by Angela Arney
‘I’ll remember,’ she whispered. Reaching up she softly touched his face then flung herself into his arms, holding him so tightly he thought he must suffocate. ‘I’ll remember,’ she repeated, slowly letting go her tight hold. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, as a child might have done, she managed a shaky smile. ‘I love you, Daddy,’ she said, ‘and I’ve never felt so loved and cared for as I did a moment ago when your strong arms were around me.’
Nicholas smiled. ‘I’ve got my daughter back,’ he said softly. ‘And as for the past. Your affair with Raul Levi . . .’
Eleanora shuddered and backed away. ‘I feel so ashamed,’ she whispered. ‘I know I shall feel dirty for the rest of my life.’
‘As for your affair with Raul Levi,’ Nicholas continued in a firm voice. ‘I’m telling you now, as your father, forget it. It’s finished, it’s history. Water under the bridge.’
‘Muddy water,’ said Eleanora.
Nicholas smiled. ‘We all muddy the water from time to time, my dear. That was what your grandmother meant about casting the first stone. None of us are innocent. Now you must be brave and go forward without looking over your shoulder.’
‘It won’t be easy.’
‘Life very rarely is. But we must still try and go on. And you will, won’t you, darling?’
‘Yes, I’ll try.’
‘Good girl.’ He kissed her tear-stained cheek. ‘Now, get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Eleanora kissed him back and left the room. Nicholas watched her go. She looked so young, but so weary and dispirited, all her effervescent life extinguished. But youth was on her side. God willing, she would recover soon.
Now Nicholas knew he must go to Liana. They must talk, and this time there would be nothing between them, no ghosts of the past to blur and distort. Neither of them had any skeletons left in their cupboards now. This evening Liana had finally stripped away the remaining lies and deceptions and they were free to face each other and make a new start. It was what he wanted more than anything in the world.
As eager as a young boy going for an assignation with his first love, he ran up the stairs and along the long corridors towards Liana’s bedroom, sure that she would be there. He knew his Liana. She would be sitting looking at the view she loved so much, the sweeping lawns of Broadacres unfolding away up to the downs on the edge of the valley. Moonlight shone in regular square patches through the windows on to the rose-red Wilton carpet of the corridor which led to the bedrooms.
‘The corridor always looks so cold,’ she said before commissioning the factory at Wilton to weave the carpet in one continuous piece in the colour of her choosing.
Nicholas smiled. She had been right, of course. She always was. Now, even in the moonlight, the corridor glowed with all the warmth of a summer rose.
‘Liana I . . .’ impatient, he began speaking, hardly waiting for the door into her bedroom to open.
The door swung back, revealing the large room brilliant with moonlight. But it was empty, quite empty. Nicholas stopped. He had been so sure, so certain that at last they could go forward together, all the shadows put behind them. Surely Liana knew he loved her no matter what had happened in the past? Then the devastating thought struck him. Perhaps she did not love him, perhaps in spite of everything she still loved Raul. It was quite possible. His own love for her had no reason, no logic. Not for one moment had he ever stopped to consider whether or not Liana was worth it. Love was something that existed beyond the power of reason.
He tried to think back. Had she intimated her feelings towards Raul by any word or intonation? Despairing, he sank down on the bed amidst the scattered, discarded clothes. She must have been in a terrible hurry to leave. His mind was numb, incapable now of lucid thought. A future without Liana was inconceivable.
PART FIVE
1966—1968
Chapter Thirty-Three
The flowers appeared regularly, once a month, without fail – always poppies, not the large cultivated ones but small wild flowers, delicate in colour and shape. They came from an expensive florist in Knightsbridge and were driven down to the churchyard at Longford by a man in a van. The van driver, apart from the fact that he was to put them on baby James’s grave, knew nothing. Neither did anyone in the shop in Knightsbridge. They were ordered and paid for by post; the florist merely followed the instructions. There was no card, no message, nothing to intimate who they came from, but their presence eased the loneliness in Nicholas’s life and helped keep hope alive during the next two years. They had to be from Liana. Before disappearing she had often picked wild poppies and placed them on James’s grave.
‘Poppies are for sleep,’ she said. ‘I want him to sleep in peace.’
When he looked at each month’s fresh flowers Nicholas could hear her voice as clearly as if she were standing beside him. And on the first anniversary of James’s death, after Liana’s disappearance, a cross of snowdrops came. Then he was certain. Liana was sending them. But finding her proved an impossibility.
She was not with Raul. It had not taken Nicholas long to ascertain that fact. He was now living quite openly with Monika Muller and it was even rumoured that they might marry. But where was Liana? She still cared about Broadacres, that much he knew. The business affairs of the Broadacres estate and all subsidiary firms continued to run smoothly, and in fact they were making more money than ever before. Nicholas told Jason Penrose to do exactly as Liana instructed him. Jason was receiving his orders from Liana by letter, always posted in London, and was communicating with her through a box number. Nicholas wrote to the same box number, but his letters were returned unopened. He could not understand it. Why had she gone? Why did she want nothing more to do with him? Had she really found living with him so hateful?
Lady Margaret understood, or thought she did. In her opinion, Liana had finally realized what Margaret had been certain of all along: she loved Nicholas. And it was because she loved him that she had fled. Unable to live with the hurt she had brought him, she had fled in the mistaken belief that he would be better off without her, not realizing that she was hurting him far more by staying away. There was Eleanora to think of as well. Margaret could only guess at the ghastly added guilt Liana felt by knowing her deceit had ended with father and daughter living together as lovers. How Margaret longed to be able to find Liana and tell her these things.
She agreed wholeheartedly with Donald when he said, ‘The longer Liana puts off facing her daughter and husband, the harder it will be for all of them.’
But she did not tell Nicholas that. He was depressed enough already without her adding to it. He needed reassurance, so she said, ‘It will be all right. Eventually she will understand that you still love her and that nothing can change that. And she must long to see Eleanora, too. When she finds out that Eleanora is back, living here, then she will return to Broadacres.’
She sounded so positive, Nicholas wished she were right but was not so sure. However, there was nothing he could do but hope, so he got on with life at Broadacres where there was always plenty to be done. Besides, there was Eleanora who needed him at her side with the constant reassurance of his love.
Christmas 1966 was desolate without Liana. To Nicholas the celebrations seemed pointless, but he followed the traditions just the same. The party was held as usual in the East Gallery. But it was a lack-lustre affair. No-one mentioned the disappearance of Lady Liana, but, of course, Nicholas knew the estate workers gossiped amongst themselves. It was inevitable. He wondered what conclusions they had drawn, because apart from Dorothy and Donald Ramsay, no-one outside the family knew the truth. He supposed they were thinking that he and Liana would eventually have a divorce. It was very noticeable. No-one even mentioned Liana’s name.
It was a strain for everyone, and Meg observed that there was far less alcohol consumed than usual.
‘They are all afraid that after one drink too many, they might blurt out a question,’ she said to her mother.
&n
bsp; ‘As well they might,’ Mary Pragnell agreed. She and Wally had discussed Liana’s disappearance at length. ‘Some say as how they had a row and he packed her off. But I can’t believe Lord Nicholas sent her away,’ said Mary. ‘You’ve only got to watch him, wandering around the place like a lost dog. No, he never sent her away. But then, I can’t believe either that Lady Liana would go of her own free will. She always loved it here so much. Broadacres was her life.’
‘And I’m certain she loved Lord Nicholas, too,’ said Meg.
‘Seems like you was wrong,’ was Wally’s gloomy verdict.
But such was the loyalty of everyone on the estate that apart from mulling over Liana’s disappearance with their respective spouses, it was never a subject for discussion at work or social occasions. By tacit agreement, each and every one of them kept their own counsel.
At Eleanora’s insistence, Nicholas went with her to Winchester Cathedral for the Blessing of the Crib before the Christmas Eve party. He had not wanted to go, at first refusing point blank to even countenance it, but eventually Peter persuaded him.
‘It’s all part of the healing process,’ he told Nicholas, ‘for you as well as Eleanora. I know the last time we went was with James and you don’t want to be reminded. But it is because of that, because it was such a happy occasion, that you must go. We must all remember the happy times, and strive to keep those memories vivid and alive. Human beings spend far too much time remembering bad things, forgetting that the important thing is to treasure the good memories. Each moment spent polishing a good memory keeps it fresh in our hearts. Of course, we can never completely banish bad memories, nor should we even attempt to, but we can keep them in perspective, overshadowed by the light of happier times.’
‘Sometimes I think you should have been a priest, Peter. You have a wisdom far beyond your years. You would make a good counsellor.’
Peter pulled a face. ‘I have not the vocation,’ he said wryly. ‘I can’t pretend I don’t want a woman in my life. I want marriage and children, not the emptiness of celibacy.’
‘Marriage to Eleanora?’
It was something Nicholas had not asked before. Neither Eleanora nor Peter had mentioned it, and Nicholas had noticed that Eleanora made no effort to seek Peter out. If anything it was the reverse. She melted away into the shadows on the few occasions Peter had visited them. They appeared friendly on the surface, but as far as Nicholas knew, she had never been alone with Peter since her return to Broadacres. A week after Liana’s disappearance, Peter, of necessity, returned to Hollywood to work, only now flying back to England for Christmas, intending to stay two weeks before returning to California for another three or four months. In the meantime, although she continued with her singing, and went to London once a week for a lesson, Eleanora showed no signs of wanting to resume her singing career. Grateful to have her presence at Broadacres because she eased his own loneliness, Nicholas made no attempt to persuade her to go back to the theatre. And she seemed happy to pick up her old life of riding and hunting. Nicholas was glad of company in the saddle. Neither his mother nor Donald Ramsay would ever sit astride a horse again, and he missed their lively camaraderie.
‘Yes, marriage to Eleanora,’ said Peter in answer to his question. ‘There is no-one else for me. Never will be. Not being related simplifies things. We have nothing to fear now about having children.’
‘What does Eleanora say?’
Peter shook his head. ‘I haven’t mentioned it to her. She’s not ready yet. At the moment she is still consumed with guilt over her affair with Raul Levi. She has to get over that first. But I can be patient. Sooner or later she will realize that she needs me as much as I need her.’
But although he sounded and felt confident that Christmas of 1966, Peter began to feel impatient as time passed and still there was no sign of Eleanora turning towards him. She took to spending much spare time with the Pragnells, now happily retired from the home farm and living in a small cottage in Longford village. To Eleanora they seemed like the passing seasons of the year, certain and predictable. Their conversation was undemanding. They never asked difficult questions, never asking what she was going to do with her life, never even asked after her mother, although she guessed they must often have wanted to. Instead of wasting time talking, Mary Pragnell taught her how to cook the traditional country dishes: pike in cider in the coarse-fishing season; squab pie after a good pigeon shoot; cakes; pastries; and bread. It was bread Eleanora enjoyed making most. It was such hard physical work kneading the dough, good therapy for her to vent her growing frustration.
For as time went by she did desperately long to speak to Peter, to ask his forgiveness, and to find out whether or not he still cared for her. If he had given her some indication that to him she was more than just an old friend, she might have plucked up courage and spoken long ago. But he did not. Instead he seemed content to resume the previous uncomplicated relationship of their childhood. He wanted her as a friend, nothing more, and so precious to her was the friendship that did remain, that Eleanora never dared to speak in case she broke the fragile thread.
On the day before Christmas Eve 1967, Eleanora went for a morning gallop on Diabolus. Peter had just come back to Hampshire from his London flat, and he joined her. Together, they flew like the wind over the downs in the pale winter sunshine, horses’ hooves drumming into the hard, frosty ground, their breath billowing like smoke in the cold air. When the horses were reined in on reaching the top of the ridge, steam rose from their lathering flanks.
‘They’ll need a good rub-down as soon as we get back,’ said Peter, rubbing the neck of his big bay. The horse snickered with pleasure at his touch. Eleanora watched in envy. How she longed for the affectionate touch of his hand, to feel Peter’s arms around her, to be held close. What did he think of her? She looked for a sign, but there was nothing. Her affair with Raul had poisoned that kind of love. Suddenly she wanted to weep. Peter started to trot briskly down the other side of the ridge. ‘Let’s take the long way back,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘It will be just like the old days.’
‘It will never be like the old days,’ said Eleanora abruptly, and took Diabolus down the steep slope at breakneck speed. Her eyes were filled with tears, and it was just as well Diabolus knew the route so well; it was only due to his skill that he did not break a leg or she her neck. But when they reached the bottom, he arched his neck and turned to nip at her riding boots, a gesture of reprimand. ‘Sorry, old boy,’ Eleanora patted his neck, remorseful now. ‘I know I shouldn’t have been so reckless.’ Then, without waiting for Peter, she dug in her heels. Diabolus responded enthusiastically. He didn’t mind now they were on the flat. He thundered along on the track back towards the stables at Broadacres.
Peter descended at a safer, more leisurely pace, his eyes reflective. Eleanora had sounded upset. Perhaps the waiting was over. Maybe now, at long last, they could begin talking and hopefully put their lives in order.
Back at Broadacres, Eleanora gave Diabolus a vigorous rub-down and covered him with a warm blanket. Sensing her distress, he nuzzled her, wrinkling his velvety nose, nipping affectionately at her hair and blowing out noisily through his nostrils. In spite of her misery, Eleanora smiled. ‘You’re getting to be a big softie in your old age,’ she told him, giving him a carrot.
Leaving him contentedly crunching, she leaped on the ramshackle bike always kept in the stables, and cycled over to the Pragnells’ cottage.
The kitchen smelled like a brewery. Mary had just mixed some fresh yeast with sugar and warm water ready to make the Christmas bread for the next day’s party. ‘You’re just in time,’ she told Eleanora, ‘if you want to make the cinnamon bread.’
Eleanora poked at the yeast. It was good and fresh and was sponging up nicely. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said, ‘I feel like pounding the living daylights out of something.’
‘Kneading is what dough wants, not pounding,’ said Mary severely. But she noticed the look of unhappiness on El
eanora’s face, and as Wally was not there to stop her she decided to break her silence and say something. ‘Is Master Peter back from London yet?’ she asked casually.
‘Yes, he’s back.’ Eleanora was non-committal. Then anger got the better of her. ‘Why do you call him “Master Peter” as if he’s a child? He isn’t. He’s a man, and I’m a woman.’
‘’Tis habit,’ said Mary, eyeing her curiously. ‘But I knows full well you’re grown up.’
‘Oh, Mary,’ wailed Eleanora. ‘I don’t feel grown up. Not any more. I’m treated like a child. Everyone is so careful. We don’t talk to each other, not properly, and I don’t know what they are thinking, what Peter’s thinking. And I miss Peter terribly, and, oh Mary, everything is such a mess.’
If Mary was surprised by this outburst, she did not show it. Wiping her floury hands on the front of her apron she said firmly, ‘Then ’tis about time you did grow up, my girl. I’m not family, so it wouldn’t be right for me to interfere, especially as I don’t know all the ins and outs. But I’m telling you now, get on that bike of yours and go and find your father and start talking. Say whatever you’ve got to say, and then see what happens.’
‘I don’t know whether I can.’
‘Thought you told me just now you was a woman,’ said Mary scornfully.
Eleanora cycled back to Broadacres thoughtfully. She found her father struggling with the farm accounts in the library office. He looked up, smiling, as she entered, glad of the interruption.
It’s now or never, thought Eleanora, and plunged head first into the conversation before she lost her nerve. ‘Daddy, what would you think, I mean, how would you feel about me if you were Peter?’