I must have somehow staggered down the steps and onto the lawn because I found myself hurrying blindly across the dirtied ground towards Beechnut as she hovered by the hedge, nostrils flared and head flung high in wild agitation. The reins were hanging from her bit to trail about her feet as she anxiously stamped about and I desperately wanted to reach her before she could step on them and damage herself. But then, with a sudden and terrible awakening to fresh horror, I stopped dead, and try as I might I could not force myself to move any closer.
His heel, the booted heel of his foot was just visible above the low curve of the wall where it rested in unnatural stillness on the far pasture, and I knew with a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that I really did not want to see any more. I stood there, swaying gently in a helpless paralysis of horror, knowing that nothing on earth would be powerful enough to make me do it, and yet still trying to force my frozen limbs to carry me forwards to rescue my straying horse.
Then there was a wet crunch of footsteps behind and suddenly strong hands grasped my shoulders to pull me roughly round. My body obeyed helplessly and it was done with such insistence that I would have kept spinning but for his support. Raindrops streaked hard across the wild night air as with rapid breath and a ghostly complexion, his dark eyes stared down at me to intently search my face. There was fresh blood across his cheek and a weary line along his jaw, and when his questioning gaze finally came to rest upon mine, it brought with it such a powerful jolt of realisation that I actually felt as though it must be some kind of mistake.
“Matthew …” I whispered in an agony of disbelief. For a moment he simply stood there, looking down at me, his exhausted face mirroring my own feeble doubts. But then, with a sudden contraction of his mouth, his hands shifted and I found myself being pulled into a tight embrace that was so very solid and so very determined that it seemed like I might never need to draw breath again.
It seemed to be hours later when I found myself dry and huddled warm under blankets, quietly listening to the steady pounding of rain outside. I was leaning against him in a drowsy haze of peacefulness on my settee; the gentle rhythm of his heart was regular now, settled and easy, and a world away from the rough embrace we had shared out on the windswept hillside.
My forehead had been buried in his shoulder then, and I do not believe that I had been capable of doing anything other than cling to him in determined oblivion, concentrating hard on the sound of his breathing as it gradually steadied. He had held me close and even when a police officer appeared by his side he had only lifted his head to confirm that we were all right before allowing his cheek to rest upon my hair once more. I was very cold, it must have been a long time before I could begin to control my shocked shivering and even longer before I was able to lift my head. But then at long last I did, and when I lifted my eyes to meet his, he lightly brought his hand to cover mine in a gesture of such tenderness that finally I was able to accept that his touch was real and he was definitely very much alive.
Now there was no doubt. His voice was warm and relaxed in my ear as he talked and the two police officers – who I suspected were Downe and Fleece only I couldn’t remember which was which – were nodding seriously at us from their station near the fire. A fresh cup of tea materialised magically in my hands and reluctantly I roused myself from my cosy stupor enough to take it. Matthew paused in the act of taking his hand away and, gently, closed his fingers briefly over mine in quiet affirmation before turning his attention back once more to the patiently listening policemen. His other arm was wrapped heavily about my shoulders, pinning me against his side as if I had any intention of going anywhere, and occasionally, where he felt that he needed to expand on some particularly unpleasant point, his hand would tighten a little in its grip upon my arm. I gave a comfortable sigh and nestled a little closer.
The trip home had been a long blur of headlights and exhaustion, winding round by a long route to avoid roads closed by flooding and windblown trees, and that first step into my deserted kitchen, which still held Matthew’s frantic note and the evidence of my hasty departure, had been the most bizarre kind of homecoming. Freddy, unfailing in his demonstration of the resilience of youth, was somewhere outside accompanied by a kindly policewoman as he settled a surprisingly sedate and blessedly unharmed Beechnut back into her stable. I had tried to insist on leading her back myself but Matthew’s negative had been resoundingly firm and Beechnut had been so delighted to see someone she knew that she forgot to resist when he caught her and handed her to a ceaselessly euphoric Freddy.
That darling boy had arrived in the back of a police car looking anxious and deathly pale and, bursting heedlessly through the assembled policemen, had flung himself headlong at us with such energy that he almost knocked Matthew flat. The enthusiasm of their reunion had been wonderful and Matthew had smiled for the first time, a tired attempt at warmth, and enveloped him in a comfortingly smothering bear-hug.
And he was smiling now, a reassuringly familiar lift to one corner of his mouth and I looked up to realise that one of the policemen had been speaking to me for some time. That smile grew wider as he mildly observed, “You’re not really with us, are you? That was the Inspector on the telephone.”
I hadn’t even heard it ring.
The policeman beamed largely, seeming suddenly startlingly human behind the blank impartiality of his uniform. “The Inspector told me to give you his best, Miss Phillips, and instructed me to give you a severe dressing down for sending him racing away this evening, in this weather, all the way down to a poky little Hampshire police station only to discover once he’d got there that all hell was breaking loose back here…” He grinned. “Oh and by the way, the Turford brothers send their best.”
I sheepishly sat up a little straighter in my seat. “And how did he find them?”
“Bruised. And just a little bit confused.”
The policeman’s smile widened. It was a little startling how with the telling of my grim tale these two police officers seemed to have forgotten the normal bounds of their strict formality and were now treating me with friendliness, deference and a rather disturbing amount of frank respect.
The policeman’s gaze sobered a little, lifting from mine to Matthew’s face. “You will take good care now, won’t you, sir? And you do know not to do anything stupid like attempt to take yourself away somewhere in the next few days, don’t you…?”
It appeared that whatever reply the officer read in Matthew’s short laugh was to his satisfaction because he suddenly gave a nod that was startlingly like his superior’s and shut his notebook with a snap. Then he smiled again and extended his hand, “I’m very glad you came to see us today, Mr Croft. Inspector Woods had already begun to suspect that the bleak picture being painted of your character was not entirely accurate, helped – if it’s not too bold to say it – in no small part by the actions of this young lady, and he was glad to have it confirmed. No, don’t get up either of you, we’ll see ourselves out. The Inspector will drop in after a day or two if he may, just to complete his notes … And to see Freddy, of course. I’m not sure the desk-sergeant will ever be quite the same again after the tongue-lashing he received. Now remember what I said, sir; don’t wander far.”
Then suddenly, after a succession of vigorous handshakes, they left and it was disorientating after an evening of such chaos to abruptly find ourselves alone, in my house and after all that wishing. It seemed incredible; I might almost have become self-conscious but that, with a lazy sigh, Matthew stretched out his legs before the fire and gently tugged me closer.
All awkwardness forgotten, I rested there in a comfortable tangle of blankets and warmth, simply enjoying being able to watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest while drowsily wondering whether I was asleep already, but then, suddenly, Matthew broke the silence. His voice was heavy with exhaustion as he asked,
“I’m not dreaming this, am I?”
I had to laugh at this apparent symmetry with my thoughts but then, when I spoke, it was with gentle seriousness. “No, you’re not. I’m here, you’re alive; it wasn’t a dream and instead of being lost, you’ve brought us back.” I was rewarded with a squeeze of his arm and then silence again. Eventually I added in a whisper, “Back home.”
The clumsily delivered allusion was followed by an unexpectedly loaded silence. He seemed to have frozen; the hand that had been lazily toying with a corner of my blanket abruptly stilled and I had the sudden bewildering confusion of whether I had somehow presumed too much.
But then he let out his breath in a low weary sigh. “Oh, Eleanor … Will you really make me the gift of that after all that’s happened? I don’t mean today, although Lord knows this is bad enough.” His hand was suddenly beneath my jaw, tilting my face and I could only imagine what evidence he was finding there in the scuffs and bruises of my tattered appearance. “I mean for spending the past week practically forcing you to confide in me when all the time I should have been telling you the truth.”
His gaze flickered. Outside, something broke loose to bang noisily on the tin barn roof. His hand had softened against my chin and I drew away to lay my cheek against his shoulder once more. “The truth?”
He seemed to frown, knowing he had committed himself, but then his fingers tightened possessively on my arm as if he had something difficult to say and was afraid I might run away before he had finished. Eventually he said in a very measured tone, “All those years ago; that row. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
The word was a croak. My heart seemed to have stopped. It seemed he was going to make me admit my guilt after all. I desperately wanted to silence him, to stop him from reliving the hurt but instead I concentrated hard on the vital warmth of his nearness. And listened.
“When you came to see me that morning, you caught me at the wrong end of a week spent making my decision. So many men were marrying their girls just then for very little reason other than for the brief moment of personal gratification it would bring and it sickened me. You’d already lost a mother and your father was unwell; it was impossible for me to bind you to me with nothing to give in return but another death to bear.” His voice was hushed against my hair. “But you … you fought it. I’d convinced myself that if I told you calmly you’d understand and agree it would be better for us both – easier for me if we tackled it alone. But every expression of yours just proved that I hadn’t explained anything at all. So I panicked. And then I took a different exit.”
A log dropped spitting in the grate. It was sending golden flares racing up the chimney and, instinctively, I closed my grip on the fabric of his shirt. “You thought you’d disappointed me, didn’t you? That it was simply because you were too young, too naïve; too gentle … didn’t you? This week, when you gave me shelter, I felt so angry; so uselessly angry because I discovered my fear had destroyed that loving, darling young thing. I thought you’d become so silent.”
His voice was darker now, rough and bleak. “But you’re still you. You have no idea what it meant when I discovered that. I should have told you this long ago; I should have told you back then and I’m sorry to have done it like this, after such a day, when you’re exhausted and I’ve already put you through enough.” His tired voice grew hoarse, and then gruffly finished, “But at least now you finally know.”
After what he had said, my speechlessness felt even more reckless than ever. I floundered, searching for what to say. Perhaps he understood my confusion or perhaps he was just unwilling to let the past go without fighting every last inch of the way, but regardless I was desperately relieved when he suddenly decided to speak again.
“Eleanor,” he said bluntly, brutally clear at last. “I lied to you – do you understand me? I was lying when I told you it meant nothing, and I was lying when I let you think you weren’t enough for me. You were enough. I love you.”
He definitely misinterpreted the silence this time. His hand moved a little against my arm, the other closed restlessly in his lap. “You must hate me.”
Finally I mustered the intelligence to shake my head. I heard his breath catch, and then he said quietly and very carefully, “Is it possible? Is it possible that, somehow, you still seem to want to offer me this?” His gaze turned away to run over the untidy clutter of my living room and for once he wasn’t teasing.
Then his cheek touched to my hair again and his thumb followed, gently, to trace a line across my hand where it lay upon his chest, leaving a tingling trail of sensation before moving on to touch upon the corner of my jaw so that I blinked up at him, struggling to marshal my thoughts after such a giddying rush of awareness.
“Matthew, love …”
I managed to speak at last, somehow putting all the force of my care for him into that single utterance of his name. I didn’t need to say more. Instantly and with an urgency that stole my breath away, he bent his head to kiss me, holding me and crushing me fiercely before pausing long enough to allow for a smile. It was followed by the possessive heat of his mouth against mine and a half-laughing sigh of relief, and then, drawing me into the safe shelter of his arms again, a calmer, more gentle touch of his lips to my hair.
Then silence. Nothing but the long comfortable silence of peace, broken, after a time, by a very faint murmur of; “Eleanor?”
“Yes?”
“Just …” He paused. “Thank you.”
Later, drowsily leaning into his shoulder before the settling fire – having welcomed Freddy home, received the full account of his adventures and dispatched him tired but delighted off to bed – once I felt Matthew’s relaxed body dip towards slumber, I made my own confession in a very private whisper to the silent room. “I’m glad you’ve come back to me.”
I felt his arms tighten lazily, a little happy brush of his cheek against my hair and the slow steadying rhythm of his heart beneath my hand as his breathing drifted. Then, at last, taking in the soft familiar warmth of his nearness, I allowed my eyes to close and I too surrendered to the comforting lure of companionable sleep.