November, 1924–April, 1925
Dover Sky
My dear Catherine,
I hope my note finds you well. I regret I will not be able to get to Dover Sky as planned for Guy Fawkes on November 5. I fear I will have to cancel on the Christmas Ball as well. A great deal must be done to prepare the Hood for another long voyage, and I am expected to do more than my share. I hope to stay in touch, and trust I may be able to call on you once we have returned in April or May.
With profound apologies,
Terrence
Terry,
I received your note this morning. I should have preferred a phone call. I’m sorry you are so busy we can’t see each other even for a Christmas dance. Are you seriously going to be rushing about making everything shipshape right through the holiday season? I can’t help but believe there are other reasons for this change in the weather.
Terry, I grieved as a widow for two years. You were one of the people who helped me get out from behind shuttered windows and into the light of day. I counted on you to understand I cannot be a widow again while you go to sea, but I do not think you do.
I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m not asking for liberty to “play the field” while you are gone. I simply ask you to see things from my perspective. I must get out. I must get around. I will need escorts who are not brothers or uncles. I intend to be here when you return, and I very much want you to call.
I’m sorry Guy Fawkes and the Christmas season couldn’t have been all the merrier for being spent in your company, my dear.
Catherine
“Ah, splendid! Splendid!” Lord Preston raised his hands over his head and clapped. “You’ve outdone yourself, Master Skitt! See what a fine butler he is turning into, Elizabeth.”
Lady Preston squinted as flames leaped up. “If building and burning effigies of Guy Fawkes is what makes a fine butler these days, then yes, I expect Skitt is well on his way. It’s a good thing he escorted Catherine home for this celebration.”
The effigy was a man’s figure in a tall black hat and beard. It stood about fifteen feet high and was mounted on a rough wooden sled. Skitt and Harrison were tugging it towards Lord and Lady Preston and their family. Yellow flames curled up the legs of the effigy. The men pulled it up to a high mound of dead brush and pruned branches right in front of the Danforths. It immediately ignited the wood and created a bonfire. Fire shot up to the effigy’s nose and eyebrows, giving it a glowering, sinister look.
“Look at that wicked fellow!” exclaimed Lord Preston. “Just think, Edward, had he succeeded in blowing up the Parliament buildings—and he certainly had enough kegs of gunpowder to do it—you might be giving your maiden speech in a shack come the new year.”
“Surely not, Father.” Edward lifted up his son, Owen, so the boy could see the effigy’s smoldering face better. “We’d have put up something wonderful by now to replace it, don’t you think?”
“Well, well, I expect so.” Lord Preston glanced at Victoria, who had her son snuggled against her shoulder. “How are you holding up, my dear? Would you like me to take young Ramsay?”
“He’s half asleep, Dad, bonfire or no bonfire. Two-year-olds can only last so long. I’m all right so don’t worry. I’m only three months into my pregnancy, and I’m from sturdy Lancashire stock.”
“I see. I pray so. I’m only sorry Ben couldn’t make it back from that race of his in France. Kipp is here, after all.”
“Kipp didn’t qualify, Dad. That’s why he made it back for Guy Fawkes Night.”
“He told me the race would be finished yesterday afternoon.”
“It was. But, well, there was an accident, you see. Not Ben. He’s fine. But a mate of his and Kipp’s bought it…excuse me, he crashed and was killed. He hit power lines. It’s dreadful, really. I didn’t want to bring it up and trouble you and Mum.”
Lady Preston was aghast, her face a mask of fright in the reflection of the flames and the shadows. “How terrible! The poor man and his family. But Ben is all right, you say?”
“Yes, yes, as fine as he can be seeing a friend flip over and blow up. Excuse me, I talk like a pilot all the time now. Ben is returning with the body tomorrow. The young widow lives in Canterbury. Kipp went to see her this afternoon.”
Lady Preston placed her hand on her daughter’s arm. “How did that go?”
“Kipp didn’t say much about it. He took Jeremy with him, and he said Jeremy’s presence helped a great deal. There was a lot of fuss—a lot of crying. They were the first people to tell the young woman about there being any accident, you see.”
“That’s awful. Is that why Jeremy and Emma didn’t come down from London with the boys for Guy Fawkes?”
“Possibly. Kipp overnighted with the Scarboroughs at their estate before coming here to be with Christelle. I’m glad Mrs. Longstaff is nursing Chris back to health. That is a nasty bug she picked up.”
“It really is.” Lady Preston turned back to the blaze. “Well, we’ll see Emma and Jeremy tomorrow when we get Edward and your father settled into the flat just down from the Parliament buildings. Fancy them living together when the House is sitting.”
Victoria gave a sharp laugh. “The cooking and cleaning will be masterful, I’m sure.”
“I expect they will eat out at Tollers a good deal and hire old Mrs. Brill to do the cleaning. She needs the money, in any case. She has five young ones to support since her husband was killed in the war. She gets along pretty well even though she has a bad eye.”
Victoria looked into the soaring flames and thought about this. “I met her at Jeremy’s church, didn’t I? The very thin woman with the eye patch and the biggest smile?”
“That’s Mrs. Brill.”
“Was her husband Royal Navy?”
“He was, dear, yes.”
The bonfire flared and plucked everyone out of the shadows, illuminating them as if they were statues on display. Victoria spotted Catherine, who had been standing further back.
“Hullo, Cath!” she called out. “We were speaking of the navy, and now I’m wondering where your naval officer is. Wasn’t he supposed to be here for Guy Fawkes?”
Catherine folded her arms over her chest and kept gazing into the bonfire. “He couldn’t make it. Something came up.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You’ll see him before he ships out to the Mediterranean, won’t you?”
“It looks like not. The Hood needs his attention before they weigh anchor for Gibraltar.”
Victoria smiled. “Surely you need his attention too?”
Catherine didn’t look away from the effigy of Guy Fawkes that suddenly popped and sparks erupted. “I don’t, you know.”
Dear Mum,
A quick note to let you know we’ll not be driving up from Dover Sky as planned for Christmas. I’m so sorry, but Sean seems to have that on-again off-again bug Christelle has been fighting all fall. I really don’t want to move him. You don’t need to worry though.
We’ll have a fabulous time here. Skitt and Harrison have finished winterizing the house up and down, and we’re as cozy as hedgehogs in their burrows. Holly has promised a special dinner Christmas Day, and she’s had Norah and Sally working away as if the king and queen are paying a visit. Best of all, we’ll see Edward and Char on December 22 before they take the train to Liverpool. We’ll also see Jeremy and Emma on December 23 before they head back to London for the church services.
I’ll have presents for the boys, and Holly and I have bought gifts for all the servants here too so we’ll be ready for everyone.
As for Sean, well, the men here are going to spoil him rotten. You know they are bringing down a pony for him? He’s from Old Todd Turpin’s mare. They’ll hide him in the barn they put up in August. Sickbed or not, my Sean will be up on his feet and begging to ride him without so much as a hot biscuit in his tummy, I’m sure. Not quite two but going on twelve, that’s him.
So you see, it will be quite wonderful here, Mama, though we will miss you and Dad and the crew at Ashton Park terribly. I’ll ring you up on Christmas Eve before you attend the candlelight service at church.
I love you and Dad very much, and the two of you are always in my prayers.
Best wishes this Christmas season,
Catherine
P.S. Please let me know how Christelle is getting along. When Kipp was passing through on his way to see Lord Scarborough about some sort of investment in the airline he looked troubled. And Kipp seldom looks troubled. Please keep me up-to-date about absolutely everything, Mum. God bless and keep you.
“How was your Christmas, sir?” asked the courier.
“Very well, thank you,” replied Skitt. “What do you have for me?”
“Not for you exactly. It’s a message for the lady of the manor—for Catherine Moore.”
“She’s not home at present.”
“It’s from Leftenant Commander Fordyce of the HMS Hood.”
“Ah.”
The motorcycle courier lifted his goggles and held up the letter. “See here—see the stars? That means it’s an important message—really important. I brought it up from Dover as fast as I could.” He handed the note to the butler.
Skitt held the telegram. “If it’s so important, why didn’t the Leftenant Commander phone?”
“I don’t know the contents of the cable, o’course, but I do know there was something about the phone lines out of Plymouth and Devonport acting up.”
“I see.”
“Lady Catherine Moore needs to see that right sharp, sir. Right sharp, I say.”
“I know my business. Thank you for doing yours. Good day.”
The courier tipped his hat and stepped back from the door. “I know my place just as you do.”
“Good.”
Skitt closed the door. He looked at both sides of the telegram, glanced about, and then quietly opened it with a pocketknife.
MY LOVE
PLEASE FORGIVE ME. I BEG OF YOU TO COME TO DEVONPORT BEFORE WE SAIL WHICH WILL BE IN 24 HOURS. I’VE BEEN A FOOL. I WILL MAKE IT UP TO YOU. I BEG OF YOU NOT TO IGNORE THIS PLEA DEAREST. IF YOU CAN SEND A CABLE AHEAD SO I WILL KNOW WHEN TO EXPECT YOU THAT WOULD BE GRAND. I DON’T WANT TO SAIL WITHOUT SEEING YOUR BEAUTIFUL FACE ONE MORE TIME.
WITH ALL MY HEART
TERRY
Skitt read it through twice. He glanced about again before walking to the peat fire flickering in the grate in the parlor. He tossed the telegram in, and a corner quickly took on a yellow edge and was engulfed in flames. In an instant it was charred paper and then ashes.
Parliament, Westminster, London
Edward Danforth paused after he rose. He glanced up at the visitors’ gallery and saw his mother, his sister Emma, and her husband, Jeremy. Looking across at the Opposition benches, he saw only a blur of faces until his eyes focused on one—Tanner Buchanan. Staring over Buchanan’s head, Edward began his speech.
Mr. Speaker, as proud as we are of our nation and our Empire, I say we cannot afford to rest on our laurels.
Hear, hear! came from his fellow MPs in the Conservative government seats around him. He could distinctly make out his father’s voice.
While it is true that we have peace in our time, it is also true we have a Bolshevik menace to the east that some members of Parliament sought to bring into our bosom before this last election.
Members of the Labor Party across the aisle began to shout and point at him. Edward noticed Buchanan remained in his seat, his face calm and composed.
The result should scarcely have been different to Great Britain than the effect achieved by Cleopatra when she coaxed the asps to fill her body with their poison.
The roar from Labor grew. Edward spoke over the cries.
Shakespeare declared it: “With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate of life at once untie: poor venomous fool be angry, and dispatch.” Bolshevism would have been Britain’s death.
Shouts of fury and defiance from the Labor Party swirled about the chamber amid the yells of “Hear! Hear!” from the Conservatives. Edward waited for the tumult to die down, but it didn’t. He spoke as loudly as he could.
We must guard our freedom. We must remain vigilant. Not only against Moscow but with an eye always on Europe, which often as not boils over once or twice every century. We are grateful that borders are secure once more on the Continent. We thank God Germany has crawled out of the ash heap of defeat and degradation the Kaiser abandoned it to. It now has a workforce that is employed and an economy that grows sounder each day. Nevertheless, I say the world requires a strong Britain, a free Britain, in order that the world itself may be free. To that end, we must maintain our navy. Britain must continue to rule the waves!
Men pounded their hands on wood for him, and other men pounded their hands on wood against him. Edward used his strongest voice to finish.
Vigilance in time of peace so there may be victory in time of war. We should deepen our harbors and build at Portsmouth and Plymouth and Devonport; and build at Dover and Clyde and Scapa Flow.
The navy has always been Britain’s lifeline. We cannot neglect it. I say no to any treaties that would limit the construction of our warships. No, no, and a thousand times no shall the heirs of Nelson’s legacy—the race who won at Trafalgar and the Nile—be left like beggars on the shore, cap in hand, hoping other navies will defend them! “Rule Britannia! Britannia rule the waves! Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!”
With tumult all around him, Edward sat back in his seat. In the pandemonium of nays and yeas his eyes locked onto those of Tanner Buchanan. He’d not opened his mouth, or thrown paper, or pounded his fist. In fact, he’d remained motionless. Nor did his eyes flinch from Edward’s stare. Finally Edward glanced up at the gallery. Noticing his gaze, both Emma and his mother blew him kisses. Jeremy raised his hand and briefly nodded.
Dover Sky
Catherine looked out the window as the February sleet turned the ground white. It wouldn’t last, but she found herself thinking about mountains—snowcapped mountains with sunlight flashing off the peaks. Then she found herself daydreaming about long stretches of ocean with curling whitecaps. I thought you would at least write. Are you so angry you won’t even drop me a line or wish me happy birthday? I know I hurt you, but I thought you were a bigger man than this. I honestly did, Terry.
The Bible was open in Catherine’s lap as she sat on the window seat in her room. She flipped a few pages and her eyes fell on Nahum 1:15: “Behold upon the mountains the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace!” Catherine had scarcely read it before there was a knock on the door.
“Lady Catherine? There is a telephone call for you.”
She frowned at the interruption but kept the annoyance out of her voice. “Very well, Skitt. I’ll be right down. Who is it?”
“Baron von Isenburg, m’lady.”
“Baron? Hullo?”
“Yes? Lady Catherine?”
“Yes, this is she. How are you keeping, Baron?”
“Ah, very well, thank you. This year has been good to Germany in terms of less inflation and much more employment.”
“Listen, Lady Catherine, Professor Hartmann has been given leave from the university to complete his book. Do you know about his book?”
“I remember him mentioning it.”
“In any case, he asked specifically if you might join us in Switzerland to help him write it.”
Catherine felt heat rush into her face. “What?”
“We are going to his family’s chateau in Pura, Switzerland. It’s quite lovely and peaceful. Cool in February with plenty of snow. The mountains—astonishing and magnificent! We truly wish you to join us and see them for yourself.”
“That’s…that’s gracious of you, Baron. But I have my boy—”
“Naturally he will be most welcome as well.”
“He just received a pony for Christmas. I don’t think I can tear him away.”
“Nonsense. The pony will be at Dover Sky when he returns. There is a stable by the chateau filled with beautiful horses your son will find fascinating, I’m sure. That will certainly take his mind off his pony. They have Lipizzans there. Do you know that breed?”
“No.”
“Dark-colored at birth but milky white at maturity. They are strong, noble creatures who are great jumpers and often trained in dressage. I’m sure we can persuade Herr Salzgeber to let Sean ride a stallion or two under supervision.”
“A stallion?”
“Under strictest supervision, I assure you.”
“I don’t know, Baron. How long of a trip are you planning?”
“Six to eight weeks. You could return in April or May. The chateau is fully staffed, and you would, of course, be assigned your own servants.”
“I’m grateful you’ve thought of me, but I’m not sure why you or the professor would want me along on an occasion like that. I’m no writer or scholar.”
“You are extremely intelligent and strong-minded. Herr Hartmann values that. He believes your opinions would ensure his book had adequate depth, was thorough, and was…harten Gleichgesinnten…how do I say this in English? Ah, tough-minded.”
She didn’t know how to respond.
After a moment, the baron added, “You appreciate how important this book will be to Germany?”
“Yes, yes.”
“That subversive, that man Hitler, was released from prison just before Christmas. His autobiography will be published in July.”
Catherine put a hand to her forehead. She felt warm and flushed. “Honestly, I don’t know what to say. I’m flattered Professor Hartmann thinks so highly of me, but it is a lot to take in. I should like to think about it.”
“Naturally. May I call this evening? We intend to set out tomorrow.”
“This evening would be fine.”
“We would, of course, come to Dover Sky and escort you and Sean to Pura.”
“Thank you for the invitation, Baron. I’ll consider it carefully.”
“Okay, then. I’ll phone you tonight. Good day.”
“Good day, Baron.” Catherine set the phone in its cradle and leaned a hand against the table it rested on. What’s the matter with me? It’s a simple request. And the reply is also simple: No thank you. She opened the door and left the parlor. Skitt was standing by the staircase.
“Everything all right, m’lady?” he asked.
She gave him a quick smile. “Fine, Skitt. I wonder if you could get Nancy to bring me up a spot of tea?”
“I’ll take care of that personally, Lady Catherine.”
“Thank you. How is Sean? Do you know?”
“Still with Harrison and Holly.”
“Good. Very good.”
In her room she sat and waited for the rap on the door. When it came she called, “Enter.” Skitt came in and she nodded toward her writing table. He placed the tray with tea and biscuits there before leaving. Catherine set herself up at the table near the fireplace. She poured her tea and watched the rain slide along the windowpane. Mountains. Sun on the snow. How lovely. She’d scarcely thought of Albrecht Hartmann since she’d met Terrence Fordyce. Now, at the mention of Albrecht, not only her mind but her entire body had reacted just as it had when she first met him in his red sports car the summer before. His golden-brown eyes, light-brown hair, and dark tan stormed her senses. She could almost smell the eau de cologne on his body. She drank her tea quickly and poured another.
The book. Yes, the book to offset this Hitler fellow’s book. But was the invitation really about the book? Or was it about Albrecht and her? About them as a couple? She picked up a pen and opened the journal she’d named Cornelia.
My dear Cornelia, my diary,
I was just sitting here thinking how dreary the weather is in February. I was also thinking about Terry and wondering why he hasn’t sent even a birthday card. At the back of my mind I was admitting a long line of escorts is all good and well, but that loses its charm after a while. What I want is a man I can really speak with and listen to and explore absolutely everything in heaven and earth with.
I suppose that is why I was pining after Terry and moaning about the rain and sleet. By chance—chance?—my Bible opened to the book of Nahum, and I read about someone on the mountains bringing good news just when I had been longing to see sun on the snow of a tall peak. How amazing of God is that? Then to complete the string of unusual events, the phone rings and it’s Baron von Isenburg asking me to spend two months in the mountains of Switzerland with him and Professor Hartmann. Mountains! Sunshine! And a stable of white stallions too!
But here is the tricky part. The baron says the invitation is for me to help Albrecht write his book. My opinion is valued apparently. Rot or not? It may well be my opinion is valued. It may also be the professor values my womanhood just as much. After all, he came on very strong when we first met—saying how lovely I was, how sweet I was, how beautiful my eyes were. But we never saw each other again.
Then it was all Terry, Terry, Terry.
Now, eight months later, the baron mentions Albrecht Hartmann in a phone call, and I blush like a schoolgirl. Either this is all in my head or even over a phone line I’m picking up on something between the handsome academic and myself. Do such feelings cross land and sea and know no loss of force due to time and distance?
I want to jump in one of their German Mercedes and go with them to Switzerland! Sean would adore riding a white horse. But another part of me just wants to stay squirreled up in my room and wait on Terry Fordyce. Will he write, send a telegram, post a gift, show up at the door, come to call in April or May?
Catherine put down the pen abruptly. Why, I have become the sea widow yearning for her sailor after all! She stood up and pressed the buzzer. Skitt was at the door in minutes.
“M’lady?”
“Skitt, please get Nancy and Harriet. I’d like them to help me get packed. Sean and I are going to Switzerland for a few weeks, and we will need the warmest clothing we have.”
“Switzerland! Why Switzerland? Aren’t you comfortable here, m’lady?”
She patted him on the cheek and then quickly withdrew her hand. “I’ll be back, Skitt. I’m sure you’ll keep Dover Sky clean and cozy against my return.”
Parliament, Westminster, London
“Ah, Lord Danforth, there you are.” Tanner Buchanan approached Edward on the busy street outside the Parliament buildings where politicians and automobiles and carriages were rushing back and forth.
Edward kept his hands behind his back and his top hat on his head. “Mr. Buchanan.”
“Lord Buchanan actually. My dear old papa’s earldom finally made it through the gates and chutes.”
Buchanan tugged on his black leather gloves while he gripped his silver-headed walking cane under his arm. “Indeed. You never knew much about my father up in Scotland, did you? He has benefactors and allies who are now my benefactors and allies.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. What did you think of my maiden speech today?”
“About the same as what you thought of mine the other week.”
Buchanan barked a laugh in the chill gray air. “True! We are met on the field of battle and neither shall be the first to cry ‘Hold! Enough!’ How will it play out in the end, Lord Danforth?”
“Since you are fond of Macbeth, I expect with you yielding ‘to kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet and to be baited with the rabble’s curse.’ ”
“Do you think so? And who will this young Malcolm be? You? Do you intend to be the ruler of the realm?”
“Here’s my cab.”
The driver got out and opened the door for Edward.
“Tell me, Lord Buchanan, do you really think you will bless England and these islands by scrapping our capital ships and securing relations with Moscow as a bulwark against a resurgent Germany? Or was your speech merely crafted to be in direct opposition to my own?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters to me if you mean it. I’d rather you actually meant it, to tell you the truth, than to hear you were making speeches as part of an ongoing duel with me and my family. Governing Britain is no place for personal games.”
Buchanan smiled and shook his head. “On the contrary, the House of Commons is the perfect place for games. It always has been. Fox and hound. I being the hound who shall rend you limb from limb.”
Edward got into the hack, and the driver shut the door.
Buchanan stood tall and dark on the sidewalk, tapping the silver head of his cane in a gloved palm and nodding. “Limb from limb, Lord Danforth. How I enjoy blood sport.”
Scarborough estate, Southern England
“Kipp.” The warm hands came from behind and slipped under his arms and over his chest in the dark. “I didn’t know where to find you! Dad said you’d gone walking in the rain, so I said I’d take a peek at the horses.” He felt her lips press lightly against the back of his neck and closed his eyes. “So then I knew you’d be in our secret place—our little tack room beyond the stables that is warm, dry, and delicious with the scent of leather.” Her mouth found his ear and her breath made his skin tingle. “Every time Dad tells us you’ve come on business, my heart leaps. I can’t help myself. You do love me, don’t you?”
“Caroline, the Lord knows how attracted I am to you. I don’t even know all the reasons why. But I love Christelle. She’s my wife.”
“You love us both, Kipp.”
“No I don’t,” he said as he swung around within her embrace to face her.
“You do.” Her lips touched his ear, his neck, his cheek, and hovered near his mouth.
“No man can love two women.”
“You can.” Her lips brushed his. “Push me away if you don’t want me.”
“I do want you, but I love Christelle.”
“You don’t think you love me?”
“I shouldn’t be caught up with you, but…”
She kissed him softly. “But here we are in each other’s arms.”
His hand reached up and stroked the long blonde hair that was loose about her shoulders. “I can’t get you out of my blood.”
“Good. That’s where I want you to stay.” She kissed him again.
“Two women. My life revolves around two women and a son.”
“Only two women? Are you sure?”
“Believe me, Christelle and you are enough. A man can only handle so much beauty.” He placed his lips against her hair. “I wish it were ancient times—ancient biblical times—when men had more than one wife. That would work for me.”
“In a way you do have that.”
“I know you genuinely care for Christelle and our son, Matthew.”
“I adore them. Just as you do. And I know you love my son, Charles.”
He leaned his head against hers. “This makes no sense, does it? I don’t want to hurt Christelle. I don’t want to hurt my family. And I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve done that enough.” He kissed her forehead.
“You’re not hurting her.” She smoothed back his blonde hair. “And I’m certainly not feeling hurt right now.”
“Christelle is hurt; she must be hurt. She knows there is something between us. Chris is no fool. She’s always told me I still care for you. Even when I object she shakes her head and says it doesn’t bother her because she knows that you may have part of my heart, but she has all of it.”
“Shh.”
Their eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the tack room. For the first time, he noticed she was wearing a tweed jacket, and raindrops had beaded on its shoulders.
She took his hand and sat on one of the English saddles resting on a wooden stand. She gestured to the saddle on a stand next to her.
When he sat down, she turned away from him and shook her head, letting her hair fall over her shoulders to her waist.
“Will you brush it for me, Kipp?”
Kipp ran a hand over her hair’s rich thickness. It was damp in some spots and wet in others. He took the brush she gave him and began to pull it gently through. The rain brought out the scent of her hair, and it came to him along with the leather of the saddles and traces, the wax and polish, the musk of horses and ponies, and the dryness of the wood on which the bridles and halters and lead ropes and saddles were hung. He sank his face into the softness and the richness. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and guided her around until she was sitting up and facing him. Then he gathered her into his arms.
“I suppose I do love you. I love you both. There’s nothing I can do about it. God help me, it is not the Christian thing. But Christelle and you are rubies and diamonds to me. You both are silver and gold. I can’t walk away from either of you.”
He fumbled in his pocket for matches. When he found them, he struck one and held the amber flame a foot from her face.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“I just had to see your eyes.”
The flickering match filled her eyes with brightness and shadows. The blueness was a sky at early morning, and he could almost feel the cool breezes moving over him. Tears came from her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks, glistening from the light of the flame. Then the match went out.
“Don’t light another.”
“I want to see you.”
“No…don’t…please.” Her hand folded over his in the dark.
“Your parents will worry.”
“They were already turning in when I walked out into the rain.” She brushed his nose with her hair. “You didn’t get very far. It’s still wet and matted from our April showers.”
“I got as far as I could. Your beauty is overwhelming when I’m with you. I’m helpless, really. It’s the same way with Chris. One can only do so many chores. Then one has to love.”
“My goodness, is my hair a chore now?”
“It’s your crowning glory. I love you. It’s wrong; but I don’t know what else to say. God forgive me.”
She traced his mouth with her finger. “And I love you. And we both love Christelle and care for her very much.”
“Yes.”
“Hold me. I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“How strong my feelings for you are. I don’t know where they’re going to take us, Kipp.”
He brought Caroline into his chest. Once again the scent of her hair mixed with the straw and leather and wet and now he heard the tapping of the rain on the roof. The moment seemed to make everything fall into place. Caroline, Christelle, Charles, Matthew, God, love…
“I won’t ever abandon you, Kipp,” she said quietly. “I bind you to me tonight. You’ll never be lost, never be alone as long as I have breath. I swear it. I’ll care for your son just as I care for my own. My love for you won’t stop…ever.”
“That’s a lot to promise.”
“Kipp, I make this promise to you and to Chris.”
“What do you mean?”
She reached into the pocket of the riding pants she was wearing. She pulled out a small envelope and placed it in Kipp’s hand.
“Christelle sent this to me, and I need to share it with you. You’ll need a light to read it.”
“What is it? You want me to read this right now?”
“Yes.”
She sat up and unhooked a lantern from the wall. “Perhaps you’d better use this.”
“Why? Have you given me a book?”
“The ink is faint.”
“What were you using to write with?”
“I didn’t write it.”
He flicked a match with his thumbnail. It caught and he pushed the match inside the lantern as she held it. The wick took the flame and lit up the shed.
Caroline hung the lantern back up. The glow revealed her tweed jacket and the pants and boots she wore. The tumble of her hair about her shoulders and the blue-and-gold of her eyes shone.
He stopped what he was doing and took in her beauty. Then he looked at the note in his hand. “I don’t understand…”
She avoided his gaze and glanced at the tack hanging on the walls. “Read it, Kipp. It’s from Chris.”
He looked at the blank envelope. He pulled out the notecard that was covered with barely legible writing. He recognized his wife’s hand. “Caroline, what’s going on?”
She didn’t look at him. “Read it, please. You’ll understand.”
As we’ve discussed, you know I’m gravely ill. The doctors say I will probably not live long past April. I need your help…Kipp will need your help.
I know this may be awkward, but please let Kipp know you love him. Take him in your arms and kiss him. Tell him everything you feel. At first he will push you away. But keep trying.
I know what is in your heart for him. I know you’ve held back because of our marriage. But he still loves you, just as he still loves me, even if he will not admit he has feelings for you. I want you to help him find that love for you again. I don’t care how hard it is. Reach out to him. Use all the words you have inside you. Be beautiful for him. Touch him. Let him discover what is in his heart for you.
Kipp loves me, and he will always love me. Long after I am gone, he will love me. But he has enough love in his heart for both of us. The last thing I want is for him to be alone in his grief. I don’t want him to wander off to try to find solace in the arms of someone who will care nothing for his soul.
There is only one person I trust him—and our son, Matthew—to, and that’s you.
Love him, Caroline. Love him forever. For me. For our son. For you. For him.
When the time is right, show him this letter. Thank you for this, Caroline. This is such a difficult time.
Your friend always,
Christelle