‘I only ran away from school, Mum!’ he gasped as she hugged and hugged him, and his dad, and his brothers and sisters, and even his Aunt Genevre and his elderly Great-Aunt Deborah, ran towards them. Only Danny Collins remained stock-still. ‘I never ran away from home! Honest I didn’t.’
‘Carrie?’ Still Danny didn’t move. Couldn’t move. He stared past the joyful, moonlit reunion scene to where Carrie, winded and breathless by her long run, had slowed to a walk as she crossed the dark square towards him. ‘You ’aven’t left me?’ he asked hoarsely as, at last, she stepped onto the rain-slicked pavement. ‘You’re not goin’ ter leave me? You’re not goin’ ter run off with ’Emingway?’
Carrie paused at the Emmersons’ gateway. In the long years she and Danny had been together, she had known him in many different moods and tempers, but she had never known him like this before. She had never known him to be frightened. ‘No,’ she said with quiet finality from where she was standing and then, gently, ‘We’re married, remember?’
A slow, wide, sizzling grin split his snub-nosed face. ‘Course we are.’ His voice was raw with emotion. ‘An’ we’re ’avin’ another kiddie, ain’t we?’
Carrie nodded, tears glittering on her eyelashes. In his own, inimitable way, he was telling her all she needed to know. Together with Rose, they and the new baby were going to be a family – were already a family. He walked towards her with a measure of his old jauntiness. ‘It’s bin a funny old summer, ain’t it?’ he said with mammoth understatement as she stepped into the circle of his arms. ‘A coronation summer – an’ they don’t come round very often, thank Gawd. With a bit o’ luck, you and me’ll never ’ave another.’
She blinked away the tears that threatened to fall. Her coronation summer had been the most memorable, most special summer of her life – and Danny was right, there wouldn’t be another. There would, though, be a baby. A baby that was going to fill her life with joy and purpose.
‘Let’s go home, love,’ she said, suddenly wanting to be home more than she wanted anything else in the world.
‘There’s nuffink I’d like better,’ he said with fervent sincerity, ‘an’ when we get indoors I’ll make yer a nice cup o’ scaldin’ ’ot tea.’
She smiled lovingly up into his dearly familiar face. A cup of tea at her own kitchen table. Rose sleeping peacefully in the little bedroom next to theirs. Coronation morning to look forward to. ‘That sounds smashing,’ she said, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm around her waist, as they began walking homewards across the moonlit square.
A Season of Secrets
the latest novel by bestselling author
Margaret Pemberton is out now.
Sweeping from the Great War, through the Jazz Age to the 1940s, this story follows the entwined lives of the Fentons, an aristocratic family from Yorkshire.
Thea, the eldest daughter of Viscount Gilbert Fenton, flouts the unwritten rules of her class by embarking on a love affair with Hal, the fiercely socialist son of one of her father’s tenant farmers. Carrie, her close childhood friend and granddaughter of the Viscount’s nanny, has always been expected to marry Hal – but when she goes into service she finds herself longing for the one person she can never hope to marry.
Olivia, the middle Fenton sister, follows a more conventional path, forging friendships with the British royal family and attending a finishing school in Germany. Her relationship with Count von der Schulenburg does not raise eyebrows, but as the mid-1930s approach, she finds herself in a country experiencing rapid, radical and dangerous social change. Violet, the youngest of the Fenton sisters, is also the most reckless. She dreams of becoming an actress in Hollywood, unaware her life will be filled with more drama than any part she will ever play.
And then there is Rozalind, their American cousin, who is secretly in love with a married US senator. Her ambitions to become a photojournalist will also take her into the heart of Hitler’s Germany.
Set against the rich backdrop of the first half of the twentieth century, A Season of Secrets is an unforgettable tale of passion and betrayal, love and war.
The first chapter follows here.
Chapter One
AUGUST 1915
It was early morning and eight-year-old Carrie Thornton sat on a sheep-studded hillside, her arms hugging her knees, her face wet with tears. Below her, in one of the loveliest valleys North Yorkshire possessed, a river curved. On its far bank, beyond an ancient three-arched stone bridge, lay a Georgian mansion sheltered by trees.
With blurred vision and deeply apprehensive, Carrie stared down at it. Gorton Hall was the home of the Fenton family. Carrie was familiar with stories about the Fentons, for when Viscount Fenton had been a child, her granny had been his nanny. Not only that, but when her widowed father had marched off to war, a little over a year ago, his company commander had been Lord Fenton, and Lord Fenton had still been his senior commanding officer when, three short weeks ago at the battle of Hooge, German shellfire had ended his life.
The tears Carrie was now shedding were for the father, who had been loving and kind and had always had time for her. The apprehension she felt was because of the letter Lord Fenton had written to his wife, suggesting it might help the granddaughter of his old nanny get over her grief if, for the remainder of the summer, she were to spend a little time each day at Gorton with their daughters, two of whom were close to Carrie in age.
Ever since her mother had died of diphtheria her granny had said that when she was old enough – twelve or thirteen – there could be no better training for her than to be taken on as a tweeny at Gorton, and when the news of Lord Fenton’s suggestion had been broken to her, Carrie had said, not understanding, ‘But I’m too young to be a tweeny, Granny.’
Her granny had hugged her close to her ample bosom. ‘You’re not going there to work, silly-billy – and won’t be doing so for a long time yet. You’re going there to be company for Miss Thea and Miss Olivia.’
Carrie had frowned, still deeply puzzled. She had known Thea and Olivia ever since she could remember, for whenever the family were at Gorton, and not at their London town house, Lady Fenton would call on her husband’s nanny for a cosy chat, a cup of tea and a slice of home-made ginger cake. When she did so she nearly always brought Thea and Olivia, and sometimes their younger sister, Violet, with her. Not only that, but the Fentons’ current nanny often walked Thea and Olivia into the village so that they could spend their pocket-money on butterscotch at the village shop.
‘But why do I have to be company for them at the big house?’ she’d asked, not liking the way it would set her apart from her friends. ‘Why can’t they come down to Outhwaite to play?’
‘Because that wouldn’t be at all proper,’ her granny had said briskly. ‘Now stop asking questions and just think what a lucky little girl you are, being invited to play in such a wonderful house.’
Not feeling at all lucky, Carrie wiped the last of her tears away, pushed wheat-coloured plaits back over her shoulders and rose glumly to her feet. Until now, she had never set foot inside the house and had never expected to until the day when, if she fulfilled her granny’s plans for her, she would begin working there.
Hal was a year older than Carrie, and his father, who was one of Lord Fenton’s tenant farmers, had told her quite bluntly what he thought of her being invited to Gorton to be a playmate for Thea and Olivia. ‘It’s going to muck things up,’ he’d said grimly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of a shabby jacket. ‘How can you spend time wi’ them and still spend time wi’ me? You can’t. You’re not going to be able to do any bilberry-picking, and you’re not going to be able to watch the vole pups take to the water – and seein’ as how it’s August, it’ll be the last litter this year.’
‘Perhaps Miss Thea and Miss Olivia will want to bilberry-pick and see the vole pups as well,’ she’d said.
Hal had laughed so much he’d had to hug his tummy. ‘Not in a million years, daft idiot!’ Suddenly he’d straight
ened up. Pushing a tumble of coal-black curls away from his forehead, he’d said fiercely, ‘And if you’re playmates, don’t call them Miss Thea and Miss Olivia. Not unless they call you Miss Caroline.’ And at this unlikelihood he’d begun laughing again, this time so hard that Carrie had thought he was going to be sick.
‘Hello, Carrie,’ Blanche Fenton’s voice was low-pitched and full of reassurance as, still holding her granny’s hand, Carrie faced her in the intimidating surroundings of a room stuffed with gilt-framed paintings, silver-framed photographs and small tables crammed with ornaments. ‘Thea and Olivia are very much looking forward to you spending time with them.’
Despite her nervousness, Carrie was glad to discover that Lady Fenton was just as nice and approachable within the walls of her home as she had always seemed to be outside it. She had a cloud of dark hair that she wore caught in a loose knot on the top of her head and, wherever she went, she carried the faint scent of roses with her. Though she seemed old to Carrie, her granny had told her that Lady Fenton was only twenty-nine, which, she had said, wasn’t old at all.
‘And Gilbert is only thirty,’ she had added, forgetting her rule always to refer to her former charge as either ‘Lord Fenton’ or ‘his lordship’. ‘They were scarcely old enough to be out in society when they married, and neither of them has any side whatsoever.’
Carrie had been mystified by the word ‘side’ until her granny had explained it meant that Lord and Lady Fenton weren’t pretentious. ‘Which means they behave in exactly the same way to absolutely everyone, no matter who they are,’ she had added when Carrie had continued to look bewildered.
‘Please don’t worry about anything, Nanny Thornton,’ Blanche Fenton said now. ‘I’m sure this arrangement is going to work beautifully.’ She took hold of Carrie’s free hand. ‘Jim Crosby will collect Carrie every morning in the pony-trap and bring her home in it every teatime.’
Carrie felt a flash of alarm. As well as being the general handyman at Gorton Hall, Jim Crosby was Hal’s uncle, and Carrie didn’t think he’d take kindly to ferrying her back and forth every day. He’d think she was getting ideas far above her station in life – as would her friends in the village when they got to hear about it.
Foreseeing all kinds of difficulties ahead, she said a reluctant goodbye to her granny and allowed herself to be led from the room.
‘Thea and Olivia are in the playroom,’ Blanche said encouragingly. ‘Violet doesn’t visit it much, as she is still in the nursery and spends most of her time with Nanny Eskdale.’
They were walking down a royal-blue carpeted corridor lined with marble busts set on fluted pedestals. Through an open doorway Carrie saw a maid busily dusting. The room looked to be a smaller version of the room they had just left and she wondered how many other such rooms there were, and how the Fentons decided which room it was they wanted to spend time in.
Another maid, a smart black dress skimming neat buttoned boots and wearing a snowy lace apron and cap, walked down the corridor towards them. She stood to one side as they passed, giving Blanche a respectful little bob and shooting Carrie a look of curiosity.
Together, Blanche and Carrie turned a corner and began climbing a balustraded staircase carpeted in the same dazzling blue. At the top, on a spacious landing, it divided into two.
‘This is the main staircase of the house,’ Blanche said. ‘I’m taking you this way so that we can look at a few family portraits together.’
The portrait looking down on them as they approached the landing was of a robust-looking gentleman with a shock of silver hair.
‘This portrait is of Samuel George Fenton, Lord Fenton’s grandfather,’ Blanche said as they came to a halt in front of it. ‘He was a Yorkshire wool baron, a Member of Parliament and the first Viscount Fenton.’
They turned and began to mount the left-hand flight of stairs.
‘This portrait,’ she said, referring to the first painting they came to, ‘is of his wife, Isabella May.’
Isabella May’s stout figure was encased in purple silk. She was heavy-featured and stern-faced, her thin lips set in a line as tight as a trap. Carrie didn’t like the look of her, but knew it would be bad manners to say so.
There were several more portraits. One was of the present viscount’s late father who, Blanche told her, had spent his early years in India, an officer in the British Army. Carrie liked the dashing red of his uniform and the wonderful sword at his side.
By the time they reached the next landing, where the royal-blue carpet gave way to carpeting a lot less dazzling, Carrie knew that, where Lady Fenton was concerned, she had never met any adult she thought more wonderful.
‘The playroom is up here on the third floor, so that noisy games can be played without the rest of the house being disturbed,’ Blanche said. ‘The schoolroom is on the second floor of the east wing and easier to get to.’
‘The schoolroom?’ Carrie had never before given any thought as to how Thea and Olivia were educated. All she knew was that they certainly didn’t go to Outhwaite elementary school where, clutching slates and chalk, everyone sat in rows on uncomfortable benches and only their teacher, Miss Calvert, had a desk.
They were outside the playroom door now, but Blanche didn’t open it. Until now she had never had any doubt that inviting Carrie to spend time with Thea and Olivia was, under the circumstances, the right thing to do. It wasn’t as if Carrie was just any village child. As Gilbert’s nanny, Ivy Thornton had played an important part in his childhood and his affection for her was deep. When he had outgrown the nursery, Ivy had become nanny to one of his young cousins and then, later, nanny to a whole string of his nieces and nephews. Now in her seventies and comfortably pensioned off by him, she lived rent-free in one of Gorton’s tied cottages.
Knowing her husband as she did, Blanche was certain that, like her, he would have assumed any grandchild of Ivy’s would be reasonably well-educated. Now, seeing how startled Carrie was by the word ‘schoolroom’, she was no longer so sure.
‘Can you read and write, Carrie?’ she asked, trying not to let her concern show in her voice.
Carrie looked even more surprised at this.
‘Yes.’ She tried not to show how affronted she was by the question. ‘My granny taught me to read and write – and how to do numbers – long before I went to school.’
Blanche breathed a sigh of relief. If Carrie could read and write, it made things easier. She would feel less awkward with Thea and Olivia and might even be able to join them in their lessons when Miss Cumberbatch, their governess, returned from her summer leave.
Hoping that Thea and Olivia would be immediately friendly towards Carrie – especially as she had explained to them the manner in which Carrie had been orphaned – Blanche opened the playroom door.
With butterflies dancing in her tummy, Carrie followed her into the room. What she had been expecting she didn’t quite know, but certainly it wasn’t the sight of Thea garbed in a trailing cloak of gold-coloured velvet, a cardboard crow crammed on a waterfall of glossy chestnut ringlets.
‘I’m King Cophetua,’ she said, looking exceedingly cross. ‘Olivia is supposed to be the beggar-maid, only she refuses to take off her shoes and stockings and she won’t wear anything raggedy out of the dressing-up box.’
Olivia, her marmalade-coloured hair held away from her face by a floppy brown bow, skipped up to them, unrepentant. ‘That’s because Thea always takes the grand parts and never lets me wear the crown. Would you like to be the beggar-maid, Carrie? Or have we to play at being pirates instead?’
Blanche, grateful that Ivy Thornton wouldn’t now have to be told by Carrie that on her first day at Gorton she’d been asked to dress in rags, said, ‘Being pirates sounds far more interesting than being King Cophetua and his beggar-maid.’
Thea, still trailing a river of gold-coloured velvet behind her, came over to stand next to Olivia. Blanche, aware that her daughters were patiently waiting for her to go, blew them a kiss and, c
ertain they would now take good care of Carrie, closed the door behind her.
Thea swept her late grandmother’s opera cloak up and over her shoulder, toga-like. ‘What is it like to be an orphan?’ she asked bluntly as the sound of her mother’s footsteps receded. ‘Is it very hideous?’
‘Yes.’ Carrie felt it was a stupid question, but as she hadn’t yet got the measure of Thea, didn’t tell her so. ‘And I’m only an orphan because my father was killed fighting in Flanders. How would you feel if it had been your father?’
Thea, who was a year older than Carrie and Olivia, regarded her with eyes that were very narrow, very green and very bright. She’d been happy at the thought of having Carrie as a temporary playmate and was quite prepared to be condescendingly nice to her, but she wasn’t happy about a village girl being uppity with her.
As she tried to think of a suitably crushing retort, Olivia took hold of Carrie’s hand and began leading her towards a huge wicker hamper that was the dressing-up box. ‘Papa isn’t going to be killed. Mama gave him a little silver crucifix that used to hang on one of her necklace chains, and he carries it with him all the time.’
There was such happy trust in Olivia’s voice that Carrie hadn’t the heart to express doubt as to whether the crucifix would stop bullets, bayonets and murderous shellfire.
‘Are you wearing a black pinafore dress because you’re in mourning?’ Olivia asked. ‘I saw you in a pretty red gingham dress once. We don’t have any gingham dresses. All our dresses have pin-tucked bodices and big sashes that are always coming undone.’
‘Yes,’ Carrie said to the question. ‘And the red gingham is my Sunday-best dress. Granny made it.’
The flowered linen smocks Thea and Olivia were wearing now were far from being either pin-tucked or sashed and were not the kind of clothes Carrie had expected them to be wearing. Thea even had a hole in one of her white stockings. That she was so obviously unembarrassed by it impressed Carrie. Aiming for self-confidence herself, she liked to see it in other people.
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