Someone — probably Jones — had set a chair, blanket and cushions under her favourite apple tree that morning. There was still no blossom to fall in soft pink and white rain about her shoulders, nor the song of bees, but at least it wasn’t snowing, nor was there a chill wind. She could imagine them, there in the soft sunlight, in a few months’ time.
She sat, tired from both emotion and pregnancy and the watchfulness she still kept on her new husband’s health. It felt strange to rest. Stranger still to want to rest, to focus on this new life growing within her. Of all that she felt this, perhaps, was the most profound:
War took life. Women created it.
I will not let war’s insanity take my child, thought Sophie. Then smiled, at herself, and the instinctive tigress nature of a woman, at the knowledge that when war came again — if war came again and this child she held were required for war service — then she would be helpless, as uncounted mothers had always been.
And fathers. This child was Nigel’s, in law as well as love. And yet . . .
A snowflake fell, slowly dancing in the breeze, till it rested, finally, in her lap. So much for a clear, fine day. She touched it gently. Perfect, as if sculpted. It somehow clarified confusion. She looked up and saw a single puff of snow cloud in the pale blue.
She stood, and made her way to the library; she sat, and gave the operator a phone number. The call was returned surprisingly swiftly. She picked up the receiver. ‘Shillings.’
‘I have the number for you, Lady Nigel.’
‘Thank you. Is that you, James?’
‘Sophie, are you all right?’
‘Happy and healthy and becoming the size of the Albert Memorial. I’m breeding,’ she added laconically.
‘Congratulations! And Nigel? He must be tickled pink.’
‘Recovering well. He and Jones have gone to inspect the new haymaker at the Home Farm. I think the Claude Vailes are going to be discommoded for many years, even if my child turns out to be a girl. James, may I ask a favour. A . . . discreet one.’
A pause. The line crackled. At last he said, ‘If I can.’
‘I need to know the name of an Australian captain who served in either France or Belgium. All I know is that he was one of a pair of identical twins. His twin’s Christian name was John, and he was killed. His brother survived.’
A laugh from the other end of the line. ‘You do know that John is the most popular male name in the English-speaking world?’
‘Yes.’
‘What other information do you have?’
‘He has been in Australia for at least the last five years. No scars or distinguishing features. Brown hair.’ She tried to think. ‘Good teeth. Well educated, I think. James, I know this may be impossible —’
‘Actually, it is easier than you think. The names of those who enlisted will be in alphabetical order. My assistant merely needs to find two identical Australian surnames, and then check whether they have the same birthdate. I will call you back.’
‘It will really be as simple as that?’
‘I think so.’ Another pause. ‘I am glad you are happy, Sophie.’
‘And you?’
‘Busy. The world keeps hiccupping instead of turning smoothly. But women in your condition should not be bothered by venality and stupidity.’
‘As bad as that? I’m sorry, James.’ But he was right. She already felt a Jersey cow’s calmness. Was this why for so long women had been presumed to have no interest in politics? Because they were usually pregnant and preoccupied with life and death, not transitory chatter? ‘Thank you, James.’
‘I will call as soon as I have your information.’
Of course he would. She said softly, ‘Be happy.’
‘You know,’ he said, sounding surprised, ‘I think I am.’
‘You enjoy quietly re-sculpting the world, James. You always have. Only boredom would trouble you.’
‘You are right, of course. Goodbye, Sophie.’
‘Goodbye, James.’
She let the receiver rest in the holder and sat, trying to make sense of too many emotions and so remove them from the forefront of her mind before her husband could read them in her face.
Sophie, Maria, Nigel and Jones still dined in the library each night, instead of in the dining room, where the chairs were too hard and straight. Whatever arrangement Jones currently had with Green — Sophie was fairly sure there was one — was kept discreet, Green presiding with Mrs Goodenough and Hereward at the servants’ table, not upstairs with them.
Nigel was pale after the day’s outing, his feet up on a stool, dining from a tray while Sophie and Jones ate at the small table drawn up by the fire. Apple wood . . . Sophie longed suddenly for the scent of gum trees, a billy boiling on the flames. She resolutely did not think of a brown face across the fire.
She glanced at Nigel, spooning his chicken soup, served every night as it was considered an excellent restorative for invalids, and pregnant women too. She had not told him of her query. Nor did she intend to. It was the first secret she had ever kept from him. There were things he did not know about her, of course, but this was the first where she had made the decision he would not know.
Unless, one day, he asked. Until then, there would be no reference to any other possible father of this child she carried.
The baby gave a sharp kick, as if it heard.
‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Jones.
‘Your Godchild just kicked me.’
‘My Godchild?’ asked Jones carefully.
‘Of course,’ said Nigel. ‘Who else? Speak to your Godson sternly, please, and tell him not to kick his mother.’
‘Behave yourself,’ said Jones, grinning at what Sophie had named the Bump.
They think you are a boy, thought Sophie. What if you are not? They will still love you, but every time they look at you they will think, If only she had been a son. And you will know it, consciously or not. She met Maria’s eyes, and knew she was thinking the same thing.
Sophie smiled and laid her hand on the Bump once more. And I will expect you to run a corned-beef empire, she told the baby silently, and I’ll have hysterics when you sail to Paris at twenty-one to become an artist.
Hereward cleared the soup plates away, brought in snipe on toast for Sophie and Jones and beef jelly for Nigel. He would have mashed potato with an egg, after that, and then stewed apple. He ate soft foods with enjoyment now, preferring them to roasts that must be finely chopped or chewed till they were soft and had lost their taste, and had very little pain.
She had ordered a lamington roll for pudding, to be served with ice cream, in memory of home. Nigel could eat that too.
Home, she thought. Australia is still home. But tonight there was an apple-wood fire, Nigel, Maria, Jones and lamington cake, and a few sharp kicks from the Bump, as if to say, ‘Do not expect me to be any more biddable than my ancestors.’ And she was content.
Chapter 62
I have never found life simple, though I have longed that it might be. Would I find it boring? I do not know.
Miss Lily, 1912
James’s phone call came tactfully at three pm, when invalid husbands might be expected to be napping and Maria had left to arrange flowers in the church with the Ladies’ Guild. Maria planned to stay until Sophie had fully recovered from the baby’s birth, but Sophie could see with amusement that inactivity had begun to bore her. Maria Thwaites too, it seemed, had always wanted to run a corned-beef empire, and now missed doing so.
Sophie shut the library door before she picked up the receiver. ‘James?’
‘I have found your information. Or rather, not found it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Two hundred and fifty-seven sets of Australian twins enlisted. Of these, sixty-three sets of twins were both killed — a high number, but not when you understand that in most cases they served together. Only five pairs of twins had one killed, and one survive. None were called John. Of the five survivor
s, one is in an asylum in England and has been since 1917; one had both hands amputated in ’16 — you did not mention such an injury; one married a French widow and runs her farm; one is headmaster of a school in Western Australia, and has worked there since his return from France. The last is on a disability pension.’
Which might just possibly be him, even if the name John had been meant to mislead . . .
‘What is his name?’
‘Joseph Angelsleigh. He and his brother enlisted in 1918, but had the bad luck to run into a nasty cloud of mustard gas. Joseph survived, but his face and hands are too scarred for him to undertake normal work; hence the disability pension.’
She kept her voice steady. ‘An Englishman then? Or a New Zealander?’
‘I had those checked too. I also checked triplets — four sets of triplets enlisted. There are no survivors who fit with the description you gave me. Sophie, may I ask why you want to know?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, so that’s the reason,’ he said.
Trust James to understand exactly. But she could also trust him never to mention it. Except to her. Perhaps if he wished to ask another favour sometime, like dropping into another German revolution. Which she was never going to do again.
‘Sophie, I’ve heard that sometimes men believe they are not the person who went to war. Possibly the person you are looking for fits this category.’
‘You mean they feel “What happened then was not possible, so it couldn’t have happened to me?” That makes sense. Sometimes I feel like that too.’
‘Maybe this man does as well, and he feels it so strongly his mind has broken down.’
Which meant that she had taken advantage of a man so broken in mind that he had been easy prey — and a reason not to add to the burden of responsibility that he carried. Ten thousand lives, all on his shoulders. A man mentally damaged by war must not carry a new unwanted life, as well, she thought, with deep relief.
And yet if he was not damaged, surely she must tell him about the child. Or he would hear, perhaps, that the Countess of Vaile, who had been Sophie Higgs of Thuringa, had a child nine months after they had been together. Someone must know his real name; Harry, for starters. Once she knew that, she might find out where he might be . . . But Harry was uncontactable except by mail, and it was impossible to commit this to paper.
She managed to speak, at last. ‘Thank you, James. I am more grateful than I can say. If . . . if you can think of any other way of locating an Australian captain who now calls himself “John”, could you let me know?’
‘I will endeavour to do so, but, truthfully, do not see much hope of success. It is so very easy for a man to be someone else these days, for any number of reasons, and a surprising number are. I would say give my best wishes to Nigel, but suspect he does not know of this enquiry.’
‘No. Thank you for that too, James.’
‘I am yours, always,’ he said dryly.
‘You should get married,’ she said, the comment made before she had realised that it had slipped out.
He laughed. ‘This is where I should say — there have only ever been two women I could marry, my dear late wife and Sophie Higgs. Truthfully, indeed, there have only been two women I have liked and respected, and known that if we were married I could lead whatever life I needed to, and they would carry on and lead theirs.’
His first wife had taken ill when he was in South Africa and died some years later, she remembered.
‘I do love you, Sophie. But my aunt and I do very well.’
If she had been a man, she assumed he might have added, ‘And I find companionship quite nicely elsewhere.’ But she was a respectable married woman now. And an aristocrat, which transcended even womanhood. ‘Take care, James,’ she said instead. ‘Enjoy overworking and keeping us all safe.’
‘You overestimate my abilities,’ he said ruefully. ‘Look after your heir, Sophie.’ And hung up.
For a moment she thought he meant hair. So James too assumed her child must be a boy, because so much depended on just that happening.
She rested her hands on her belly. ‘I wish there was a third sex so you could surprise them all,’ she whispered to the Bump. ‘But you’d be awfully lonely. And I promise . . . if you are a girl I will never, ever let you feel second rate, or patronised by English aristocrats or Freudians or schoolteachers or Oxford dons. You will be you, and male or female will not matter.’
And maybe, she thought, you will help me make a world where that is so.
Chapter 63
Love and the acts that make the world a better place are life’s deepest pleasures. It is the times when one can do neither that are hardest to bear.
Miss Lily, 1914
It felt both odd and right to have Maria at Shillings.
She and Nigel became friends almost at once. Maria Thwaites might even have become a ‘lovely lady’ if she had met Miss Lily before the war, Sophie thought, watching them chatter across the dining table, opposite her and Jones.
But Miss Lily’s passion for giving women power in a world where it was held by men seemed to have vanished with the war, just as Miss Lily herself no longer appeared. Perhaps Nigel/Miss Lily believed women would forge paths in their own rights now, as indeed they were already doing . . .
‘But progress is so slow!’ declared Maria. ‘We had such dreams, back in the 1890s. We truly thought women would vote for education, women’s hospitals, even to disband armies. And yet it seems almost all women simply follow their husband’s lead at the ballot box.’
‘We have Lady Astor,’ murmured Nigel, relishing his potage Crécy, a change at last from chicken soup. ‘And you have had some success in Australia.’
‘One woman only. Though Sophie did make a true difference in the last election. Perhaps I am too impatient. As a student of history I should know that social progress happens slowly. Only war or earthquakes are quick.’
‘The last one did not seem particularly fast,’ said Jones, sitting back as Hereward took his plate.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean —’
‘No, I spoke facetiously.’
Sophie smiled. Jones the butler would never have used the word facetiously, although he undoubtedly had known it.
‘War is a series of things that happen too fast to evaluate them,’ Jones went on. ‘Which is why, perhaps, they are so ineptly fought. We’d have lost the war within months if the Germans hadn’t been as inept as we were.’
‘And if the British Empire hadn’t had the backing of the female fifty per cent of the population whose abilities had been crabbed, cramped and confined,’ added Sophie.
‘Hamlet,’ said Maria dreamily. ‘Sophie, would you care to go up to London to the theatre for a few days? If you don’t mind, Lord Nigel.’
‘Of course I don’t mind.’
‘I’m sure Sloggers or Ethel would love to join you. I’d rather stay here,’ said Sophie. Which was true. She needed to be near Nigel, to be able to check every hour at least that he was still living, his warmth still available to hug and be hugged.
She was also, she realised, scared to leave. Shillings had always been a place of refuge, for her as well as for Miss Lily, cut off from the currents of the world. Even the war that had taken its sons, and two of its daughters, had not impinged its violence directly on its fields and cottages. The men who had come back shattered in body or mind had found a strange peace here too, settling not into just the ancient rhythms of the land but the new challenges of tractors and mechanical harvesters and ditching machines.
Nigel has given them a future, as well as a present and a past, she thought, as Hereward brought in the stuffed pike, a hideous fish caught by the vicar and presented with pride and which, like any gift of love, must be accepted. And surely sauce soubise could make even pike delicious. Sophie tasted it. Or, at least, good as long as one focused more on the sauce than the fish.
Hereward removed the fish plates; he placed a roast saddle of mutton before Nigel to
carve and the dishes of vegetables in front of her. Dinner at Shillings had always been served by the butler before, with portions offered to each diner, not en famille where the host carved and the hostess distributed crisp potatoes, parsnips in butter and brown sugar, Brussel sprouts done to a crispness without even a hint of sulphurous overboiling, the gravy boats and mint sauce passed along the table for each to serve themselves. But Shillings had a family now, and would have as long as Nigel lived. For this to continue — the security of tenants, the care of land, the eye of the manorial lord who made sure a short-sighted child was given glasses, and a bright one encouraged to serve an apprenticeship or even study at university — the baby within her must be born.
She did not dare do anything, even as mild as travelling to London, that might jolt the life inside her. Shillings needed a son . . .
And if it got a daughter?
She would consider that when the time came.
Chapter 64
Did you know that every family that knits Fair Isle jumpers has its own unique pattern? I have sometimes wondered whether every now and then a child rebels and says, ‘But I want to make my own.’ Are they regarded as disloyal? Do their neighbours whisper and say, ‘She doesn’t think her grandmother’s pattern is good enough for her!’ or do they praise her and say, ‘A new happy complexity of wool has been added to the world.’
Miss Lily, 1914
She had not been put upon this earth to knit. To bear a child, incredibly, yes. But booties and matinée jackets? Others could knit those. And they were. Maria Thwaites had knitted her way across the Atlantic. Green knitted rompers and combinations that she promised had no war codes twisted into them whatsoever.
Instead most mornings Sophie visited the farms, or cottages, with Maria or Nigel or Jones, and sometimes with all three, asked after the health of pigs, the egg-laying capacity of hens, enquired whether the last calf was a bull or heifer, as much for the physical and social exercise as to let those on the estate know they were still the Shillings community. A few business matters were handled by letter or telegram or telephone, but the Higgs empire, not currently expanding, was comfortably tended by the Slithersoles Senior and Junior, and Cousin Oswald.
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