ever greater void.
* * *
Jill hesitated outside the main bedroom of the farmhouse. She had only seen over the whole of the Victorian wing once before, when Lottie had shown her around, the surroundings luxurious to her. It was a hard thing to come here at this moment but it was the right thing to do. Will would have wanted her to. She had a duty to perform, a promise to keep to him. It was awful to have to disturb Mrs Em, who at her own request was spending some time alone, but poor, dear Mrs Em would undoubtedly feel a little better when she saw what she was bringing to her. Jill breathed in a long steadying breath and knocked on the door.