Jeremy looked once or twice in my direction, but I looked down, unwilling to meet his gaze. During the final hymn I looked at him, I couldn’t help it, and our eyes met. An electric bolt of feeling lashed my flayed senses. It was true that nothing had changed between us. It was also true no future beckoned us.
I decided to leave Hethering while Jeremy and the other men followed the coffin to its gravesite. In the front hall I encountered Abel Hicks, Father’s solicitor. The will would be read when Jeremy returned to the house.
“You are leaving, Miss Clarissa?”
“Is there any reason for me to remain?” I was certain Father had disinherited me.
I saw Mr. Hicks’ belief in proper legal procedure struggle with his regard for me. In the end, he sighed and said “No, Miss Marchmont.”
Snow impeded every part of my journey back to Cornwall, but I was glad of it. The struggle to find rail connections occupied my mind, I let the cold numb my heart. When I arrived at Edward Dane’s house in St. Ives, Thérèse opened the door for me.
“Welcome home,” she said.
Chapter Nineteen
Throughout the winter and the glorious spring of 1914, I remained at home with Thérèse. I completed my illustrations for my publisher. He was effusive with praise and sent me two more manuscripts to consider. Thérèse and I completed the redecoration of our home and I painted a small sign to be posted by the front door. The Refuge, it read.
“Le Refuge,” her little fingers traced the curly black letters. “C’est vrai.”
She didn’t remark further on my quiet life, though it was unusual for one so young as I. Henry Putnam’s regular letters expressed gentle regrets that I would not return to London. He came to visit me again in April.
“This is a beautiful place,” he said. “A refuge indeed.” I took him to see my walled garden returning to life. I had two gardeners. An old man taught me about plantings that flourished in cold salt air, a young boy did the digging and heavy work.
While we sipped our tea and enjoyed Thérèse’s petits fours, Henry smiled. “I received an interesting document for you.” He gave me a deed and a letter.
I ignored the deed, because the envelope had my name on it, written in Jeremy’s bold spiky hand. I opened it. One sheet of paper. “You will always be part of Hethering”, it read.
“The deed describes a small cottage, a tract of meadowland and a pond,” Henry said.
“Oh, Jeremy,” I said, as if he sat beside me instead of my solicitor. My finger traced the words that gave me Willow’s legacy. I despised the cold wealth of Leighton House, the property my father’s will denied me. Jeremy chose for me the part of Hethering I loved best. He did live in my heart, he knew it better than I.
*****
Caroline’s baby was born in the cold beginning of 1914. Amalia Pickety wrote to tell me Jeremy’s wife was delivered of a little son named Arthur. It was odd, I reflected, I thought of this new soul as Caroline’s baby, denying Jeremy’s involvement. Amalia’s letter was delayed, lost in transit until May, and I was thankful I’d had the gift of Willow’s place to soften the blow that another woman gave Jeremy a child.
In June, Genie Caleph arrived for a visit. She marveled at the quaint comfort of my Refuge and delighted in Thérèse’s Gallic personality and cuisine. I could see Thérèse approved of my good friend as well.
Genie and I took long walks along the lanes and over the sand by the bay. She was enthusiastic about St. Ives and her high spirits were catching. I began to see the village through her eyes, and for the first time considered it something other than a place of exile. When we stopped in a shop that sold art supplies, she found a hand lettered card advertising a small group who met to discuss art and the “issues of the day”.
“You should attend a meeting,” she said.
“I know little of politics,” I mused while examining a new shipment of sable paintbrushes.
“You must learn,” she said, her amiable voice growing stern. “This London season is the gayest ever, but every newspaper screams of war with Germany.”
“Richard Marchmont said war would come,” I told her, “but by then my faith in him was gone and I disbelieved it.”
“He was right in this matter,” Genie said. “Every man I meet assures me if war comes it will be ‘over by Christmas’. Their excitement blinds them to war’s true price. Misery, pestilence, death.” Her last word was a painful whisper.
We had left the shop and her tearless eyes fixed on the azure waters at the horizon, but I saw the bleak planes of her face and remembered her fiancé, dead in the Boer War. Then I remembered Richard Marchmont’s assumption that Jeremy would fight, and his worry over Hethering’s heir. Jeremy had a son now, but my heart sank at the thought of losing my dearest love as Genie had lost hers.
We were apart, but he was still on this earth. Our noble separation now seemed a fools’ pact. I wanted to board the next London bound train, to find him and beg him not to fight. His death would be the last sword thrust in my heart, the final killing blow. My smothered love for him rose up in my throat to choke me and I kicked a pebble across the empty street in frustration.
Genie looked at me with complete understanding. “Be careful, Clarry,” she said. “War changes everything.”
*****
When Genie returned to London, I followed her advice and joined the group of artists who met in members’ homes. Tea was served, work was displayed to polite comment and then political discussions began. They were heated, as artists did not hesitate to voice their opinions and try to influence the undecided, me. Half our number believed war with Germany was inevitable and as such, a sacred cause. Of the rest, most were pacifists to varying degrees. Some disagreed with the notion of war, but would fight for king and country. The most fervent preferred prison to warfare.
In my heart I wanted Jeremy among their number. In my head, I knew he would fight for Hethering. I allowed myself, just for a moment, to imagine him living there with Caroline, their baby tucked away in the nursery that sheltered me. These images didn’t trouble me overmuch, because they seemed so unreal, but when I pictured Jeremy and Caroline walking the grounds, arm in arm, a lightning flash of pain stopped my breath and I pushed both hands against my forehead to end my imaginings.
“Mademoiselle?” Thérèse stood before me, and I turned away to compose myself. She waited, then said. “A gentleman is here to see you.” She gave me his card. I looked at it and nodded.
In a moment, she brought Dickon Scard into my salon.
“How wonderful to see you,” I said. “What brings you to St. Ives?”
“I’m on holiday,” he said, “and I’ve heard tell the inhabitants of this town are congenial.” He looked at my face. “Have I come at a bad time?”
“You’ve come at the best time,” I said. “I couldn’t be happier to see you.”
He didn’t press for an explanation of my reddened eyes, but gave me news of Genie and Helen who’d supplied him with my direction.
“They approve of me,” he said. “I entertained them with exaggerated tales of our youth. They love to hear me describe you running wild down the meadow, two braids flying behind.” He looked at my pinned up hair with frank admiration and I blushed.
For a very happy fortnight, Dickon stayed at a local inn. We recreated our childhood days exploring the cliffs and forests surrounding St. Ives, picnic lunches packed away in his motor. He loved to walk along the shore, chasing waves out and being chased back in turn. He dared me to do the same and was chagrined when I proved so adept my skirts were never damped. We dined at home on Thérèse’s finest cuisine.
When I teased her about climbing new culinary heights for Dickon, she replied “He is un vrai gentilhome. He deserves the best.” I saw a small reproach in her eyes. What else did Dickon deserve?
The next morning the post boy delivered a wire.
I need you at Hethering. Please come at once. Jeremy.
I gave sincere regrets to Dic
kon, but said little about my journey. Thérèse made us a delicious farewell dinner punctuated by sniffs of disapproval over my leaving.
Dickon was kind and graceful in his disappointment. He didn’t stay long after dinner, only kissed my cheek and said “Every time I find you, Clarry, I lose you.”
*****
I left my bags at the train station to be brought to the manse. Mr. Pickety, once curate, was now vicar with a curate of his own. I walked over the fields to Hethering, wanting to approach at a measured pace, to allow its beauty to envelop me with slow, sweet happiness. I paused on the final ridge of land overlooking my former home. The parkland and house were in perfect order, yet there was an emptiness in its bounds, an unfamiliar stillness.
“I knew you would come this way.” I heard Jeremy’s voice before I turned to see him. “I waited for you in the Faraway Glade.”
I laughed to hear our childhood name for the small patch of woods just outside Marchmont land. We thought ourselves daring to cross the forbidden boundary into uncharted territory. I drew a steadying breath. Jeremy wouldn’t tempt me there now.
He sensed my change of mood and stopped smiling. “Tea is at four as usual,” he said. “Let’s have a little talk before refreshment.”
“Will Caroline be there?”
“No, she will not.”
We made our way into the house in silence. I wondered, then, if I would see the baby. I wondered how I would feel to see Jeremy’s likeness in a child not my own.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” Henry said at the door. “It’s good to see you, Miss.”
Jemmy led the way to Father’s study. When I was seated, he took his place behind the desk, looking absurdly stern in the manner of his predecessor.
“Why did Henry greet you as if you’d been away?”
“Caroline won’t live at Hethering,” he said. “Arthur has a weak chest and she’s loath to leave his London physician for a country doctor.”
“I understand.” I would be the same.
“The truth is, Clarry, if Arthur were strong and healthy, she wouldn’t live here, she’s told me that. She says there are too many ghosts. Ghosts of you and me, of our happiness.”
She was right.
“You asked me here because you need me. I came because of our promise. Why do you need me?”
“I was in the OTC at Oxford, Clarry. Officers Training Corps. You must know I’ll be called up the minute war is declared.”
“I don’t want a war,” I said.
“Do you think I do? Do you think I want to be even farther away Hethering? I can just about manage the property from London. If I’m out of the country without someone I trust, someone who loves this land as I do in my place, I dare not imagine what will happen.”
“Some say the war, if there is a war, will be over by Christmas,” I said.
“Germany has been arming for years while we ignored the possibility of attack. We feel safe on our island, but we are treaty bound to defend Belgium.”
He cut the string on a parcel left for him on what was now his desk. Inside it was a children’s book. He opened the pages. I recognized the illustrations.
“How do you have that?”
A friend of a friend got me a forward copy. It’s not officially published yet.”
He turned the leaves, one by one. “This is Hethering, Clarry, these are our gardens, our land, you’ve rendered with such love.”
I looked at him helplessly.
“You know, don’t you?”
I nodded. I would care for Hethering, I would keep it safe for him.
*****
Jeremy’s solicitor joined us at tea and we went back to Father’s study to sign the papers granting me power as agent. I told Henry I would move into my old bedroom in a few days’ time. Jemmy walked me to the Picketys’ home on his way to catch the London bound train.
“Will you write to me Clarry?” he asked.
“Of course I will.”
“Not just about Hethering. I depend on you, Clarry, for so much more than that.”
“I know.” His fingers were beneath my chin, and when he moved to kiss my cheek, I turned my head and kissed his lips. He made a small sound at the back of his throat and wrapped his arms tight around me, kissing me all the while. When we broke apart, he smiled his farewell with such love and trust shining in his face. I hadn’t seen that smile for so long, I thought it was gone forever. I let go my scruples about his wife and child. War changes everything.
I didn’t return to St. Ives. It was cowardly to avoid the disappointment in Thérèse’s eyes, but I wasn’t sure I could leave my Refuge a second time, even to protect Hethering. I offered Thérèse a place at Hethering with me for the duration, but she replied with great dignity she would prefer to keep my Refuge safe for my return.
Amalia Pickety and I renewed our friendship. I enjoyed my romps with her children and Mr. Pickety’s sermons on Sunday. I met with Hethering’s tenant farmers and gardeners in the mornings and walked the grounds after luncheon. It was obvious our young men, from farmer’s sons, to stable grooms, to our burly under gardeners, were eager to join up to “give that narsty Hun a licking he’ll remember.”
Jemmy left me his handwritten journal of plans for Hethering. I took it to my mother’s sitting room after dinner and read each page. Here were his earliest ideas for improvements in the schoolboy hand I remembered. Here were the longings of a homesick schoolboy, and here he had pasted my first maps.
I saw his plans for the distant future in a section that began on the last page and ran backwards. There were fantastical gardens of topiary and plantings brought from the far corners of the world. Then I found his drawings for repair to each of our beloved follies. Beneath a detailed sketch of my Bridge of Sighs brought back to its former glory, he’d scrawled in pencil “When?”
I knew when. I would restore our follies. When the time came for me to give Hethering back, it would be a kingdom complete, a reward for his exile and his sacrifice. I began to add my own notes to his drawings, estimating time, labor and materials. If life denied us the union we craved, the children we wanted, Hethering would be our joint creation, our legacy, the flowering of our love.
Chapter Twenty
Britain declared war on Germany on August 4. From that moment the country mobilized. Jeremy was already in officers’ training camp, I’d received a cable informing me in late July. His next letter told me he didn’t know when he’d be sent over, but he’d have leave first.
Every young man in our small village was in a fever to enlist in Kitchener’s army. In all too short a time they were gone, leaving women and old men to get in the harvest and prepare for winter. I spent hours making a schedule to assure Hethering’s needs could be met. An army officer came to requisition our horses, leaving us with two ponies and the promise of mules for our tenant farmers.
On a farm visit to Nanny Croft, Hethering’s oldest tenant, I learned her granddaughter and great grandchildren were coming from London to help work her farm. “They’s a lot of chirren be comin’ home to roost,” she told me. “Young Dickon Scard is leaving his fancy London perch to put his land in order afore he goes off to furrin’ parts.”
Dickon’s father had amassed a wealth of land before he died. Some was in the hands of his daughters and their husbands, other acres were leased.
Sure enough, within the week Henry brought me Dickon’s card. He also gave a great sniff to tell me London polish should not afford a farmer’s son Hethering’s hospitality. I ignored our snobbish butler and gave Dickon my very best smile.
He was dressed in the clothes of a country gentleman, but the wind had ruffled his hair and his roguish smile was the Dickon I remembered from our childhood.
“Here we are again, Clarry.”
“I’ll call for a picnic tea,” I said, “if you’ll walk to Willow’s meadow with me.”
“Pink frosted cakes?”
“Cook knows my favorites.”
While we wait
ed he told me about the plans he’d made for his land, and the plans he’d made to enlist.
“You don’t want a commission?”
“I’m happiest with my lads. I’ll be an NCO soon enough, the recruitment officer told me that.”
He carried the basket across the lawns and gardens and through the Marchgate Wood. We sat on the bench by Willow’s pond and ate every last morsel, washed down by a generous thermos of tea.
“This is my land now,” I told Dickon. “Father cut me out of his will, but Jeremy gave me Willow’s home, her meadow and the pond.”
He put his head to one side and looked down at me. “He knows you very well.”
I busied myself packing up our basket, carefully folding and refolding the linen napkins.
“Clarry.” Dickon’s voice was husky. “I know how close you and Jeremy are, even now. I see his trust in you.”
I nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
“Is there even a chance for me?”
I thought for a moment about my future. I could go on as a kind of pitiful adjunct to Jeremy’s life, always left behind or worse, in danger of immoral conduct. Or I could choose this good man beside me. I did care for him. I knew he cared for me. We could have our own happy life.
I raised my eyes to his and smiled. He smiled too. He bent his head and kissed me and I kissed him back.
*****
Dickon and I weren’t promised to each other, but we were happy. Despite my place at Hethering, he never mentioned Jeremy’s name again, nor did I. I gave him a tour of my grand lodging, so many echoing rooms for one person He admired everything from a respectful distance, but when I ushered him into my mother’s tower room his eyes lit up.
“How my own dear mother would have loved a sanctuary like this one,” he said. “She longed for a ‘blessed moment of peace’ as she would say. We were a noisy, bothersome bunch.”
Susan Speers Page 10