His grip on her hand intensified. ‘I should have been more understanding. I know what it’s like to feel trapped.’
She pulled away from him in surprise. ‘You? But you’re a man and can marry as you wish.’
‘Marriage isn’t the only kind of prison, you know.’
‘I’m sure not, but why would you feel trapped?’
‘That maybe the wrong word. Let’s say my choices have been constrained.’
‘By what?’ He was being mysterious and she didn’t like it.
‘By my family. I’ve not gone home to Ireland because they’ve made it impossible.’
She was taken aback, and in the pause that followed, he said, ‘You asked me once about my brothers and I’d no wish to speak of them then. But I want you to know the truth. You deserve it.’
‘If you’re sure.’ She was uncertain she wanted to know the truth. Aiden was as perfect as a man could be – did she really want the doubtful details of his past?
‘Yes, I am sure. I haven’t seen my brothers since I left Ireland, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t heard of them or their doings. They belong to a nationalist movement, the Irish Republican Brotherhood. It’s dedicated to achieving Home Rule for Ireland.’
Since she’d met Aiden, she’d made sure to read every piece of news coming from that country. It seemed right to her that Ireland should be free; in her mind, its fight for independence marked a clear parallel with women’s struggle for the same. There had been several fervent arguments with Joshua, who had nothing but disgust for the Irish vipers, as he called them.
‘I’ve heard of the movement,’ she said cautiously.
‘It’s a secret society, but it’s common knowledge who belongs and what their mission is. Members sign they are willing to use force to further the cause and a small band of them already have – bombings and shootings mainly. My brothers count themselves as part of that band.’
She gave a small gasp and her hand flew instinctively to her mouth. Then she turned to look at Aiden: his face was set and almost white in the light of the half-moon.
‘I’m sorry. I thought I could keep from telling you, but I find I can’t. I don’t want to have secrets.’
His confession had shocked her, but he was struggling and needed reassurance. ‘You were right to tell. Secrets only fester and destroy.’ She thought of her parents, of her uncle and his family, and the secret arrangements they’d made that had produced only misery.
‘Do you see now why I have no contact with them?’
She nodded in a mechanical fashion, still trying to absorb what he’d told her. ‘It’s better that way,’ he went on. ‘I understand why they feel the way they do, but I can’t condone their actions. And, for their part, they’ll never forgive me for not returning to Ireland once I was full grown and had the chance. They despise me for selling out, for going over to the enemy.’
‘Living in England doesn’t make you the enemy,’ she protested.
‘That’s not the way they see it. For them, you’re either one thing or another, black or white.’
There was little more she could say, and she’d begun to retreat into her thoughts when she heard again a rustling of the trees. This time, slightly louder. ‘What was that?’
‘The wind? It’s getting up. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a storm tonight.’
Of course, it had to be the wind. But she did not like this garden. It was as though its situation far from the house, enclosed and solitary, had drawn to it all the secrets, the dark impulses that existed in Summerhayes, and trapped them in a still suffocation.
‘You haven’t told me what happened at your tea party,’ he prompted.
It was an effort to put to one side her troubled feelings but she launched gallantly into her tale. ‘You would have been proud of me – I refused to have my strings pulled. It was quite a gathering: my parents, my Uncle Henry and Aunt Louisa, the doctor even. I don’t know why he’d been invited. Perhaps they thought I might faint at the sight of Giles Audley and Dr Daniels’ services would be required.’
‘And were they?’
‘No, they were not! Mr Audley turned out to be most gentlemanly and made no attempt to coerce me. And he didn’t seem the kind of person who would be coerced himself.’
She waited for Aiden to respond, he’d asked for an account, after all, but he remained mute. The seconds ticked by. An owl hooted from the trees beyond and another answered. The ghostly sounds travelled through the long silence. She was confused, not knowing how to break a quiet that was becoming ominous.
In the end, he was the one to break it. ‘You sound as though the tea party was enjoyable.’ His voice was flat. ‘I imagine you’ll meet him again.’
She could have said that Audley was a horrible man and that she would be whipped before she agreed to another meeting, yet she had wanted to speak truly. No secrets, they had agreed. But now she was wondering if she had made a mistake.
‘My mother has invited him to dinner at Summerhayes. I don’t know if Papa has agreed or if the rest of the company are invited. But, whatever happens, when I meet Giles Audley again, it will mean as little as it did yesterday.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because I choose it to mean as little.’
It was suddenly very important to convince him and, without thinking, she reached out for his hand and rubbed it against her cheek. He loosened himself from her grasp but moved closer so that she could feel his warmth through the thin silk of her dress. ‘So is there someone you choose to mean more?’ The question was provocative.
She looked into his face and her smile was equally provocative. ‘I really cannot say.’
‘Then it’s best we don’t talk.’
His hands were in her hair, his fingers twirling the fine copper strands into small corkscrews. Then he drew her face to his. She saw his form blur as his mouth came closer. His lips were on hers, hard and warm. For a moment, she struggled, but only for a moment. She sank into him, wrapped around by his arms and pulled into his chest. He kissed her hair, her cheeks, the smooth cream of her eyelids, and then found her lips again. She was kissing him back, over and over again, her mouth soft and open to his.
‘What are we doing?’ she asked between breathless kisses.
‘Whatever it is, it feels very good,’ he said, and kissed her again.
Chapter Eighteen
The breeze that in late evening had wound its way through the Italian Garden, had in the night become a gale, bringing with it torrential rain, which hammered on the windows and spooled across the flagged stones of the terrace. William climbed onto the window seat and looked out, his nose pushed hard against the glass. The glorious summer garden they’d known had been obliterated and in its place was a cold, damp landscape.
‘No chance of getting out today,’ he said gloomily, surveying the wind-tossed greenery and the almost vertical rain.
He was feeling edgy and ill tempered. Olly had suggested they build another shelter, this time within the house, perhaps in one of the forgotten attics, but the idea hadn’t appealed. He had no wish to build another shelter. Ever.
‘So what do we do this morning?’ Oliver asked.
‘How should I know?’ He jumped down from the window seat and started riffling through the stack of magazines by his bed. ‘You don’t like doing puzzles. You don’t want to read a book or help me label specimens.’
‘We could kick a ball.’
‘And where precisely did you have in mind? The drawing room?’
‘C’mon, Wills. Don’t be such a grump. We could take a ball up to the top floor. We wouldn’t bother anyone there.’
He felt guilty. It wasn’t Olly’s fault that something had changed for him, that unfamiliar feelings were pushing for escape. At times, times like today, it was difficult, painful even, to keep them imprisoned. Every day, it seemed, he’d fallen more deeply under his friend’s spell, and all he’d come to want or need was to hear Olly’s voice, follow in his f
ootsteps, enjoy his adventures – and touch him. But that was something he mustn’t think of. It wasn’t done. It was definitely not done. He’d heard stories, of course he had, but they were just stories. He must stop feeling this way. It wasn’t Olly’s fault that bad weather meant no fishing or digging or rampaging through the Wilderness; not Olly’s fault that the energy he’d regained was seeking a new home.
Without looking at his friend, he said, ‘We can’t go up to the attics. My sister is there.’
‘What now? It’s very early.’
‘She doesn’t sleep late – most often she’s up before me. And then she goes to her studio. Since she went to tea at Amberley, she’s been painting every day.’
‘Do you think that means anything?’
He didn’t want to think it did; didn’t want to think what might be happening to Elizabeth.
Oliver threw himself down onto the rug and sprawled lengthwise beside him. ‘She asked you to deliver another message yesterday, didn’t she? Was it because she wanted to meet him again?’
He bit his lip. He had taken the last message yesterday morning, a day after the Amberley visit, and he’d hoped it was the last. He knew his parents would disapprove; in fact, they would be furious and punish him severely. But it was Elizabeth he worried for. He loved her dearly. She was five years older than he, but she had been his friend and ally all his life. He didn’t want her in trouble and he had a premonition that Aiden Kellaway, nice chap though he seemed, meant very big trouble.
‘Let’s go and see her,’ he said suddenly. Oliver’s words had triggered a deep misgiving. If his sister had met Kellaway last night, what might have happened?
‘Won’t she mind us barging in?’ Oliver said. ‘Artistic temperament and all that.’
‘She’s not that precious. But she is a good artist. At least I think so. I think she’s good enough to be a professional.’
‘You mean sell her work for money?’
‘That’s what professional means, you chump.’ And he ruffled his friend’s hair in a loving gesture. In return, Olly ruffled his and for a moment they clasped each other tight.
*
Elizabeth was working hard on a seascape. It was a view of the shore at East Head, the sand dune spit at the entrance to Chichester harbour. The family had visited the beach the previous summer and, although it hadn’t been a particularly happy experience, the light on the sea, the rippled finger of sand, had etched itself into her mind and needed expression.
Especially now. It was keeping her from thinking of other things, dangerous things. She had kissed Aiden last night, and been kissed by him into recklessness. She wasn’t ignorant. She had read about desire, but that had been mere words, something that happened to other people, characters in a book perhaps, but not to girls like her. Now she knew differently. Last night, she had been overwhelmed by a longing like no other, to hold this man, to touch him, caress him. It had been the most wonderful feeling, yet the most terrifying too.
She had never wished to live the kind of life her mother had, dancing to another’s tune. She had kicked against the very idea, even though she’d known that for a girl like herself there were few options but marriage. Then, in London, in the midst of a frenzied Season’s revelry, a small window of escape had appeared. She had begun to dream that one day she might become a professional painter. Laura Knight had done it. The woman had earned her own living for nine years before marrying, so why not her? She had the imagination, the creativity – if she could get formal training, if she could further develop her skill… But the obstacles had been huge and the flame that had once burnt bright slowly faded.
And then this summer she’d met a man who had made her see differently. Made her consider anew the struggle to carve a life for herself. Made her feel that anything was possible. And she had stopped struggling, stopped kicking, and started loving. That’s what her heart had been telling her these past weeks: she had fallen in love.
She was broken from her reveries as William and Oliver shuffled into the room and leant against the door frame, one on either side, recovering from the climb up the steep, narrow steps.
‘And what do you two want?’ she asked in an amused voice.
They wore a slightly dejected air, as though, for the moment, they had lost their bearings. For weeks they’d run free through acres of garden, but now found themselves trapped and tamed within four walls.
‘We thought we’d come up and help you,’ Oliver announced grandly.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You paint then?’
‘Gosh, no.’ He seemed horrified at the suggestion. ‘But maybe we could clear up a little.’ He waved his hand around the room at the jumble of outcast furniture, the quietly mildewing heap of old curtains, and a discarded stair carpet lost in one corner.
‘Clear up? If your room is anything to go by, I doubt it.’ Their faces took on an even more dejected look, and she took pity on them. ‘I suppose you could mix me some paint, if you want to be useful. I mean to use this greenish-blue cerulean for the sky, but I need a slightly deeper blue for the sea.’
William loved the job of mixing paints, though his efforts were not always successful. Over time, though, he’d improved and, even when disaster struck, she had been able quietly to dispose of the result. She had always been his friend, playing games to amuse him, shielding him from their father’s anger, helping him with the schoolwork he found so difficult. She had grown quite proficient in Greek, a fact that had bemused and scandalised her dear governess, when Miss Tremloe first discovered her pupil deep in The Odyssey. Study of the classics was not for girls, she’d declared. It was boys’ learning and should be left strictly alone. Cookery, needlework, household management, these were the subjects that were important. But domestic topics bored Elizabeth to distraction. She had inherited her father’s quick intelligence, his energy too, but with no outlet for either. Ancient Greek had filled the gap. And with her diligent translations, her brother’s homework had never failed to pass muster with Mr Binks – such a silly name for a very serious young man – though William himself had known little more of the language after three years’ study than when he’d first begun. Binks was not the most patient of tutors, a little too handy at wielding a ruler she remembered, and her help was certainly needed.
But when William was despatched to school, Ancient Greek was despatched along with him, and she’d had to find another way to satisfy her restlessness and channel a passion she barely understood. From then on, all her energy had been poured into art. She had always loved to draw and to paint but now she became an ardent devotee, wielding her brushes with newly discovered fervour. And the wonderful thing was that she had not to excuse herself, since painting was viewed as eminently fitting for a young girl. An interest of which even Miss Tremloe, now long gone, could not have disapproved.
‘Use the cerulean as a base and then experiment – there are several other blues you can try. And zinc white. There’s a spare palette behind you and use this linseed oil as a thinner.’ She handed them a small cup of liquid.
The boys rolled up their sleeves and, heads bent, carefully made their way around the tubes of colours. Five, ten minutes passed in deep concentration. Then, ‘What do you think of this?’ William offered her a startling blue.
‘You might tone it down a little,’ she said tactfully. ‘Can you remember the sky when we visited East Head beach?’
‘When Papa lost his temper with those boys playing cricket?’
‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘when Papa lost his temper.’
‘I can sort of picture it. It was more wispy than real blue, I think. We can tone this colour down, can’t we, Olly?’
‘Absolutely.’
Two heads again bent diligently over their shared palette and, in ten minutes more, had produced a very tolerable light blue.
‘That’s not at all bad,’ Elizabeth complimented them. ‘If you’d like to attempt a beigey blond for the sand…’
But Oliver wasn’t li
stening. He had climbed onto an old chest that stood against one of the walls and was balancing on tiptoe, looking out through the wide skylight. ‘It’s stopped raining at last,’ he said excitedly. ‘We can go out.’
She glanced up at the window. Leaves that had been torn from the surrounding trees were pasted to its glass. ‘The wind is still blowing hard,’ she warned. ‘And everywhere is thoroughly wet.’
‘The wind won’t matter.’ Oliver was buoyant. ‘And look, the sun is coming out.’
It was more a hope than a reality, but, as if to prove her wrong, a bright beam of sunlight channelled through the skylight and hit the floorboards at the far end of the room.
‘See, it’s getting better.’ William was already at the door.
‘If you must go out, stay away from the Wilderness. Stick to the upper lawn, or your clothes will be soaked.’
‘But there’s nothing to do on the lawn. It’s boring.’
She caught sight of several poles protruding feet above one of the many tea chests that stored the relics of their family life. ‘How about a game of croquet? We used to play.’
‘Yes, we did,’ William’s face was bright with anticipation.
‘I’m not sure if it’s too windy but it’s worth a try.’ She pointed to the tea chest. ‘Whether the set is still complete, I’ve no idea.’
They were into the chest before she’d stopped speaking, pulling out mallets, and a collection of hoops, and finally red, blue, black and yellow balls. ‘I’m sure it’s all here,’ her brother said, ‘though I think there were some flags. But how do you set it up?’
‘I’ll do it for you. As long as I can remember how. And we won’t worry about the flags.’ She dropped her brush into a jar of turpentine. ‘I need some fresh air right now. Come on, let’s go.’
Chapter Nineteen
It took her a while to remember the exact layout of the court, but, with the last hoop in place, the playing rectangle was as accurate as she could manage; she stood back to admire her handiwork. Her father had bought the croquet set when they’d first arrived at Summerhayes, a diversion for the children while they waited for their new home. An old manor house belonging to the Fitzroys had been pulled down and its palatial successor not yet fully completed. They had lived in a small apartment at the rear of the building, but the lack of space hadn’t seemed to matter. The rooms had been cosy and they’d spent most of their time together, her father coming and going, full of plans, full of new and ever more extravagant ideas. It was a period, she thought, when they’d come closest to being a happy family. Her mother was delighted to be back in the countryside she loved, and with a new baby to keep her company. She‘d spent hours tucked away with William, out of earshot of the heavy machinery that scared him, while Elizabeth followed her father around the estate, listening avidly as he mapped out plans for a garden that would trump all others. He had been at the peak of his powers then: after years of punishing work and worry, he’d sold his Birmingham factories for a vast sum. He had acquired the perfect family, acquired a rural estate that he could mould to his liking, and a modern mansion built to his specifications.
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