Cast the First Stone: A stunning wartime story

by Angela Arney

  Liana sat on the stile considering the immediate practical implications. I ought to go back, her conscience nagged her. Margaret wanted her to; she dithered, uncertain, but the hesitation was only fleeting and then an obdurate look settled on her face. Doctor Ramsay will have to wait; I’m not ready to see him yet. I must prepare myself mentally. The thoughts churned over, slow and deliberate. It would not be easy to fool Donald Ramsay with fictitious dates but he had to believe her, had to be utterly convinced. Somehow she must make him so certain that he would not even consider questioning the dates. Yes, more time was needed; today was not the right day. Having decided that, Liana resolutely shouldered the burden and, putting it temporarily from her mind, continued walking across the downland towards a knoll topped by a dense copper beechwood. This group of ancient trees, she knew, marked the boundary of that part of the Broadacres’ estate.

  Margaret watched Liana’s diligent and single-minded inspection of Broadacres and everything around her with bewildered awe and admiration. Liana was an enigma. Never before had Margaret met a young woman who on the surface was a vulnerable, gentle beauty, the very essence of femininity, but who also possessed such an obvious streak of deeply ruthless determination. She could not help thinking it was almost as if her spine was made of steel instead of bone. So different from me, thought Margaret. But she liked her, and desperately hoped that they would become good friends. It would help fill the void left by her own daughter who now lived in New Zealand, and whom Margaret missed more with each passing year.

  Life had not been kind to Margaret. As a young woman she had grown up large-boned and awkward, with a face resembling the horses she loved so much. She knew that she was ugly. How could she not? It was a fact which had been thrown in her face often enough by her disappointed parents. How could they ever marry her off? No eligible man with a penny in his pocket would ever look twice at her. When she was young, girls of her class were expected to marry well, and suitable husbands were ruthlessly hunted during the débutante season.

  Even now, so many years later, Margaret shuddered when she remembered that ghastly year, the year of her eighteenth birthday, when she was forced to attend balls and dinners, go to Ascot and Henley, squeezing her raw-boned figure into unsuitable frilly dresses. She hated every moment. Shy and retiring, she had been considered the unqualified failure of the season.

  Not a single eligible bachelor had looked at her until the very handsome Viscount Richard Hamilton-Howard, later to become Earl of Wessex, appeared on the scene. Between them, the two sets of parents contrived to hastily marry the pair off. Everyone marvelled that such a handsome young man as Richard should agree to marry a plain girl like Margaret. However, he made no objection, and indeed, seemed indifferent to the arrangement, and the wedding went ahead. A violent, and desperately unhappy marriage followed, only ending when the earl died unexpectedly from a massive stroke in 1935.

  The disastrous coupling produced three children. Of the three, only Nicholas, the second-born, had ever given Margaret any lasting joy. She had never understood William, her youngest son, and was afraid of his unpredictable swings of mood.

  The eldest, her daughter Anne, four years older than Nicholas, had emigrated to New Zealand in 1937. Margaret loved her dearly, but Anne hated her father and always quarrelled with William. Finally, after a terrible scene, Anne had stormed from the house saying she would never live there again while William remained. In vain had Margaret pleaded, but Anne was adamant. The passage was booked, and she sailed for New Zealand. There she met and married a New Zealand farmer, Richard Chapman, and in January 1941 bore him a son, Peter.

  Margaret prayed every day for the good health and happiness of the grandson she had never seen and hoped that one day they would come to England so that she could meet him. It was a forlorn hope. Anne would never return while William was there. And now that it seemed there was no alternative but for William to stay at home for ever because of his injury, the prospect of Anne’s return grew more and more remote.

  Now Margaret was waiting impatiently in the breakfast room for Liana to join her. She was worried. Yet again Liana had missed her appointment with Dr Ramsay. Donald Ramsay had reassured Margaret, saying there was nothing to worry about; he would catch up with Liana within the next day or two. Her other worry was William. Common sense told her that she should be pleased at his change of mood, the sudden friendliness and willingness to please, the unexpected development of an easy-going nature. But alarm bells were ringing in her head. Was it the lull before the storm? Gut instinct told her that he had successfully pulled the shutters down over his real self. There was another man behind those shutters, one he did not want the world to see. She mentioned her fears to Donald Ramsay, who pooh-poohed them.

  ‘For God’s sake be thankful for small mercies,’ he said. ‘William seems to have settled down at last. Who knows, perhaps the trauma of the war was a blessing in disguise for him.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Margaret was not convinced. If Donald did not believe her about William, he would never believe it if she told him that she often felt Liana was hiding behind shutters, too. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of such sadness that she wanted to fling her arms around Liana and say, tell me about it. But she never did. Her own English reserve and Liana’s carefully erected barricades prevented it.

  At last Liana joined her at the table, bending first to plant a kiss on her mother-in-law’s cheek. ‘Good morning, Margaret,’ she said softly.

  Margaret smiled, William forgotten for the moment. ‘Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ It was the ritual opening conversation of the day, the same every morning. Liana enjoyed it. She found it had a soothing effect, and gave her a sense of continuity and permanence.

  She watched Margaret thoughtfully as she poured the tea. She could sense Margaret’s unhappiness, and was certain it had something to do with William although she could not think of any particular reason.

  Casting her mind back to Italy, she remembered her grim determination to get on well with Nicholas’s mother, whatever the cost. She half smiled now. How easy it had been. In spite of her unfortunate and rather forbidding appearance, it had not taken Liana long to realize that Margaret was a gentle woman who would not hurt a fly and that although she was hopeless at organizing her own life, or anything else for that matter, she was generous and well meaning. Respect had quickly grown into love. Sometimes Liana thought that all the love lying dormant since the death of Eleanora had now been transferred to Margaret. In a strange way, the relationship was very similar. Liana knew she was the strong and dominant personality, and Margaret the one needing help. Yet at the same time, Margaret provided Liana with the firm anchor she needed. Chance had brought them together, two very different women from different worlds; but they each filled an empty space in the life of the other, and from now on fate had ordained that their lives should run in tandem.

  Liana brought her mind back to the problem of the estate. Now, she decided, was an opportune moment to steer the direction of their conversation towards the subject of how the estate was managed.

  ‘Nicholas told me the Broadacres estate was “run down”, to use his words,’ she said. ‘At the time, I didn’t really understand what he meant because it was such an English expression, but now, I think I do. He meant it was being wasted. I have some ideas which I think could help things to run more smoothly. I’d like to make things easier for Nicholas so that there is not so much for him to do when he comes home, and I think it could help you, too. It must be difficult for you managing everything on your own. Will you allow me to help?’ Feminine intuition made her refer to Nicholas; he was after all the nominal, although absent, master of Broadacres. It would never do for her to appear too domineering.

  During the day-time, when she had been walking, Liana’s mind had accumulated facts like a filing system and in the evenings she had put that information to good use. Broadacres had an enormous library, housed in part of the ho
use always called the Lower Cloisters. Here she had found many books on farm and estate management, animal and fish husbandry, and woodland management. There in the library, surrounded by priceless bookcases and bureaux designed especially for Broadacres by Thomas Chippendale, all relics of Broadacres’s illustrious past, Liana sat reading. But it was the future not the past which preoccupied her fertile mind as she gained information from the mountain of books spread out across a mahogany drum table.

  Each evening she sat reading, her eyes racing across the pages, learning and absorbing knowledge quickly. It was not long before she realized that, with planning and hard work, and not much capital outlay, many things on the estate could be changed for the better. What puzzled her was why Nicholas or William had never worked this out for themselves. She knew, because Margaret had told her, that their education had been the most privileged available – Winchester College and Oxford University – and yet neither of them had put their knowledge to practical use. It seemed that gentleman farmers, as Margaret always called them, preferred to simply take pleasure from their land, not utilize it. In Liana’s opinion, things would have to change. Making money came first, pleasure was a secondary consideration.

  Liana’s method of accounting was simple and basic – most of Miss Rose’s education had tended to concentrate on the classics. Even so, she did not find it difficult at all to assemble facts and figures which clearly showed where mistakes were being made, although the mistakes did not account for everything. Meticulously juggling with lists of crops, available land and potential harvests, Liana calculated that, with a little reorganization, this time next year the estate and the home farm could be making a profit. In fact, the more she read and assimilated, the more she was shocked. The losses Lady Margaret was being forced to accept and pay for were quite scandalous. Something was very wrong; and Liana had a shrewd idea that the estate manager, Sidney Catermole and his wife Edith the housekeeper and cook, had something to do with it. That was one of the first problems to overcome, and one which would need tackling head on.

  ‘Margaret, will you let me help?’ she repeated, more firmly this time.

  Her mother-in-law regarded her doubtfully, carefully setting down her cup of tea. ‘I know I do need help,’ she admitted, ‘but is it right for you to do anything at the moment? You should be taking care of yourself, not worrying about my problems. The baby is the most important . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she realized that, yet again, Liana’s orange juice and boiled egg were not on the breakfast table. She picked up the bell from the sideboard and rang it briskly. She never dared disturb Edith Catermole for herself, but for Liana and her unborn grandchild, that was a different matter. She found the courage. ‘You must have a proper breakfast. You need that orange juice and egg,’ she said firmly. ‘Nicholas will never forgive me if I neglect his child.’

  His child, Nicholas’s child! The familiar spasm of guilt besieged Liana but she gave no indication other than holding herself a little more erect and ramrod stiff. ‘I’m perfectly all right, Margaret. I’m well and I’m eating plenty. Anyway I don’t want to spend too much time over breakfast, I want to get out and look around the . . .’

  Margaret clicked her tongue in disapproval. ‘Sometimes I think you forget you are pregnant.’

  Forget! Oh, Margaret, if only you knew! How can I forget that I am pregnant with Raul’s child? Raul’s, and not Nicholas’s. Each day I love this place more, each day I learn to love you more, and each day the deception seems worse because of that. No, I cannot forget, and I hate cheating you, although I have no alternative but to keep silent.

  Forcing a smile to her lips, Liana said. ‘You are wrong. I don’t forget, Margaret.’

  After long delay, a bad-tempered looking Mrs Catermole eventually entered the breakfast room. ‘Yes,’ she said, adding ‘madam,’ and managing to make it sound like an insult rather than a politeness.

  ‘Oh, Edith.’ Margaret forced herself to smile in the face of the other woman’s hostility. ‘You have forgotten Lady Liana’s orange juice and boiled egg.’

  ‘We haven’t got any – orange juice or eggs.’

  ‘But why not? Doctor Ramsay gave you the ration book and the welfare book for the extra food because of her pregnancy. You had them the week before she arrived. Surely you must have had time to get these things by now? And as for the eggs, we must have some, surely? We keep our own hens for fresh eggs.’

  ‘The hens aren’t laying. Sidney reckons it was that doodlebug that landed in their field last month. A doodlebug is a flying bomb Your Ladyship.’ Mrs Catermole looked at Liana accusingly, as if she personally were responsible for the bomb.

  ‘I know. I have read about them in the newspapers.’ Liana smiled reluctantly, feeling she ought to attempt to defuse the unpleasant atmosphere for Margaret’s sake.

  Margaret sighed. Whatever she asked for, it was never available, and there was always a plausible excuse for its absence forthcoming from Edith. Without actually checking the hen house herself, which she was afraid to do in case the Catermoles caught her at it, she had to accept her word. ‘Well, what about the orange juice, then?’

  ‘I swopped the points. Her Ladyship never said she wanted orange juice, and you did say you wanted roast beef this Sunday,’ intoned Edith with a long-suffering air, as if explaining the facts of life to a simpleton. ‘So you’ll have your beef but she’, nodding her head towards Liana, ‘won’t have her orange juice.’

  Liana interrupted, firmly suppressing her rising temper and resisting the temptation to snap at the surly woman. She spoke softly, the tone of her voice unwavering. ‘Never mind, Mrs Catermole. I’m sure I shall survive very well without the orange juice.’

  She smiled pleasantly, gauging that she could afford to. Little did they know it, but the Catermoles would feel the first of many changes she intended to make. She had instinctively disliked them at their first meeting and since then neither Mr nor Mrs Catermole had done anything to encourage a change of mind.

  Carefully hiding the anger surging within her, she watched Edith Catermole. She was sure the woman was taunting Lady Margaret, sneering because she knew very well Margaret’s gentle nature would prevent her from answering back. But I’m not gentle, thought Liana, and I will make you pay. Oh, yes, pledged Liana, you will pay, my dear Mrs Catermole, and so will that husband of yours. But not yet.

  Intuitively she took care to lull the surly woman into feeling self-confident. Let her feel sure that she had won the day yet again. From beneath half-closed eyelids Liana watched the smug little snigger which tugged at the woman’s thin lips and hid her own secret smile. Mrs Catermole had no idea of what lay ahead. The lessons learned on the streets of Naples were well and truly imprinted on Liana’s mind; never, never show your hand until what you want is within reach. At that moment she did not know how she was going to deal with the Catermoles but deal with them she would, and when they were least expecting it.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be worrying.’ Edith sniffed smugly and glowered balefully at Lady Margaret. ‘Plenty of oranges where you come from.’ She started to leave the room.

  ‘Yes.’ Neither the tone of Liana’s voice nor her demeanour indicated to either Margaret or the housekeeper that for most of the time the inhabitants of Italy, including herself, were starving, because oranges were only available at inflated prices on the black market.

  The black market! Of course, why didn’t I think of it before? A germ of an idea was coming, and Liana smiled slowly. ‘To save you any more trouble, Mrs Catermole, and because I know how busy you are, I shall be doing the shopping for Lady Margaret, William and myself in future. So I shall be very grateful if you can let me have the three ration books and my welfare book when you have a spare moment.’

  There was a sudden silence in the room. Margaret’s head came up and she stared at Liana in astonishment. Hold their own ration books! Do their own shopping! The idea was revolutionary as far as she was concerned; the thought had never occurred to he
r. All her life she had been actively discouraged from thinking for herself, and on the few occasions in her youth when she had shown any signs of initiative, she had been firmly suppressed. Now she was hopelessly out of practice.

  Margaret suddenly felt very nervous: this was going rather too far. Did Liana really know what it entailed – going to the village shop in Longford and queueing with everybody else? Margaret had never even set foot in the shop, let alone queued. She opened her mouth to voice a protest but one sharp glance from Liana and she quickly closed it again. The girl had a plan, she could see it in her eyes. Suddenly Margaret felt more confident. Whatever needed to be done Liana would do it, and she, Margaret, would stop being useless and help her.

  As for Edith Catermole, it was as if she had been struck by a thunderbolt. She stopped walking mid-stride and turned back. Her usually tightly zipped mouth fell open in astonishment. It hung slackly as she regarded Liana with an uncertain, confused gaze. It was a long time since anyone had had the effect of making her unsure of herself, and she did not like it. And what was more, she did not like the new countess. Edith had small, dark eyes, like black boot buttons Margaret always thought, and now they swivelled towards Liana brimming with malevolence. Liana looked at the gimlet eyes set in the pasty face and disliked her more than ever. Not many people could outstare Edith Catermole, but Liana’s inner core of steel shone through her deceptive, doe-like eyes, and it was Edith who dropped her gaze before shuffling awkwardly out of the room.

  ‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ she muttered as she went through the door.

  ‘But I’ve never shopped for groceries in my life!’ said Margaret in a scandalized whisper as soon as Edith had disappeared.