by Mary Mackie
‘Shut up,’ he whispered against my mouth, and silenced me with loving.
* * *
My plan to volunteer for France was madness, of course. Even had I been able to persuade the authorities to let me go without my husband’s permission, they would have sent me home the moment they realized my condition – I was pregnant. I had wanted to tell Philip about it, but I needed to be sure it wasn’t a false alarm because if I was having a child it would change everything. Had I the right to burden Philip with added worries just before he went to France? I wasn’t even sure whose child it was – in my bones I felt it was his, but that could have been wishful thinking. Perhaps Oliver’s efforts had borne fruit at last. Until the baby came, how could I know? Even then, I might not be sure. Was my own child to be saddled with the same kind of uncertainty that had tormented me?
Waking early, disturbed by my thoughts, I dressed and went out for a walk in the crisp, frosted dawn. I might have gone round through the gardens to the woods, except that I saw Keith Rawson wandering there, so I took another path and came to the front drive in time to meet the postman on his bike.
‘Morning, Mrs Wells,’ he greeted me. ‘Fine morning. They say this cold spell’s going to break today. Good for the sprouts, though. Helps ’em set Here’s some letters for you, ma’am. This one’s all the way from Switzerland, see?’
‘Switzerland? Good heavens, who… Thank you.’ Not recognizing the writing on the envelope, I turned away, tearing it open, taking out the pages inside. They bore a different hand from the envelope: Mother’s writing – she had smuggled the letter out via friends, it seemed.
She wrote confirming what she had told Uncle Frank, adding many long-winded explanations and excuses. Most telling of all, she didn’t even mention the Farcrofts.
The young man in Cumbria had been a friend only – the rest was a figment of the aunts’ fevered imagination, fuelled by their old-maidish horror at the stories they had heard of her misdemeanours at home:
‘If I so much as glanced at a man, they had a fit of the vapours. I might as well have been in prison. Brand offered me an escape route. I was fond of him. And, as he himself said, I could look forward to being a rich widow, free to do as I pleased. My dear Kate, I assure you, you are William Brand’s child. If you need further proof, you have only to wait for two more years.
‘Your father feared fortune-hunters, but since you are safely married to Oliver there is no more need for secrecy. I think I may tell you that, when you are twenty-five, you will inherit quite a substantial fortune. I had use of the interest until I remarried, since when it has been accruing nicely, thanks to Oliver’s good management. He came to Berlin that time to discuss investment changes. Among other things, he has acquired large holdings in Thorne-Thomas for you. My father appears to have become lax in his old age. Had it not been for Oliver, control of the works might have gone out of the family. I recommend you continue to rely on your husband’s advice.’
She went on at length, about her deprivations because of the war, and about the boys – Rudger and Pieter were both away at school, leaving her only Hansi, who was now six. Pa kept busy in Berlin; Fritzi was on the Crown Prince’s staff; Willi von Sturm, having been decorated for bravery, languished in a prison camp in France, and Carl-Heinz had been reported missing, believed killed, at Verdun. As for my friend Gudrun Thunissen, she was becoming famous as a newspaperwoman, with a rare insight into the British way of thinking.
She enclosed a cutting from the daily paper, which proved that my dear friend Gudrun was plagiarizing the articles I had sent her before the war. At that point, I pushed the papers back into the envelope and walked blindly on with my mind in turmoil. ‘A substantial fortune… when you are twenty-five… thanks to Oliver’s good management…’
Had Oliver known about my inheritance all this time? Was that why he had chosen to marry me, rather than Vicky? Oh, surely…
‘I say, Mrs W!’ The voice made me jump. Major Rawson had materialized in front of me on the woodland path. ‘You all right?’
‘You startled me!’ I snapped at him, and was sorry for it when he looked like a whipped puppy. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean… I’ve had some rather disturbing news.’
He glanced at the letters in my hand. ‘Ah. Yes. Sorry. Me, too. Going home soon. My parents, you know.’
‘Yes, I had heard. They’ll be glad to have you back.’
Around us, the woods seemed to shift and crack. The ice was giving, the trees beginning to drip, a mist gathering among the trees.
‘Come with me,’ he said urgently, his hand on my wrist. ‘You’re not safe here. Saw him. Saw him with the girl. Miss L. Sweet girl. Saw him hurt her. In the garden.’
‘Please, Major.’ The hand on my wrist withdrew at once. ‘You saw who?’ But I knew who – he had seen Oliver threaten Judy.
‘That bastard,’ he said. ‘Saw him. With the girl. He knows. Ask him.’ A nod of his head indicated the wood behind me, where a figure stood in the shade of the trees. Dark and indistinct though he was, I saw his face clearly, saw him watching me with a steady intensity. John… ‘He knows,’ Keith Rawson said again. ‘He watches you. Same as I do. Anxious for you. Rum cove, though. There one minute, gone the next. Know him?’
I managed a smile. ‘Yes, I do. He’s my guardian angel. Major Rawson, will you lend me your arm? It must be nearly breakfast time.’
* * *
Somehow, I got through the morning, though I don’t recall exactly where my work took me. A mild front had driven the frost away. In the countryside a distant mist enhanced a mellow, golden day, but round the coast a sea fret swirled and clung, lapping half a mile inland. It made driving difficult, so I avoided the coast road until, finding myself near Denes Hill soon after one o’clock, I decided to go home for lunch. The mist covered the hilltop, forcing me to drive slowly as I made round the outhouses and into the yard where, to my surprise, I saw Oliver’s car parked.
Did I want to see my husband? Whatever our differences, I had never taken him for a calculating liar, but he had lied about his reasons for caring for me; he had lied about Judy. How could I trust anything he said? Had I too been blinded by good looks and surface charm, in common with all the other women of the family? Frank knew better; so had Harry; Tom disliked Oliver instinctively. Even John, from beyond… Of course! The warnings had been about Oliver, not Philip!
Illusions gone, I felt momentarily adrift. Then anger came, hardening my resolve. I would hire a private detective, to have Oliver followed, collect evidence for a divorce: dishonesty, unfaithfulness, deception, greed… Grounds enough for any judge. Philip needn’t be involved at all, thank God. Yes, this was my way out! When it was all over, Philip and I could be married without fear of gossip or reprisals.
On the steps by the side door, I stopped as other pieces fell into place: Oliver had known all along that I was not Michael Farcroft’s child. Like Frank, he must have been aware of the two-year gap. Even if it had escaped him, then surely Grandmother would have… Fool, Kate! When Oliver told Grandmother about my misunderstanding, she must have agreed to continue the deception. How could Lady Rhys-Thomas allow her only granddaughter – her heiress granddaughter, with large holdings in Thorne-Thomas – to throw herself away on a hated Farcroft? In order to prevent such a disaster, she had colluded with Oliver to mislead me. No wonder he had been so eager to seduce and marry me before I found out the truth. No wonder he had been anxious when he discovered I had talked to Jack Farcroft about it – he had feared the old man might reveal the truth. Oh… so many things now rhymed and chimed.
Mentally chilled, physically depleted, I climbed the back stairs and made for the tower.
A flurry of activity in Grandmother’s private apartments drew me to the door, from where I heard Oliver issuing instructions and saw one of the kitchen staff wielding a carpet sweeper while another bent by the grate, cleaning it out. Someone else moved in the bedroom beyond – I could hear a brush knocking; then Oliver appeared i
n the doorway, stripped to his shirtsleeves – most unusual for him.
‘Kate! Thank goodness you’ve come. Your grandmother’s coming home. Today! Didn’t you see the letter? For heaven’s sake – you left it on the dressing table. Why didn’t you read it? I expected more notice than this. She forgets we no longer have the staff. It’s fortunate I came home early. Can you do Tom’s room? Or perhaps the beds – yes, do the beds.’
Infected by his impatience, I obediently hurried to the warm linen room. I’d seldom seen Oliver in such a mood of haste. But, having left him in charge, Grandmother would expect to find everything just so when she returned. Personally, I didn’t much care whether we were ready for her or not. Perhaps she should see Oliver less than perfect, for once.
‘There’s no coal,’ one of the girls was saying as I returned laden with a pile of sheets and blankets over which I could hardly see.
‘Well, go and get some,’ Oliver ordered.
‘That en’t my place to carry coal! Shouldn’t even be doing grates. And Phyllis there have a bad back.’
Furious, Oliver gave her a tight-lipped glare, blew loudly down his nose and swept up the coal bucket, striding past me to the door. ‘Keep them at it,’ he said as he passed me. ‘Good God, we’ve given up most of the house for them, can’t they co-operate with us once in a while?’
‘That en’t my place—’ the girl appealed to me.
‘I know,’ I said, edging by her towards the bedroom.
‘I’m paid to cook food, not skivvy,’ the complaint followed me.
In the bedroom, a girl no more than fifteen was examining one of the crystal-hung candlesticks. She jumped as I pushed open the door, and the candlestick leapt from her hand and smashed on the hearth. I didn’t say anything, but my expression made her burst into tears and rush past me.
Hugging the pile of bedding, I stared at the bed – red silk hangings let loose from tasselled cords, thin blanket laid across the feather mattress. In this room my grandfather had died, cursing me because he had thought I was his oldest child. In this room, too, my husband had tried to make ungentle love to me. Now I understood why he had wanted to move into the master suite – he would have enjoyed claiming his marital rights over me, here in this bed, symbolically violating the very heart of Rhys-Thomas territory, like some wild Viking invader, raping and pillaging…
Sickened, I dumped the pile of bedding on the bed and as it sprawled untidily I heard an aeroplane overhead. I rushed to the window, but outside the mist clung close, a blank grey wall of nothing. It made me feel shut in, as if I were suffocating. Needing air, I ran out of the private apartments and climbed to the sanctum, where blessed sunlight flowed through the windows. A sky of pure October blue smiled down on a carpet of blazing white, like snow, but piled in amazing, changing shapes. The rest of the house was buried in that whiteness. Only the sanctum lifted into the light. Like my life, darkened by shadows, with Philip the only brightness.
I could still hear the aeroplane, coming close again. I flung open the window, leaning out, seeing the double-winged shape of it come out of the sun. Though I couldn’t see the pilot clearly for the light in my eyes, my heart said it was Philip, and if not Philip then one of his friends. He wasn’t far away. I would see him later. I needed to see him, to tell him… I love you. Oh, I love you! I waved, and the machine waggled its wings in greeting as it zoomed by, only yards away, sweeping me with its noise and its draught as it lifted up into the blue and went on its way, the engine’s drone fading. Philip. Oh, Philip…
Suddenly dejected, I sank down on the window seat, head in hands. Did I have the strength for what lay ahead? Before I could be with my love, I had to deal with my husband.
The door at the foot of the stairs opened. ‘Kate?’ Oliver called, and his head appeared behind the wooden rail that guarded the stairs as he came up to join me. He had a streak of coal-dust across his shirt. Dishevelled, he looked oddly vulnerable. But his dark eyes snapped at me and the line of his moustache pulled tight across his lip. ‘I thought you were going to help with the beds. What’s wrong with you today? Aren’t you feeling well? Why aren’t you working?’
‘I am,’ I said. ‘I just called in to have lunch. Not that I’m very hungry.’ How easy it would have been to leave it at that. This was not the right time for arguments, but… ‘Since you ask – no, I’m not feeling well. Grandmother’s wasn’t the only letter to come this morning. There was another one – from Mother.’
I saw his surprise, and his sudden wariness, before he smoothed his expression, guarded his eyes, assumed the lawyer’s detached demeanour. ‘Why has that upset you? Is it bad news?’
‘No, all’s well with her and the boys, thank God. But I knew that. Frank told me.’ I stood up, feeling stronger on my feet. ‘He came here a few weeks ago. He’d been to Germany – to the eastern front. He’s not quite the effete weakling you seem to think him!’
His eyebrow twitched. ‘I?’
‘Yes, you!’ I turned away, wishing I could contain my feelings the way he did, but I couldn’t: I was bitterly angry, hating him. Wrapping my arms round my shoulders, I stared out at the brilliant white mist lapping the bottom of the open window. ‘You hoped he’d never come back, didn’t you? You’d love to be the only man in the family, apart from poor Tom, who doesn’t count. You must have thought you’d won. You even thought you could move into the master suite.’
‘What are you saying, Kate? My dear—’
‘Don’t.’ I swung round to face him. Oh, how I detested his ability to show nothing of his feelings! I flung out my hands, crying, ‘I can’t go on like this, Oliver! You never loved me. You only wanted me because of who I am. And the money, of course. My father’s legacy. Yes, Mother told me about that: “We don’t need to worry about fortune-hunters now you’re married to Oliver.” What a joke! You’re the biggest fortune-hunter of all. Not only the money, but all of this…’ My gesture encompassed the house and everything it represented.
‘Is that what you believe?’
‘Will you deny it?’
He hesitated, then said, ‘Has it not occurred to you that I might have good reason for feeling entitled to a share in,’ his gesture mimicked mine, ‘“all of this”? I’m a Thorne, too, by blood.’
‘You are?’ I flung a hand to my head, not believing a word he said.
‘George Thorne, your great-grandfather’s partner, was my natural grandfather,’ he said. ‘Which means his daughter, your grandmother, is my great-aunt. What does that make us, Kate – second cousins three times removed?’
How could he joke about it? ‘It certainly makes us more closely related than Philip Farcroft and I ever were!’
Oliver had the grace to wince. ‘That was a necessary lie, I’m afraid. Your grandmother thought so, too. Couldn’t have you marrying a Farcroft, could we? No. Better to keep it in the family, even if I am from the wrong side of the blanket.’
‘Are you trying to say that Grandmother knows you’re…’
‘That I’m family? She has known it for longer than I have.’ His tone sharpened into bitterness. ‘I only learned about it seventeen years ago, when my grandfather was mentioned in George Thorne’s will, as his natural son. Acknowledged, after seventy years, with a pocket watch and a small pension – which he enjoyed for just a year before he died. One year, Kate.
‘It’s for his sake I had to redress the balance. I was the only one left to do it. All at once I understood why your grandparents had always been so nice to my family – condescending because of George Thorne’s conscience. They gave my father work, and allowed me to share their social activities. How very gracious of them!
‘Can you blame me for taking advantage of their guilt? They haven’t lost by it. I’m good at what I do. I’ve protected their interests over the years. Latterly, when your grandfather was losing his grip, I began to buy into the business, for myself when I could afford it, at other times for you. Between us, we now own a controlling share in Thorne-Thomas. And,�
� he added, coming slowly towards me, ‘I don’t intend to give up the ground that fate has given to me. I hope you’re not implying that you want a divorce, Kate, because I shall never let you go. Try it and I’ll fight you every inch of the way. I’m a lawyer. I’ll win.’
Trying to get away from him, I sat down on the window seat, eyes aching from the brightness of sunlight on mist. Behind that blur, he was a huge, menacing figure, coming for me with hands out. Mist… clouds blurring my sight… a seagull squawking… or was it a voice, calling my name?
Memory came rushing like a tide, sweeping me back to childhood, to that day when the sea fret had caught me alone in the shallows and I had heard Uncle John call, and gone to find him, wading well above my waist. And seen him, in the water where the channel ran deep, struggling with another man. John shouting, choking, gone… ‘Uncle John!’ my small voice screamed. I tried to reach him. The sand fell away under my feet, left me floundering out of my depth. And another man rose from the sea, grabbed me. I’m safe, I thought, and then the water closed over my head and strong hands held me down. Roaring in my ears and blackness… Then my lungs dragged at air, choking, spluttering. ‘Katie, darling!’ Mother cried. ‘Oh, Oliver, you saved her! You saved her!’
‘But I had to let John go,’ he had answered. ‘It was her or him. Clara, I’m sorry.’
Of course! That was how it had been. John had been in trouble with cramps and Oliver had gone swimming out to him. But, instead of helping, he had held my uncle under the water. He would have drowned me, too, the only witness. But Mother had come in time, and after that… after that, kindly shock had stepped in and erased the terrible memory from my mind, except in nightmares that had terrified me for years.
The vision faded, leaving me unbreathing, head and heart thudding, staring up at the man who was now my husband. ‘You killed John!’
‘Kate…’