A loud humming and brumming, interspersed with whooshes and rat-a-tat-tats and finally a high-pitched wailing, reached Brooke and Vera Rose at the top of Tremore valley, where they were laying out the picnic.
From the shade of a solitary beech tree, Brooke looked all the way down to the ancient Tremore manor house ruins and saw Jonny running with his arms extended, dipping and rolling in the manner of an aeroplane. He climbed up on top a chunk of manor wall, then dived off, shouting, ‘Mayday, Mayday!’ A war hero going down in glory, but not until after he’d shot down the legendary Bosch ace-pilot Baron Richthofen.
‘Goodness, what imagination the boy’s got and so much energy. I hope my baby turns out the same.’ Brooke’s gaze shot round to Vera Rose, who was kneeling on the tartan rug, setting out the inedible things from a large wicker hamper. ‘Please don’t say anything to Emilia. We’re waiting for the right moment to tell her.’
‘Congratulations,’ Vera Rose said, her young eyes gleefully alight from learning a ‘grown-up’ secret. She liked Brooke a lot because she treated her as a grown-up: she didn’t have to use the honorary title of aunt when addressing her. ‘I promise I won’t tell. Actually, it’s good to see Jonny back to being noisy and daring again. He was so quiet for a while, Aunty Em was worried he was sickening for something. You can go ahead and tell her your good news, you know. She’ll be delighted for you, Brooke.’
‘Thanks for the advice. I’ll talk to Ben about it.’ Brooke could almost hear the excited new note that would be in Vera Rose’s vigorous voice when she learned her mother was pregnant too.
Vera Rose loved to impart the adult sayings she had heard. ‘It’s news that can’t be kept a secret for ever. Aunty Em will be fine about it, honestly. Mrs Rowse was only saying the other day to Tilda that she’s quite well and content now.’ She also had a morsel of her own insight to pass on. ‘Isn’t Eliza a dark one? She thinks Mr Bosweld’s got the looks of a film star and that she’d set her cap for him, only she isn’t the type, of course, he’d be likely to take a fancy to. Eliza says he doesn’t seem to be looking for anyone and that perhaps his wife was the great love of his life.’
‘Yes, perhaps she was.’ Deep in thought, Brooke took several steps away from the picnic rug. ‘I’ll call the others before the insects start to gather round the food.’
The response to Brooke’s shout was immediate. Jonny believed in feeding his troops and he had a whole garrison, it seemed, under his command today, made up of Will, Tom, Libby, and eight boys and girls from the village. Also tearing up the thistle-strewn hill were Casper, Bertie and Hope from Ford Farm and a border collie from Tremore.
‘Right, you lot,’ he yelled in military tones, foot up on the hamper. ‘Sit in an orderly circle. Let the little ones eat first. After this we’ll have a sing-song. And then us bigger ones are going to eat a prickly roll. You too, Vee.’
‘If I must,’ Vera Rose replied with resigned patience over his euphemism and his intention, reconciled to the fact she would have to roll down the valley over the thistles and afterwards display the scratches to prove she didn’t cheat. She distributed the plates and the ham and pickle sandwiches, the hunks of cheese, the apples and fruit cake to the ring of grasping raised hands with the care and devotion that spoke of her maternal side.
Brooke poured the lemonade – the children having to take turns with the cups – and water for the dogs, and all the while her mind was on Perry Bosweld. And Emilia.
Brooke had noticed how broodingly peaceful Emilia was after being in his company. For a while, she was like a stranger, oblivious, as if she had redefined her position. Could it be Emilia was falling in love with him? No, she didn’t want to dwell on that notion. Perry was simply a good friend to Emilia, someone who was part of her grief, who understood it. But Emilia was vulnerable because of her grief and perhaps all the more appealing to the man she had a soul-rending connection with.
Brooke recalled the meeting in Mrs Frayne’s front room. She saw a good-natured, stunning-looking man, radiating kindness, a willingness to serve the community, but more so, she saw his smiling eyes settle repeatedly on Emilia, the eagerness to hang on to her every word. She saw his vibrancy of being with Emilia afterwards at Tremore farmhouse, how light and vital she was at him being there.
Brooke had taken Libby and Casper for a walk round the farmyard, and on their return to the parlour, Perry and Emilia had been at the piano, he preparing to play, she standing at his side, very close, her hand near his shoulder, he bringing his hand down from his brow. Brooke saw now that Perry had been bringing his hand down off Emilia’s.
She had been blind to their attachment, their empathy and tender warmth. A ghastly chill clenched at her innards. If her belief was right Emilia’s closeness to Perry could rock the entire Harvey family. It could wreck the lives of everyone at Ford Farm. Send shock waves through the village. She hated this: Ben had asked her immediately before their wedding never to keep secrets from him. But what if she was wrong? As a newcomer, not knowing Emilia particularly well, hardly knowing Perry at all, she wasn’t absolutely sure of there being something inappropriate between them. If Ben felt he should talk to Emilia it might lead to unnecessary distress, and she, herself, might be seen as a troublemaker and it might lead to another estrangement between those at Tremore and Ford Farm. Brooke was in an impossible position. Risking recriminations if she spoke to Ben or not.
She massaged her ribs to help her to breathe, to regain some calm. She had never had a foolish tongue. It made best sense to keep her fears to herself. She would avoid being in the company of Emilia and Perry together, and then no one need ever know she had suspected anything. Then there would be no risk to her happy marriage.
‘Is something the matter, Brooke?’ Vera Rose was offering her a sandwich, her frank fairness darkened by a deep frown.
‘What? Oh, no, Vera, of course not.’ Brooke forced a bright smile. ‘I was just wondering if we’ve got enough supplies to satisfy this hungry lot.’
‘So, Ben, my son, you’re now a married man. How’re you finding it?’
‘Never been happier, Dougie.’ Ben produced a photograph, a particularly good study of Brooke smiling naturally, taken by Alec on the beach below Roskerne, and he passed it to the man across the casually untidy desk.
‘Mmmm. Mmmm. She’s a corker. You’ve done all right there.’
Dougie Blend handed the photograph back and Ben carefully returned it to his wallet. He leaned back in the chair opposite his business associate, business not involved in Tremore’s concerns, some of which was conducted unknown to Customs and Excise when ships unloaded certain cargo on Truro’s wharves. He always felt comfortable in this office, in St Mary’s Street, Truro, where the typist in the next room could be heard merrily tapping out correspondence and the clerk-cum-tea boy could be heard singing as he lit the gas under the kettle. In the legitimate field, Dougie Blend was a fine wines merchant and he sold the highest quality ladies’ hats, gloves and lingerie from a string of shops throughout West Cornwall. Ben had shares in the wine venture. ‘I’m going to be a father. Keep it to yourself, will you, please? Alec doesn’t know yet. We’d like to give him and Emilia more time to come to terms with their grief.’
Dougie Blend, greasy-lipped, a sagging paunch kept under control by his artful tailor, tossed a fat cigar across to Ben. ‘Never understood this need to be buried in the bosom of the family thing. Congrats on the kid, hope it’s a son and heir. You’d like that, eh? You’re a good boy, Ben. If I were family-minded, I’d have liked a son just like you. Good looking, intelligent, smart, not afraid to take a risk. Discreet. I take it the little woman doesn’t know about our other bit of business? Good, good. Time you brought her along to Eugenie’s. Eugenie was only saying the other night she hasn’t seen you in ages. Well, I said, neither have I. He’s too tied up in his little love nest,’ Dougie hee-hawed. ‘Yank, your little missus, isn’t she? Any interesting contacts to be made over and above her dear little head?’
‘Not at all.’ Ben trimmed and lit his cigar, then leaned across the desk with his lighter for Dougie to light up.
‘Shame, shame.’
‘I liked France when I was over there. I’m planning to take Brooke to Paris someday soon. I could take a look around then. Wines, in particular, should be interesting.’
‘Excellent. Good boy. Never rest on your backside when there’s money to be made, that’s what I say. When’s your garage and petrol station to be opened?’
‘Should be finished by the end of September. I’m looking to reap a good harvest this year and to put another one into operation.’
‘Well done! Hope you’re planning a tremendously huge party to celebrate. Just a thought, my son, your little Brooke’s not likely to go poking about in the hiding place we have on your property, is she?’ Dougie puffed on his cigar like one satiated with pleasure but one eye was sharp, snappy, no-nonsense.
‘I’ve told her it houses the chemicals for sheep dipping, that I keep the outhouse padlocked in case my nephews or my foreman’s imbecile brother wanders in there.’
‘Good for you. You must take home my latest range in luxury sheer stockings for her, my son. You’ll enjoy them as much as her, I guarantee.’ Dougie grinned. Ben knew what was on his mind. ‘How much does she have you under her thumb?’
‘I’m in love, Dougie.’ Ben smiled sweetly. Life with Brooke was sweet. There wasn’t a room in Tremore House, a barn or a shed, except for the padlocked one, or a field of his they hadn’t made love in. They had made love in the small woods on his land, the ruins of the old manor house had recently borne witness to a sudden, loving, thrusting, jubilant coupling of theirs. And how Brooke loved, how joyful and unrestrained she was. They must have tried everything there was to try by now. Ben smiled again, secretly. He didn’t want to stray, and he didn’t have the energy to anyway.
‘Good for you, my son. Envy you: never known that. On the other hand, what a shame. I had an afternoon of fun and games lined up for you and I and two others. Oh, never mind.’ Dougie laughed, coughed on cigar smoke, spluttered, laughed again and jangled with himself below desk level. ‘Poor old me, got no choice but to play jollities with the both of ’em, all on me own.’