“The girl, quite obviously,” Alice said, her voice perilously calm, “has learned well the lessons of the gutter in which she was bred.”
“I say, old girl, steady on.” Alex was uncomfortable.
Richard, white to the lips, stood as one struck entirely dumb.
Alice continued as if her husband had not spoken. She totally ignored the speechless Richard. “She has seduced our child whilst our backs were turned – one can only assume in the hope of some financial gain—”
“Mother!” Richard stepped forward, “Please – stop talking like this. You don’t know what you’re saying!”
Coldly she turned on him. “On the contrary, Richard. I know very well what I’m saying. It is you – you, Richard – who have been gulled by this girl. Nor is that the only bone of contention between us.” She paused, her gaze forbidding. “Quite apart from this – unsavoury – matter, the reports of your behaviour have been scandalous. Truly scandalous. Besides your outrageous and feckless behaviour with this girl you have stolen from your father’s cellar – stolen, I say,” she repeated as her son opened his mouth to protest, “you have invaded the servants’ quarters, acted like a young hooligan—”
“Come, now, Alice. Mrs Brown was not complaining when she told us of the incident—”
“Then she most certainly should have been. Is this any way for a gentleman to behave? Is it?” Alice brushed her husband’s half-hearted remonstrance aside and still faced her white-faced son.
“Mother – please – won’t you listen to me? Sophie and I—”
“Silence, Richard! And understand, once and for all, that I will not have that – that hoyden’s name mentioned again in this house. Do you hear me?”
“But – you don’t even know her—”
“No, Richard—” her voice was very quiet “—it is you who don’t know her and her kind. Be thankful that we came home in time. The Lord only knows what mischief she might have achieved had we stayed away longer.”
Richard stepped back from her. “I won’t listen to this.”
“You will listen to anything that I choose that you should. Alex,” she turned her head, but her eyes remained upon Richard, “that girl must be made to leave. Immediately. I won’t have her here.”
“It’s a little difficult, my dear – she is father’s guest, after all.”
“A guest who has abused your hospitality – seduced your son – played fast and loose with the morals of the household—” Alice’s tone was vitriolic.
“Stop it! Will you stop it! I won’t listen!” Richard’s face had suddenly flamed with anger. “You shan’t say such things about Sophie—”
Alice turned back to her son, an expression of almost theatrical astonishment on her face. “I – beg – your – pardon?” she asked, icily.
“Mother – please – you have to listen to me. To let me explain—”
“I don’t have to do anything of the sort.”
They faced each other in fury. Richard backed towards the door; mortifying tears stood in his eyes. “If you make Sophie go, I’ll – I’ll go too. I swear I will. I’ll leave. You’ll never see me again—” He heard, himself, the emptiness of the childish-sounding threat, and his frustration and anger grew. “I won’t have you saying these awful things about Sophie! I won’t!” He had reached the door. Blindly he reached for the handle.
“Richard! Come back here at once!”
But he was gone, his running footsteps echoing behind him. They heard the front door open, saw the tall, flying figure as he ran down the drive towards the cottage.
“Don’t you think you were – perhaps – a little hard?” Alex, awkwardly, asked the furious silence. “He’s right in a way, my dear – you really don’t know the girl.”
Alice stood like a statue, staring out of the window. “I don’t need to. Her schemes are perfectly clear to me – as they would be to you if you weren’t so absurdly short-sighted. The girl is out to get Richard – his position, his – our—money. Well—” her fine mouth drew to a straight, harsh line “—she shan’t succeed. I’ll make absolutely certain of that. We must get rid of her. Immediately. Josef’s guest or no. Once out of sight this – this ridiculous infatuation of Richard’s will die. She must leave at once.” She turned and fixed portly Alex with a steely eye. “You’ll see to it?” It was a statement rather than a question.
Alex subsided, reflecting as he had done more than once in the past weeks of close contact with his wife that Alice and that damned Kaiser fellow that was causing so much trouble had a lot in common. “Yes, my dear. Of course.”
They stood together in miserable silence. Sophie’s face was tear-streaked, Richard’s fierce and bone-white. Sophie bowed her head, looking at the hands that were twisted and clenched before her, and a heavy lock of hair fell across her eyes. He reached for her and drew her almost roughly into his arms again. She stood rigid, fighting fresh tears.
“I won’t let them do it,” he said into her hair. “Don’t think it. I won’t let them part us.”
She shook her head miserably. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”
He stepped back from her, looked into her face. “That doesn’t sound like my Sophie. You aren’t going to let them beat us?”
She sniffed.
“The worst that can happen – the very worst—” Richard’s voice was calmer and in face of her distress his own desperation was giving way to determination “—is that they win temporarily. We’ll have to wait, that’s all. Once I’m twenty-one—”
“Twenty-one! Richard – that’s more than four years!”
“I know.” Doggedly he kept the misery from his own voice. “But – it isn’t the end of the world. We knew we’d have to wait—”
She flung from him. “To wait, yes – wait to get married, perhaps. But not that long. And – not like this! They’ll keep you from me. We’ll never see each other – oh, Richard, I can’t bear it! Why are they so beastly? What have I ever done to them? Oh – I hate them! Hate them!” Her voice shook with the sudden rise of rage. “They’ve no right to do this to us!”
He was silent.
“They’ll send you away. You know they will. And they’re trying to make Uncle Josef send me home – poor little Maria, too, though I don’t see what she’s done to deserve it.”
“What did grandfather say to Pa?”
She calmed a little. “He said that we were his guests, and that he could see no reason why we should leave. He stood up for us. Tried to explain to your father the way it’s really been—”
“And what did Pa say?”
“He didn’t really say anything. To be truthful, if I hadn’t been so angry – so miserable – I might have felt a bit sorry for him. It isn’t him, is it? It’s your mother. She’s always hated my mother and father, and now she hates me.” There was desolation in her young voice as she turned from him and dropped on to the grass, her skirts spread about her, and picked at the slender stems with long, brown fingers. Her mouth was set into an unhappy line, and her breath still caught a little, tearfully, in her throat. She plucked a dandelion clock and held it in front of her. The delicate bowl of the seedhead was soft and fragile in the sunlight. She blew, sharply. Some of the seeds lifted and sailed into the still air. “One year,” she said, and blew again, and again. “Two years. Three. Four.” She lifted her head. She was suddenly very calm, and her voice was intense. “We can’t wait that long, Richard. We can’t. Something awful will happen. We’ll lose each other. They know it.”
He seemed to have run out of words. He sat beside her, half-turned from her, knees on elbows, shoulders hunched, head bowed.
With restless fingers she tore the blown dandelion head to pieces. Above them a robin sang, piercingly sweet and in the distance a cuckoo called.
She lifted her head, an odd, defiant expression upon her face. “Richard?”
He turned his head. She was looking not at him but at what remained of the stem of the dandelion, twirling in her fingers.
“Do you know – what you do – to—” She stopped, nibbling her lip, then said, very fast, “That is – what people do – to have a baby?”
Silence lengthened. She turned to look at him. He had flushed a deep embarrassed brick red.
“Well,” she asked a little sharply, “do you?”
“I – well – yes.”
She looked away again. “It’s no good pretending that I do, because I don’t. I looked in a book once – in the San at school – a medical book. But – I didn’t understand it.”
The quiet this time was fraught with question and implication.
“I thought—” she said at last “—that if you knew, we could – could—” she lifted a brave head and looked at last directly at him “—could do it. Then – they’d have to let us marry. Wouldn’t they?”
He was staring at her. She flushed, but her eyes were steady. He it was who turned away, abruptly, shaking his head. “No. We can’t do that.”
“But – why not?” Perversely his opposition overcame her own qualms, and her voice was suddenly positive and determined. “Why not? If it is the only way to make them let us be together?”
“It – isn’t that.”
“What then?”
He reached for her and hugged her to him, fiercely and awkwardly. “Oh, Sophie, darling Sophie! Don’t you know? Don’t you know what people would think – what they’d say of you?”
She was very still against him. “Of course I do. I’m not stupid,” she said, very quietly. “But what does it matter? What people say – what they think – I don’t care about them. I only care about you. And if it’s the only way—”
He thrust his face hard into her hair. “We can’t,” he said. “We can’t.”
Sophie was right; they were prevented from meeting for anything but the most fleeting, stolen moments in the next few days. At last, and inevitably, Richard allowed himself to be persuaded that their only chance to see each other was to meet at a time when there could be no one to stop them. The loft of the stables that adjoined the cottage was the designated place. Sophie, slipping from her bed, down the creaking stairs and across the brick-paved yard, got there first and sat, alone and terribly afraid, in the rustling darkness, her eyes and ears strained for a sign of Richard’s coming. The misery of the past few days, the quarrelling, the awful things that Alice had said of her when she had stormed down to the cottage on being told of Josef’s attitude to her demands, were still with her. She ached with unhappiness. Her eyes were hot and tired with tears. The moonless night was a threat and a loneliness about her. She knew, with sudden awful clarity as she sat, chill and huddled and afraid, that she had made a mistake. He would not come. She knew it. Her rash suggestion had, after all, confirmed the truth of his mother’s accusations. He was at home at this moment safe in bed. They were going to lose each other; they stood no chance against so hostile a world. Sooner or later he would begin to listen to what they said about her. He would believe it. He would despise her—
He wasn’t coming.
She drew her dressing gown about her, shivered a little, though the night was not cold. Beneath her the great hunter and the two carriage horses moved softly in their stalls, chains clinking. It seemed to Sophie that they were the luckiest of creatures. Mindless and obedient, they were never called upon to take a decision, to take responsibility for their actions—
There was movement then, and through the trap of the loft she saw softly moving shadows. Someone had come into the stables carrying a carefully shaded lantern. For a moment her heart stopped. Then in the uncertain light she saw the familiar, lifted, dark head.
“Richard? I’m up here.”
He climbed the ladder, the lantern swinging and sending shadows dancing wildly about the rafters. Once in the loft he set the glimmering light safely upon a cleared space on the floor, and then turned to her. Wordless, she flung herself upon him and they clung to each other, more like fearful children than like lovers.
“Your mother came,” she said. “Oh, Richard – it was awful! She said the most terrible things—” The last thing she had intended to say to him, yet the words tumbled out and she could not prevent them.
“You mustn’t listen. Mustn’t take any notice.”
“I thought you weren’t coming. Thought you must have listened to her. She hates me so—”
“Nonsense.” His voice was gentle. “She just doesn’t understand, that’s all. Give her time. I’m sure she’ll come round in the end.”
“No! She won’t! Richard – you didn’t hear her—” Sophie drew away from him and dropped back into the heap of straw. Their whispers were counterpoint to the rustle of the breeze around the tiled, unlined roof. Sophie huddled disconsolately, her arms about her drawn-up knees. “She’ll part us. For ever. She will.”
“No!” He was beside her, his arms about her, his mouth close to her ear. “No! She won’t. Because we shan’t let her. Or anyone. I love you, Sophie – don’t you believe that?”
She turned her face to him and with a desperate, unpractised urgency he kissed her, bearing her back into the warmth of the straw, his weight crushing the breath from her body. She was crying again, silently and wretchedly, as they embraced. He rained small, frantic kisses on her wet face, her hair, her neck. “Sophie – darling – don’t cry. Please don’t cry—” Brought up in a household of three men and a woman who rarely – if ever – shed a tear, he could not bear the sight of the girl’s distress.
But she could not stop; as if they had been his own her tears wetted his lips and his cheeks. He lay beside her, his face buried in the fall of her hair, holding her, silently and tightly, until she quieted. Then they lay so for a long time, scarcely breathing, their young warm bodies pressed closely against each other. The lantern lit the mossy, cobwebbed roof above them. The horses moved again, hooves scraping upon the brick floor. Very, very gently Richard slid his hand under her dressing gown and caressed her body, warm and smooth beneath the voluminous fine cotton nightdress that she wore. She trembled a little and her breathing was uneven, but she did not pull away from him. His hand moved quietly, stroking, touching, gentling. The excitement that rose between them was fired by his hard-held restraint. Sophie it was who, with a sudden movement of her body, brought his hand into contact with her hardened breast. He could feel the beating of her heart, the lift of her breath. For a moment neither of them moved, and then his self-control broke and he kissed her again, hard and a little clumsily, his teeth sharp against her soft mouth, his body sprawled across hers. She held him to her with fingers that bit strongly through his shirt to his skin.
“You said you knew,” she whispered at last into his ear. “You said you knew what we should do—”
He pulled away from her. “No!”
“Yes! Please!” She clung to him. “Richard – it’s the only way! I don’t care what they say! I don’t care what anyone says! I want you. I love you. I won’t let them part us! Please, Richard—” With a quick, unexpected movement she caught his hand and thrust it into the loose neck of her gown, to her bared breast. His fingers brushed the rigid nipple and she shuddered. “Please, Richard!” she said again, and in the lamplight he saw that the tears had started again, streaking her cheeks, damping her hair.
“Sophie don’t – please – don’t—” The whisper was pleading; but his body was already reacting to her demands, and he knew himself lost.
Sobbing still, with a swift movement she sat up, slipped her dressing gown from her shoulders and almost in the same movement stripped the nightgown over her head. Then she sat, straight and still and white as bone, watching him, a turmoil of embarrassment and longing in her eyes.
“Christ,” he whispered.
A gust of wind scurried through the overlapping tiles. She shivered. Very slowly he put out his hand, traced with his finger the line of her shoulder, the sweetly drooping breast. Her skin was cold. He stood. Took off his clothes. She watched him, silent, unblinking, unsmiling, fear in her face, but determination too, and the softness of love.
“This is our wedding night,” she said, as he leaned above her, “isn’t it?”
He kissed her. “It is. And I swear it: no one shall keep us apart. I’ll marry you, Sophie Anatov. And we’ll live together for ever and ever, with no one to come between us.”
He was far from a practised lover, but Sophie, innocent too, did not know that and their young ardour needed no art to perfect it. She gave herself to him with no reservations, instinct her sure guide: and the tears that she shed were no longer bitter ones. He leaned above her, afterwards, and kissed them away, a little worriedly. “Why are you crying? Did I hurt you?”
She smiled. Shook her head. “No,” she said, untruthfully.
He reached for her dressing gown and drew it about them, then, on one elbow, looking down at her, he reached a finger to her hair and wound a strand of it about his finger. “There. A golden ring. Our wedding ring.”
She took a long, trembling breath. “Richard?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think – I mean—” she paused “—have we made a baby?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I hope so. Oh, I do hope so!”
They were silent for a while.
“We ought to go,” Richard said at last.
Her arms tightened about him, but she said nothing.
“Sophie? We really have to go.”
Reluctantly she released him. He stood and, a little awkwardly, began hunting for his clothes. She slipped her nightgown over her head and drew her dressing gown about her, then sat watching him. “Richard?”
“Mmm?”
She hesitated, pulled a piece of straw from the pile and smoothed it with her fingers. “How did you—” she looked at him quickly, and away “—how did you know what to do?”
Tucking his shirt into his trousers, he paused.
“All right,” she said, hastily, “it doesn’t matter.”
He crouched before her, took her hands. “It’s no mystery.” His hesitation was barely noticeable. “A boy at school told me.” It was almost the truth.
She looked relieved. “You mean – you’ve never actually done it before, either?”
He shook his head.
She smiled, softly and happily. “I’m glad.”
He stood again, pulled her to her feet after him. “Tomorrow night? Here?”
She nodded and smiled as if tears had never been.
They met every night for almost a week before the storm broke. Richard it was who was caught – and by of all people his mother, who, woken from light sleep by a noise, left her husband snoring in bed and walked out on to the landing just in time to confront Richard as he climbed the stairs, shoes in hand and an expression on his face that screamed guilt almost before she had had time to connect his actions with their most probable cause. She lifted the night-lantern high and studied her son, her face forbidding. Then she raised her voice. “Alex? Here – at once, please. Send to the cottage. Quickly. Catch that creature before she reaches her bed. And as for you,” she addressed Richard in a quieter, flinty voice that made his skin crawl, “get to your room at once. Your father will deal with you later.”
The flogging he received was bad enough; the castigation of Sophie and of what had been between them was all but unbearable. And this time there was nothing to be done; they had no champions – none that is but Rupert and Maria, and their young good will was hardly effective against the hostile condemnation of everyone else, including a hurt and disappointed Josef. Sophie, in undertaking her rash action, had not considered this, and was desolate. But worse was to come; this time Boris and Louisa could not be kept out of it. They arrived the next day, Louisa distraught, Boris raging. Sophie had never seen him so angry. She was appalled, however, to discover that his anger was directed if anything more at Richard than at herself.
“I’ll take a horsewhip to the young scoundrel! I’ll kill him—”
“Papa! No! It wasn’t Richard’s fault! It wasn’t!”
He turned on her, his face blazing. His tender pride was touched by this, and that it should be Alex Rose’s son doubled the humiliation. “Keep a still tongue in your head for once girl! Not his fault? Of course it was his fault. His – and mine,” he added grimly.
“Yours? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, his voice corrosive with contempt and fury, “that in all these years I have been blinded by my own stubborn stupidity. I have loved and indulged you. Now I get my just deserts. I would not – could not – listen to what others said of you. What my own common sense should have told me. And if you repay me in this way for my foolishness then I have no one to blame but myself.”
“Papa!” Sophie was horrified.
“You’re spoiled. And arrogant. And selfish. You care for no one and nothing—” His harsh voice was cold as a steel blade.
Shaking now, Sophie covered her face with her hands. Louisa turned away.
“Your actions have brought dishonour not just upon yourself but upon your mother, your sister and upon me,” he continued, remorselessly savage. “I swear, Sophie, that I will never forgive you for this. You are no longer my daughter.”
“Papa!”
He turned from her. Louisa’s slender shoulders were shaking. At the door Boris turned again, looked coldly at Sophie. “Go now to your room. And stay there.” He turned to Louisa. “Lock her in. We’ll have no more of her harlot’s tricks.”
Sophie flinched. The shock of her father’s anger had leeched the blood from her face.
“Where are you going?” Louisa asked her husband quietly.
“First I have an apology to make,” Boris said, stone-faced, “to Uncle Josef, whose kindness and hospitality have been so flagrantly and heartlessly abused—”
“Papa doesn’t need an apology, Boris. Truly he doesn’t.”
Boris turned. Anna stood behind him, unsmiling. “He’s upset, of course. He feels responsible. But he certainly doesn’t blame you for what’s happened.” Her gaze had moved to Sophie. The girl said nothing, but her eyes were eloquent. Very, very slightly Anna shook her head. “Oh, Sophie,” she said, as she had said once before, and at her expression Sophie’s heart sank.
Louisa hurried to Anna, hands outstretched. “How pleased I am to see you! You’ve heard?” Her eyes were still bright with tears.
Anna leaned to kiss her warmly. “Yes. At least one member of the family had the good sense to see that you needed an outsider – a comparative outsider at least – down here to calm tempers and ease the situation. Rupert,” she added at Louisa’s enquiring look. “He rang me first thing this morning. I came at once.”
“It’s kind of you,” Boris said, stiffly. “But unnecessary. We can manage our own affairs.”
Anna raised caustic eyebrows, in no way deterred by the tone. “What are you going to do?” she asked midly. “Horsewhip the boy? Pound Alex to a pulp? Put Sophie on bread and water?”
Colour rose in Boris’s handsome face.
“You’ll only make matters worse, Boris,” she said, gently. “The thing is done. Richard has been punished – very severely punished – by his father,” she ignored the small, choked sound that Sophie made at that. “Alice and Alex – of course – blame Sophie. You – of course – blame Richard.” She glanced at Sophie. “It seems to me that such mischief takes two.” Sophie could not sustain the look. Miserably she hung her head. “So – surely,” Anna continued, “it is the future that we must now think of. What are we going to do about the situation?”
“The boy must marry Sophie.” Surprisingly, it was Louisa who had spoken. Her husband’s volatile anger had kept her quiet until now, but Anna’s presence lent her strength and her voice was firm.
There was a small silence. Sophie looked from one to the other, hope dawning in her eyes.
“Exactly my thought,” Anna said quietly. She looked at Sophie again, her pale eyes unusually chill. “And if we’re playing the game the way that you planned it, Sophie, then I hope you’re proud of yourself. I wish you joy of your manipulations.”
Sophie coloured a deep and painful scarlet.
Boris, for the moment, appeared to be at a loss for words.
“Now,” Anna was brisk, “I would suggest that for the moment – until tempers have cooled – I should speak to Alice and Alex. Accusations and recriminations will do no good at all. Is that acceptable to you?”
“Of course,” Louisa said, promptly and gratefully.
“Boris?”
Boris hesitated. “It’s the only way,” Anna said gently. “The boy must marry her. There can be no doubt about that. And words spoken in anger now will never be forgotten. We’ll have to live with them for ever. All of us.”
The fierce light of anger was dying in the fair, handsome face. He nodded.
Anna looked at Sophie, exasperation in her eyes. “Isn’t there enough trouble in the world at the moment – don’t we all have enough to worry about – without you making it worse?”
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said, and her voice was sincere. But glimmering in the dark eyes was the beginning of an undisguised gleam of happiness.
“No,” Alice said. “You may talk, Anna, until you are blue. No.”
Anna stared at her. “You can’t mean that?”
Alice returned the look, cold as stone. “On the contrary, Anna, it is I who find it hard to believe that you mean what you say. That we should allow this – guttersnipe – to trap Richard as her mother trapped her father—”
“Alice! That’s an outrageous thing to say! And as for Sophie – she may be silly and headstrong—”
Alice laughed, and the sound was unpleasant. “Oh, come now, Anna! Silly? I should say not! She’s far from silly. In my belief she knew exactly what she was doing – knew exactly what the reaction would be. Well, she has miscalculated. Under no circumstances whatsoever will we give our permission for Richard to marry. Isn’t that so, Alex?”
Alex looked helplessly at Anna.
“Well?” his wife prompted sharply.
He nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Anna held her temper, with difficulty. “And what,” she asked, “If the child should be pregnant?”
Alice’s expression did not change in the slightest. “That has nothing to do with the case. Nor with us.”
“Nothing to do – for God’s sake, Alice!” Anna could restrain herself no longer, “It would be Richard’s child! Your grandchild!”
Her sister-in-law lifted a cool, contemptuous face. “Can you be so sure of that? We only have her word for it. How do we know who else she may have been,” her lip curled, contemptuously, “romping with in the hay?”
“Now that’s unfair, and you must know it.”
“I know no such thing. I simply know this. Under no circumstances whatsoever will we give our permission for Richard to marry that girl. He is to be sent away – to the military establishment at Woolwich. I have no doubt that the discipline there will restore his sanity and his sense of proportion. He will forget her.”
“I shouldn’t count on that,” Anna snapped, all her dislike of the woman openly in her voice. “Has it occurred to you that the youngsters may really love one another? Is it so hard to believe? What they’ve done is wrong – of course it is – but it’s hardly the worst crime in the world, is it? God Almighty, with the terrible things that are happening, that may happen, around us you can hardly blame them for—”
“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Alice interrupted sharply. “Are you suggesting that every absurd rumour of war should be used as an excuse for wicked immorality? Have you taken leave of your senses? If war breaks out tomorrow – and I have to say that I for one do not for an instant believe that it will – it excuses not one jot of that chit’s behaviour.”
“I didn’t for one moment suggest—”
“Then what are you suggesting? That we allow them to marry? That we should let the scheming little minx get her own way? What a good idea that is! As mismatched a pair as you could possibly wish to find—”
“You don’t know that. In point of fact I should have said that they were quite well matched.”
Alice smiled, viciously sweet, and let off her final salvo. “I hardly think, Anna my dear, that you are an expert on what makes a successful match.”
Anna stared at her, speechless.
Alex cleared his throat.
“I think,” Anna said, “that I’d better go. Before I throw something.”
The dashing of scarce-raised hopes was cruel, and Sophie – brave until now – broke under this final blow. Locked in her room at the cottage she cried, first hysterically, then more quietly, and finally soundlessly and wretchedly, as if she would never be able to stop. Boris’s bitter anger and disappointment, however, were too great to be softened by this behaviour. “If the girl won’t pull herself together,” he said harshly, “then she’ll have to travel as she is. I’ll not remain in this place one moment longer.”
“Boris – please, my dear.” Louisa’s still-pretty face was pale and worried, “of course we must go. But give Sophie a chance to—”
She trailed off as her husband turned a closed, hard face to her. She knew Boris: soft-hearted and indulgent as he was, his pride, temper and trust affronted in this manner might take months, if not years, to appease. She looked in silent appeal at Anna.
Anna thought she had never seen light-hearted Boris look so much like his brother. The thought changed a vague thought into determination. “I’ve an idea,” she said.
No one spoke.
“Perhaps – for now – it might be better if Sophie came home with me. I promise I’ll care for her—”
“She has been cared for,” Boris said, coldly, “and see what’s come of it. She needs discipline. Punishment.”
Louisa winced.
Anna, gently, shook her head. “No, Boris. That simply isn’t so. And in a few weeks – perhaps months – I’m sure you’ll see that too. That’s why I think it would be better if you allowed Sophie to come to us. To give everyone a chance to calm down. I, for one, don’t intend to let Alice get away with this so easily. I’ll get Alex on his own – try to persuade him to—”
“No!” The word was violent. Boris stepped forward, his one hand raised, index finger stabbing aggressively at her, “No one – no one – begs on behalf of an Anatov! You hear me? If Richard Rose were the last man on earth I would not give my permission for him to marry my daughter after this.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Anna, too, was really angry now. “Can’t you see what you’re doing? You’re as bad as they are! Can’t you see how destructive it all is?” She stopped, fighting her temper down. She of all people should know that she would get nowhere shouting at an Anatov with his pride up. She spoke more calmly. “Boris. Please. Let Sophie come to me. Everything else we can talk about later. But – for now – we have to get her away from here. She’ll have Victoria and the boys for company. It will be better for everyone.”
“She’s right, Boris,” Louisa said.
Boris turned away, anger still veiling the terrible hurt in his bright eyes. “I don’t care where she goes,” he said.
Sophie left Bissetts the following morning, subdued in the company of an equally quiet Anna. Half an hour before she was due to leave, still locked in disgrace in her room, she stood at the window and looked up the curving drive towards the big house.
Richard. What have they done to you? What have they said? Do you hate me now? The hot, easy tears rose again. It seemed to her that there could never be a time again when she would smile.
A movement caught her eye, on the fringe of the shrubbery. A tall, dark figure – she dashed her hand across her eyes and leaned, suddenly eager, to the window. Not Richard – even from here she could tell it – but Rupert. He stood for a moment looking towards the cottage, glanced at his watch, as if waiting. There was a scurry of movement in the garden below and Maria slipped from the door and along the path to where Rupert stood. They came together for only an instant, and that furtive and hurried, with Maria glancing constantly and nervously over her shoulder. Rupert gave her something, then swiftly bent and kissed her upon her cheek and was gone. Maria scampered back to the path to the cottage. Sophie’s tears had died. Her heart was thumping in fierce excitement. She heard the door slam, heard her sister’s quick footsteps on the stairs. A moment later a slip of paper was pushed under her door. She flew to it, snatched it up.
DARLING SOPHIE. THEY WON’T WIN. BE BRAVE.
R.
She read it again and again. Touched the scrawled words, gently and reverently, with her finger.
“Sophie?” Anna’s voice, outside the door, “It’s time to go.”
She folded the precious note carefully, tucked it into the pocket where she could touch it. “I’m ready.”
Two weeks later Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia, and the confused and grim train of events that was to lead like a lit fuse to general conflict burned on. Russia mobilized in support of her Serbian allies. Germany – her acquisitive eyes as always on French soil – followed suit. Within days these two nations were at war, and Germany’s attack on France was launched. Ignoring the guaranteed neutrality of a tiny and totally defenceless country, the German army marched into Belgium, raping a country and brutalizing a people whose simple misfortune was their geographical situation. Roused at last, the British bulldog raised a belatedly outraged head and growled a warning. Supremely confident that his grandmother’s country would never actually take arms against him, the Kaiser ignored the threat. Twenty-four hours later, on an unprecedented wave of jingoistic fervour, Britain declared war upon Germany and her young men began to queue at the enlisting posts for fear of being left out of the fun.
It was upon that very day that Sophie began to suspect that she was pregnant.