by Jess Foley
And then all at once her heart lurched as her darting, eager eyes lit on the face of Gentry.
Not expecting to be met by anyone he was making no attempt to look into the crowd, but instead was looking ahead of him.
‘Gentry …’
She cried out his name as she pushed her way through the waiting crowd, but her voice was drowned by the shouts and cheers and the continuing, blaring music of the band. She called out to him again, but still he did not hear. Suddenly there was desperation in her movements to get to his side, and the crowd in her path, hearing her calls and seeing the anxiety in her face, made way for her, and so gradually she was able to find a way through the dense body of waiting people. By the time she came anywhere near the foot of the gangplank, however, Gentry had left it and was striding off across the quay. Blanche hurried after him. Then she saw that he had stopped to say goodbye to one of his comrades. Coming to a halt some feet away she watched as the two men affectionately clasped hands and clapped one another on the shoulder. A moment later the other young man was walking on and Blanche took a breath and called out Gentry’s name again. He himself was just about to move away, but hearing the sound of his name he was held, and he turned.
They stood there looking at one another, Gentry gazing at her with a little frown on his brow, as if he could not believe what he was seeing. He gave a shake of his head. For Blanche the world around them might have ceased; they might have been standing alone, in silence.
Then he spoke.
‘Blanche …’
She watched his mouth form her name. As if in slow motion she saw him swing his bag down from his shoulder and let it fall beside him. Tentatively his arms lifted towards her. A moment later she was running forward, reaching out for him, touching him. Then she was feeling his arms close about her as he held her fast.
Smelling the unfamiliar soldier smell of him, she raised her head to him, and then his hand, rough but tender, lifted and touched at the tears on her cheek. ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry. What are you crying for?’
‘Oh, Gentry, you’re back, you’re safe. You’re back. You’re here. I thought it would never happen.’
‘Yes, I’m here.’ He gave a little laugh, nervous, and kissed her again. They remained there for some moments, holding one another, then he released her, bent and took up his kit-bag and hoisted it up onto his shoulder. Putting his other arm around her waist, he led her from the quay, away from the crowd.
They found a coffee house and inside made their way to a corner table where they sat facing one another in their own silence, interrupted only by the appearance of the waitress who came to take their order. When she had gone away Gentry said:
‘I can’t get over it – your being here.’
‘Are you angry?’
‘That you came here?’
‘Yes.’
He gave a wondering little smile. ‘Oh, can you even think I might be?’
‘I don’t know anything any more.’
‘How did you know I’d be on that ship?’
‘I talked to someone – a woman whose son was in your regiment. She told me when your regiment would be returning and by which ship.’
He nodded. ‘I thought that – that Marianne might have told you.’
‘No.’
And now Marianne’s name had been mentioned; the spectre at the feast; already Blanche could feel her presence there.
‘I wondered,’ she said, ‘whether Marianne herself might come to meet you.’
‘No, no.’ Gentry was avoiding her eyes. ‘I told her to wait for me in Messina.’
A little silence, then Blanche said, ‘I shouldn’t have come.’ She looked down at her hands, clasped before her on the white tablecloth. ‘What am I doing here? I must be mad.’
‘Don’t say that.’ His large, sunburned hand reached out and briefly pressed her hands. And a simple touch like that was enough to increase the pace and power of her heartbeat and make her catch her breath.
‘I couldn’t stop myself,’ she said after a moment. ‘I had to come. Knowing you’d be here, getting off that ship – so close to Bath. I had to come.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know why. Maybe – maybe it was just to see you one last time.’
Even as she spoke she knew she was lying – lying to herself as well as to him. She had not wanted to see him for a last time. She had wanted to see him, to be with him. ‘I had to see you,’ she said.
Their conversation was marked with little pockets of silence. The waitress brought the tea and scones they had ordered and went away again. Blanche poured the tea, handed a cup to Gentry, and watched as he stirred in the sugar. As he lifted the cup he looked at her over its rim. There was a look in his eyes she could not fathom. I’m treacherous, Blanche said to herself. I am betraying Marianne, my friend, my faithful friend. I am betraying a lifetime of truest loyalty and friendship with treachery. She watched as Gentry drank, set the cup down again.
‘Oh, Blanche,’ he said, ‘what a sight for sore eyes you are. It’s so wonderful to see you.’
She could feel the moments slipping away. There was so little time. Soon he would be leaving to continue his journey to Sicily, and she must return to Bath.
‘I understand you’re working as a governess in Bath, is that right?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘And they allowed you a little time off, did they?’
‘Yes.’ She said nothing about having given the reason that she wished to meet her brother. ‘I got here yesterday.’
Watching him across the table, so handsome, she was very much aware of a difference in his appearance. It was not the fact that he was in uniform. There was something about his face that she had not seen before. And it wasn’t that he looked older, thinner; there was something else. There was a look of weariness there too; in his eyes a look of experience, a look that told of the end of innocence; that same look that she had seen in the faces of some of the other young soldiers who had come down the gangplank, a look that told of a knowledge of death and destruction, that they had known happenings that had forever changed them, that ensured that in some ways they would never be the same again. And she cried out in a little choking whisper, while the tears came to her eyes, spilling over like a spring and streaming down her cheeks:
‘Oh, Gentry, I love you so much.’
‘Blanche, my darling …’ And he was leaning forward, reaching out to her. ‘Don’t. Don’t cry.’ His hand was gentle against her tear-stained cheek. He took her hand and pressed his mouth into her palm. ‘I love you too, Blanche,’ he murmured. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I longed to write to you, to tell you, even though I knew it would have been madness. You were on my mind so much. I love you, Blanche. I love you.’
When she had collected her valise from the hotel they found another hotel where Gentry registered them as husband and wife. Blanche’s gloves hid the fact that she wore no ring. In their room Gentry held her in his arms again. After a while in a feverish passion he undressed her, lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. Then, taking off his own clothes he lay down beside her, pressing his strong, hard body to her, his hands moving over her breasts, her smooth limbs while he kissed her soft mouth. Blanche, touching him once again, felt that she could never get enough of him, never know enough of the feel of him beneath her reaching, clutching hands as they moved over him, exploring once again, after so long, his lean, muscular form. And through it all the silence in the room was broken only by the sounds of their breathing and the endearments that escaped from their eager lips. And at last Gentry was covering her body with his own, and she felt his hardness enter her, begin to move within her.
When it was over and they lay side by side in the disarray of the linen sheets, their combined breathing slowing, she felt his lips touch her temple, her ear, and then heard his murmured words, ‘I love you, Blanche. I always will.’
Later they went out to dine at a nearby restaurant where they sat facing one another across th
e table. They ate slowly, but savouring the time rather than the food – which was good, but might have been indifferent for all that it mattered. And often, and without apparent reason, they would touch, their hands moving across the tablecloth to light on the hand of the other, fingers brushing, or clasping, anything as long as there was physical contact. And in the light of the candles that flickered and wavered between them they gazed at each other, looking deep into one another’s eyes. Once, as Blanche looked into Gentry’s dark brown eyes he said to her, ‘What are you seeing?’ and she replied, without moving her gaze, ‘I’m seeing into your heart, your soul.’
‘And what do you see there?’
She avoided his question. ‘You tell me,’ she said. ‘You tell me what I can see.’
‘You must see that I love you. Anybody could see that.’
Alone once more, in the quiet of the hotel room, he stood at the window with the curtains drawn back, looking down at the gaslit street below. Without turning to Blanche he said, his voice soft, but firm with determination:
‘I know now – I can’t give you up. I must go to Messina at once and see Marianne. And I must tell her that she and I – we can’t marry.’
He gave a deep sigh, and Blanche, watching him, hanging on his words, saw how he bent his head in pain at the prospect. She thought: It will kill her. Such words from Gentry – they’ll surely kill her. But she thrust the thought aside, saying nothing. After a moment he went on:
‘We’ll be married, Blanche. As soon as we can.’
‘– Yes, oh, yes.’ She felt as if she could hardly breathe.
‘You wait for me in Bath, and I’ll come back from Sicily as soon as I can. And we’ll be married.’
‘Oh, Gentry, yes.’ They were the words which for so many years she had dreamed of hearing, and although they brought her such joy they brought also the pain that came with the knowledge of the certainty of Marianne’s unhappiness.
Gentry’s thoughts too were on Marianne. ‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘if only we could have our happiness without hurting others. If only there were some other way. If only it were not Marianne who had to be hurt.’ He sighed again. ‘But there’s no other way for it.’ He turned to face Blanche, reached out for her. She moved towards him and he enfolded her in his arms and they stood there together, her forehead against his warm cheek. ‘I’ve got to do it somehow,’ he said after a while. ‘I don’t know how, but it must be done. It makes it even more difficult with her staying in Messina with my father. He dotes on her so.’ He paused. ‘You realize, do you, that he might disinherit me?’
‘It won’t matter to me,’ Blanche said.
‘Will it not?’
‘Not if I have you.’ She raised her head, kissed him on the mouth. ‘I love you. If I’m with you I can put up with anything.’
Gentry said, ‘Though in truth I don’t think he will – even though he might threaten it. Besides, I have money from my mother. We’d manage all right somehow, without any real hardship. It’s the thought of Marianne that brings me so much – so much pain.’
Blanche tried to dismiss the thought of Marianne from her mind, and when that failed, to justify her grasping at happiness. Gentry doesn’t love her, she told herself. He loves me. And while a protesting voice cried out to her of her betrayal of her friend she closed her ears to the sound and nestled closer into Gentry’s warmth.
They made love again, giving themselves up to a passion that swept aside all doubt and fear and promised them that no matter what the obstacles were they would be overcome. But when they awoke in the morning Blanche was afraid, terribly afraid that in the glare of the new day Gentry would see things in a new light, that all the promises of yesterday would count for nothing. She watched his face, listened to his voice, seeking the slightest sign of regret at the vows he had made. But there was no sign. She saw again, as she expected to, his regret over Marianne’s certain unhappiness, but in spite of it he appeared to remain firm in his purpose.
They had breakfast sent up to their room and afterwards finished the preparations for their departure. They would go to the station together, Blanche to take the train for Bath, Gentry to go on to London where he would take the boat train for the Continent. When at last they were ready to go Gentry held her in his arms and kissed her. ‘I shall write to you and return to Bath for you as soon as I can,’ he said.
‘I’ll try to be patient.’
‘Yes. And just keep thinking of me.’
‘I shan’t be able to do anything else.’
Out on the street they set off to make their way to the station. As they passed a newsagent’s shop on their way Gentry came to a halt at Blanche’s side saying that he wanted to buy a newspaper. As he turned into the shop Blanche moved on, idly looking into the neighbouring shop windows. Turning a few minutes later to search out Gentry she saw him standing on the pavement shaking hands with another man. At once she recognized the man as Mr Baron, Mr Savill’s solicitor.
Not wishing to be seen with Gentry, she stepped back into the shop doorway and from her concealed vantage point watched as the two men talked for some minutes. Then at last, with a further handshake they parted and Baron walked on down the street. She waited until he was out of sight before she emerged from her cover. On reaching Gentry’s side she found him looking grave and preoccupied.
‘That was Mr Baron, wasn’t it?’ she said.
‘Yes.’ Gentry was standing gazing in the direction the man had taken.
Blanche said, ‘What a surprise, your meeting him here in Bristol.’
Gentry nodded. ‘He came along just as I came out of the shop. I knew his face but at first I couldn’t think who he was. He knew me, though, from when we met at Uncle John’s funeral.’ Then, turning to Blanche, he said, frowning:
‘He asked me if I was going to Hallowford. I said no, I was not – and then he told me that Marianne is there – now.’
‘Marianne? In Hallowford?’
‘Yes.’
Blanche shook her head. ‘I’ve heard nothing of it. He must be mistaken. She would have been in touch with me if she had come back to England. The last I heard from her she was in Sicily. And she made no mention in her letter of coming back. Surely Mr Baron must be mistaken.’
‘No, he’s seen her. He’s had meetings with her.’
‘But – but why is she there? And why should she return without telling me?’
Gentry shook his head. ‘Baron wouldn’t say very much. But he hinted that – well, that everything is not as it should be.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. He was very noncommittal.’
They stood there together on the pavement in the constant stream of the passers-by. For some reason Blanche’s heart began to beat with fear. ‘What are you going to do?’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘What else can I do but go to Hallowford to see her?’
Chapter Thirty-Four
On the train Blanche asked Gentry whether she should go with him to Hallowford. No, he said, it would be better not to. How could they explain their presence together? He would go alone.
‘You get off at Bath as originally planned,’ he said, ‘and when I’ve seen Marianne I’ll be in touch with you.’
And she had to be content with that, though her heart continued to beat with increasing fear at the unexpected and puzzling turn of events.
When they reached Bath Blanche got off and stood on the platform watching as the train started up again and, with the smoke streaming from its stack, moved out of sight.
On arriving at the Marsh house in Almond Street Mrs Marsh asked eagerly whether she had seen her brother. Blanche replied that she had, adding that Ernest had then gone on to Bradford. She volunteered no further information on the matter, and to her relief no more questions were asked. All her thoughts were of Gentry and the surprising development of Marianne’s presence at Hallowford. All she could do now was wait to hear from him.
At the door of Hallowford House G
entry rang the bell and waited. As he stood there he looked around him. He was surprised to discover that the place had a rather unkempt look about it. The wide front lawns, in his experience always so well kept over the years, now were overgrown, while the herbaceous borders, once John Savill’s pride, had a look of wildness about them, their once-carefully tended plants encroached upon by weeds.
A maid whose face was unfamiliar to him opened the door, and he asked at once to see Miss Savill. The maid said apologetically that she could not see anyone at present. ‘She will see me,’ Gentry said. ‘My name is Gentry Harrow. Please tell her that I’m here.’
At the sound of his name it was clear that the maid knew of him. Yet her expression remained doubtful as she took his hat, showed him into the library and went upstairs.
A minute later Gentry, standing in the library with the door open, heard her coming down the stairs again. He moved to the door at her approach, then came to a halt as he saw the apologetic look on the girl’s face.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Savill can’t see anyone right now. She – she asked me to tell you that she is writing to you.’
‘– Writing to me …?’ He frowned. ‘She says she’s writing to me? I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, sir, I’m sorry, sir.’ The girl looked uncomfortable. She stood before him, twisting her apron between her nervous hands.
‘Is Mrs Callow here?’ Gentry asked.
‘She’s not in the house at the moment, sir, but she’s expected back shortly.’
Gentry nodded, thanked the girl then walked past her out of the room. In the hall, however, instead of turning towards the front door he stepped towards the stairs, and while the maid protested behind him he quickly climbed up, two steps at a time, to the floor above.
‘Marianne?’ he called out as he reached the first floor landing. He had no idea which room she might be in. Coming to a stop in the centre of the landing he called her name again and then stood there listening. There was no sound. Over the soft carpet he moved towards the stairs leading to the floor above. Just as he reached the lower step he heard the faint click of a door catch. He turned at the sound. It had come from a door at the rear. After a moment’s hesitation he moved softly towards it, grasped the handle, swiftly turned it and thrust the door open wide.