‘So, tell me a little about yourself.’
‘There isn’t much to tell.’ She took a nervous puff of her cigarette.
‘Laura-Jane says you worked with David at a theatre in London. Are you an actress?’
‘I . . . yes, I am.’
‘Never had much time for the theatre myself. More of an outdoor sort of fellow, really. But tell me, what plays have you appeared in?’
‘Well, I wasn’t so much an actress. More a . . . dancer, really.’
‘Musical comedy, eh? I do like that Noël Coward chap. Some of his songs are very jolly. So you were in London during the war?’
‘Yes,’ Greta lied.
‘Must have been dreadful when the doodlebugs were landing.’
‘Yes. But everyone pulled together. I suppose you have to when you’re all shoved on the platform at Piccadilly Circus underground station for the night.’ Greta smoothly repeated Doris’s description of how it had been.
‘The great British spirit. It’s what got us through and won us the war, you know. Now, shall we go in to dinner?’
Owen helped Greta into the dining room, which – like the other rooms she’d encountered so far – was beautifully furnished, with flickering sconces adorning the walls and a long, highly polished table. There were two places set at one end. He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.
‘This house is so beautiful, but very big. Don’t you find it lonely living here by yourself?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, especially since I’d got used to it being full of patients and nurses. And in winter the place is damned draughty, too. Costs a fortune to heat but I’m not fond of the cold. I lived out in Kenya before the war. Climate there suited me a lot better, but not necessarily the lifestyle.’
‘Will you go back?’ ventured Greta.
‘No, I decided to get shot of the farm when I left. And besides, I’d left Marchmont in Laura-Jane’s hands for long enough and I felt I should do my duty.’
They both looked up as Mary entered the room. ‘Ah, the soup. And Mary, would you pour the wine?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Owen waited until Mary had served them and left before saying, ‘I don’t wish to pry, but what exactly is a pretty young thing like you doing leaving London for the wilds of Monmouthshire?’
‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ Greta replied evasively, reaching for her glass.
‘No rush. We have all evening.’
‘Well,’ said Greta, realising she wasn’t going to get away without an explanation. ‘I’d had enough of London and needed a change. David offered me his cottage and I decided to take it to give me some time to think.’
‘I see.’ Owen watched Greta drink her soup, knowing full well she was lying. ‘Tell me if I’m being indiscreet, but was there a young man involved?’
Greta put down her spoon with a clatter, deciding it was pointless to deny it. ‘Yes.’
‘Ah, well. His loss is my gain. Fellow must have been blind.’
Greta stared into her soup bowl, her eyes swimming with tears. She exhaled slowly. ‘And there’s another reason.’
Owen said nothing, just waited for her to speak.
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ll understand if you want me to leave.’ Greta reached into her sleeve for her handkerchief and wiped her nose.
‘There, there, my dear. Please don’t upset yourself. I think what you’ve told me is all the more reason why you need to be taken care of at the moment.’
She stared at him in complete surprise. ‘You’re not shocked?’
‘Greta, I may live in the middle of nowhere, but I have seen a little of life. It’s very sad, but these things happen. Especially during wartime.’
‘He was an American officer,’ Greta whispered, as if that somehow made it better.
‘He knows about the baby?’
‘No. And he never will. He . . . he asked me to marry him. I agreed, but then, well, he went back to America without even saying goodbye.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t know what I’d have done if it hadn’t been for David.’
‘Are you two—?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Greta replied firmly. ‘We’re just good friends. David’s been very kind.’
‘So, what are your plans for the future?’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea. To be honest, since I moved here, I’ve been trying not to think about it.’
‘What about your family?’ Owen asked, as Mary returned carrying a silver salver of roast beef, which she set on the sideboard before clearing away the soup bowls.
‘I don’t have one. My parents died in the Blitz.’ Greta dipped her eyes in case he read the lie in them.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But you’re obviously well educated. Your knowledge of literature, for example, is extensive.’
‘Yes, I’ve always loved books. I was lucky. Before my parents died, I went to a private girls’ school.’ This, at least, was the truth.
‘So now you really are alone in the world, aren’t you, my dear?’ Owen hesitantly reached out a hand and covered Greta’s with it. ‘Well, don’t worry, I promise to do my best to look after you.’
As the evening progressed and the conversation moved away from the past Greta began to relax. After dinner, they went back into the drawing room and she sat by the fire stroking Morgan, the black Labrador, who lay stretched out beside the hearth. Owen drank a whisky and talked of his life out in the bush in Kenya. He told her he’d owned a large farm near Nyeri in the Central Highlands and had loved the wild landscape and the local people.
‘But I rather tired of the high jinks of my ex-pat neighbours out there. Although “Happy Valley”, as it was known, was in the middle of nowhere, they certainly found ways to entertain themselves, if you understand my meaning.’ Owen raised an eyebrow. ‘I was easy meat for certain female vultures, being a single man. I was glad to come back here to some sort of moral normality.’
‘You’ve never married?’
‘Well, there was someone, a long time ago. We were engaged, but—’ Owen sighed. ‘Anyway, it’s true to say I’ve never felt the urge to ask anyone since. Besides, who’d want a grumpy old man like me?’
I would. The thought leapt into Greta’s head but she squashed it down immediately. The wine and the heat from the fire were making her sleepy, and she yawned.
‘Bed for you, young lady. You look exhausted. I’ll call for Mary to help you up to your room,’ he said, ringing the bell.
‘I am, I’m sorry. It’s been some time since I was up this late.’
‘Don’t apologise, and thank you for being such charming company. I do hope you haven’t been bored.’
‘No. Not at all.’ Greta stood up as Mary came into the room.
‘Then would you find it acceptable to dine with me again tomorrow?’
‘Of course I would. Thank you, Owen. Goodnight.’
‘Greta?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just remember that you’re not alone any longer.’
‘Thank you.’
Walking slowly up the stairs with Mary, and then, as the maid chattered away whilst helping her into bed, Greta tried to make sense of the evening. She had been convinced that the minute she told Owen she was expecting a baby he would change his attitude towards her. Yet as she settled down under the blankets and Mary left the room, she realised that in his own brusque way, he had been flirting with her. But surely he couldn’t possibly be interested in her now he knew the truth?
Over the next week, as the New Year came and went, Greta dined with Owen every night. Now her ankle was better, instead of reading to her in the afternoons he took her for short walks across the land that formed the Marchmont estate. She began to see that, in his old-fashioned way, he was courting her. She couldn’t understand it. After all, the squire of Marchmont could hardly marry a woman bearing another man’s child. Could he . . . ?
Yet – despite
her heartfelt protestations that she must return to Lark Cottage – when she had been living at the big house for almost a month, Greta knew for certain that Owen didn’t want her to leave.
One evening after supper they were sitting in the drawing room together after dinner discussing David Copperfield. Owen closed the book and silence fell. His expression suddenly became serious.
‘Greta. I have something I want to ask you.’
‘I see. It’s not something dreadful, is it?’
‘No . . . at least, I hope not. Well’ – he cleared his throat – ‘the thing is, Greta my dear, I have become remarkably fond of you in the short time you’ve been here. You’ve brought an energy and a zest back to me I thought had long passed. In short, I dread you leaving. So . . . the question I have to ask is: would you do me the honour of marrying me?’
Greta stared at him, open-mouthed with shock.
‘Of course I’ll understand completely if you couldn’t countenance being the wife of a man so much older than yourself. But it seems to me you need things that I can give you. A father for your child, and a safe, secure environment for both you and the baby to flourish in.’
She managed to find her voice. ‘I . . . you mean you’re prepared to bring up the baby I’m going to have as your own?’
‘Of course. There’s no need for anyone to know it isn’t mine, is there?’
‘But what about LJ and David? They know the truth.’
‘Don’t worry about them.’ Owen used his hand to metaphorically flick the problem away. ‘So, what do you say, my dear Greta?’
She remained silent.
‘You’re asking yourself why I’d want to do this, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am, Owen.’
‘Would it be too simplistic if I told you your presence here has made me realise how lonely I’ve been? That I feel an affection for you I hadn’t previously thought possible? Marchmont needs youth . . . life, or it will wither away with me. I believe, in turn, we can give each other what we lack in our respective lives.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I don’t expect you to make up your mind now,’ he said hastily. ‘Take some time to think about it. Go back to Lark Cottage, if you wish.’
‘Yes. No . . . I—’ Greta rubbed her forehead. ‘Would you excuse me, Owen? I’m feeling dreadfully tired.’
‘Of course.’
They stood up. Owen reached for her hand and kissed it softly. ‘Think long and hard, dear girl. Whatever your decision, it’s been a pleasure having you here. Goodnight.’
Greta lay in bed, turning Owen’s proposal over and over in her mind. If she accepted, her baby would have a father and both of them would escape the stigma that haunted illegitimate children and their mothers. She’d be the mistress of a beautiful house and never have to worry where the next meal was coming from ever again.
The one thing she wouldn’t have was a man she loved. Although Owen was kind, thoughtful and attractive in his own way, if she were brutal about it, Greta didn’t relish the thought of sharing a bed with him.
But if she said no, it was back to the cottage to face having her baby alone. And beyond that, who knew? What chance would there be of finding the real love she craved in the years ahead? Let alone providing for herself and the baby?
A picture of Max drifted into her mind. She shook her head quickly to clear it. He was never coming back and she had to forge a life for herself and her child.
Greta wondered what David and LJ would say. She hoped they would understand. Besides, she was currently in no position to take other people’s finer feelings into consideration.
‘There’s no one else to look after us, is there?’ she asked, patting her stomach.
The following evening Greta went down for dinner and told Owen that she would accept his offer of marriage.
Two days later Mary came bustling into the dining room while Owen was having his breakfast and reading The Times.
‘Excuse me, sir, Mrs Marchmont is here to see you.’
‘Tell her she’ll have to wait until I’ve finished my breakf—’
‘I don’t think this can wait, Owen.’ LJ appeared in the doorway behind Mary and pushed past her.
Owen grunted. ‘Very well. Thank you, Mary. Close the door behind you, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mary left, and LJ stood at the other end of the table glaring at him. Owen calmly wiped his mouth on a napkin and folded his newspaper neatly.
‘Well, what is this thing that cannot wait?’
‘You know very well what it is.’ LJ’s voice was barely more than a whisper.
‘You’re upset because I’m marrying Greta, is that it?’
LJ sank into a chair at the other end of the table and sighed heavily. ‘Owen, I don’t profess to be party to your private thoughts, nor am I your keeper, but for God’s sake, you know nothing about the girl.’
Owen took a piece of toast from the rack and proceeded to butter it. ‘I know all I need to.’
‘Really? Then you’re happy that the new mistress of Marchmont will be a woman who used to earn her living parading around a stage at the Windmill with hardly a stitch on?’
‘I’ve done my research, and I’m aware of what she did before she came here. I’m simply grateful I’ve found someone who has given me the kind of happiness I didn’t think I’d find again.’
‘So you’re saying you’re in love with her? Or are you just blinded by her pretty face?’
‘As you implied earlier, Laura-Jane, this really is none of your business.’
‘Oh yes it is, if it means that Greta’s illegitimate child will inherit Marchmont instead of my son!’ LJ’s voice was quavering with emotion. ‘If this is about punishing me, then you’ve succeeded.’
‘Well, your son has hardly shown a great passion for the place, has he?’
‘It’s his by rights, Owen, and you know it.’
‘I’m afraid that isn’t true, Laura-Jane. Marchmont will be left to any child that I may have. And no one other than yourself and David is aware that Greta’s baby isn’t mine. There might be speculation that the child was conceived out of wedlock and a marriage hastily arranged, but that’s as far as it will go.’
‘You think so, do you?’ LJ’s hands were shaking as she tried to keep her anger under control. ‘So you expect me to stand by and watch while my son’s inheritance is passed to some bastard child of a GI?!’
‘It would be your word against ours but, if you wish to take the case to court, please do so,’ Owen replied calmly. ‘There’s no way of proving it, so I suspect that people will just think it’s sour grapes on your part. And it’s the kind of scandal the papers love. Rest assured, our reputations would be dragged through the mud, but please do what you think you must.’
‘I just don’t know how you can do this to David, Owen. After all—’
‘You don’t know how I can do this?’ He laughed scornfully. ‘Just cast your mind back thirty years, my dear Laura-Jane, and remember what you did to me.’
LJ was silent as she stared at him. Eventually, she sighed. ‘So is that what all this is about? Revenge?’
‘No, although you must remember that you’ve brought this problem on yourself. If it hadn’t been for you marrying my younger brother while I was away fighting for king and country, then we might have had a son and this situation would not have arisen.’
‘Owen, you were away for almost five years, and for three of those we all believed you were dead!’
‘Then shouldn’t you have waited for me? After all, I had asked you to marry me before I left and you’d accepted my proposal. You even wore my engagement ring! Can you imagine how I felt arriving back in England from that ghastly POW camp in Ingolstadt to find that my fiancée was married to my brother and living in my family home? Not only that, but you were pregnant with his child. Good God, Laura-Jane! The war nearly destroyed me, but the one thing that kept me going was the thought of you waiting for me here.’
‘Do you think that I haven’t torn myself apart over and over for what I did?’ LJ wrung her hands in despair. ‘But it’s me you should hate, not my son, not David. He doesn’t deserve to be treated the way you’ve treated him. You’ve never been able to bear to look at him!’
‘No, and I never shall.’
‘Well, you may think I betrayed you, but don’t you think I’ve been punished enough by living with the guilt and seeing how you felt about David? And now this!’
‘Then why do you stay here?’
‘Are you asking me to leave?’
Owen chuckled and shook his head. ‘No, Laura-Jane. Don’t cast me in the role of a complete villain. Marchmont is your home as much as it’s mine. And remember, it was your decision to move out of the main house and into the Gate Lodge when I arrived home from Kenya.’
Laura-Jane put her head in her hands wearily. ‘Please, Owen, I beseech you. Don’t deny David his rightful inheritance because you want to punish me. You know I would never publicly fight you, so I leave it to your conscience. It’s not only wrong to deny David, but to hand Marchmont over to a child without one ounce of Marchmont blood in its veins seems a very high price to pay for revenge.’ LJ stood up slowly. ‘I’ve nothing more to say, except that I’ve decided you’re right. I should leave Marchmont. I shall be gone within the week. As you point out, there’s nothing to keep me here, especially now.’
‘As you wish.’
‘And you didn’t answer my question. Are you in love with Greta?’
Owen looked at LJ, and wavered only for an instant. ‘Yes.’
‘Goodbye, Owen.’
He watched her stalk from the room without a backward glance, the air of elegance that had so entranced him when she was a girl of sixteen still visible in her gait. She had been a fine-looking woman in those days, and he’d loved her very much.
Owen stood up, walked over to the window and watched Laura-Jane striding away from the house. Once more he experienced a pang of regret. He’d gone to Kenya to escape the pain of her betrayal, unable to watch his brother, Robin, and his ex-fiancée together. When he’d heard that Robin had died in a riding accident all those years ago, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to return to Marchmont and ask LJ to marry him. But his pride had not allowed him to do that. So he had stayed away until the war had forced him home.
The Angel Tree Page 8