by Angela Arney
As they entered the hall of Broadacres Liana took off the velvet evening cape given her by Margaret and threw it across a chaise-longue. Like Margaret, she felt elated and happy. Her first step into English society, and she had made a good impression. What was even more important, although she did not mention it to Margaret, was the fact that she had made some very useful business contacts, contacts which she had every intention of following up. Consciously using the power she knew she possessed, Liana had mesmerized the men with her beauty and intelligence. The verdict had been unanimous. The young Earl of Wessex had got himself a very fine, and unusually intelligent, wife.
‘Margaret.’ Liana swung round and helped the older woman remove her heavy cloak. ‘Thank you for taking me. I have had the most wonderful, time.’
‘Oh, so Lady Liana was impressed with the high society set-up.’ An unpleasant snigger echoed loudly down the curved staircase.
Startled, both women looked up. William was slouched sideways on the top stair, an empty whisky bottle in his hand. He was very drunk, but not too drunk to talk. He was still capable of that. The light from the single chandelier in the hall cast weird shadows across his face, adding a twisted, slightly unreal dimension to his features. His pale eyes glittered. ‘Italian wop meets the English aristocracy,’ he sneered. ‘How’s that for a headline? The gossip columnists will be sharpening their pencils. They can spot a sham a mile off.’
The breath left Liana’s body as she gasped. She knew his words were merely an expression of his irrational hatred of her, that they had no basis. It was her own guilt which made her gasp. My own guilt, she reminded herself. William knows nothing, nothing at all. All the same, she wished he had used any other word but sham.
‘William! How dare you speak to Liana like that? Apologize at once!’
‘Apologize? For what, mother? For speaking the truth? She is a wop, and I bet they all shunned her.’
It was not often Margaret found the courage to stand up to William, but now his insults were more than she could tolerate. She started to walk up the staircase towards her son. ‘For your information, William, Liana was an enormous success. Winston Churchill himself insisted that we sat at his table all evening.’
‘What? Churchill bloody well fraternizing with the enemy?’ William’s voice spiralled higher and higher as his rage increased. ‘All bloody right for him. All he fucking well does is sit in Ten Downing Street issuing bloody silly orders, while people like me go and fight. I’ve lost a bloody leg because of him.’ Grabbing hold of the polished mahogany banister he hauled himself up.
Margaret reached the top of the stairs. ‘William,’ she said coldly, ‘I think you’d better go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning when you’re sober. Please William.’ Reaching out, she touched his arm.
‘Get out of my way, you silly old cow.’ Raising the empty whisky bottle, William lunged towards his mother. Lurching unsteadily on his feet, his befuddled drunken state prevented him from aiming accurately. Even so, he managed to catch her a glancing blow on the side of the head.
Margaret ignored it. ‘William, William, please.’ He’s my son, she told herself, desperately trying to gain control of the situation. I must be able to reason with him. He’s drunk, only drunk. ‘Go to bed, dear.’ But even as she spoke, she knew how pathetically ineffectual the words were. His mood was too ugly for reason. Instinctively she moved backwards out of his range.
William followed, taking a menacing step towards her. There was no mistaking the murder in his eyes as he raised the bottle again.
Hitching up her skirts, Liana flew up the stairs and, flinging herself at William, hung on to his raised arm. ‘Stop it, stop it! Don’t hit your mother again,’ she screamed.
‘I’ll do what I bloody well like.’ He shook her off as easily as a horse swishes a fly off with its tail, so formidable was his drunken strength. ‘Get away from me, you sodding wop.’ As he spoke, he pushed her.
Liana staggered and tried to grab the banister but it was impossible to get a grip. Her fingers slipped on the highly polished surface and she fell. As she fell, tumbling over and over, down the entire length of the staircase, she was not aware of pain, only of Margaret’s high-pitched scream and William’s drunken laughter. A detached portion of her mind registered how convenient this was. The baby was due any day now; that fall would make it seem premature. But I must protect her, she thought, trying to close her arms around her stomach, cushioning the baby from the worst of the knocks. I haven’t come all the way to England to let Raul’s baby be murdered by William. I haven’t gone to hell and back to let that happen. She tried to curl her body into a protective cocoon around the baby, careless of her own safety.
*
The lights from the chandelier were dazzling. They blazed straight into Liana’s confused eyes. William’s face loomed above her. He was mouthing obscenities but the words were indistinct. Suddenly his voice rang clear, piercing through her semi-conscious state. ‘Die, you bitch, die. We don’t want any foreigners here. Go on, why don’t you do the decent thing? Die, die, die.’
I won’t die, thought Liana defiantly, screwing up her eyes against the lights. I won’t die, not just to please you.
‘Die,’ shouted William.
I won’t, I won’t and neither will my baby. She wanted to shout the words at him so that he would know he could never destroy her. But not a sound came from her open mouth. Why does he want to kill me? A confusing question. Why is there so much hate? She was afraid. But what was she afraid of? Does he know that Nicholas is not the father of my child? How can he know? He’s never even been to Italy.
Her mind whirled faster and faster. Nothing made sense any more. There were so many faces swimming above her now, Margaret, Meg, Bruno and Dr Ramsay. Why were they going round and round? Oh God, why didn’t they keep still? They were making her feel sick. She closed her eyes for a moment against the swirling mass. Then opening them again the first face she saw was Eleanora’s, Eleanora’s dead face with the staring eyes, her sweet face covered with mud and streaked with tears of rain. Liana knew then what she had to do. She had to get Eleanora out of the earth and into a coffin. Why didn’t someone help her? It was so hard pulling the weight of the body alone. She could feel the strain tearing at her muscles as she struggled. The pain increased until it became unbearable.
With an almighty effort Liana sat up. ‘Help me!’ she screamed. Then pain shattered her mind and tore her body into a million pieces.
Chapter Fourteen
‘I don’t know, Margaret I wish I did, but I just don’t know!’
Donald Ramsay brushed irritably past the anxious woman. Dear God in heaven, hadn’t he quite enough on his plate at the moment, without being pestered with questions he couldn’t answer?
‘Will Liana be all right? Is the baby damaged?’ Margaret persisted, not willing to be brushed aside.
The repetition alone drove him mad. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know,’ he repeated.
A girl in premature labour as a result of a fall and an aggressive drunken young man. He felt guilty. Locking William away as he had ordered Bruno to do was hardly a compassionate or scientific solution. Yet what alternative did he have? He knew the answer was none, at least for the time being. Locked away William was safe, presenting no further threat to himself or others. Dealing with a drunk with a homicidal tendency was quite enough for any country GP to manage, but the problem did not stop at that as he well knew. And it was a problem made worse, in his opinion, by Margaret’s refusal to face it. On arrival at Broadacres that night he had pleaded with her.
‘Margaret, for God’s sake let me ring Doctor Burnham. He’s the top man at the Ticehurst asylum. Between us we can arrange for William to be admitted now, tonight. If anyone can help and make a definitive diagnosis once and for all, it’s Roger Burnham.’
But, stubborn as ever, Margaret fiercely repudiated the suggestion. ‘No! I don’t want others involved. William is our problem. It’s a family matter.’
‘You must involve others for William’s sake if not for your own. He’s mentally ill, surely you must see that.’
Margaret started crying. ‘Oh, Donald. Don’t start that, not now, I can’t bear it. It’s bad enough worrying about Liana without having to feel guilty about William.’
‘God almighty.’ For once Donald lost his temper and swore at her. ‘Why the hell should you feel guilty? An illness is an illness.’
‘I can’t help it, but I do. I feel guilty because he’s my son,’ sobbed Margaret. ‘That’s why I don’t want to send him away. He must stay here. We can help him more than any doctor.’
‘I don’t agree. I think you should seek outside help, have the whole damned thing investigated properly, going right back to square one.’
But the most he could get from Margaret was a reluctant agreement to talk to Nicholas about it when he came home, and with that Donald had to be content. He felt cross and exasperated but had no more time to waste arguing over William. There was Liana to consider, and at the moment her need was far greater than William’s.
Donald wished Margaret would be quiet now. He could do without being asked questions, the answers to which he was not even allowing himself to consider.
He could not tell Margaret that he was worried sick about Liana. He could not tell anyone because there was nothing tangible he could put his finger on. Her membranes had ruptured, and she was in labour. As far as he could tell, the baby appeared unharmed by her fall: the heartbeat was strong and labour appeared to be progressing normally. It was Liana herself who worried and perplexed him. It was her body pushing out the baby, her uterus contracting so that her stomach taughtened to a peak every few minutes, and yet it seemed to him as if she was strangely indifferent to that pain. There was something abnormal about her labour. It was almost as if she was not there, as if the Liana they all knew was somewhere else, far removed from the labour room. She was suffering, there was no doubt about that, but he could have sworn she was unaware of what was actually happening. His head ached with worry.
Liana was very restless and agitated, grabbing whoever came within reach, pulling and struggling with surprising strength. And why did she keep on repeating her own name? ‘Eleanora, Eleanora, help Eleanora?’ Didn’t she know they were helping her as much as they could? It was the most curious thing he had ever encountered, because he was sure she thought she was talking about someone else, not herself. She wasn’t, of course, common sense told him that. Nevertheless it was uncanny, and the appalling panic in her voice made him shiver. He cursed under his breath, determinedly trying to shake off the strange helpless feeling which he knew was threatening to warp his professional judgement. Whatever happened he of all people had to keep a cool head.
Of course, the rational explanation was that she was still semi-concussed. She had obviously knocked her head when she fell, that was easy enough to deduce. There was a lump the size of an egg on her forehead, and, of course, that was the reason for her strange behaviour. Logic told him that, just as logic told him not to fret unduly. She was young, she was healthy, there was nothing to worry about. But in spite of logic the bizarre feeling persisted. He sensed that she desperately needed help, a special kind of help, some form of reassurance for a terror beyond his reach and understanding. Donald Ramsay felt fearsomely inadequate and hated himself for it.
‘Doctor, can you speak Italian? Can anyone here speak Italian?’ The midwife came out of the bedroom. The sound of Liana’s raised voice could be heard in the background. ‘She seems very upset about something. Jabbering on and on she is, but I can’t understand a word of it.’
‘I daresay it wouldn’t make much sense to us even if she were speaking English,’ replied Donald Ramsay wearily. What was Liana talking about? He rang Winchester hospital again. Hell, why did switchboard operators always seem particularly dense at two in the morning when you most needed them to be helpful? ‘Yes, yes it is Doctor Ramsay again. Yes, I do still want to speak to Mr Gilmour, the specialist obstetrician.’ He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and turned back to have a word with the midwife, but she had disappeared back into the bedroom.
‘Donald.’ The cheery voice of John Gilmour at last. ‘Still having problems?’
‘John, thank God. Have you finished your Caesarean? Because if you have I’d really like . . .’ He stopped mid-sentence as a high pitched, piercing yell echoed down the stairway, followed by the hiccupping crying of a baby. The child was born. ‘It seems I don’t need you after all,’ he said abruptly, and, dropping the phone back into its cradle, raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
‘A girl,’ said the midwife as he ran into the room. ‘Popped out like a jack-in-the-box. I’m afraid you’ve got quite a lot of stitching to do, doctor.’
At four o’clock in the morning, an exhausted but jubilant group stood in the kitchen of Broadacres. The honour of popping the corks had been assigned to Donald Ramsay although, as he pointed out, he had been on the telephone at the vital moment, therefore it should be the midwife’s honour.
‘I’m sure you’ve had more practice at opening bottles than I have, Doctor Ramsay,’ said Nurse Cottle rather primly. ‘You open them.’
So Donald proceeded, and the flying corks from two bottles of ten-year-old Dom Perignon hit the kitchen ceiling with resounding bangs. Mary, Wally and Dolly had come over from the home farm and joined Meg, Bruno and Lady Margaret during the waiting hours. Now it was all over they could breathe easily again. Smiling with relief they raised their fizzing glasses to each other.
‘To Lady Liana and Lord Nicholas,’ said Donald Ramsay solemnly, ‘and to the new member of the Hamilton-Howard family. Thank God for the safe delivery of a healthy, if rather small, baby. And God bless both of them, mother and child.’
‘God bless both of them,’ came the heartfelt echo.
The only person missing was William. He was sound asleep, and Donald Ramsay knew from previous experience he would probably remember nothing when he eventually awoke.
It was 17 December 1944. Donald Ramsay was now quite certain that the baby had arrived on time; but this knowledge he kept to himself. The tiny, squalling female he inspected carefully immediately after the birth was perfectly formed and very lusty. In his opinion the fall had precipitated events by a few days but not much more. After the birth, Liana gradually began to rejoin the real world but her eyes were filled with a misty light which shone with pain. Donald Ramsay felt his heart go out to her. What was this unknown pain? He sensed it was nothing to do with the trauma of birth, just as he also sensed that there was nothing he could do to help. It was something fate decreed she needed to bear alone.
He handed Liana the baby as soon as she had been stitched and made comfortable. ‘Here is your daughter,’ he said, placing the baby in her arms, smiling gently, glad her physical ordeal was over. ‘You were sure it was going to be a girl, weren’t you?’
Liana smiled back gratefully. Gradually the pain began to recede. She looked down at the tiny, damp curls on the baby’s finely shaped head. They were a dark henna red, exactly the same colour as Raul’s hair. Round dark eyes, fringed with incredibly long, silky lashes, stared up at her. A rush of love threatening to choke her welled up at the sight of such beautiful perfection: this was the moment of triumph. This was what she had schemed and fought for, endured agony for, and now she was certain every moment had been worth it – all the cheating, all the lying, even that terrible nightmare she had just had about Eleanora; she recognized it now for the awful fantasy it had been. Yes, every single ghastly moment had been worth it for their precious daughter, hers and Raul’s.
Donald opened the door and let a very nervous but excited Margaret enter the room. She crept in silently and they stood side by side, watching as Liana put the baby to her breast. There was no hesitation; the tiny scrap knew exactly what to do. Her pink gums closed firmly around the nipple and she began to suck vigorously. At that moment Liana loved her so much, so fiercely, she t
hought her heart would explode with joy. If only Raul could see his daughter, she thought passionately. How much he would love her.
‘Nicholas will be so proud.’ Margaret came and sat on the side of the bed. She reached out gently and softly touched the tiny pink hand now clutching at Liana’s breast.
The whispered words startled Liana, cruelly jerking her from triumphant euphoria back to reality. Nicholas! Oh, my God, I have forgotten Nicholas. What was she thinking about? The cheating wasn’t finished; it would never be finished; it would have to go on and on. Depression settled itself like a black bird of prey on her shoulders as she realized that the birth of the baby was merely the beginning of yet another lie. Liana felt herself go cold with a rush of guilty panic. Would Nicholas acknowledge the baby as his own? There was no likeness to him, no likeness at all. But that did not mean a thing. Nicholas was sure he had married a virgin, and of course he would love his own daughter. His daughter, Nicholas’s daughter, not Raul’s.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘I hope Nicholas will be pleased.’ She turned her head abruptly to hide the single tear of regret which, in spite of her effort to contain it, slid down her cheek.
Margaret, seeing the tear, misunderstood. ‘Don’t cry, my dear. Of course Nicholas will be pleased. He has a beautiful daughter to love as well as a beautiful wife. Everything bad is finished now, no more pain or nightmares. Poor Liana, what a terrible time you’ve just been through. Donald has explained to me how difficult it was, and how brave you were. Thank God the baby, although premature, is absolutely perfect; and you, too, will suffer no lasting damage.’ She touched the lump on Liana’s forehead. ‘I’m so very, very sorry about William. He didn’t mean what he said or what he did. It was the drink. It takes over and changes his personality. You do understand that, don’t you?’