I had to be careful to rein in my ecstasy after receiving any letter from him. This was certainly not the time to be wandering about the place singing or whistling a jolly tune. And so I tutored myself in the art of solemnity, kept my euphoria private, and adopted a serious demeanor in keeping with everyone else and the general ambience of the house. I continued my solitary daily walks about the estate, carefully choreographing scenes and conversations yet to happen. I returned to those places of our clandestine moments together, replaying them in my head, languishing in his treasured words . . . and sometimes adding more. I stood under frosty sunsets, my warm breath mingling with the cold evening air as I watched the silent flight of birds across the sky. And even in those twilit autumnal days I felt a light shine down upon my path. For though he was no longer at Deyning, no longer in England, the fact that he lived and breathed had already altered my vision; and nothing, not even a war, could quell my faith in the inevitability of his presence in my life.
. . . I am close to our front line now, not far from Neuve Chapelle, & close enough to hear the fighting. It’s been rather warm here of late, and the roads—all cobblestoned—are hell to march on, particularly in the heat, but the Route Nationale is as straight as a die & one can see for miles & miles across the countryside. Did I tell you, we’re not allowed to have white handkerchiefs? In case we’re tempted to raise them up into the air and wave them about like a white flag. Those who knew absolutely no French now know “Mouchoir rouge”! In fact, we seem to be inventing new French words by the day, Franglais. I’m compiling a list (of those suitable for your eyes) and will send them on to you soon . . . I know you’ll be amused.
Chapter Ten
MDD, Yes, he knows . . . he knows that which I crave is the very thing he is quite unable to give me . . . but I fulfill my role, and this is what matters to him. It is futile . . . & yet to give up on the dream is like killing off a part of oneself. That part which was once everything, a guiding light, a promise, a hope. Life is NOT simple, but it is to be LIVED. Yr D
Christmas came, but it was not the same, and there was no end to the war. We read about the ceasefire, the Christmas truce on the Western Front, and then we heard about it from Henry, and from William too. In separate letters and in different words they told us how they’d sung carols and exchanged gifts with the Germans. They’d shaken hands with the enemy in no-man’s-land and, Henry told us, played football with them. And I found it more than a little confusing to reconcile these images of bonhomie and fellowship with the subsequent and ongoing killing. How could they sing and be joyful, thankful, together, then kill each other? And why? I pondered on this and then asked my father, but he could offer me no satisfactory answers, nothing that made any sense.
Early the following year my parents and I decamped to our house in London: a tall, stucco-fronted Georgian building overlooking Berkeley Square. The place had been shut up since the previous spring, for though Mrs. Watson, our cook and housekeeper, and Mr. Dunne, the elderly butler, remained in situ there, my parents preferred to use their respective clubs for short excursions up to town rather than open up the house. The added complication of the transference of servants from Deyning to London always caused my mother some consternation, and with Deyning running with less than its full complement of staff, this had become even more of a headache to her. Prior to our departure there had ensued a great deal of debate about who, exactly, was to come with us to London and who should remain at Deyning. In the end, only Wilson and Mabel came with us, and my mother yet again faced the prospect of trying to recruit servants.
Our London home was, I suppose, simply a smaller, more compact version of Deyning, with rooms situated in a less predictable order. Here, the servants were based belowground, in a warren of basement rooms, including the kitchen and servants’ hall; at ground level, my father’s study, with a connecting door to his billiards room, and a smoking room; on the first floor, the formal reception rooms—including the drawing room and dining room; immediately above, and taking up the whole of the second floor, Mama’s suite of rooms, with its Chippendale Chinoiserie furniture and hand-painted Chinese silk walls. My father’s bedroom and dressing room, as well as my brothers’ bedrooms were situated on the third floor, while my room and three spacious guest rooms occupied the fourth floor; and, at the very top of the house, the servants’ attic bedrooms.
The view from my bedroom window in London was quite different from that at Deyning. Facing westward, not south, it looked out upon the back of town houses like ours, across slate rooftops, stables and small courtyards. Unlike ours, few of the houses appeared to have any garden, and but for the occasional ornamental tree, rising up tantalizingly from a moss-covered brick wall, my view was devoid of Mother Nature’s soft curves. But when the sun slipped down behind the rooftops, and the sky turned from a smoky gray haze to a brilliant pink, everything in my room took on that luminous blush: the dark brown wood of polished mahogany transformed to a fiery coral; the cream silk of my bedcover to a shimmering rose.
However, I was not to witness many sunsets that particular season, for despite the lack of eligible dance partners my mother was determined that I should still have some sort of coming out, and sooner rather than later. And so, after being outfitted with new gowns, we began the somewhat muted merry-go-round of tea dances, entertainments and At Homes. At that time, I had no idea that my mother’s determination to get me up to London—away from Deyning—was in any way linked to Tom. Fate, I thought, seemed to be conspiring against us. For without Broughton, without anyone to attend to the actual postage and receipt of letters, it was impossible for me to correspond with him.
It was my father, still commuting between London and Deyning at that time, who informed us that Tom had been home, on leave, and that he’d seen him, spoken with him. I was bereft. He’d been home for two nights, Papa said, and the morning before my father left he’d saddled up his horse for him, and politely inquired after me.
“Decent chap, young Cuthbert,” my father said. “He’ll make his mother proud of him yet.”
I wanted to ask my father so many questions; I wanted to say, how did he look? What else did he say? Where is he now? When will he return? But Mama’s eyes were already upon me and so I said nothing. But I wrote to him later that evening, determined to get a letter to him if only to explain my absence, and my silence.
The following morning I asked Mama if I could take Caesar for a walk across the square. It was frosty and cold, but the sun was shining. Yes, she said; yes, do that. And so I marched out across Berkeley Square, and then scuttled off in the direction of Bond Street, with Caesar, and the letter, hidden inside my coat, tucked into my dress, next to my heart. In that letter, I explained that I was stuck in London, that I’d had no choice in the matter, and that I was devastated to have missed him at Deyning. I told him that the parties and tea dances were all a crashing bore, littered with silly giggling girls and awkward boys with weak chins. I told him that none of it meant anything to me. I told him that I’d write to him whenever I could, and that he should continue to write to me via Mr. Broughton, and I’d be able to collect his letters when I returned to Deyning:
. . . And I’ll wait for you, my darling. Even if it means waiting until I’m old and gray, I’ll wait for you. Because I love you with all my heart and everything I am. And nothing anyone can say shall ever alter that . . . So know that I am yours, and will only ever be yours: heart, mind, lips and body, yours, always,
Clarissa
I walked back to the house deliriously happy, and even Caesar must have picked up on my mood because he yapped excitedly all the way home.
It was not impossible. It was my life, and he was My Love.
The following week Mama hosted a party for me: Mrs. Granville, At Home . . . Dancing 9:30. But I had no interest in that party, or in any of the other rather somber dances and parties we attended. When the band played the national anthem at the end of each event (each ordeal), I felt relief. I hated the
endless introductions, the pointless conversations, and those stupid, fawning boys. All I could think about was Tom, and his letters—waiting for me with Broughton. And I longed to get back to Deyning. I wanted to tell the other girls, “This is not really me. I’m only doing this to please my mother; I’ve already met the man I shall marry . . .” But of course I didn’t. I danced with young officers and played the game, under my mother’s watchful eye.
“So-and-so seemed awfully keen, Clarissa,” she would say, always encouraging, steering me toward a particular young man she’d spotted, taken a shine to. And I was always vague and non-committal in my response. “You really do need to give a little more of yourself, dear,” she said to me after one particular ball. And I couldn’t say to her, “But, Mama, I have nothing to give. My heart is taken,” so I pretended that I didn’t understand what she meant and inadvertently allowed her the opportunity to coach me in the art of flirting.
“You need to smile more,” she said. “Perhaps giggle at their jokes, even if you don’t find them amusing . . . look at them when you speak . . . and accept their compliments graciously.”
It was all so tedious, so unnecessary. I watched the other girls and thought how ridiculous they seemed, for their mamas, too, had obviously coached them, and seeing them put into practice everything my own mother had tried to teach me made me determined not to fall in line. Somehow my defiance, my aloof demeanor, appeared to have the opposite effect, and I was inundated with dance partners and overtly keen suitors. And Mama, forgetting her previous advice, said, “Of course, the other gels are much too keen and far too flirtatious. The reason you’re so popular, my dear, is not simply because of your beauty, but because you hold back a little, and that’s always quite intoxicating to a man.”
Tea, it seemed, was a much bigger, grander occasion in London than in the country. And everyone dressed for it. In gowns of sable-trimmed silk, satin brocade and velvet, and gathered around white linen-covered tables piled high with sandwiches, scones, muffins, crumpets and cake, they passed on the latest gossip. But none of it, no matter how sensational or titillating, was of any real interest to me. You see, in my head I’d begun to write the story of my life: the story of my life with Tom, how it could be, how it would be. I was stranded between two worlds, lost in a twilight place of never-ending possibilities. Occasionally, and often in the clatter of real conversation, I’d find myself mouthing the words of an imaginary conversation, one yet to take place. And once or twice Mama had felt the need to surreptitiously tip me out of my reverie with a little kick or a sharp nudge. Then, usually en route home, she’d pour forth. “Really, Clarissa, you seem to be growing more distracted by the month! Gels are supposed to grow out of daydreaming when they become young ladies, otherwise they appear . . . well, simple.” She’d sigh, turn and look out of the window. “I’m tempted to take you to Doctor Riley . . . truly I am.”
Once, after Venetia had hosted a tea dance for me, I’d overheard a conversation between her and Mama. The two of them had removed themselves upstairs, to Venetia’s boudoir, and I’d gone up to tell them that people were beginning to leave. I could hear Venetia’s voice beyond the door, slightly ajar, and I stopped.
“I’m quite certain you’ve no cause to worry . . . she may be dreamy, but weren’t we all once? And she’s a sensible girl.”
“Sensible?” Mama repeated. “It’s not a word I would necessarily use to describe Clarissa . . .”
“But she’s growing up, dear. Working her way through that filtering process. I remember it well, and it is somewhat daunting. Especially for a girl who has had such a sheltered life . . . perhaps you should have had her up to London more often.”
“Yes, you’re right, and I realize that now. She’s spent far too much time down at Deyning . . . on her own . . . traipsing about the fields, reading poetry . . . talking to the trees . . .”
Venetia laughed. “Ah, but she’s beautiful . . . and the boys do seem to fall at her feet, not that she notices—as you say—but then that in itself is très charmant. I’m sure she’ll forget about him in time. Truly, I shouldn’t fret; these sorts of crushes do fade, and if we’re honest, haven’t we all fallen afoul of them—at some stage or another?”
I heard Mama sigh, then Venetia added, “We need to steer her in the right direction, my dear, that’s all. And perhaps the sooner we can have her engaged the better.”
I didn’t want to hear anymore. I coughed, opened the door.
“People are leaving,” I said flatly, staring at my mother.
“Oh gracious, and we were just about to come down, my dear,” Venetia replied quickly, moving forward. She stopped, ran the back of her hand down my cheek. “Such a beautiful goddaughter.”
I was furious: angry with my mother for talking about me in that way, and for discussing Tom with Venetia. Venetia who had been seducing Henry for goodness knows how long. But perhaps Mama knew, perhaps she condoned that sort of behavior. Perhaps that sort of behavior was acceptable within the confines of her tight circle of friends, for it seemed to me as though there were distinctly different rules for different people.
As we walked home from Venetia’s that day I was quiet, monosyllabic in my replies to her. I half wondered if she’d say something to me about her conversation with Venetia, if she’d realized that I might have overheard. But she was distracted; worried she was late for a meeting. Her latest rallying cry was for the Belgian refugees. She’d become involved with the Red Cross, attending endless meetings—trying to arrange housing for them. She had also recently been assigned a “district” and visited the workhouse in Marylebone each week. But the plight of the Belgian refugees seemed to have come between her and her wits, and having already proposed that the parkland at Deyning be handed over to the army for training purposes, she’d suggested to Papa that we offer up the house to the homeless Belgians. She was a patriot, determined to do her bit, stalwart in her defense of her world.
When Mama and I returned to Deyning, briefly, and with Papa, I could barely contain myself. There would be at least twenty letters, I thought, waiting for me with Broughton, and all I had to do was get to him, to think of a pretext to get out of the house and meander toward his cottage. I felt dizzy and sick with excitement. And I was becoming cunning in my duplicity.
“Shall we go for a long walk, Mama? To deep dene* perhaps, and then back by the lake?” I suggested, as our motorcar passed through the white gate. I knew that the very last thing my mother would feel like was a long walk after the journey from London. And I was right.
“Oh, Clarissa, I think you’ll have to take your walk alone, dear. I’m much too tired and I need to speak with Mrs. Cuthbert and the servants . . .”
—
I couldn’t understand it. There were no letters. None at all, he said.
“But are you quite sure? You see, it simply doesn’t make sense, Mr. Broughton.”
We were standing by the greenhouse in the walled garden, and he didn’t look at me. As he spoke he kept his eyes down, looking into the wooden barrow in front of him, piled to a peak with darkest earth.
“Yes, I’m quite sure. There’ve been no letters . . . none at all.”
“I see.” I turned and walked away.
No letters, no letters . . .
I wasn’t ready to go back inside the house, to face Mama, who’d immediately notice the change in my mood. I wandered down the pathway, toward the gate I’d skipped through only minutes earlier, and as I turned to close it I paused and looked back at Broughton. He was standing in the same spot, staring back at me, folding his hat in his hands. But then he looked away, put his hat back upon his head, picked up the long handles of the barrow and disappeared inside the greenhouse.
I walked through the stable yard, past Mrs. Cuthbert’s cottage. He’d been there, quite recently, I thought, glancing up at the small window poking out from the red tiled roof. He’d been back and I wasn’t there. I stopped at the gate, ran my hand over the gnarled oak of the thick ga
tepost. His hand had touched that: had he thought of me? Then I lifted the iron latch and walked on into the field. The grass was long, heavy with dew and shimmering with gossamer. In my haste, I hadn’t changed my shoes, hadn’t supposed I’d be walking far.
No letters, no words . . .
When I reached the boathouse I sat down upon the damp steps and looked out across the lake. The day had a lifeless feel to it: the countryside silent and perfectly still, the water colorless and flat, and the air cooler than I’d anticipated. The sky hung low, so close to the earth it seemed to almost touch the water in front of me. I looked down at my feet, began to pick off the blades of wet grass clinging to the leather of my shoes. We’d made a pact, I thought; and I’d risked so much to get one letter to him. And I’d copied out a poem for him, by Emily Brontë.
In summer’s mellow midnight
A cloudless moon shone through
Our open parlour window
And rosetrees wet with dew.
I sat in silent musing
The soft wind waved my hair
It told me Heaven was glorious
And sleeping Earth was fair . . .
. . . Yesterday we marched some 20 miles, stopping for tea and rum, & then on again, but the rum keeps us warm—& morale is quite high. Some of the men who joined us have gone for weeks without any real sleep or respite, & have not removed their boots in as long. They’ve had no proper meals, nothing hot, and the temperature has suddenly plummeted. When they fell out of line we tried to pick them up, but the CO came along with his stick. He had to. He couldn’t leave them there—they’d have frozen to death . . .
The Last Summer Page 10