Moments of Time

by Gloria Cook

  Jenna did not have the roundness of chin common to babies. Emilia touched her daughter’s peaceful, heart-shaped face. ‘Jenna’s so different to Will and Tom. I can’t wait to see her tearing about with them.’

  Alec kissed Jenna and rearranged the shawl that swamped her slumbering form. He would place her back in the cradle with reluctance. ‘Can’t see her being a tomboy as you were, darling, when you played here as a child with Ben and the others. I think we’ve bred a proper little lady.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Emilia smiled. She couldn’t think of many ladylike things about herself. Not for her the usual ten days of lying-in, resting and being waited on after Jenna’s birth. Three days later she had dressed in trousers, shirt and boots and had gone back to work in the yard and dairy, which had been her jobs when an ordinary village girl, before her marriage. Her heart grew a little sad. Ben, whom Alec had referred to, was his youngest brother, and neither she nor Alec were on friendly terms with him now, and ‘the others’ were her brother, Billy, killed at Passchendaele in 1917, and her closest childhood friend, Honor Burrows, who, like Emilia herself, had once been briefly engaged to Ben, and was now married and living in Lincolnshire.

  There was a tap on the nursery door and Tilda came in. ‘Pardon me, Mr Harvey, Mrs Em. There’s a lady downstairs, a Miss Bosweld, come here by bicycle, asking to see you, Mr Harvey. ’Tis about renting Captain Harvey’s old place. I showed her into the sitting room.’ The housekeeper cooed over Jenna even though she was deeply asleep, and even when awake was too young to respond.

  ‘What impression did you get of her, Tilda?’ Alec asked. Ford House, with four bedrooms, a stable and its own paddock was grand in comparison to his other properties in and around the village of Hennaford, and demanded a comparable rent. He had bought it off his brother, Tristan, Jonny’s father, following the tragic death there of Tristan’s wife, Ursula – this after being deserted by her lover and giving birth to his baby.

  ‘She looks well bred, a modern type, a bit full of herself, I thought, but I suppose she’d do.’ Tilda made a face. She was content to be an ‘old maid’ and content to be in service, routinely working in a uniform of ankle-length, Puritan-grey dress, a pristine, starched, wrap-around white apron and a cap, even though Alec’s relaxed views on just about everything meant his staff could choose to wear, as Sara did, what they liked.

  ‘We might as well go down and talk to this Miss Bosweld together, darling,’ Alec said to Emilia. He included Emilia in his every decision. She did all the paperwork for the farm owing to a strange condition of his, something which he found continually humiliating, which prevented him from reading and writing properly; his harrowing experiences at a top school in Truro had made him content to send Will to the village school. To Tilda, ‘I don’t suppose it would be asking too much of you to settle this young lady down for us?’

  ‘Well, if you want to risk getting your supper late,’ Tilda joked back, eagerly stretching out her doughty arms.

  The woman introduced herself as Selina Bosweld. She was tall and in her early thirties. She was wearing a straightforward suit of dark blue, tailored but serviceable rather than stylish, and sturdy shoes that were well worn. In contrast a gold-coloured filmy scarf was tied round her bobbed, tawny hair. She took the armchair offered to her at a quick, sinuous pace.

  Emilia glanced at her ungloved hands. They were as used to manual work as her own, the nails cut short and clean.

  Selina Bosweld saw her looking. ‘I’m a nursing sister at the infirmary, Mrs Harvey. I served at the Somme and Etaples. Niceties seem unimportant now.’

  ‘Of course.’ Emilia had heard how the impossible conditions of the field hospitals during the war had ruined many a fine pair of hands, and fine hands Miss Bosweld must have once had, for the rest of her was lithe and poised and in good symmetry. She exuded confidence in an autonomous way. ‘The country’s grateful to you, Miss Bosweld. My husband’s brother was badly wounded and needed the dedicated care of the medical staff to bring him through.’

  ‘Well, the country welcomed back its fighting heroes, but it wasn’t quite so sure about women like myself.’ Selina Bosweld’s smile was short-lived, and Emilia took this to mean that her stance, like her own, was in opposition to the country’s general viewpoint towards women. Despite the advances made in equality, including the right to vote in elections for those of thirty years or more, feeling broadly still held that women over a certain age, with the exception of those in service, should marry and raise a family.

  Selina Bosweld’s gaze, suddenly astute, officious and enquiring, fell upon Alec. ‘Now, let’s talk about the house. From the details at the estate agent it sounded just what we’re looking for, that is my widowed brother Perry, his child, and I. I rode on down past the farm just now to take a look at it and all appeared to be in good order. It was easy to find; across the ford, then up a hill by way of the right fork in the lane. The other direction leads to the village, a short distance, I understand?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Alec said. He was viewing the woman with his fingertips pressed together, wholly attentive.

  ‘I saw two of your staff hard at work there, a girl inside the house and a youth stocking up the woodshed. We’re fortunate to have good domestic help ourselves. My brother was in the Royal Army Medical Corps, a surgeon. He too served on the Western Front but was sadly crippled; was too near to an unexploded Mills bomb; lost a leg. It was dreadfully bad luck; the war was over and he was about to escort home one of the last groups of wounded and ill POWs. His hand was also injured, not too badly but seriously enough to prevent him from operating again. Now, would it be possible to turn one of the downstairs rooms into a bedroom for him? It would partly be an office for him. He now sits on the board of several charities for ex-service personnel.

  ‘We’re to sign the final papers on the sale of our house at Trispen, which is no longer suitable for our needs. Perry feels his daughter needs a larger garden; she wants a dog, that sort of thing. We thought it would be easier to rent something.’ She gestured at Alec. ‘You, as the landlord, would be responsible for the repairs and so on. As you can see, you’d have tenants of good standing for the foreseeable future. References to our characters can be provided, of course. I’ve brought a quarter’s rent and the sum of security with me. We’d like to move in as soon as it’s convenient. Mr Harvey?’

  Alec had listened carefully throughout Selina Bosweld’s account, for although due to a certain hawkishness she missed the definition of being beautiful, she had perfect deportment, a fascinating way of angling her head, of moving her smooth red lips. And her eyes, the colour of wild violets, had a magnetic quality. ‘I can assure you, Miss Bosweld, that the house is in first-class condition, it was completely renovated after the last tenants left two months ago. There’s a good-sized parlour and fully equipped kitchen. Of the two other downstairs rooms, one could easily be converted into a bedroom. I’d arrange that for you. Would you care to take a look inside the house before you make a final decision?’

  Selina Bosweld glanced up at the skeletal clock above the fireplace, which showed it was late afternoon, but Emilia had the impression she had already made up her mind. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the time. I’m on duty this evening and I must go home first. I’m sure there will be no problems. You see, before I ventured here I enquired about you, Mr Harvey. We have a mutual friend in Dr Reggie Rule, the paediatrician. You have a reputation for fairness and honesty.’

  It amused Emilia to see Alec blush. She had the impression that Alec felt he was the one being interviewed. There was no doubt Selina Bosweld possessed drive and, so Emilia thought, powers to persuade, perhaps with an element of ruthlessness. Emilia had already mentally prepared a new rent book and terms of agreement for her.

  ‘I hope you’ll be happy and comfortable in Ford House, Miss Bosweld,’ Emilia said, with a welcoming smile. She received a momentary puzzled frown. She had the impression the other woman was making an unfavourable c
omparison of her local accent to Alec’s well-to-do deep tones. ‘You’ll be able to see the farm across the fields. The woods near the house run behind the farm. Would you like a cup of tea, or perhaps a sherry, while we go to the den to get the necessary papers for you?’

  ‘I’d appreciate a glass of sherry, thank you, Mrs Harvey, before I slip away. I’ll settle with you when you return.’ Selina Bosweld pulled a soft leather purse out of her jacket pocket.

  Alec excused himself first. At the door, Emilia asked, in friendly fashion, ‘How old is your brother’s daughter, Miss Bosweld?’

  ‘Elizabeth’s nearly five. We call her Libby.’

  ‘Will she be attending the village school next term? It’s got a good standard. I’ve not long fetched my eldest son from there.’

  ‘My brother will instruct her until she’s old enough for boarding school.’

  Emilia was about to say something else but a queer glow came from behind the other woman’s amazing eyes. The way she set her head, superior, aloof, left Emilia in no doubt what sort of Sister she was; no-nonsense with patients; no toleration of impertinence or low standards from junior staff. ‘I saw your sons playing when I arrived, they were holding up one of your workmen. Your servant mentioned she had to fetch you down from the nursery. You are very young to have had three children already.’

  ‘I just look young.’ Emilia dampened down a sharper reply. ‘The boys were talking to the farm manager, who happens to be my father, their grandfather. My parents live here, Miss Bosweld, so I have plenty of help with the children.’

  Emilia closed the door behind her with a snap. ‘Damned cheek!’ She was cross at herself for offering so much explanation. If or when the disapproving, judgemental Miss Selina Bosweld went down into the village, she was likely to learn from some busybody that Emilia, at eighteen years old, had been expecting Will on her wedding day, and no doubt the nurse would form another opinion of her. It then occurred to her that Selina Bosweld’s bluntness might have been a ruse to ward off more curiosity.

  * * *

  Smoking a slim cigar, whistling one of the latest jazz tunes, Ben Harvey, who owned properties on the other side of the main road that ran through Hennaford, approached Ford Farm on foot. Like Alec, he owned a stock of horses and ponies and a motor car – his, a fast tourer – but it was unthinkable to him to make the two miles’ distance in any other way. Before heading for the house he noticed the unfamiliar female’s bicycle leant carefully against the inside of the perimeter hedge.

  He sauntered round the side of the house with the intention of entering at the back and saw Alec and Emilia talking in the den while she was writing at the desk. Ben whizzed past the window, hoping they hadn’t spotted him, but not before he noticed Emilia was looking grim. He took a satisfying puff on the cigar. Emilia had been his friend, his first love, and he had adored her, but their break-up had been hostile, he blaming her for the partial blindness of his left eye, the result of their joint rescue of his late, senile grandmother one wet, dark afternoon from the garden, and Emilia claiming his belief was unjust. There was also bad history between him and Alec, of a business nature.

  The farmyard, situated in the origins of the property, two centuries ago, was much like his own, well kept but twice as large. He stubbed out the cigar by the back kitchen door and scanned the dairy and the barn and each stone-walled, slate-roofed animal shed and storehouse, having to adjust the sight of his damaged eye as he did so. He was seeking signs of Sara Killigrew, hoping to creep up on her before she hid from him. The maid was the loveliest of the local girls, an innocent of nineteen years with dazzling white-blonde plaited hair, shy and meek from her workhouse background. She was the stuff of dreams, and Ben, who had been trying to get close to her for some time, was enjoying the slow, intoxicating chase. He might have made progress by now if not for the sharp watch kept by her obnoxious twin brother against all suitors; he and Jim Killigrew maintained a reciprocal loathing. And now Sara was even less likely to succumb to his interest for she had recently become infatuated with someone else – Alec. It was a fact he alone seemed to have noticed, and one he could use to cause a lot of bother with if he chose to.

  He listened through the unsynchronized cacophony of the poultry and the penned-in animals for the sound of sweet singing – Sara’s habitual and much celebrated pastime. Ducks were splashing in and out of the pond. A scraggy barn cat was scurrying off to chase an unseen prey. The host of well-trained Jack Russells, who were more settled now the aggressive Pip had been blasted out of their ranks, rambled up to him. He knew every one of them and bent to pat a head or two. There was lots of noise and movement but none relating to Sara Killigrew.

  He went into the kitchen. Found it empty. Sara and Tilda were elsewhere, his brother and sister-in-law in the den, so where was the mystery owner of the bicycle? Probably shown into the sitting room. He carried on through the house, along the tiled passage, not caring that Alec and Emilia wouldn’t approve of him wandering about as if he still lived here.

  Ben found the stranger on her feet sipping sherry, studying the photographs of bygone and existing Harveys displayed on top of the piano. He viewed her with keen male appreciation. Her back was straight, her head casually aslant. In comparison to the chic, elegant women he mixed with in various select addresses, the finest hotels and the mayoral chambers in Truro, this woman was a touch shabby, but he was entranced. She was about a decade older than he was but he was used to older women. He acknowledged that he preferred them and dismissed the pursuit of Sara Killigrew as a waste of his time.

  She turned her head without a glimmer of expression. ‘You, sir, are obviously another Harvey. Another gentleman farmer by the evidence of your clothes.’

  ‘You have the advantage of me, Miss, Mrs…?’

  ‘Miss. Selina Bosweld. I’m to rent Ford House off your brother, or cousin perhaps?’

  ‘Alec’s my brother. I’m Ben. I own Tremore Farm and Tremore House, also in this parish. The farm is smaller but the house is much grander. I’ve had much of it rebuilt and have added a balcony and a conservatory.’

  ‘This is a fascinating house, though. It must have been your grandfather who was responsible for the fine Victorian extension we’re in. A home with two very different characters, like your brother and your delightful sister-in-law, whom I was just talking to.’ She flicked back to the photographs. ‘There are a lot of studies of her.’

  He moved up to her side. The photographs portrayed Emilia either by herself or with the children. He hated to admit it, but she made a striking figure with her lovely unsophisticated looks, natural warm smile and cloud of coppery hair. And despite bearing three children in quick succession she was still wholly desirable.

  ‘Alec’s taken up photography. He’s got his own darkroom. The portrait nearest your arm is of my brother, Henry. He was killed in the war.’

  ‘A tragedy common to nearly every family.’ She pointed to a photograph of a Harvey in uniform in a prominent place up on the moulded mantelpiece. ‘But he didn’t suffer the same fate. That was taken recently.’

  ‘My brother, Tristan. Alec snapped him on his last leave at Christmas. He survived the hell of the trenches and is currently serving on the Isle of Wight. I received a letter from him today informing me he’s due home at the weekend. I’ve come to pass on the news to his son, Jonny, who lives here. He’ll be cycling home from school in Truro about now.’

  ‘Your brother did not write here directly?’

  The woman moved until she was only a breath away from Ben. A thrill shot through him. He liked her musky perfume. He liked her being this close. ‘Tris is the family peacemaker. Alec and I don’t exactly rub along; it’s Tris’s way of making us get together and talk.’

  Selina Bosweld’s eyes traced a slow journey along the strongly honed contours of his face. ‘You are the handsome one of the family.’ Next instant, Ben’s insides leapt in a mix of surprise and delight as he felt the feather-light touch of her forefinger at the si
de of his left eye. ‘The war?’

  Blood beat a furious path up from his neck to his hairline. His blindness was apparent in a pea-sized milky film and he was bitter about it. His voice emerged choked but he was eager to speak, to hold her interest. ‘No. An accident. It prevented me from taking up my place at officer training college. I wanted more than anything to fight for our country.’

  ‘I’m sure you did, Ben. When we’ve moved into Ford House perhaps you’d like to visit us.’

  Ben took no pains to hide his disappointment. ‘Us? You’re intending to marry?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ She laughed with vigour but it was a graceful, beguiling sound. ‘I’ll be living there with my brother and niece. I should very much like to see your grand Tremore House, Ben.’

  ‘Any time you care to choose, Miss Bosweld.’ He was so mesmerized he wasn’t sure if he had actually uttered the words.

  ‘Selina. That’s my name.’ She glanced at the door. ‘I can hear your brother and his wife coming back. I shall look forward to our next meeting.’

  Emilia escorted the new tenant of Ford House to her bicycle. While Selina Bosweld wheeled her conveyance out into the lane, Emilia went with her and was not entirely sincere when she said, ‘If there’s anything we can do to help you move in, do say.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for a removal van. We’ll be glad of as many strong pairs of arms as you can spare. Perry’s hardly capable.’ Selina Bosweld gave an unhurried smile as she mounted the bicycle. ‘Mrs Harvey, I really must apologize for my remarks earlier. Mr Harvey is a few years older than you and I expected a wife of the same age. I’m afraid I’ve spent too many years giving orders and it’s made me rather outspoken. We should be friends; call me Selina. Your boys and Libby must play together.’