Dorothy Eden (11 page)

Hetty decided that his brusqueness came from shyness rather than the limited interests of riding and hunting. He could be drawn out on other things, particularly on Loburn and his ancestors, and she eagerly planned to do this when there was more time. At present the nights were the best, when they didn’t talk at all, but sought solace and forgetfulness in the warmth and excitement of each other’s body.

By the end of the ten short days of their married life, when Hugo had to leave to rejoin his battalion, Hetty was convinced that she had conceived a child. She longed for this to be so. It was one thing to make her husband happy, as she had done her best to do, but to give him a son would surely absolve her from her persistent guilt.

They said goodbye on a June morning, at the little railway station two miles from Loburn. There was sweet briar blooming in the hedges, and climbing roses over the modest station buildings.

Pimm waited outside in the Rolls. Hugo hadn’t permitted anyone else to come. His goodbyes, even to his mother, had been casual. Hetty herself had accompanied him to the railway station for the simple reason that she had refused to be left behind. Hugo had looked put out at first; he was accustomed to being obeyed. But then he had seemed to be pleased, his blue eyes momentarily as brilliant as she had remembered them in New York. She realised that suddenly they were both alive in a peculiarly heightened way. Death had been too close to them; they would probably have these moments of acute perception for the rest of their lives.

All the same, as they waited on the almost empty platform for the train to arrive, the scent of roses and the sweet June morning became too poignant.

“I say, darling, have a day or two in London. Take Kitty or Julia. Enjoy yourself in the shops.”

Hetty shook her head.

“I don’t think I want to.”

“Aren’t you extravagant by nature? I was sure you were.”

“Oh, yes, I am. At least I was.”

“Well, I’ve opened a bank account for you in Cirencester. All you have to do is to go and make yourself known and give them a specimen signature.”

“That’s nice of you, Hugo.”

“It’s your money.”

She curled her hand inside his and spoke pleadingly, “But it’s more than money, being your wife? Isn’t it?”

“Of course it is. Always was,” he added, a little belatedly.

The train was coming, smoking down the long green track, its whistle screaming. Darkness was blowing over her.

“Hugo?”

“Yes, darling.”

She was speaking instinctively, “Are you afraid, in the trenches?”

His eyes went cold, as if something had pinched out their light.

“What an odd thing to say.”

“But anyone would be. I mean, I know what deadly fear is. No matter how brave one tries to be.”

The train had come to a halt. Hugo grabbed a door handle and pulled open the door.

“Sorry, darling. No time for intense conversation. Can’t stand it, anyway. Goodbye. Take care.”

He looked back, smiling jauntily. He looked very smart and debonair in his uniform. The friendliness had not come back to his eyes. He had been deeply offended by her remark. She must remember his touchiness. But what a pity they couldn’t talk about fear; they both knew what it was.

She returned to Loburn, driven by a silent but sympathetic Pimm, and entered the house to the sound of piano music. Very expert music, too. The delicate notes of a Chopin nocturne rippled and sighed in harmony with the bereaved mood of the house.

“It’s Lady Flora, my lady,” said Effie, noticing Hetty’s questioning glance. “She always plays the pianner when she’s upset, like.”

“Where?”

“In the music room, my lady.”

This was a charming room which seemed to be seldom used. It had a collection of early English porcelain in glass-fronted cabinets, some low comfortable chairs, long windows that opened on to a terrace smelling of honeysuckle and wallflowers, and a grand piano which Hetty had not previously heard played.

Hetty had had private ideas about making this room her personal sitting room. After all, she was the mistress, wasn’t she? She didn’t feel at ease in the morning room or in either of the two drawing rooms, the summer one which was in constant use and the winter one which seemed to be mostly shut up, or even in the library—which was Hugo’s, anyway. She wanted a room where she could be alone to read, to do needlework, to plan the running of the house, to dream of her hopeful future.

But now she found that again she was a usurper. The music room was Lady Flora’s, and Lady Flora was an accomplished pianist.

“Miss Pemberton’s arrived back,” Effie said, giving Hetty a sideways glance.

“Has she?”

“She was ever so upset she had missed seeing the master, to say goodbye. She got Lady Flora to come down because playing the pianner calms her most of all. It seems to suit, doesn’t it, that sort of sad sound? Are you going in to listen, my lady?”

“No.”

Effie nodded sympathetically. “It does make you a bit tearful, don’t it?”

No, it didn’t make her tearful, it made her angry. She wasn’t going into that lovely room to see it possessed by the two elegant women who so emphasised that she was the outsider.

So they were four women at dinner that night, and this state of affairs could be expected to go on for a long time.

In spite of Julia’s well-disciplined composure she couldn’t hide the fact that she had been crying. The candlelight was kind to her pale face and reddened eyelids. It made her look forlorn and fragile. Had she wept because she thought she had lost Hugo for ever, if not to war, then to his new wife?

Lady Flora wore black velvet and several loops of lustrous pearls with immense dignity. Kitty, with her air of distrait cheerfulness, had her usual put-together look, hair inclined to tumble, blouse and skirt carelessly matched. But who wanted to dress up when there were no men present? What was Lionel like, Hetty wondered suddenly. Did he mind having an untidy wife? she had been so absorbed in Hugo that she had had no time to find out anything about his brother. Could Lionel talk of fear?

“We’ll have to get used to being a household of women,” Lady Flora was saying, speaking Hetty’s own thoughts. “Fortunately, Bates and Pimm are too old to join up, and we have one elderly groom, haven’t we, Julia?”

“Yes, Lady Flora. Jackson. But that’s all right because I’m exercising Hugo’s horses.”

“And I’m taking over the garden,” said Kitty cheerfully. “The gardener’s boy is staying and Pimm can help. No one will be needing the Rolls much, will they?”

She looked at Hetty questioningly, silently reminding her that she was the mistress.

“I need to go into Cirencester tomorrow,” Hetty said. “Hugo tells me I must give the bank a specimen signature.” How should she write it? Had they checked with their London branch? Had they seen any signature of Clemency’s? She must search for letters now that Hugo had gone, and she could do what she liked alone in that big bedroom at night.

“I thought you would want to be off to London, Hetty.” Lady Flora’s face was long and dim at the other end of the table. But Hetty knew now that her remote look was misleading. She was deeply aware of everything that was happening, or was likely to happen. “Haven’t you any American friends you want to look up?”

“Not at present, Lady Flora.”

“Not even at the Embassy? I thought, for such a socially prominent young woman—”

“Oh, I had letters of introduction, of course. But since they were all lost when the ship sank I’ve decided not to do anything at present.” She looked steadily at the long pale face watching her. “I’d have had friends in London for my wedding in peacetime, naturally. But with the war raging, they decided not to come. Fortunately for them, as it turned out.”

“Did you know that the list of American dead and missing from the
Lusitania
has been published?”

The dreaded drenching cold was pouring over her again.

She gripped her hands together under the table.

“No. Has it? When?”

“In
The Times
yesterday. We decided not to show it to you until Hugo had gone.”

“It mentions—my mother?”

“Your mother, Mrs Millicent Jervis. And maid.”

Hetty took a long steadying breath.

“That was Brown. Poor Brown. She’d spent that morning on board ironing, and packing. We were expecting to disembark in a few hours.”

“You haven’t mentioned her before.”

“Haven’t I? I thought you knew we were travelling with a maid. She was lost. I—there were so many dead …”

“There are other maids and valets mentioned,” said Kitty. “None of them by name. I expect everything will be documented in time.”

None of them important enough to be named.

“Brown was a good maid,” Hetty made herself say. “She thought my wedding dress was the most beautiful—” Now she genuinely couldn’t go on. Her mouth was dry. She was desperate to ask the one question that couldn’t be asked. Had Clemency’s body been found and assumed to be the maid’s? It was safer to change the subject at once.

“Speaking of lady’s maids,” she said, her voice again under control. “I can manage without one, especially while Hugo’s away. So Effie can do other things, if she will.”

“Oh, that’s a good thing,” Kitty said. “Because Annie wants to go into munitions. That’s how she describes working in a factory in Gloucester. So perhaps Effie could be persuaded to be parlour maid. Thank goodness Cook is past the age for thinking she has to be patriotic. The other problem is that Mrs Evans probably has to go and look after her old mother, since the mother’s nurse wants to join the Red Cross. It’s like a sort of crazy musical chairs, isn’t it?”

“I can run the house,” Hetty said calmly. “In New York, I knew—I mean, my mother insisted I should know how to do things like that. She was very practical.”

“Could you really do it?” asked Kitty. “We’d been wondering. We thought you rather young.”

“I’m very capable.” Hetty’s voice was confident. At last she was on firm ground. It was quite an asset to know from the opposite side how a big house functioned. She had learned enough from the lectures, scoldings and instructions that took place below stairs to be able to assemble and manage a staff for the largest and grandest place.

And Loburn was neither large nor grand. It was shabby and under-staffed, and there was a war on. It couldn’t be restored quickly, but in her lifetime she was determined to see it regain its one-time beauty.

“You surprise us all, my dear,” said Lady Flora, after a moment.

My dear. Well, that was a beginning. When she caught Julia’s swift hostile glance she knew it really was a beginning: Julia had hoped to run the house.

“Hugo said I could have the pictures cleaned,” Hetty went on. “I want to get new drapes and new covers for the furniture, too. Everything’s awfully shabby, isn’t it? And I’m going to find someone to look at the roof. I guess other things can wait, but Hugo said the roof needed urgent repairs.”

“It does,” Kitty agreed. “We’ve had to shut off part of the west wing. It’s full of mould, and infested with bats. Freddie hates them.”

“You’ll never get these things done while the war’s on,” Julia said in her cool precise voice. “You won’t find the workmen.”

“Oh, I expect to. After all,” Hetty added slyly, “I was brought up on the theory that money can do anything.”

“Don’t put that to too many tests,” Julia snapped. “This is England.”

“Stop it, Julia,” said Kitty briskly. “Don’t be so high-minded. We have a healthy regard for money, too. I think Hetty’s ideas are first rate. There are plenty of tradesmen left who are over-age or under-age, and not working in factories. Otherwise the country would come to a standstill.”

“I want to surprise Hugo,” Hetty said, knowing that sentiment would bring approval from Lady Flora, at least.

“Don’t forget Lionel, too,” Kitty said. “He cares just as much as Hugo does for Loburn.”

“You’ve never told me much about Lionel,” Hetty said.

“You haven’t asked. Oh, I don’t blame you. You’ve been wrapped up with a new husband. Lionel’s quite different from Hugo. Isn’t he, Lady Flora? Bookish, dreamy, sensitive, brilliant.” Kitty’s amiable face contorted. “And now he’s expected to swelter on those awful Gallipoli headlands that not even a goat can climb. There’s nothing but rocks and thorns and sand and flies and god-awful
rot!”

“It’s just as bad in Belgium,” Julia said. “Except that they have mud instead of sand. Didn’t Hugo tell you about the trenches there?” Her strained eyes went deliberately from Kitty to Hetty. “He did me.”

Hetty was sure she was lying. Hugo had said very little to anybody. She remembered how he had winced when she had mentioned the forbidden word, fear. He had shut the horror inside himself, and talked lightly of riding horses behind the lines when he could get a decent mount, of improvised concerts in small estaminets, of the solid pleasures of bully beef.

Julia was simply enjoying these small pin-pricks.

“I’m sure Hugo didn’t alarm you, dear,” Lady Flora said quietly. “He wouldn’t. Lionel won’t either. They’ll both pretend it’s better than it is. But of course we women know the truth. So we all play a game. You’re doing the same yourself, Hetty, I think. You’ve said very little about your terrible shipwreck.”

Hetty pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I can’t talk of it,” she whispered.

“I didn’t want to distress you, my dear. But you must talk of it one day. No one can shut a nightmare inside herself for ever.”

Was that a challenge? No, she was too suspicious. Lady Flora’s voice had been quiet and matter-of-fact, her face dim and sad—a white blur in the wavering candlelight.

But if every dinner was going to be like this, full of undercurrents, she was going to long and pray for effective diversions.

Although not the one Julia suddenly produced.

“Hugo has asked me to teach you to ride, Hetty.”

“Can’t Hetty ride? Good gracious!” That was Lady Flora, startled out of her sadness, not quite believing her ears.

“You can’t keep horses on Fifth Avenue,” Hetty said flippantly.

“But didn’t you have a country place?”