Even so, the thought of her leaving Marchmont filled him with sadness. Should he run after her, confess that after all these years, he was still in love with her? That the reason he’d never married was because even after what she’d done to him, it was her, and only her, that he’d ever wanted?
Go now, quickly! Tell her, before it’s too late, a voice inside him urged. Forget about Greta and go to Laura-Jane. Make the most of the years you have left . . .
Owen slumped into a chair by the window. He whimpered and shook his head, knowing that, whatever his heart told him he should do, the pride which had dominated and ruined his life thus far would once again deny him the freedom to go to the woman he loved.
8
David’s career as a stand-up comic was beginning to take off. His contract at the Windmill had been extended and the warmth of the audience’s response was growing in tandem with his confidence. He’d been taken on by a good agent who had seen his act one night and thought he was destined for bigger things. The regular income from the Windmill meant that he’d been able to move out of his room in Swiss Cottage and into a one-bedroom flat in Soho, nearer to the theatre. The move and the punishing schedule at work meant there had been no time to make his planned trip to visit his mother and Greta at Marchmont. But next weekend he was determined to go.
As he rose and dressed, neatly making the bed and tidying away a sock and a tie, he felt his heart skip a little faster than usual. This morning he was due at the BBC in Portland Place to record his first sketch for a comedy show which would air at seven o’clock on Friday nights – prime-time radio listening. The show introduced up-and-coming comic talent, and he knew that many a great comedian had used it as a stepping-stone to fame and fortune.
David went into his tiny kitchen and put the kettle on the stove to boil. He heard the click of the letterbox and padded into the hallway to pick up his post. Going back into the kitchen, he studied the envelope in surprise. There was no mistaking his mother’s individual script, but the postmark was Stroud, not Monmouth.
Making himself a pot of tea, he sat down at the small table and began to read.
72 Lansdown Road
Stroud
Gloucestershire
7th February 1946
My dear David,
I know you will already have seen that I do not write to you from Marchmont but from my sister Dorothy’s house. To come straight to the point, I have moved out of the Gate Lodge and am staying here until I have decided what I shall do. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that I have decided it is time to move on, start afresh, so to speak. Anyway, please don’t worry about me. I’m fine, and Dorothy has made me both welcome and extremely comfortable. With William dying last year, she rattles around in this big house, and it seems we are company for each other. I may stay here, I may not. Time will tell, but I shall not be returning to Marchmont.
My darling boy, I have some news. Owen rather fell for your friend Greta; he subsequently proposed to her and she has accepted. I’m afraid we had a bit of a set-to over it. You know how stubborn your uncle can be on occasions. Anyway, I do hope that this news does not disturb you too deeply. I fear that your feelings for Greta are more than those of a friend. However, having studied her from a distance, my belief is that Greta has done what is best for both her and her baby. We have both been invited to the wedding and I enclose your invitation. I will not be attending.
I do hope that you will find the time to visit me, or perhaps I will take the train up and come and see you in London.
I hope all is well with you. Do write if you have a moment,
All my love to you, Ma x
David reread the letter, shaking his head in disbelief.
Greta marrying Owen . . . He felt the unfamiliar sensation of tears pricking the backs of his eyes. He understood why, of course. Owen could give Greta everything she needed. She couldn’t possibly have fallen in love with him, surely? He was old enough to be her father. He berated himself for not making his feelings clearer. If he had, it might have been he who would be walking down the aisle with her. Now, he’d probably lost her forever.
And as for his mother leaving Marchmont . . . David couldn’t help wondering whether it was because of the marriage. He knew how much she loved her life there and what it would have taken for her to say goodbye to it. He was aware that she didn’t see eye to eye with Owen, that their relationship was cool and distant, but he’d always put this down to a clash of personalities.
He checked his watch and poured himself another cup of tea. As he sipped it, a thought crossed his mind. If Greta was marrying Owen and he was taking on her baby, did this mean that her child would inherit Marchmont one day? He supposed it did. Surprisingly, this fact meant very little to him. Since he was young, he’d always known his future was not at his family home. And any material possessions he wanted, he aimed to earn through his own efforts and talent. Even so, he was fully aware of how much it meant to his mother for him to inherit it. The thought of a child with an unknown American as its true father standing to claim what she felt was rightfully his was one he knew LJ would find impossible to stomach.
David sighed heavily. There seemed little point in going to Marchmont under the circumstances so, instead, he decided he’d visit Gloucestershire this weekend, or perhaps meet with his mother in London, on more neutral territory.
‘Damn!’ he exclaimed, suddenly realising he had only fifteen minutes to get to Portland Place.
He hurriedly put on his overcoat, stuffed the letter in his pocket and ran out, slamming the door behind him.
Owen Jonathan Marchmont married Greta Harriet Simpson ten weeks after he’d first set eyes on her in the woods. On a grey March day they exchanged vows in the chapel on the estate in front of a small congregation.
Greta had invited no one to attend. She’d received a sweet letter from David, declining the wedding invitation from her husband-to-be but wishing her all the best for the future. LJ was also absent. She had moved out of the Gate Lodge a month ago without saying goodbye. Feeling somewhat guilty – knowing that it must have been the announcement of her engagement that had precipitated LJ’s departure – Greta could not help also feeling relieved. LJ’s presence and palpable disapproval would only have served to unsettle her.
With LJ gone, she was determined to forget about her past. The wedding signified a new start, a chance to look forward to the future. As she stood at the altar next to Owen, she prayed with all her heart that this would be possible. Her empire-line brocade wedding dress had been purposely tailored to be long and loose-fitting. It would have taken a very keen pair of eyes to spot the bulge in her stomach. And from now on, she thought, as Owen led her out of the church, the baby inside her belonged to him.
At the wedding breakfast, which was held at Marchmont Hall, Greta watched the guests drinking champagne and chatting to each other, feeling strangely removed from the proceedings. Owen had invited three officers from his old army regiment, Dr Evans, a couple of distant cousins and four local farm owners. Mr Glenwilliam, Owen’s solicitor, had acted as his best man.
Although the guests spoke to her kindly enough, she could almost smell their surprise that Owen should have married after all this time. And, more to the point, taken such a young wife. She knew that when the baby was born considerably less than nine months after the wedding, they’d all nod their heads knowingly.
‘All right, my dear?’ asked Owen, handing her a glass of champagne.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Good. I’m just going to say a few words, thank people for coming, that sort of thing.’
‘Of course.’
Her husband stood up. The guests stopped talking and turned towards him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much for joining myself and my wife’ – Owen looked down fondly at Greta – ‘on this happy occasion. Some of you may have been surprised when you received your invitation, but now that you’ve met Greta you’ll u
nderstand why I proposed. It’s taken almost six decades to get me down the aisle and I’d just like to say how grateful I am to my new wife that she accepted my offer of marriage. I can’t tell you the amount of courage I had to pluck up before I asked her!’ he joked. ‘And, before I close, I’d just like to thank Morgan, my Labrador, for introducing us in the first place. There’s life in the old dog yet, you know!’
There was a round of applause as Mr Glenwilliam raised his glass for the toast.
‘To the bride and groom!’
‘The bride and groom!’
Greta took a sip of the champagne and smiled at Owen, her protector and saviour.
The guests left in the early evening and Greta and Owen sat drinking the remains of the champagne by the fire in the drawing room.
‘Well, Mrs Marchmont, how does it feel to be a married woman?’
‘Exhausting!’
‘Of course, my dear. The day must have been draining for you. Why don’t you pop on upstairs and I’ll have Mary bring you some supper in bed?’ Owen immediately saw the surprise on Greta’s face. ‘My dear, in your present condition, I don’t think that it would be fair of me to expect you to . . . consummate our union. I suggest that we keep the sleeping arrangements just as they are for the present. Once you are . . . unencumbered, well, we’ll think again.’
‘If that’s what you want, Owen,’ she replied sedately.
‘It is. Now, off you go.’
Greta stood up and walked over to him, bending down and kissing him on the cheek. ‘Goodnight. And thank you for such a lovely wedding day.’
‘I enjoyed it, too. Goodnight, Greta.’
When she’d left the room Owen poured himself a whisky and sat staring morosely into the fire. All he’d been able to think of earlier as he’d stood at the altar and slipped the ring onto Greta’s finger was that it should have been Laura-Jane next to him, the two of them plighting their troths for eternity. Since she’d left Marchmont, he’d missed her dreadfully. Not for the first time, he wondered if marrying Greta had been the right decision.
But what was done was done, and Owen promised himself he would never reveal to Greta the truth of his feelings. She would have everything she needed.
Except his heart.
As the last of the snow melted away and the first fresh scent of spring arrived with April, Greta watched her previously neat bump enlarge and spread. She became very uncomfortable and found it difficult to sleep. She also noticed that her ankles were swelling and that she got out of breath very quickly. Seeing her discomfort, Owen insisted on calling Dr Evans.
The doctor examined her gently, pressing her stomach and listening to it through an instrument that resembled an ear trumpet.
‘Is everything all right?’ Greta asked anxiously as he packed up his medical bag.
‘Oh yes, absolutely fine. But I hope you’re prepared for double trouble in a couple of months’ time. I believe you’re expecting twins, Mrs Marchmont. That’s why you’ve been so uncomfortable. I think it would be best if you took it very easy from now on. And, for the moment, I’d suggest complete bed rest until we get the swelling in your ankles under control. You are very slight, Mrs Marchmont, and two babies is a lot for your body to cope with. Stay in bed and rest. There’s no reason to expect any problems, as both babies’ heartbeats are strong and you’re in good health yourself. We might transfer you to the cottage hospital for the last few weeks, but we’ll see how you’re doing closer to the time. I’ll go downstairs and tell the father the good news.’ Although he smiled at her kindly, she saw the hint of irony in his eyes. ‘I’ll pop in and see you again in the next few days.’
‘Thank you, doctor.’ Greta lay back and let out a sigh of relief. If there’d ever been any doubt in her mind as to the wisdom of marrying Owen, it had just been banished. Twins: two babies to feed, clothe and look after. God knows what would have become of the three of them if she’d been alone . . .
Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door. Owen walked across the room, sat on the bed and took her hands in his.
‘The good doctor has told me the news, my dear. Now, you’re to take care of yourself and rest. I’ll tell Mary to bring all your meals to your room.’
‘I’m sorry, Owen.’ Greta looked away as tears came to her eyes.
‘Why are you sorry?’
‘It’s just that you’ve been so kind. And I’m sure you didn’t expect two young babies under your roof.’
‘Come now. You did me the greatest kindness by marrying me. Twins, eh? They’ll liven the old place up! And now we have double the chance of having a boy.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I have to go out to Abergavenny, but would you like me to come and read to you later?’
‘Yes, if you have time. And also, Owen, would it be possible to get me some knitting patterns and some wool on your way? I want to try and knit some clothes for the babies. Mary said she’d help me.’
‘What a lovely idea. That will keep you occupied at least.’
When Owen had left Greta thought about what he had said. It wasn’t the first time he’d hinted how happy he’d be if the child was a boy. She supposed it was what all men wanted.
‘Please, God,’ she whispered, ‘let me have a son.’
Greta went into labour in the middle of the night a month before her due date. Dr Evans was called, and the local midwife, Megan. The doctor was eager to get her into hospital, but when he arrived he saw she was in no state to be moved.
Five hours later, Greta gave birth to a tiny girl weighing just over five pounds. Twenty minutes after that, a boy of four pounds and seven ounces arrived. An exhausted Greta cuddled her baby girl and watched as Dr Evans slapped her son’s tiny bottom.
‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered, and eventually the little thing gave a cough and a squeal. Dr Evans cleaned up the baby, wrapped him tightly in a blanket and handed him to Greta.
‘There you go, Mrs Marchmont. Two beautiful babies.’
Greta felt the tears running down her cheeks as she stared at the perfectly formed human beings she had brought into the world. She was overcome with a feeling of tenderness so powerful it took her breath away.
‘Are they all right?’ she asked anxiously.
‘They’re both fine, Mrs Marchmont, but after you’ve had a cuddle I’m going to take them both away and check them over. The boy is very small and will need extra care. I’m going to suggest to your husband that he employs a nursemaid for the next few weeks to help you. You must get some rest now. Megan will stay with you and tidy you up.’
Reluctantly, Greta handed first her boy and then her girl to Dr Evans. ‘Don’t keep them too long, will you?’ she said, then lay back on the pillows and gritted her teeth as the midwife began to stitch her up.
Later, as she was drifting off to sleep, she felt a rough sensation against her cheek. She opened her eyes and saw Owen smiling down at her.
‘Oh, my big, brave girl. How clever you are. We have a beautiful son.’
‘And a daughter.’
‘Of course.’
‘Might we call the boy Jonathan – Jonny, for short – after me, and my father?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course. And what about the girl?’
‘I thought I’d leave you to choose.’
‘Francesca Rose,’ she said softly. ‘Cheska, for short.’
‘Whatever you like, my dear.’
‘How are the babies?’
‘Fine. They’re both fast asleep in the nursery.’
‘Can I see them?’
‘Not now. You must get some rest. Doctor’s orders.’
‘All right, but soon, please.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Owen kissed her forehead and left the room.
Greta didn’t see her son for the next forty-eight hours. Too weak to get out of bed, she begged the nursemaid Owen had employed to bring Jonny to her, but she refused, bringing only Cheska.
‘He’s sick, isn’t he?’ she asked fretfully.
‘No. He just has a slight fever and the doctor doesn’t want him moved.’
‘But I’m his mother. I must see him! He needs me!’ Greta fell back onto her pillows with a cry of frustration.
‘All in good time, Mrs Marchmont,’ said the nurse brusquely.
Later that evening Greta managed to sit upright and haul herself out of bed. She staggered along the corridor to the nursery, where she found Owen holding her whimpering son in his arms, cooing quietly to him. Cheska was sleeping peacefully in her crib.
‘What are you doing out of bed?’ A frown crossed Owen’s brow.
‘I wanted to see my son. Is he all right? The nurse wouldn’t tell me anything. I’m not even allowed to give him his bottle.’ Greta reached for the baby, but Owen cradled him protectively.
‘No, Greta. You’re too weak. You might drop him. He’s had a slight temperature, but the doctor says that has passed. My dear, why don’t you go back to bed? You need to rest.’
‘No! I want to hold Jonny.’ Greta reached towards her husband and almost wrenched the baby out of Owen’s grip. She stared down at her child. She had forgotten just how small he was and noticed that his tiny cheeks were slightly flushed. ‘I’m taking him back to bed with me,’ she said firmly.
‘Now, Mrs Marchmont, don’t be silly. The baby is being well cared for and you must build up your strength.’ The nurse bustled into the room behind her.
‘But I—’ Suddenly, all the fight went out of Greta. She let the nurse take Jonny from her and return him to his cot, while Owen led her back to her bedroom as though he were escorting a naughty child. Once in bed, Greta began sobbing uncontrollably.
‘I’ll get the nurse to come to you, my dear,’ Owen said, obviously embarrassed by her emotional state, then abruptly left the bedroom.
‘There, there, Mrs Marchmont. All new mothers feel like this. Here.’ The nurse handed Greta a pill and a cup of water. ‘It’ll calm you down and help you sleep.’
The Angel Tree Page 9