Time for Silence

by Philippa Carr

  “What do you mean, Marcus?”

  “I am talking about the child. What…Annabelinda told me.”

  I was puzzled.

  “You haven’t realized, Lucinda, you were the one. It was you whom I loved. And when she told me…I could not believe it…and then it seemed obvious. If it had just been myself…well, I was shocked, but I would have got over that. I loved you. You were different from any girl I had met. I knew that we would have been good together…but for that. They could have found out…my parents, I mean. They would have cut me off. I know how their minds work. They would have considered you a loose woman. You have no idea how rigorous their ideals are! They had been harassing me for a long time. I should have married. The all-important duty was to produce more Merrivales for the family. I know it is hard to understand, but they are quite feudal…medieval in their ideas. We have been brought up to believe that the family comes first.”

  “Marcus, why are you telling me all this now?”

  “Because I want us to wipe out the past I want us to start afresh from now on…from this first night of peace. I want us to start and build up from there.”

  “Oh, no, Marcus.”

  “Listen to me. I have been foolish. I should have known. It was the scandal I was afraid of…if it became known. We should live in fear of it. Scandals have a habit of coming to light at awkward moments…I just could not face it. And all the time…the child was hers. She is dead now. Poor Annabelinda! She knew that it was you I cared for…and she cared so much for me that she lied to me…she could slander her best friend. But it is over now. We have to forget. We have to go on from here.”

  “What are you saying, Marcus?”

  “Annabelinda knew I was about to ask you to marry me and…she told me that when you were at school you had a love affair, that the result was Edward. She said you had had the child put out with foster-parents, and when they had been killed your conscience smote you so deeply that you had the idea of bringing the child home to your parents. It was a way of keeping him with you.”

  “Annabelinda told you that!”

  “I know now that the child was hers. It all came out when she was killed…when the German spies tried to snare her into working for them. I see it all clearly now, Lucinda. But we’ve got to forget poor Annabelinda. What a terrible price she paid! We have to build up from there. We’ll let a reasonable time elapse and then…”

  “I think I ought to tell you this, Marcus. I am engaged to marry Robert Denver.”

  “Oh, but you decided to marry him because I was married to Annabelinda. He’ll understand.”

  “It is you who have to understand, Marcus.”

  “I do understand how you feel. I should never have done what I did. I should have realized…”

  “You realized that it would never have done for you to marry a girl who had committed a social misdemeanor…if that is what your family calls it. And having committed the further error of acquiring a child in the process, she had put herself quite beyond acceptance. You acted in accordance with the rules. You did the only thing possible for you. It was unfortunate that in trying to avoid the inconvenience, you stepped right into it.”

  “You are understandably bitter.”

  “No, I do not think I am. I think it has all worked out for the best.”

  “I love you, Lucinda. I want to start afresh.”

  “Life rarely gives us that opportunity. Who would not like to start again when things have gone wrong? And you did not love me deeply, Marcus. It was probably as well. It suits you to be as you are. You will marry. Your family will wish you to remember your duty. You will find a charming wife who will be all that they desire; you will have model children who will be a credit to you and your family. But love? You have never loved deeply, Marcus, and it is better that you should not. You were fond of me. I was quite suitable and you would have asked me to marry you. But that misdemeanor—as you thought—stood in the way. If you had truly loved me, you would not have allowed it to. You were fond of Janet, but there was no question of marriage there. You are fond of the children you had together, but you cannot acknowledge them openly. You see what I mean? You will have a happy life, I am sure of that. People like you. See how they cheered you tonight.”

  “That was the uniform. All over London, soldiers are the heroes tonight. Tomorrow they will be forgotten.”

  “And you looked so gallant. There were special cheers for you. You deserve them. You have fought for your country. But for men like you, there would not be the rejoicing there is tonight. You deserve it, as I say. You deserve a good life. But you don’t deserve the kind of love I want in my life…simply because you could never give it.”

  “Try me, Lucinda.”

  “I have told you, I am already engaged to be married.”

  “It is not too late.”

  “It is not a matter of lateness. It is a matter of what is real to me…of understanding—rather belatedly—what I want in my life and with whom I want to share it.”

  He was finding it hard to accept what I was saying. He had been sure that when he had explained to me the reason why he had not asked me to many him in the first place, I would be ready to give up everything for him.

  Self-confident indeed. But then he had some reason to be.

  I looked across the table at him with great affection. I lifted my glass and said, “All happiness to you, Marcus.”

  “How will that be possible without you?”

  “With a man like you, it is possible.”

  I had made him see what I meant. I was going to marry Robert, and more than anything on earth I wanted him to be safely back with me.

  Marcus was silent for a moment, staring into his glass. I saw that he accepted what I was telling him, though up to that time it had seemed inconceivable that I could have chosen Robert in preference to him.

  I saw the look of resignation steal across his face and I felt relieved.

  People were dancing all around us. They were singing “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” and “There’s a Long, Long Trail A-winding.”

  It was late when we left and walked home through the crowded streets, where people went on celebrating far into the night.

  I saw Marcus a few days later. He called at the house and Mrs. Cherry told me he was in the drawing room waiting to see me.

  When I went down, he came toward me and took both my hands.

  “I have news for you,” he announced. “I thought you should hear it at the earliest possible moment. Captain Robert Denver will be arriving in London tomorrow.”

  Great floods of joy swept over me. I could not help betraying my emotion. All the pent-up fears, the anxieties, the horrible possibilities…the tortured doubts which had filled my mind, were dispersed. He was coming home.

  Marcus had put his arms around me; he held me against him for a few seconds, then he drew back and kissed me, first on one cheek and then on the other.

  He smiled and said, “I thought you would be pleased to hear that.”

  I heard myself say, “Captain Denver,” as though his new rank were important.

  “Well, naturally, promoted in the field. He has been a good soldier.”

  “Oh, Marcus, it was good of you to come and tell me.”

  “I am not sure at what time he will be arriving, but as soon as I am, I will either come myself or send a messenger to tell you.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “All that remains now,” he said rather whimsically, “is for you to live happily ever after.”

  “Oh, Marcus,” I said. “I do wish the same for you.”

  The next day a messenger came from him. He brought a note which just said: 4:30 Victoria.

  I was in a state of great happiness. I wanted to shout to everyone, “Robert is coming home! After all this time he will be here. Safe! All the time I have been worrying, he has been safe.”

  I thought the day would never pass. I would go immediately after lunch.

  In the l
ate morning Jean Pascal Bourdon called.

  “I’ve come to say good-bye,” he said. “I shall be going back to France very soon now. There are just one or two things to clear up.”

  I told him that Robert was coming home.

  “I thought there was something different about you. I can see it shining through. My dear, I wish you all the happiness in the world. There is great rejoicing here. It is in the atmosphere. It will be the same in my country. The war is over. Let us hope that it never happens again. Now all that is left for us is to enjoy the good things which life provides. Lucinda, my dear, you look radiant.”

  “He is coming this afternoon. Four-thirty at Victoria.”

  “And you will be waiting for him. Good luck. He is a fortunate man.”

  “It is I who am the fortunate one.”

  “Then there are two fortunate ones. There is one thing I should like before I go, Lucinda.”

  “Yes?”

  “To see my great-grandson.”

  “But of course. We have a new nursemaid for him now. He is just getting used to her. He still misses Andrée. It never ceases to amaze me that someone involved in such work could at the same time be such a loving nurse to a little boy.”

  “It is just another instance of the complexities of human nature. We can be all things at times. We are not simple…good and bad…black and white. Perhaps there is no such thing as a wholly bad person. That is a theory which appeals to me when I look back over a life which has not been entirely free from sin.”

  “I know that there is a good deal of good in you.”

  “I am not sure of that. But a modicum perhaps. Well, may I see my great-grandson?”

  I took him to the schoolroom, where Edward was occupied at his favorite pastime of the moment: coloring pictures.

  “It’s a dinosaur,” he explained to Jean Pascal, who sat down beside him.

  “A red dinosaur?” said Jean Pascal. “Are there red dinosaurs?”

  “I like red ones,” said Edward, as though that settled the matter.

  “Shall we give him some whiskers?”

  “Dinosaurs don’t have whiskers.”

  “Well, if you can have red ones, why not whiskered ones?”

  Edward considered. “I suppose you could,” he said.

  I watched Jean Pascal studying the child with interest. There was a gleam in his eyes. Jean Pascal had always had a strong family feeling.

  When Jean Pascal rose to go, I could see that Edward was loath to part with his company. Jean Pascal was aware of this and there was no doubt that it pleased him.

  Back in the drawing room, he said, “What a delightful child!”

  “I think so, too.”

  “I can’t help marveling that he is my great-grandchild.”

  “Life is very odd, isn’t it?”

  “You must bring him to visit me. He would be interested in the vineyards.”

  I could see there were plans in his eyes.

  As I considered his suggestion I said, “It all seems so incongruous. Edward is your great-grandchild…his father is a spy involved in the murder of his mother. Will he ever know it?”

  Jean Pascal was silent and I went on. “Should he know the truth? Is it right to keep it back? Hasn’t everyone the right to know who he or she is?”

  Jean Pascal said slowly, “That is a point which can be argued from several angles. Is the truth sacrosanct? Someone once said, ‘Speech is silvern, Silence is golden,’ and someone else said, ‘Where ignorance is bliss, ’Tis folly to be wise.’ ”

  “I know. But what will happen when he is a man and he might want to know? It is certain that he will.”

  Jean Pascal was thoughtful. Then he said, “Edward believes he belongs to you now. Soon he will be asking questions which will have to be answered. What does the world think? Here is a boy whose parents were killed during the bombardment of Mons. You, a young English schoolgirl, who had struck up a friendship with his parents, found him in the garden of the wrecked cottage. You were getting out of France before the German advance and you brought him with you. That is best. His father responsible for the murder of his mother? His mother putting him out with foster-parents, ashamed of his birth? No, no. Let us keep to the more pleasant account. There is often a time for talking, Lucinda, and there is a time for silence. As regards this matter of Edward, it should always be a time for silence.”

  I smiled at him. This man who had experienced most things life had to offer was knowledgeable in the ways of the world, and I believed he was right. This was a time for silence.

  It seemed a long time before the train came in. The platform was crowded with people, for it was a troop train bringing back heroes from the Front.

  A great cheer went up when the train steamed into the station. We surged forth…everyone there, men, women and children, seeking the one person whose return meant so much to them…the end of fear, the new hope in a future no longer tormented by thoughts of war and the fearful desolation of bereavement.

  It was some time before we found each other.

  And there he was. I saw him a second or so before he saw me. He looked older…a little worn…but there was a wonderful light in his eyes.

  Like others on that crowded platform, we flung ourselves into each other’s arms…unashamed of our emotion.

  “Robert!” I cried. I could think of nothing to say but his name.

  “Lucinda, Lucinda,” he said. “I’ve come home….”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Daughters of England series

  Incident in the Forest

  WHEN I LOOK BACK I can see that it all began one morning at breakfast in our home at Caddington Hall when my mother said casually, looking up from the letter which she was reading: “Edward has asked that German boy to stay with them for a holiday in England.”

  “I expect he will bring him over to see us,” replied my father.

  I was always interested in what Edward was doing. I thought he was such a romantic person because of his origins. My mother had been at school in Belgium when the war broke out, and she had had to leave that country in a hurry because of the advancing German armies. Edward’s parents had been killed by a bomb when it fell on their house which was close by the school, and the dying mother had extracted a promise from my mother that she would take the child with her to England; and this had been done.

  Edward was always full of gratitude to my mother—understandably so, for what could he have hoped for from an invading army or fleeing refugees with themselves to care for and who might not have had much time to spare for a helpless baby.

  He lived usually with my maternal grandparents at Marchlands, their estate in Essex, or in the London family home in Westminster. My grandfather had been a Member of Parliament—a tradition in the Greenham family—and now my uncle Charles had taken over the seat.

  Edward was about twenty-two years of age at this time; he was going to be a lawyer, and he was, of course, just like any other member of the family.

  My young brother, Robert, was saying that he expected Edward would pay a return visit to his friend in Germany.

  “I wish I could go,” he said. “It must be wonderful. They have Beer Gardens and they are always fighting duels. They don’t think much of men until they have a scar received in a duel, and it has to be on the face so that everyone can see it.”

  My mother smiled at him indulgently. “I can’t believe that is so, darling,” she said.

  “I know it is because I heard it somewhere.”

  “You shouldn’t believe all you hear,” said my sister Dorabella.

  Robert grimaced and retorted: “And you…you’re such a know-all.”

  “Now,” put in my mother, “don’t let’s quarrel about it. I hope we shall see Edward and this…er…” She looked at the letter. “…Kurt,” she went on. “Kurt Brandt.”

  “It sounds rather German,” commented Robert.

  “What a surprise!” mocked Dorabella.

  It w
as the summer holidays and a typical morning and the family was all together for breakfast.

  I can picture that morning clearly now that I know how important it was.

  My father, Sir Robert Denver, sat at the head of the table. He was a wonderful man and I loved him dearly. He was different from any man I had ever known. There was not a trace of arrogance about him. On the other hand, he was rather self-effacing. My mother used to chide him about it; but she loved him for it all the same. He was gentle, kind, and I think, best of all, utterly to be relied on.

  He had inherited the title on the death of his father not long before. My grandfather and he had been very much alike—entirely lovable—and it had been a great blow to us all when my grandfather died.

  My grandmother Belinda lived with us. We always called her Grandmother Belinda to distinguish her from Grandmother Lucie. She did not come to breakfast but took hers in her room. She was quite different from my grandfather and father. Autocratic in the extreme, she demanded attention and took a mild yet cynical interest in family affairs, while being completely absorbed in herself; but at the same time she managed to be very fascinating. She was beautiful, still with magnificent black hair which had miraculously—or perhaps cleverly—not lost its color, and deep blue eyes which invariably seemed amused and a trifle mischievous. Dorabella and my brother were a little in awe of her; and I know I was.

  So on this occasion there were only Dorabella, my brother, myself, and our parents.

  Dorabella and I were twins and between us there was that special bond which is often there with such people. We were not identical, although there was a close physical resemblance. The differences had been brought about by our characters, because my mother said that when we were babies, it was difficult to tell us apart. But now that we were sixteen—or should be in October—the resemblance had faded.

  Dorabella was more frivolous than I; she was impulsive, whereas I was inclined to pause for thought before I took action. She had an air of fragility, whereas I was sturdy; there was a certain helplessness about her which seemed to be attractive to the opposite sex. Men were always at her side, wanting to carry something for her or look after her in some way, whereas I was left to care for myself.