He laughed. “I’m not a schoolboy, Pearl, not any longer, and I imagine there’ll be boys far younger than me heading over there right now.”
“I don’t understand why you would want to go, why anyone would want to go and fight.”
“It’s not a question of want,” he said, and though he sounded about to say more, he left it at that.
We were almost at the top of the hill, the lofty strip of houses known as Tomintoul, and I stopped, turned and stared back toward Delnasay, its gray slate rooftops poking up from the evergreen trees. I followed the meandering line of the river through the sleepy glen to the whitewashed cottage where smoke rose up from a chimney.
“We won’t be seeing Raffy at church,” said Billy, moving alongside me and following my gaze. “He’s an atheist. No, not an atheist,” he added quickly, correcting himself. “An agnostic.”
“Agnostic?”
“Can’t make up his mind . . . needs proof.”
“Well, you can’t have proof about everything. Some things you just know. That’s why it’s called faith. And anyway, I don’t suppose God has the time to go round proving himself to all and sundry . . . particularly now.”
Billy laughed. “You need to tell Raffy that.”
“Oh, but it’s not my place to tell him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m . . .” I was about to say a servant, but it didn’t sound right, and for some reason I didn’t want to remind Billy.
“You were about to say a woman, weren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I happen to think most women are cleverer than men . . . No, really, I do. Look at the mess we’re in now. Mother says if women were running things, it would never have come to this, and I rather think she’s right.”
I hadn’t got to know Hugo, who was—perhaps understandably—a little dismissive of me, but I felt as though I knew Billy and that he would not patronize, judge or condemn me. There was not an iota of unkindness in his bones. And for the life of me, I really couldn’t imagine him engaged in any fighting.
Billy turned his gaze toward a stretch of pine trees, through which a straggling line of low buildings was visible. “You know, it’s said to be the highest village in the Scottish Highlands. Do you suppose the fact that we’re nearer to heaven means God might better hear our prayers?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Perhaps . . . Let’s hope so.”
“Queen Victoria hated this village. She called it the most tumbledown, poor-looking place she’d ever seen, and the people who lived here—miserable and dirty. What a damned cheek, eh?” he added, turning to me.
“Did the queen stay at Delnasay?”
He laughed. “No, Delnasay’s never had royalty. It’s nowhere near grand enough. No, Her Maj was marauding about with her entourage. She came over from Balmoral—it’s not far, but I pity the poor pony that had to carry her across the hills and glens. And she might have thought, might at least have wondered why the people were miserable and dirty, don’t you think? Silly woman.”
I smiled. “And you said women were intelligent.”
“Ha, I said most. Most. And a pampered queen doesn’t qualify . . . Anyway, we’d better get our skates on.” And he took hold of my arm and placed it through his.
Arm in arm, we walked into the village and onto the main street, the only street. And though I felt a little awkward at first, with my arm through his—because I’d only ever walked out like that with Stanley—I thought it a lovely and kindly gesture. Typical Billy, I thought. And typical Billy that he’d know so many of those standing outside the church; typical of him to want to speak to them; typical of him to introduce me—and not as his mother’s maid or any servant, but simply as “Miss Gibson.” And when an old man with a cloud of snow-colored hair smiled broadly at Billy and then winked at me, I knew what he was thinking: I was Billy Campbell’s sweetheart.
Later, as we all knelt down to pray, as I lowered my head to the varnished wood, I thought at first only of the boy kneeling next to me, and then of all the others: good men, young men, fine laddies . . . And what about the ones who needed proof? Would God give it to them? I wondered. And I reached into my coat pocket, felt for the handkerchief and ran my fingers over those embroidered initials: RSS.
Chapter Eight
Henry Gibson, my grandfather, fought in the Crimean War. Kitty told me it took him three months to walk back across a continent to the place he called home. But there were no flags flying, no bunting and no hero’s welcome when he walked into Battersea Square late one afternoon in May, his clothes in tatters, his boots filled with holes. People mistook him for an outsider, a beggar, Kitty said. Old Man Tate, Peddler Palmer and even Mad Meg—who had never been right but had always known things—had all averted their eyes. Only Benny the Jew, said Kitty, knew and recognized Henry and had run up to him and kissed his beard and filthy hands.
Almost thirty-six hours after war had been declared, Billy disappeared.
He’d come down to breakfast, Mr. Watts reported; and there was nothing at all unusual about Billy’s appetite that morning, he said. But Ottoline, already fretful, wished to know exactly what Billy had had to eat; and when Mr. Watts reeled off the long list of items Billy had helped himself to from the sideboard, she shook her head and closed her eyes, as though it told her everything. Then Mr. Watts said he had seen Billy heading off down the valley with his knapsack, and suggested that he had as likely as not gone on a hike.
But Billy failed to appear at luncheon, and as teatime approached and the weather changed and it began to rain, Ottoline became more and more tense and agitated, drifting from room to room, window to window.
“You were meant to be keeping an eye on him, Pearl.”
I wanted to say to her that I couldn’t very well watch Billy every minute of every day and do my chores and attend her. But I didn’t. I apologized.
She said, “I need Raffy . . . I need him to find Billy.”
“But, my lady, Mr. Watts is probably right. Billy’s no doubt simply gone on a hike and will be back soon.”
“How do you know? How can Watts know?” she snapped. “While we’re sitting about here, my son might already be on his way to . . . to war.”
So I went to the kitchen, told Mr. Watts we needed to do something, or at least appear as though we were doing something, to locate Billy’s whereabouts. Mr. Watts shook his head and rolled his eyes. He said, “That poor boy’s not going to be able to leave his mother’s side now.”
“She wants Mr. Stedman to try to find him.”
Mr. Watts nodded: “I’ll go,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll go and seek Mr. Stedman, tell him what’s what.”
Then Ottoline appeared, along with Mr. Cowper, whom I hadn’t seen all day. She was wearing her hat and gloves and new cape. She said, “We’re taking the dogcart. We’ll go to the village, find McNiven, ask him if he can go to the station—just in case.”
As they all headed out of the door, I called after them, “I’ll walk out down the valley, see if there’s any sign of him.”
Ottoline turned. “Yes, do that.”
So I set off down the glen, following the path by the river. The rain had stopped and the air was fresh and sweet with the mingled scents of heather and pine. Clouds were dispersing and sunlight illuminated the tops of the hills and forested slopes to the east. The path was muddy, and the galoshes I’d put on over my shoes squeaked and squelched as I walked.
Was it to be like this every time Billy disappeared from her sight? I wondered. For like Mr. Watts, I was quite certain Billy Campbell had not gone, and Ottoline’s reaction seemed unnecessarily dramatic. I had been walking for perhaps an hour, lost in the sound and rhythm of my stride, when the shape of Billy came leaping down the hillside.
“Here,” he said, standing in front of me on the path, breathless, smilin
g, flushed. He handed me a small bunch of white heather. “It’s for good luck.”
The heather was wet in my hand. I said, “You’ve caused quite a panic at home, Billy.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“No one knew where you were—and you’ve been gone all day.”
“It’s never bothered anyone before.”
“Well, it does now. Everyone’s been very worried.”
He shook his head. “Then they’re all rather stupid.”
“Billy!”
“I’m sorry, but they are. All they know and understand is their own pathetic agenda . . . luncheon, tea, dinner,” he added in a simpering voice, “and what to wear for each occasion. As though it even matters.”
“I don’t think—”
“The only one I trust,” he interrupted, “the only one whose opinion matters to me, is Raffy. You see, he’s different, Pearl. He’s more like you and me.”
I took a moment. Clearly, Billy had no idea of Ralph Stedman’s duplicitous nature. No idea that the man he spoke of in such glowing terms was in fact his mother’s lover. And the fact that Ralph Stedman had hoodwinked Billy, the fact that he had somehow inspired Billy to put him on a pedestal, made me want to loathe him more.
But I held my tongue. I said only, “I’m not sure about Mr. Stedman.”
Billy turned to me. “That’s because you don’t know him yet, because he keeps to himself. But once you get to know him, once you understand who he is, what he stands for . . . well, I think you’ll respect him as much as I do.”
No, it most definitely wasn’t the time, and though I already suspected—and felt in my heart—that there might never be another chance, I changed the subject and asked Billy where he’d been all day.
“Everywhere . . . over the hills and back again. Taking it all in.” He turned away from me and stared down the valley, his hand to his brow. His hair was damp, slicked back from his forehead, and, transfixed for a moment by the beauty of him, I understood why Ottoline could not let go.
“Do you see it?” he said. “Over there, in the distance?”
He moved behind me, placed his chin on my shoulder and raised my arm. “There,” he said, lifting my hand to a piece of the sky. “It’s an eagle, a golden eagle. See it?”
And I could see something. A dark shape circling—just a bird, to me.
“Yes,” I said. “I can see it now. But how do you know it’s an eagle?”
“By the movement, the wingspan . . . and where it is. It’s right above the aerie at the castle rock.”
“Oh yes, that place.”
“I’ll take you. It’s only a thirty-minute walk. Are you all right with heights?” he asked, moving round in front of me.
“I think so.”
“Come on, then.”
“Oh, but not now,” I said. “We can’t go now. We have to go back, Billy. Your mother . . . She’s beside herself. She’s gone out looking for you. Everyone’s looking for you.”
“Seriously? How embarrassing.” He sighed. “Oh well, another time,” he added, glancing back at me.
Another time.
That evening, almost exactly forty-eight hours after war had been declared, and as I was sitting outside on the wall by the trees—still trying to fathom it all—I saw him, Ralph Stedman. Marching up the driveway, his head down, he seemed to have a new purpose to his stride. But when he looked up and saw me, he stopped. Then he took a few steps and stopped again. Finally he turned and crossed over the lawn toward me.
“Under the circumstances, it seems rather stupid to ask you again if you’re any happier, and yet, bizarrely, I’m compelled to.”
I wasn’t inclined to climb down from the wall for him, so I stayed where I was, and I said, “And under the circumstances, I’d have to be an imbecile to be happy, Mr. Stedman.”
I saw him staring at my ankles. “I’m waiting for the twilight,” I said, as though I had an appointment with it.
He raised his eyes to me. “I hear there was quite a panic today. About Billy?”
I nodded. “But all’s well that ends well.”
He said nothing, and I watched him walk away toward the house. I wondered if he was planning to sign up, too, if he’d put down his paintbrushes and give up Ottoline’s bed and lovers in London for his country, or if he’d be one of those Mr. Watts had already termed “shirkers.” Yes, I thought, he’ll be one of those: Someone so duplicitous is bound to be. Probably say he’s going off to war and then . . . then hide himself away in some woman’s bedroom. Despicable.
I got down from the wall, leaned against the stone and looked in the other direction. In the washed-out sunset hanging over the land, all was soft and still. And yet we are at war, I thought again; and then I said the word out loud: “War.” It seemed completely inadequate, its one syllable a mere sound, like a bleat, and newly pathetic.
Ever optimistic, Mrs. Lister kept using the word skirmish, but something inside me scoffed at that word. Though the notion of war, the idea that men were already fighting and perhaps dying over in France, was still impossible for me to comprehend and imagine, I knew what lay ahead was not going to be any skirmish. It was simply too big a mess, with too many countries involved and tangled up in it for anything to be resolved quickly. It could last months, even a year—a whole year, I thought, staring up at the heavens; I might be twenty-five by the time it was over . . . twenty-six by the time I got to see France . . . Paris and Biarritz.
I had planned to be married by the time I was twenty-five. It had seemed a good age for it: not too old and not too young. And it allowed for me to have the first of my children at twenty-six; the second at twenty-eight; and a third at thirty. Nicely spaced. Not too many. Boy, girl, boy. Up until very recently, it had seemed possible, even likely. I would spend a year or two more in service, travel, see a bit of the world, or England at least, and then devote myself to . . . to Stanley? Had I really thought that?
“Yes, I had,” I said out loud, half laughing, newly astonished.
“Had what?”
I turned. He stood on the grass, clutching a glass in each hand.
“Had . . . thought the Germans would see sense.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they didn’t.”
“No.”
“No.” He glanced at the glasses in each of his hands as though not quite sure how or why they were there. “Ah yes,” he said, remembering, “my cousin and I thought your twilight might be enhanced by a glass of sherry.”
“Your cousin?”
“Ottoline. Our mothers were sisters,” he said, offering me a glass.
I shook my head. “I don’t drink.”
“Never?”
“Only on special occasions . . . Christmas and such.”
“Hmm. And the outbreak of war can hardly be described as a special occasion.”
He looked awkward for a moment, clutching the two glasses and staring down at the grass. I said, “I had no idea you and my lady were related . . . You must be very close?” I couldn’t help myself.
“Not especially, not now—though we were when we were children.” He raised his eyes to me. “Our lives and lifestyles are very different. I see her when she’s here, when I’m here, but I prefer not to get too involved in affairs. That’s why I stay at the cottage.”
I was flabbergasted by his audacity. I said, “And what about London, Mr. Stedman? Are affairs easier for you there?”
“Much. But it’s entirely different. I’m quite often passing through and tend not to tell Ottoline. I don’t lie,” he quickly added—perhaps seeing my expression. “I simply don’t tell her. It’s the only way. Otherwise, can you imagine? I’d be embroiled there, too.”
“She’ll find out.”
“Hopefully not . . . Not unless you tell her, of course
,” he added, smiling. It all seemed to be something of a joke to him.
I stood up straighter. I said, “My lady has spoken to me about everything, Mr. Stedman, and, as I think you already know, I happen to have seen things for myself.”
“No, I didn’t know. But if you caught them together, I’m pleased. It eliminates doubt, and there’s nothing worse.”
Things were muddling, shifting about in my mind. I waited as he placed a glass on the wall, pulled out his packet of cigarettes and lit one. Then I said, “What do you mean, them?”
“Ottoline and Felix Cowper. Isn’t that who we were speaking about?”
My heart performed a strange acrobatic feat in my diaphragm. I said, “Oh yes . . . Yes, indeed. Ottoline and Felix Cowper.”
It was not Ralph Stedman. The liar, the cad, the man in Ottoline’s bed was not he. It was Mr. Cowper, Felix Cowper. It was Mr. Cowper returning to his room when he asked me about breakfast; Mr. Cowper, who had disappeared off with Ottoline the following morning; Mr. Cowper, sitting with her now.
“You know, I think I will have that drink after all, Mr. Stedman.”
He handed me a glass and raised his own. “To a short war . . . and to peace.”
“To peace,” I repeated.
An exquisite silence fell over us, and as I sipped the warm liquid, I turned away from him, smiling at the shadows on the lawn, and at my own wonderful stupidity.
“Do you have cousins?” he asked after a while.
I shook my head.
“Siblings?”
I shook my head again.
“What about parents?”
“I never knew them, was brought up by my aunt, but she’s gone, too.”
He waited a moment, then asked, “So . . . where’s home, exactly?”
I turned to him, still smiling. “I don’t have one, Mr. Stedman.”
“I see,” he said, but I knew he didn’t. I knew that to someone such as him, the idea of not having a home or family must be very strange. And I knew it even more by the lengthy silence that followed. For what can anyone say to that? There can be no further polite inquiries as to who or where. And though I’d experienced that same silence dozens of times before, and had sat in servants’ halls listening to others speak about home, about mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, grandparents, sweethearts and aunts, it felt different this time, perhaps because it was my birthday, or perhaps because we were at war, or perhaps because it was him.
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