“February 5,” she continued. “A letter from S. He will put no identifying mark on the letter and if asked by Lady Morrow I shall say the letters are from an old friend or my dear brother and of a personal nature. My heart trembles at such deceit. I feel at every step I am being drawn into a net from which there is no escape but I cannot prevent it.
“I have burned the letter but every word is committed to my memory. “February 12: Last night Viscount Hartfield held a farewell party at Wellmore House for Adrian who must return to his regiment. You cannot imagine my joy on beholding S among the guests. I could not meet his eyes or pretend any knowledge of his presence beyond the formal presentation by Lady Hartfield.
“‘Of course we met at New Year,’ he said, taking my hand. His touch sent a thrill from my fingers to my heart. His fingers, so firm, so sure, held mine, only so long as propriety required. ‘Lady Morrow,’ he said. ‘You look enchanting tonight.’ We continued with the pretence of genteel acquaintance throughout the evening. After supper, Lady Hartfield declared that I should entertain the company with a song. Oh how I hate such occasions. My good father in his earnest desire to educate me, neglected instruction in the most basic of female arts and left me quite unskilled in matters of needlework, painting and piano forte. Lady Morrow was so scandalized by my upbringing that she insisted I should have lessons and Signor Montefiore has attended Holdston on a weekly basis to correct my shortcomings but despite his best efforts I fear I will always be but a mediocre artiste.
“Nonetheless I acquiesced to the request with a smile on my face and to my great delight S offered to turn the pages of the music for me. To have him so close to me that I could breathe in the very scent of him was a distraction I could well have done without. As he leaned over my shoulder, I felt the hairs on my neck rise in anticipation of his proximity. I sang for him alone. When I was done, the company applauded politely and S took my hand and kissed it. The touch of his lips was no more than gossamer but his eyes spoke more words then I cared to hear.”
Paul shook his head. “I feel like I am reading some penny dreadful romance novel.”
Helen looked up at him and smiled, before continuing.“February 13: I cannot contain myself. I have devised a way that we can meet in perfect secrecy and I am beside myself to impart the information to him. When will he come? Adele is teething and fretful. I held her in my arms and wept from fear of what the future may hold. My children have been my life. What am I doing?
“February 15: Lady Hartfield called yesterday afternoon accompanied by Barbara and S. I suspect that Lady Hartfield has some designs on S for Barbara and why indeed not? He has ten thousand a year, if Lady H is to be believed, and she comes with a sizeable dowry. I smiled to see the pathetic girl simpering over her cup of tea, trying to interpose on our conversation with some inanity of her own. I had to bide my time until the party came to leave at which point I slipped a note into his hand.”
“There is a certain arrogance about her, isn’t there?” Helen remarked. “I feel quite sorry for Barbara.”
“Jealousy?” Paul suggested.
“Undoubtedly,” Helen agreed. “Barbara was untrammeled by an inconvenient husband. Shall I go on?”
Paul nodded.
“...What I propose is audacious beyond belief and certainly not to the taste of god fearing folk but I must see him and talk with him in complete privacy.
“It came to me only the other day that there is a tunnel which runs from the house to the family crypt in the Church. Robert showed me the entrance and told me how he and his brothers would play royalists and roundheads in it and that at time the tunnel was quite clear. He did not venture into it as he said he is now quite afeared of such a confined space and neither would he let me past the entrance, saying that it was not a place for a woman.
“A couple of nights past when the household was all abed I dressed in an old gown and taking a candle, ventured down to the library. The entrance was as I remembered it, although a little stiff to open and my heart leaped to my mouth for fearing of waking Lady Morrow who sleeps in the chamber above the library. With great trepidation I descended into the dark bowels of the tunnel. It smelt of damp and indeed where it passed under the moat, as needs it must, it was quite wet underfoot. I was able to follow it, although at some points I was almost doubled up. It was, as Robert had said, quite clear. The entrance to the crypt was also a little stiff but I had prudently brought oil with me and was able to oil the hinges so they gave quite easily.
Helen looked up at Paul. “So there is a tunnel! But where’s the entrance? I can see nothing obvious in the library.”
“It’s not supposed to be obvious,” Paul observed drily.
“It is a silent place. Not the place for lovers, dare I say that word? Just writing it brings a tremor of fear to my heart. Yet that is where my lover will be waiting for me. This will be our assignation where we can meet away from the curious eyes. I have left the gate to the crypt unlocked for I doubted that the verger would routinely check it. For what cause would he do so? Today I crept to the library while Lady Morrow was abroad visiting one of the tenants who was ailing. The servants would think nothing of seeing me enter the library for I am often in there and they know to leave me in peace.
“My hands shook as I slipped through the entrance to the tunnel. Would he be there? You cannot imagine my fear and pleasure when I beheld him sitting on the steps, his hat in his hand, tapping his boot with his stick. I think my entrance must have startled him for he leaped to his feet, his face quite white. We stood still and just stared at each other and then, oh how can I relate this, we were in each other’s arms. He covered my hair and my face with his kisses and I returned them tenfold. We spent but a half hour together lost in each other. Talking of such follies and fancies as took our mind.
“I know now I am a lost woman, my marriage vows forsaken for a few stolen moments with this man. He is like a drug that I crave. I cannot live without him. Every moment away from him tears my heart and yet I must remain circumspect. There is too much at stake, too much to fear to allow rein to such foolishness...”
“There’s just one last entry and that’s as much as I’ve done,” Paul said.
“February 18: He is gone, returned to London and my heart is breaking. I have met him every day since our first venture into the crypt. You cannot imagine what liberty it is to know that you are unseen and unregarded. We can talk freely without recourse to polite convention. Surely this is how man and woman should be, not bound to politeness of discourse as dictated by society? I have been reading, in secret, the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft. How I admire her that she could speak her mind so freely on such issues. To my surprise, S has read her too and is in full agreement with her sentiments. Robert would not give a jot for them and Lady Morrow would burn the book. Oh, just the mention of his name is like a knife in my heart. What am I doing? What madness am I infected by?”
Helen set the paper down. “What do you know of her family?” Helen asked.
“Suzanna? Only what Evelyn read the other day.”
Helen frowned. “Surely her family would have been concerned over her disappearance, even if the Morrows weren’t? Perhaps they made their own enquiries?”
Paul fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of his chair. “We know her father appeared to be some sort of eccentric who believed in educating girls and she had a brother, John with a parish so we can assume he was in Holy Orders. It would not be too hard to trace him through the church records.”
“Where would we find those?”
“They would be kept at Lambeth Palace in London,” Paul said. He picked up the report of the archaeological dig. “Helen, would you consider a trip to London for me? This has to be given to Woolley at the British Museum and–”
“I could check the records at Lambeth Palace? Why can’t you go?”
“I just thought you might like a break from Holdston,” Paul said. “You can stay with Angela. I know she would like that.”
Paul raised his eyes. “Have you told Evelyn about the school?”
“Not yet,” Helen replied.
A knock at the door, made them both jump. Sarah Pollard entered carrying a tea tray and behind, her Evelyn Morrow.
Evelyn’s gaze flicked to Helen and then to her nephew. “Sarah said you were feeling better.”
“Thank you, Evelyn,” Paul said as Sarah set the tea tray down on the table.
Evelyn pulled up a chair and poured the tea into the two cups that had been set out on it. Paul declined the cup she proffered and she handed it to Helen instead.
“Paul, I need to talk to you about your plans for Willow Farm,” she said.
A shadow crossed Paul’s face. “Evelyn, we’ve had this discussion. I’ve given you my decision.”
Evelyn’s mouth set in a tight line. “Paul.” She broke off and glanced sharply at Helen. “Paul wants to spend the money we need to repair the roof of the Hall on some new fangled machinery for Willow Farm.”
Helen looked from Evelyn’s face to Paul. Both as stubborn as each other, she thought.
“Surely it is more important to improve the efficiency of the farm?” Helen ventured.
“My argument exactly,” Paul said. “I’m going into Birmingham tomorrow to talk to the bank. In fact, I was just asking Helen if she would be willing to go up to London for me and deliver my report to Woolley at the British Museum.”
“I can stay with Angela,” Mindful of her confrontation with Evelyn on Saturday, Helen added, “If that would be appropriate?”
Evelyn waved her hand. “Angela? Of course. But why do you need to go? Can’t you post the report, Paul?”
“Of course I could, but it’s already late and I thought it might be pleasant for Helen to have a couple of nights in London with Angela instead of stuck here with you and me,” Paul snapped.
Evelyn sniffed.
“I would only go if you don’t mind me leaving Alice with you here? She is starting school on Wednesday,” Helen said
“School?” Evelyn looked bemused.
“Yes, the village school. I’ve been trying to do school work with her but I think she’s better in a classroom so I’ve spoken to the headmistress and it’s all arranged.”
“A Morrow at the village school?” Evelyn said. “It’s unheard of.”
She caught the smile that passed between Paul and Helen. “What do you find so amusing?”
“Nothing,” Paul replied, his face all innocence. “I think it’s an excellent idea.”
“Well I’m sure I can give you a recommendation to a good school. The one Angela attended–”
Helen set her cup down. “I’m not sending Alice away to a boarding school for the sake of a couple of months. She has made friends with some of the children from the village and I think it will be good for her, and for the Morrows, if she is seen to be part of the village life.”
Evelyn rose to her feet. “I don’t claim to understand you, Helen. And you, Paul, I thought you would know better. Next thing you will be eating in the kitchen!”
With that, she stalked out of the room.
Helen bit her lip and glanced at Paul. To her relief he smiled.
“Eating in the kitchen will be the end of civilization as we know it,” he said.
“I can’t seem to do anything right in her eyes.” Helen’s hands began to shake as the tears that seemed to be lurking under the surface ever since Saturday threatened to engulf her again.
Paul leaned forward in his chair and removed the teacup from her hand. He set it down on the table and took her hands in his.
“Evelyn has her faults but she is not normally so callous, Helen. Something must have been said to her over the weekend that prompted the outburst.”
Helen felt the hot tears begin to drop from her eyes on to her hands. “Things were said and it’s not just Evelyn. I can’t get what was said about me out of my head.”
“It’s just the idle talk of people with nothing better to do with their lives. The fact is people like you and I, Helen, will always be outsiders.”
She looked up at him. “But you’re not an outsider?”
“Of course I am. The poor relation who ended up with the title? Good lord, I work for a living.” He sighed. “I’ve never fitted neatly into their pigeonholes. Here…”
He released her hands and produced another large, clean handkerchief. She seemed to be accumulating quite a collection.
Paul sat back in his chair as Helen dried the scalding tears. She looked across at him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, noting how drawn he looked. “You didn’t need this today of all days. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m not normally such a misery.”
He shrugged. “I think you need to get away from Holdston. A few days in London would do you good. Alice will be fine here.”
Helen stuffed Paul’s handkerchief into her pocket and rose to her feet. She packed up the tea things and picked up the tray, leaving Paul Morrow sitting back in his armchair, his green eyes lost in thoughts she could never share.
Chapter 13
Helen set her bag down and looked around the large living room of Angela’s flat in Chelsea. The room also appeared to serve as her studio. Stacks of unframed canvases leaned against any spare space and the room smelled, not unpleasantly, of linseed oil and paint. It was as far removed from the grand halls of Wellmore House as Holdston was from Terrala.
“Like it?” Angela waved a hand around the room.
“It’s not...”
“Not Wellmore? That’s why I love it!”
Helen picked up the nearest painting, a painting of a shelled church. “Is this one of your war paintings?”
“It is. The village of Ville Neuf.”
Helen walked around the room looking at the paintings, picking up the smaller ones, standing back from the large canvases and allowing herself to take in the representations of water-filled trenches and ragged stumps that had once been forests.
“I can’t even to begin to imagine what it was like,” she murmured. Charlie’s letters had given no hint of what he endured and the official reports and photographs were those approved by the censors. What Angela had seen and what Charlie had lived through were starkly portrayed here in Angela’s vivid style.
Helen paused in front of a series of three portraits. The first was of a young officer in a crisp, starched uniform, the second the same officer but his uniform all but obscured by mud, his unshaven face ravaged by exhaustion and the third depicted the same man on a stretcher, one of many stretchers, in what looked like a half ruined church. The man had his face turned toward the artist, his eyes closed, his unshaven face a mask of blood and mud. He should have been unrecognizable, but Angela had caught the fall of the dark hair across his face and the long fingers that clenched the blanket, leaving Helen in no doubt that this young man had been the subject of the other two portraits.
Her hand flew to her mouth in recognition. “Oh my God, that’s...”
“Paul,” Angela said.
Helen tore her eyes away from the third painting and turned to look at the artist. “Does he know?”
“He knows about one and two because I had him pose for them.” Angela took the third from Helen and looked at it critically. “This one, no. I told you I brought him in from the clearing station after the push. You can imagine the field hospital was overrun with wounded. If a man survived the night, then they would see him. If he didn’t....” She shrugged.
“And Paul?”
“They didn’t think he’d live so they left him there with the others but I wasn’t going to let him die alone. I sat with him all that night and kicked up a god almighty row in the morning.”
“He was lucky he had you,” Helen remarked.
Angela shrugged and took a drag on her cigarette. “I suppose he was.”
“How do you think he
’d feel about the painting?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never shown it in public. Too personal.”
“What do you call it?”
“The whole series is intended to be a triptych. Like the old religious paintings. The beginning and the end. Alpha and Omega.”
Helen gave the picture one last look, trying to reconcile the badly wounded soldier with the man she knew. She felt like a voyeur; that she had been shown something she had no right to see.
“Where am I to sleep?” she asked.
Angela gestured to a door. “Through there. You should find whatever you need. Don’t mind me if I’m working.”
In contrast to the rest of the flat, the guest room was a neat, tidy room with a single bed covered in a floral eiderdown. Helen set her bag down on the luggage rack and removed her hat and coat. When she returned to the main room, Angela was back at work at her canvas. Not a war picture this time but a huge canvas of Waterloo Bridge.
“Be a dear,” Angela said. “My daily has left some supper for us. It just needs warming. Can you manage? The kitchen’s through there. We’ll have a sherry while we’re waiting.”
Helen found a shepherd’s pie on the table and placed it in the small, gas oven. She cleared a space on the kitchen table and laid out knives and forks and then poured sherry into two unmatched sherry glasses. She handed one to Angela who continued with her work. Helen cleared some papers from an armchair, sat, and watched Angela at work, until the smell of the pie filled the flat.
“I think supper might be ready, shall I serve?” Helen volunteered.
“Would you? I’ll be right with you. The light’s gone now.”
Helen served two helpings on to a pair of cracked dinner plates and summoned Angela.
Angela washed her hands in the kitchen sink and pulled up a chair at the table. She picked at the food on her plate.
“God, Mavis knows I hate shepherd’s pie. It reminds me of nursery dinners when I was a child.”
Helen made no comment although it occurred to her that Mavis obviously knew her employer well and that shepherd’s pie was at least one way of getting nutritious food down her employer’s skinny frame. Angela ate half of what was on her plate and pushed the rest to one side. She lit another cigarette and sat back and watched Helen finish her meal.
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