The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  The mirror told me the gown did look well, setting off my pale skin and dark hair as I turned for the girl to pin the hem. But since the only man I cared about wouldn’t see me wearing it, what point was there in it?

  ‘It’s time you forgot about that young man,’ Saffron said, and, when I turned my startled head to look at her, she wagged a finger at me. ‘He’s a bounder, Kate, d’you know what I mean? Didn’t he prove it, with all the lies he told about you?’

  She was talking about Carl-Heinz. ‘A little, perhaps,’ I conceded.

  ‘Then it’s time you stopped. You should fall in love, Kate. With some nice young Englishman. Maybe you’ll meet him at the ball. Or maybe you already know him.’

  How right she was. ‘Someone like whom?’

  ‘Lady Vi mentioned James Lacey.’

  ‘Did she?’ I almost laughed. I had seen James once or twice when I visited his mother at Lenhoe Manor. A charming, diffident, thoroughly pleasant young man, his only apparent defect was his lack of height. I liked him a lot – as I did his brother, David – but it had never occurred to me to imagine anything beyond friendship with either of them. How could it, when for months now my heart had been set on Philip Farcroft?

  But perhaps there were other possibilities. Perhaps I should let myself enjoy the company of other men and see what happened. How could I be sure Philip was my one true love? Wasn’t that school-girlish fantasy? I had, after all, been dismally deluded about Carl-Heinz.

  So my head decided. My heart and soul remained sick with loneliness, thoughts of Philip a constant pain inside me, memories burned into my being. A part of me knew, even then, that no one else would ever touch me quite as deeply as Philip had.

  Uncle Frank called in at Hawthorn House, restored to health by his sojourn in the south and on his way home for the ball. He fobbed me off when I asked him about Judy Love, though I gathered he had seen her.

  A day or so later, Emmet arrived back from the Aegean. He too looked bronzed and fit, impossibly handsome with his hair turned almost white by the sun, and bursting with stories of adventures concerning renewed conflict in the Balkans. It could turn to full-scale war, I heard him telling Harry with enthusiasm, and that would bring the French in, with us not far behind. And then we’d show the damned Hun a thing or two!

  ‘Hush, Emmet,’ said Harry with a glance out to the garden where I was reading, and they moved out of earshot.

  Emmet and I travelled back to Denes Hill together, he full of nonsense that made me laugh despite myself. I was the envy of every girl who saw us: none of them would have believed he was my uncle.

  But the cheer afforded by his witty company was only temporary, for next to my bed in the small room which had once been inhabited by the governess, I found a letter waiting. Not recognizing the writing, I tore it open and looked for the signature. It was from Philip.

  I scanned it eagerly, devastated to find it a rather stiff, formal communication, which spoke of his regret for his father’s brusqueness: he hoped it had not upset me too much. He understood why I had felt it best to hurry away, though he had been sorry for it. ‘I should like to see you again so I know you understand,’ he ended. ‘Can you come to the gate on Friday night at nine o’clock? If this is not convenient, perhaps you would consider sending me yr address in London, so that I might write to you.’ He signed it, ‘Yrs, Philip F.’ What he meant, my heart decided, was that he wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see him, in spite of all the barriers between us. Oh, Philip…

  I made excuses to go early to my room and sneaked out just before nine by the side door, making my way through the yards and gardens to the woods, and thence to the gate. I was a minute or two late, but Philip wasn’t there. I waited, but he didn’t come. I even walked down the lane to where I could see the farm, but the hollow was all darkness, faint starlight slanting along the sway-backed thatch of the roof. Not even the dogs stirred that night.

  Disconsolate, calling myself all kinds of a fool, I trailed home again and reread the letter, wondering if I had misunderstood him. Only as I tucked the paper back into the envelope did I notice the postmark: 18 September, 1912. Nine days ago. It was last Friday he had meant.

  * * *

  Next morning I felt listless, unable to drag myself out of a bog of self-pity. I was in no mood for a grand buffet ball.

  Men had worked for days clearing the saloon for dancing, polishing the floor, erecting buffet tables and fitting candles in the chandeliers. Now more people arranged flowers and set out chairs, while in the kitchens a small army of women prepared food. Grandmother, Vicky and Anderson went about with lists, checking every detail, while I stayed on hand to help with flowers and carry messages between saloon and kitchen, library, supper room or cloak rooms.

  The party would mark Grandmother’s return to a full social life after a year of mourning; it would celebrate Emmet’s gaining his degree; and, with senior personnel from Chef Foods and Thorne-Thomas Engineering among the guests, the evening would also launch him on the ladder that would lift him, some day, to the board of the engineering firm. He was the obvious one to assume his father’s mantle. It should have been John, but John was gone; Harry was already in charge of Chef Foods; Frank had never shown any inclination for business; so Emmet, considered the brightest of them all, was the chosen heir apparent at Thorne-Thomas.

  The Lord Lieutenant had accepted his invitation, as had half the gentry of the county, including the Chief Constable. Oliver Wells was also expected, as Vicky informed me with ill-concealed malice. She evidently felt that, Oliver and I being at odds, her own star was rising again.

  I decided to put Philip from my mind, if I could, at least for that evening. Saffron was right – the world was full of young men, and I was on the verge of womanhood. Dressed for the ball, I surveyed my reflection with approval. Current fashion style suited the slender figure nature had given me. The green silk had a cunningly draped bodice with tiny slit sleeves, a long slim skirt, split to the knee at the sides and trimmed with heavy fringing that swirled with me as I moved, and I wore high-heeled slippers dyed the same green. The mirror told me I looked good, as did the eyes of all the men at the party. That night, I almost believed it myself. If only Philip had been there…

  My partners included the Lacey boys, James and David, and my uncles Harry, Frank and Emmet. Poor Tom spent most of the evening gazing on, wide-eyed, or raiding the buffet, with the outdoor man, Garret, under orders to look after him. When I found a gap on my card I asked Tom if he would like to partner me and we made a few turns around the floor. He didn’t so much dance as galumph, but it made us both laugh even if Grandmother did look a bit pot-faced about it.

  Dancing with Oliver Wells, I was disconcerted to discover how well we moved together. He felt it, too, complimenting me on my lightness of foot, though the merit was his – it’s easy to follow a man who moves with grace, holds one firmly and leads with assurance. Gazing over his shoulder, I tried not to think of our more intimate encounters, but memory was a force between us, if dimmed, for me, by more kindling memories of Philip.

  After a while, he leaned back to regard me with concern. ‘You’re not looking very happy tonight, Kate. Is something wrong?’

  ‘What could be wrong?’

  ‘That’s what I should like to know. You’re putting on a brave face, but I can see the shadows in your eyes. I hope I didn’t put them there by engaging you for this dance.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Disconcerted by his perception, I turned my head away to prevent him from reading anything else in my face. Even so, I was touched by his solicitude.

  Drawing me back to his shoulder, he executed a fancy turn and I felt his enjoyment of the way I followed him. ‘You didn’t reply to my letter,’ he murmured in my ear. ‘Am I forgiven?’

  A sigh escaped me. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. No, really, Oliver. You said you wanted us to be friends. I should like that, too.’

  He didn’t answer in words, but drew me closer. We con
centrated on the steps, moving smoothly together. If only he had been Philip! I closed my eyes and let myself enjoy being held in strong arms, imagining…

  When the music ended he engaged me for another dance after supper. Writing his name with the little pencil, he glanced at the others on the list. ‘James Lacey? Four times?’

  ‘James is shy – terrified of dancing with someone he doesn’t know.’

  The dark eyes lifted to mine, drenching me in their sensuality. ‘If you believe that, Kate…’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘More fool James Lacey, then.’ His glance flickered over me, making me aware of my body under the light evening gown. ‘A year has wrought wonders in you. I brought a schoolgirl back from Europe, or so I thought.’

  I pulled a face, hoping he couldn’t see how he disturbed me. ‘Mother always made me dress like a ten-year-old.’

  ‘I expect she couldn’t stand the competition,’ Oliver said with a wry smile. ‘Growing older herself, while you turned into a woman. She should see you now. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were twenty-one, at least. Everyone’s asking who the lovely girl in green can be.’

  ‘Now you’re flattering me.’

  The smile in his eyes reached his mouth, widening into soft laughter. ‘That’s what I like about you, Kate. No nonsense. Ironic, don’t you think? Vicky will believe the most blatant flattery. You mistrust me even when I’m sincere.’

  ‘Wise girl, my niece.’ Uncle Frank materialized beside us, resplendent in white tie and tails with his dark-gold locks brushing his starched white collar. He was smiling at Oliver, but his smile lied. ‘Have you seen that pub by the south gate in Lynn, Kate? The Honest Lawyer – he doesn’t have a head! My dance, I think. You’ll excuse us, Wells.’

  And he whisked me away.

  Having allowed James Lacey to claim the supper dance, I escaped with him to the terrace, where a mild September breeze blew softly and the moon played peep-bo among drifting clouds. An ebullient Emmet and a group of his friends were taking the air after the heat in the saloon, talking eagerly about the troubles in Ulster, and the war in the Balkans. What seemed to be a small local problem could easily flare into something worse, they agreed, with Russia on one side and Austro-Hungary on the other, along with their ally Germany. England could get dragged in, as it had in the Crimean War.

  ‘The Kaiser wants a through route to the Middle East,’ Emmet was saying. ‘Always had ambitions there. The man’s a jolly old megalomaniac if you ask me. But if he tries to… Oh, hello, Kate. Sorry, we were just—’

  ‘I heard,’ I said flatly, feeling chilled despite the mild night. ‘Haven’t you anything else to gossip about?’ I couldn’t betray my distant family and friends by joining in anti-German talk.

  Vicky’s arrival broke the moment. Dressed in a soft lilac that went well with her strawberry-blond hair, she had come to fetch Emmet away. I didn’t hear exactly what she said to him, but when he demurred she scolded, ‘But you must! Your whole future lies at Thorne-Thomas. You must at least look a little interested.’ Taking his arm, she drew him away, pausing to say sweetly to me, ‘You look awfully nice tonight, Kate.’

  ‘Thank you. So do you,’ I responded with equal insincerity.

  Affording James Lacey a gracious smile – in gratitude to him for keeping me away from Oliver, I guessed – she swept on, a reluctant Emmet with her. She was taking him to the supper room, where Grandmother was holding court among Thorne-Thomas directors and shareholders, with the solicitor at her elbow.

  After supper, I danced with George Chorley, undermanager at Chef Foods; he was rather portly, soon sweating from the exertion after eating too much and not sorry to relinquish my company when the butler, Billing, caught my eye and beckoned me aside.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Brand. There’s a lady in the retiring room having some difficulty. Would you mind…?’

  I followed him towards the lobby, but, when we reached a spot away from other ears, he paused and confided, ‘I fear, miss, I told you an untruth – for discretion, you understand. The fact is, there’s a gentleman asking to see you. Wants you to meet him out by the tennis courts.’

  ‘What gentleman?’ My imagination leapt from James to David, to Oliver Wells, to Emmet… even, inevitably, to Philip, though he wouldn’t dare to come to Denes Hill, much as I wanted him. ‘One of the guests?’

  ‘I assume so, miss. I didn’t see him myself. It was one of the kitchen boys brought the message. Anyway, I’ll leave it with you, miss. If you’d excuse me…’

  I had no intention of going out into the garden. Certainly not! But curiosity drew me through the house to the south wing, where a family sitting room had an enormous bay window fitted with French doors. The room lay in darkness, misty moonlight glowing just bright enough for me to see where the furniture was as I made my way across. On such occasions, moving in semi-darkness at Denes Hill, I felt myself surrounded by presences; they whispered just beyond hearing, brushed against my senses. John was never far away. I felt him that night. Waiting…

  ‘What do you want with me?’ I asked aloud. No one answered, not in words, but a warm feeling of protective affection flowed along my nerves.

  The French doors opened on to a small crazy-paved terrace. Beyond it the ground dropped away, rose gardens edged with cushion plants, built in widening terraces intertwined with uneven steps which led down to the croquet lawn. Off to the right, beside the walled gardens, the tennis court lay empty in the moonlight, surrounded by dark woods.

  Was that a figure by the wall? As I glimpsed it another cloud drew a veil over the moon and swamped everything in shadows. I stood at the top of the steps, peering into the darkness. If someone was down there, I couldn’t see him.

  A shiver tingled down my spine. Not fear, exactly, nor warning of a ghostly presence. Spirits never frightened me, but living people did. Had the summons been a joke of Emmet’s? Was Oliver hoping to press further attentions upon me?

  Then a stone gritted behind me. As I turned in alarm, a huge figure loomed out of the shadows, reaching for me. All I really saw was the shape of a hat – a military hat, with a badge on it. Carl-Heinz? Willi? A shriek escaped me, dying in a gasp as he hauled me to him and clamped his mouth over mine. Beer fumes assailed me. Sharp teeth, hot lips, a probing tongue, arms like iron bands around me…

  Terror lent me strength. I twisted and fought, pushing at a hard body clad in thick twill. My fierce resistance seemed to surprise him. He let me go. Then, as I opened my mouth to scream, he grabbed my shoulders in hard hands, gasping, ‘Don’t shout! It’s me! Philip.’

  And I hit him.

  I heard the splat of flesh on flesh, saw him reel away, a hand to his face. And then the jar of it reached my wrist and made me hug my arm, my palm singing from the blow, my heart unsteady. The moon flitted among the clouds, but I still couldn’t see him clearly. I hadn’t meant to hit him, but in that uniform he might as well have been a stranger.

  After a moment, he said bitterly, ‘I suppose I deserved that.’

  ‘You did!’ I was too shaken to be other than angry after the fright he had given me. ‘How dare you come here and—’

  ‘Thank you,’ the mutter came through clenched teeth. ‘Thanks a lot, Kate. At last I know where I really stand. I should have listened to Dad.’ And he was gone.

  Still dazed and breathless with shock, I stood clutching my wrist, gazing helplessly after him as he headed off down the steep steps, taking them two at a time, to run across the lawn and into the woods.

  Thirteen

  I couldn’t go back to the party. Instead, I went up to my room and, not bothering to light the lamp, stripped off the lovely green dress and left it lying in a heap. Wrapped in the familiar comfort of an old dressing gown, I stood staring out of the window feeling at once sick and empty. Faint moonlight slanted mistily across the distant sea, but closer at hand the woods were black, echoing the darkness in my heart.

  I shouldn’t have let Philip go like tha
t. I should have stopped him and explained: You startled me. You frightened me. How was I to know?… But why should I explain? The fault was his. Why had he come up to Denes Hill in that uncouth way, drunk and aggressive, to accost me? What had he meant about listening to his father? And why, oh why, had he been wearing that fearful uniform?

  * * *

  As a new school year began at the LSE, I applied myself to my studies with grim determination, trying to shut out both my unhappiness and the still-simmering rumours of invasion and war. I also became more involved with social work.

  Visits to the East End revealed the horror of the lot of some women and children, working in awful conditions for a few shillings a week. Through the agency of the East London Federation of Suffragettes, led by Sylvia Pankhurst, these women were being encouraged to band together and fight for their rights. Though I never entirely agreed with some of Sylvia’s more strident supporters – including Hermione Harmistead – the work they were doing for the poor seemed to me eminently worthwhile. I spent much of my free time in Bow, manning the shop, or fundraising, or visiting homes to explain our aims; I even went on one or two marches, and wrote angry articles and speeches. These activities brought me closer to Miss H, but drove widening wedges in my friendship with Win Leeming.

  Win didn’t approve of marching, heckling and banner-waving. She said I would also be drawn into stone-throwing and fire-raising if I were not careful; surely we could make our point without forgetting we were ladies? In her opinion the Pankhursts were becoming dangerously militant, damaging the cause.

  Another area of disagreement between us was her continuing allegiance to spiritualism. She regularly attended Mrs Bly’s seances, but since she knew how Miss H and I felt about those gatherings she didn’t talk about them. Miss H and I agreed that Win was being deceived, but there our concord faltered: Hermione Harmistead didn’t believe in an afterlife of any kind.