The Clouded Land

by Mary Mackie

  Seeing the French doors open, I hurried along the terrace to intercept these intruders, with Billing twittering at my heels. One of them stood in the ballroom, a khaki-clad subaltern with a wispy blond moustache. He stuttered and stammered, introducing himself as Second Lieutenant Gryce, explaining his errand and apologizing for having to do it, but we were under martial law now, Defence of the Realm, the war… But what a fine old house it was. Such elegant proportions.

  I was not about to be disarmed by flattery. ‘Give Lieutenant Gryce a guided tour, Billing. I’ll go and see where the other gentleman might be.’ Though they had every right to carry out their orders, their ill-mannered methods annoyed me. No stranger should be snooping around unescorted in a private house full of valuable objects and personal belongings.

  Upstairs, the door of Grandmother’s private sitting room was open. The second officer stood with his back to me, a tall, broad-shouldered figure in khaki twill and puttees, hair cropped close to his neck below the band of his military cap, long legs straddled, great boots planted on the pale carpet as he perused a portrait of Grandfather. His presence was an affront in that delicate blue and white room, making me exclaim in outrage. As he turned, I saw his lieutenant’s insignia and knew he was the senior of the two. Even so—

  ‘How dare you—’ I began. And then I saw his face.

  It was Philip.

  Philip… I hung there staring at him in disbelief. Was I pale with shock or scarlet with other emotions? A maelstrom of them. He had been promoted! He was safe, he was here, thank God! And Tom, lying between us. And Mad Jack with blood on his face. And a faithful dog that had had to be put down. And I… straight from Oliver’s bed, where I had hoped to find a cure for love but discovered only my own shame. Could he read it in my eyes?

  I wish I had said something witty – something memorable – but what I actually said was, ‘What are you doing here?’ He too was startled, for a moment. Then he straightened himself, donning his official mantle, his face a mask. Unlike Oliver, however, he couldn’t control his eyes: his eyes said he hated and despised me even while his deep voice said evenly, ‘The official billeting officer was taken ill last night. I was seconded to help Lieutenant Gryce, since I know the district.’

  ‘I meant… I thought you’d gone to Suffolk.’

  ‘I’ve been given leave to help with the harvest.’

  I hardly knew whether to laugh or weep. I had been imagining all kinds of horrors, and here he was, back at home again as if he had never left.

  ‘As you may recall,’ he added, his voice laced with sarcasm, ‘harvest’s a busy time. A farmer has to work all hours.’

  The memory of last harvest pulsed between us – a moonlit hollow in the dunes, sweet intimacies interrupted, hard words spoken… had he meant them? Had I? Oh, if only—

  He squared himself, stretching to his full commanding height, very much the officer on duty. ‘Our orders are to record all available—’

  ‘I know what your orders are! I’ve spoken with your colleague.’

  ‘Then I won’t waste my breath repeating it all.’ And he turned to the inner door. ‘You’ll excuse me if I get on with—’

  ‘Please!’ Dodging past him, I barred the way with widespread arms. ‘I can’t let you go in there. This is Grandmother’s private suite. I’ll show you the rest of the house, if you wish, but not this.’

  His cheek twitched and his look both mocked and scorched me, but he said, ‘Thank you,’ and bowed me towards the door. ‘After you, Miss Brand.’ Because I didn’t know what else to do, I led the way along the first floor, opening doors just wide enough to allow glimpses inside: Vicky’s room, a bathroom and WC, Emmet’s room, Tom’s room – at whose door I unwisely met Philip’s green glance and saw that he too remembered the way we had parted on this spot a year ago. His mouth hardened, but all he said was, ‘And the rest?’

  Three guest rooms, another bathroom, Anderson’s room, a linen room, a sewing room, further utility areas around the back stairs, and, ‘This is my room.’ I flung the door wide and stepped back, saying flatly, ‘You might as well take a look at that, too.’

  ‘Since it’s the only chance I shall ever get…’ he muttered under his breath and strode in, going straight to the window. The room was as I had left it before dinner the previous evening, with day clothes across the bed, hairbrushes untidy on the dressing table with oddments of jewellery, and my personal notebook by the bed, where I wrote down my thoughts and scribbled poems and ideas. Did he guess how often his name was written there? What would I write today, recounting last night: ‘I am engaged to Oliver Wells’? Also in evidence, trailing softly across the night table, was the blue scarf he had given me. I slept with it under my pillow. It was my comfort, all I had left. If he saw it, would he guess…?

  ‘You’ll have to move,’ he said flatly.

  I stared at his rigid back, wondering where my sweetheart had gone to. In his place, this hostile stranger in uniform… ‘I beg your pardon?’

  He swung round, his face in misty shadow with bright sky behind him. ‘I can’t billet troops up here with you in the middle of them. Damn it—’ But he stopped himself, shutting his mouth like a trap, jaw muscle bunching as he clenched his teeth. Whatever he had been going to say, he changed it to, ‘Why have they consigned you to the back of the house?’

  ‘It happened that way. I don’t mind.’ I could not resist adding, ‘It was convenient when I needed to sneak out unobserved, wasn’t it?’

  For answer, he strode for the door and came past me, dull colour across his cheekbone making his eyes look greener than ever. ‘Where next?’

  ‘Down the back stairs there are servants’ rooms – Billing, Annie and Cook live in. Below that, the kitchens and domestic offices. Up here, there’s only the tower.’

  ‘Show me.’

  So I took him along to the turret, up to the landing leading to the big rooms that were bedroom and studio for Uncle Frank, then through the final door that led to the sanctum stairs. As we climbed up into brilliant sunlight, Philip looked round with interest, noting the books, the games, the photographs, the views… Again, it was the window that drew him.

  ‘I’ve often wondered how far you could see from up here,’ he said, staring out over the woods towards the hidden farmhouse. When I went to stand at the next window, he flicked me a sidelong look. ‘What luck that I had this topping excuse to come poking into your family’s privacy – all with the sanction of martial law. Who’d have thought that Jack Farcroft’s boy would ever have the nerve to trespass in the sanctum sanctorum at Denes Hill?’

  ‘If that’s meant to be funny—’ I said dully.

  ‘It’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Believe me, if I’d had the choice I’d have swum the Channel to get to the war rather than come here. The last thing I ever wanted was to have to—’ He stopped himself, grinding his teeth as he glowered at the view. ‘No, that’s not true, either. I’ve always wanted to see inside this house. And I wanted to see you again, if only to find out if you’d have the nerve to look me in the eye.’

  A hiccup of tearful laughter almost choked me. Underneath his anger he was still my Philip, upright and true, and cursed with stubborn pride. ‘Dear Philip… you always have to be so honest! Even with yourself.’

  ‘I’m glad you still find me amusing!’ he said savagely, a red tide scalding his throat and ears. ‘Don’t patronize me, Kate! And don’t ever – ever! – call me your dear, because I’m not, and I never was, and how the blazes I was ever fool enough to believe that I might be has me beat.’

  ‘Please—’ As he started for the stairs I reached to stop him, but the look he gave me sliced me to the heart. I snatched my hand back as if he had bitten me, and watched him turn away. But I couldn’t let him go like that. ‘Philip, please! Philip!’

  The thud of his boots paused halfway down the stairs, though he kept his back to me, stiff as a spike, his jaw working. His shaven neck was red with fury. Painfully vulnerable,
achingly appealing. How I longed to touch him and tell him…

  The shaking in my legs had got into my voice. ‘I did love you. I loved you terribly, ever since we talked in the church. I never laughed at you. I never meant to patronize. I think I knew it could never be, but that didn’t make any difference. You were all I wanted.’

  He jerked his head round to glare at me, raging, ‘Then why didn’t you say so at the time?’

  What? Whatever did he mean? Blankly, I breathed, ‘I did!’

  ‘Never once. Never!’

  ‘But…’ I tried to think back, but it was all a blur. ‘You knew how I felt! It must have been obvious. Surely you knew…’

  ‘How, Kate? Telepathy? And if you cared so much—’

  Another voice intruded, from the lower hall: Vicky’s voice, calling, ‘Kate? Kate, are you up there?’

  Philip gave me a final searing look, saying through his teeth, ‘Even if I believed you – which I don’t – it’s too late. I don’t care any more. I stopped caring a year ago, when I had to shoot Bess. For your information, Miss Brand, I’m going to marry Lou Roughton. Thank you for your time,’ and he went on down the stairs, banging the door behind him. I heard him say something to Vicky as he passed her, and then her lighter footsteps came tripping along Frank’s landing. She pushed the door open slowly, peering up at me with wide, startled eyes.

  ‘That was him! Young Farcroft. What was he doing here?’

  ‘What do you think he was doing here?’ I responded in bitter despair. ‘He came to carry me off to his hay loft and have his wicked way with me, obviously! Oh… it’s fate’s idea of a joke, Vicky. He’s helping the billeting officer.’

  ‘He was wearing a lieutenant’s insignia! How can he be an officer? He’s no gentleman.’

  Irritated by her snobbery, I found myself defending Philip: ‘He’s more of a gentleman born and bred than Grandfather ever was! The Farcrofts have been landowners since the year dot. Compared to that, the Rhys-Thomases are nouveau riche Johnny-come-latelys. Besides which, Philip is… is straight and true. He’s educated, intelligent…’ I don’t care any more, he had said. For your information, Miss Brand, I’m going to marry Lou Roughton. ‘Oh, God!’ I turned away, groping blindly for the nearest seat as grief caught up with me.

  Vicky sat beside me, trying to comfort me. She still felt guilty that jealousy had made her reveal secrets I was meant never to know. ‘But if you had gone on seeing him, something frightful might have happened. Oh, Kate, don’t cry. Please! I thought you’d have got over it by now.’

  ‘I have!’ I croaked, and drew a long breath, forcing the tears to stop. Why was I so upset over Philip Farcroft? Many troubles clouded my life: my shame over what I had done with Oliver; my newly acquired ‘criminal record’; the war, and Mother… Philip had been hateful to me. I ought to hate him, too.

  But I didn’t. I never could. I knew what was causing my worst anguish: I had hurt Philip badly – and I couldn’t tell him why.

  ‘Was it frightful – last night?’ Vicky asked in concern. ‘Did they lock you up in a cell? You must have been fearfully glad to see Oliver.’ Her glance faltered, sliding away. ‘I… I think I’ve been rather foolish. I thought if you were out of the way he would turn to me, but I know better now. I’m over him at last.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Completely sure. I…’ She flicked me a look under her lashes. ‘Shall I tell you a secret? I know I’m over Oliver, because… because I’m in love with someone else. Don’t ask me who, but I wish you could be as happy as I am, Kate, I really do. You know, Oliver is awfully fond of you.’

  How odd that she should confide secrets to me, of all people – and that she should plead Oliver’s cause. Whoever her man was, knowing him had changed her. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m fond of him, too. That’s why…’ Quite consciously, I set flaming torch to a metaphorical bridge behind me. ‘I’ll tell you a secret, too. I’ve agreed to marry Oliver.’ If she couldn’t keep the secret, it didn’t matter. The more people who knew, the less chance for changing my mind.

  * * *

  Grandmother had guardedly accepted Lieutenant Gryce’s reason for being in her home when she arrived back from committeeing with Mrs Lacey. But when Philip Farcroft strode into the grand saloon, large as life and showing no sign of humility, she must have felt her world had overturned. I gathered they were polite, if frostily formal, to each other, before Philip and his colleague took their leave. On his way out, Philip had chalked a large ‘12’ on the front door, much to Billing’s annoyance.

  ‘Twelve!’ Grandmother exclaimed when she recounted this story over luncheon. ‘They said it ought to be more – they said the ballroom alone could sleep a battalion.’ Her eyes swung accusingly to me. ‘What did he say to you?’

  I had no intention of answering that. ‘He had a job to do, Grandmother. Neither of us relished it, but—’

  ‘He was enjoying it. I could tell he was. Getting his own back.’

  ‘Can you blame him?’

  Her face pinched. ‘I don’t wish to discuss it. I feel quite sick. I shall protest to the authorities. Uncouth yeomanry clomping about the house…’ She glanced at Tom, who was heaping more potato on to his plate and mashing it with rivers of gravy. ‘It could prove a disastrous influence. However…’ Straightening herself, she visibly shook away that unpleasant subject. ‘Tell us about last evening, Catherine. Did you see Mr Payne? I’m appalled that he saw fit to—’

  ‘Mr Payne retired last year,’ I said.

  ‘Did he?’ Her surprise was more on account of her failed memory than for the fact itself. ‘Why… why, yes, of course… I’d quite forgotten. How stupid of me. I’ve yet to meet the new man – what’s his name? Hunt? He came up through the ranks, I believe. Well, that explains a good deal.’

  ‘He knew all about me. Someone had reported all my doings – even my movements in London.’

  She stared at me hawkishly. ‘Who?’

  ‘I only wish I knew.’ I had been over the possibilities, but could think of no one who fitted the role of informer.

  ‘Farcroft?’

  ‘I doubt it. Farmer Farcroft couldn’t possibly know about—’

  ‘I meant the son — Philip. Judging by his behaviour this morning he’d be only too pleased to make difficulties for any of us.’ She must have seen that I was about to argue in Philip’s defence, for she silenced me with a gesture. ‘Men can be furious at being scorned, too.’

  ‘It wasn’t Philip!’ Of course it wasn’t. Philip would never do such an underhand thing. But maybe his girl, Lou Roughton… No, that couldn’t be right, either. ‘I don’t know who it could have been. The plain fact is, they knew everything, and it looked bad. And… forgive me, Grandmother, but Mr Hunt wasn’t pleased that you had tried to use your influence to protect me. They’re going to be keeping a close eye on me. I have to report to a police station once a week, and I’m not supposed to leave the area without permission.’

  ‘That’s flagrant harassment! How dare they—’ She broke off as something made Tom jerk round, staring at the door. We all followed his gaze, but there was nothing to see, or hear.

  ‘Emmet!’ Brightening, he flung down the spoon with which he had been eating his potato, and dashed off, shouting, ‘Emmet! Emmet, we’re here!’

  His volume made Grandmother rub papery fingers against her brow as she considered the potato and gravy spattering the cloth. ‘Tom is so noisy! But his hearing is extraordinary. Sometimes I almost believe those two are in psychic communication.’

  ‘It can’t be Emmet,’ Vicky said. ‘What would Emmet be doing home on a Thursday?’

  Tom’s footsteps returned, racing down the hall. He charged in, braking by means of the doorknob from which he swung for a moment, beaming all over his face, crying, ‘It’s Emmet! Mater, it’s Emmet. Look…’

  Slower footsteps sounded, muffled on carpet then clumping on parquet as Emmet appeared in the doorway, smiling sheepishly. He was in uniform,
an infantryman’s khaki with enormous shiny boots, cap tucked under his arm.

  ‘He’s a soldier!’ Tom chortled. ‘Look at him! Isn’t he splendid?’

  Proudly, Emmet held out his arms, displaying his new finery, then ran a hand over his bright, newly cropped hair. He looked like a mischievous choirboy. ‘Well? What do you think of this jolly old outfit then?’

  ‘Emmet!’ Vicky was on her feet, breathless with pride as she ran to greet him. ‘You’ve volunteered!’

  ‘So I have,’ he agreed with a grin. ‘Answered my country’s call. The Laceys are going, too.’

  The news gave Vicky momentary pause. ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Some of our other chums, too,’ Emmet replied. ‘We’ve been planning it ever since the news broke. We shall all go together. Topping, isn’t it?’

  Another hesitation from Vicky made me wonder which one of the Laceys most concerned her. ‘I’m so proud of you all,’ she said. ‘I shall telephone to Mrs Lacey and say so,’ and she hurried off, confirming, in my mind, that my guess was correct. But which brother had she fallen for – James, or David?

  Grandmother remained seated, face like parchment, eyes dull with shock. She had lost her two oldest sons, and now the darling of her heart had volunteered to fight in what everyone was already calling ‘the Great War’.

  ‘I say, don’t look like that, Mater,’ Emmet protested. ‘What was I supposed to do? Moulder away in that office when there’s adventure to be had, Huns to shoot and medals to be won? The engineering business was boring the socks off me. I’ll give it another go when I’ve done my bit. But first I’m off to teach Kaiser Bill’s lot a thing or two.’

  ‘Emmet,’ she managed faintly, fear and pride waging war in her face as she got to her feet and went to embrace him. ‘Oh, my boy…’