Peter Patten’s war was over. He first suspected it when he saw the look in his sergeant’s eyes in those first strange and deadly clear moments after the bullet had smashed into his back; knew it with clarity in some small, still part of his soul as later he lay in a daze of pain and morphia in the comparative quiet of the Casualty Clearing Station. What he did not know until very much later was how very close to death he had come.
Once or twice, after they told him, gently and with a firmness that left no room for hope, that he could never expect to walk again, he wished they had not saved him.
The months that followed were harrowing – months spent in hospitals first in France, then in London, whilst his comrades in France fought on through one of the bitterest winters in living memory. Men shivered and cursed and froze in the trenches, died of exposure and of influenza, fought across ground where the corpses of their friends – and of their enemies – sprawled, preserved in the gaunt rictus of death, trapped in the frozen mud. The cold was searing; it was a winter of ice and snow and brutally low temperatures. It was as if the elements themselves had turned against the men who struggled to break the ghastly stalemate that held Europe in its death grip. As Peter hovered between life and death the Battle of the Somme ended at last, hostilities stopped as much by the sheer impossibility of fighting through the appalling weather conditions as by the achievement of any clear objective by either side. In the middle of that terrible December, on the day that the monk Rasputin was murdered in Russia the fighting at Verdun, too, eased at last, both armies simply too exhausted and too weakened by casualties to continue.
Peter lay through those first months, apparently docile, a favourite with nurses and patients alike, his slight, bright good looks honed to beauty by the privations of illness, his courage and his easy good manners a fragile shell to protect himself and others from the bitterness growing within. He had been ready for death – though, in truth, he knew he had never truly believed in it – but this? A lifetime of paralysis, of dependency? He had never even contemplated such a thing and in the quiet moments of the long, pain-filled nights he railed at the flawed fate that had allowed it to happen. Death would have been infinitely preferable. Because it was his nature to smile, he smiled, and was commended for his valour; yet in his heart and in his soul the canker grew. He hated his useless legs with an inflexible hatred that would have astounded those who tended him each day, who saw only the gilded smiles, the warm, bright eyes, heard only the gallant banter: ‘And how are we today, Major?’ – ‘Tres beans, Sister, thanks. Nearly got up to practise my golf swing in the night but thought I might disturb the others—’
He was not well enough to face the journey back to England until half-way through January. Ben came to see him the day before he was due to leave. Both Ben and Hannah had visited him as often as they could; but not even for them had he been able to lower his obstinate, flippant guard. Perhaps especially not for them.
‘Back to Blighty, then?’ Ben said, settling his huge frame gingerly on the flimsy chair the smiling nurse had provided.
‘Looks like it. Hospital in London, I gather – don’t know which one.’
‘Barts,’ Ben said, ‘I just asked. You’ll be well looked after there.’
Peter nodded.
‘And you’ll be within striking distance of home, too. Pa and Charlotte and Ralph will be able to come to see you—’
Peter’s smile was brilliant. ‘That’ll be jolly, won’t it?’ Charlotte. Lovely, childlike, vulnerable Charlotte, whom he had held and comforted as she had cried in terror. Charlotte who – he knew – had loved him; had loved the Peter Patten he had been before a sniper’s bullet had split his spine – Charlotte, who so much needed to be protected and cared for. What good would a cripple be to Charlotte? He looked at the brother to whom she belonged and smiled until his face ached. ‘Let’s hope the weather’s a bit better in London.’
‘I gather not. Worst winter since the eighteen eighties, or so they’re saying.’ Ben dug into his pocket and brought out a couple of packets of cigarettes. ‘Here – present for you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Hannah sends her love.’
He nodded.
Ben held out a hand. ‘Good luck, old lad. Take care of yourself.’ In his rugged face was a sorrow that it was beyond words to express. Ben it had been who had finally had to convince him that there was no hope.
‘Yes, I will.’ For one moment the gleaming smile died and a bleak glint showed in the blue eyes. ‘Or at least, I dare say, the rest of the world will.’
They shook hands in a suddenly unnerved silence, both perilously aware of the other’s emotion. Then with a quick lift of the hand Ben was gone.
Peter watched him stride away on the long, strong legs that carried him with such unthinking sureness and speed. He sat for a long time, very still, his face remote.
Then he closed his eyes and with an enormous effort of will relaxed upon his pillows.
Charlotte.
He did not want to see her; assured himself that in his present state she would not want to see him. Illness, he knew, frightened and disturbed her – a cripple surely must be abhorrent, whether she could bring herself to admit it or no, and he trusted that she would leave it as long as possible before facing him.
She came the day after he arrived in London; his first visitor. And with a shock he realized, in the moment she sat beside him and took his hand, in the moment she did not respond to his quick, practised, lying smile, that she knew. She was pale and thinner than he remembered, her fair beauty more delicate; and as she looked at him in that first, long moment of silence he saw, with a stab of something close to fear, that she understood with the perception of love precisely how he felt; she was not to be fooled the way others had been fooled.
He could not bear it.
He had nursed his hatred, nursed his hurt until the hiding of it had beome essential to him – a game to play deadly seriously – the only thing to make it worth while opening his eyes each morning. He could not bear what he saw in her eyes.
The silence was a long one. She leaned to him and her lips brushed his cheek very softly. When she sat back her eyes were brilliant with tears she would not allow to fall, but her voice when she spoke was controlled. ‘Peter, darling. You’re home at last. I’ve been out of my mind with worry.’
The habitual, brilliant smile flickered with brittle ease, totally at odds with the look in his eyes. Her hand was still in his, childishly small, very soft; his own skin too had lost its masculine, trench-toughened roughness over the past months of inactivity, and the soft, rhythmic stroking of her fingers upon his was silk upon silk. He tried gently to disentangle his hand from hers. Her fingers tightened very slightly, and she would not let him go. She had amazed herself in coming. She had thought – had been afraid – that the beauty of him, the bright courage, the warmth of which she had dreamed for so long, might not have withstood an ordeal the horror of which she could only imagine. She had been terrified that her own weaknesses would betray her. But as she had entered the ward and seen, unobserved, the spare, fair face, the lift of the handsome head, she had realized with a shock of emotion and – yes, delight – that had all but stopped her heart that she had never seen anything as beautiful as this helpless, damaged man. She had loved him before; like him she had been more than aware of the possibility that the bullet that had crippled him might well have destroyed too the fragile web that had spun between them. But it had not. Here, at last, was her prince. Handsome, a hero – and defenceless. She had never in her life experienced anything like the wave of love that had overwhelmed her as she had taken his thin, fragile hand. No warrior now; no strong arm to threaten, defend, take what was his. Like a great, calm sea the love and the strength rose in her; she had seen with clarity the depths of his fear, the cutting blade of his bitterness – she and only she could help him; she knew it with a certainty that would not be denied. With enormous tenderness she lifted the tense hand she still held and laid it against her cheek.
Almost, he flinched from her, turning his head a little on the pillow, unwilling to look at her, unmanned by her nearness.
‘Peter.’
He shook his head.
‘Look at me.’
At first he would not. She let the moment stretch, waiting. At last, reluctantly, he turned his head.
‘I know there’s no hope of recovery – you won’t walk again. But’, she held his eyes steadily, willing him to listen, to understand, ‘that doesn’t mean that you’ll never be happy again. Believe me. You have to believe me. Your life isn’t over. It isn’t. It’s simply a new life beginning. And it will be a good life. I promise you.’
‘Charlotte,’ his voice was low, ‘look at me! Look at me! What good am I?’
At the far end of the ward a bustling nurse pushing a trolley was briskly dismissing visitors. ‘Doctor’s on his way, off we go, please.’
‘I won’t listen to such nonsense. You hear me?’ As the nurse advanced officiously, Charlotte released his hand and stood up. ‘It’s no good. I simply won’t listen. You’ll have to believe me in the end, because I won’t let you do anything else—’
‘Doctor’s on his way, madam—’
‘Yes, I’m going.’ She leaned across and kissed Peter lightly on the forehead. Her perfumed hair brushed his brow. He clenched his hands upon the starched bedspread. She smiled and graceful as a bird in dove grey and white she left him, the eyes of the other men in the ward following her appreciatively. Peter watched her go, and for the first time since the bullet that had destroyed his hope of life had struck he felt the shaming burn of tears behind his eyes, the ache of them in his throat.
Make her stay away from me – sweet Christ! make her stay away! – I can’t stand it –
‘Morning, Major – Doctor’s on his way – feeling better, are we?’
‘Right as rain, Sister.’ The blithe and graceless smile gleamed, ‘What time are you off tonight? Fancy a night at the Savoy?’
She came almost every day, sometimes alone, sometimes escorted by the limping Ralph or by the frail, indomitable figure of his father, Doctor Will. No one questioned the propriety of her visits – what more natural than that a fond sister-in-law should visit a gravely wounded man? Sometimes she brought messages from Hannah or from Ben. They discussed the news of the war, which still showed no sign of a conclusive ending one way or another, and in March they discussed the events in Russia that seemed slowly but very surely to be leading to revolution and Russia’s withdrawal from the war effort. They discussed the possibility of American intervention. In April they discussed Toby’s leaving, a subaltern in the Buffs, and the rift that quite obviously had opened between the boy and Sally. In short they discussed everything but themselves. Since that first visit Charlotte had kept the tone of their conversations determinedly light, almost impersonal, though her smile and the light in her eyes each time she saw him, the brief, tantalizing kisses, the soft curl of her fingers about his were like another, wordless dialogue that danced about their prosaic conversation like music. Little by little he came to look forward to her visits as slowly, very slowly, he began, almost without realizing it, to accept her vision of himself and to realize that her love, far from being diminished, had developed from a childlike infatuation to an emotion much deeper and stronger. Of the future he did not – could not – think. It was enough that each day she came, always dressed and groomed with infinite care, her eyes always finding him with unerring accuracy wherever in the room he might be. As for Charlotte – she watched him grow stronger and less afraid each day, and laid the plans that one day would make him, and her, happy. Seeing sometimes that shadow in his eyes she knew the battle was not yet won; he had by no means come to terms with his terrible disability, with his dependency on other people – but when in early May 1917 his doctor announced him far enough along the road to recovery to be sent to a convalescent home in Surrey, she did not worry as she once would have done at the thought of his brooding alone, away from her, in strange surroundings.
‘I shall come at least twice a week. More if I can manage it.’ With already practised hands she tucked the blanket about his legs and adjusted the back of the wheelchair. ‘I hate the thought of your being farther away, but it isn’t so very far – and when I come I can stay longer. You’ll be more comfortable there – Sister was telling me it’s a perfectly lovely place – an old manor house with splendid grounds. We can go for walks—’ she would not respond to the sudden, bleak quirk of a fair eyebrow, ‘and it certainly couldn’t be a better time of year. The woods will be full of bluebells, you lucky thing. Thank heaven that dreadful winter’s over at last – I really thought I might die of cold once or twice – and you’ll be out of the way of these beastly air raids – honestly, I thought once we’d got the best of the zepps they’d give up, but these awful little aeroplanes are worse if you ask me—’
He made one last effort to hold to his anger, his bitterness, his independence. ‘Charlotte – it’s no good! There’s nothing for me – you know it! I’m chained to this bloody contraption for life—’ he took a breath, holding her eyes with his, brilliant, long-lashed, intense, ‘a half-man. No man at all.’ His knuckles whitened upon the arm of the chair as if he would rip it from beneath him and fling it to a corner. ‘Useless!’
She smiled calmly and with a conviction that simply would not be swayed. No torture would have wrung from her the truth that over the past months had settled quietly and secretly into her soul. ‘Nonsense. I won’t listen to you. Go to Surrey. Eat your eggs and drink your milk. Do everything you’re told. Build up your strength—’
‘For what?’ he interrupted her, his low voice blazing, ‘For what?’
She bent to him, took both his hands in hers. ‘For the future.’ And then, with a small, unfathomable smile, before she turned and left him, ‘For me,’ she said.
‘I must say,’ Fiona remarked casually, her long legs draped in the elegant falling folds of her dark riding habit, propped upon Sally’s windowsill, ’your friend Eddie Browne is quite a dashing thing, isn’t he?’
‘What?’ Sally lifted her head from her dour contemplation of the fire. Even at this time of year the vast, high-ceilinged room with its graceful, tall windows, once the drawing room of a stylish town house, then the much-abused headquarters of a Highland regiment and now the chill billet of Lady Marston’s corps of drivers was ice cold. ‘How the devil would you know? You’ve never met him.’
‘Wrong. We – bumped into each other the other day.’ The fractional hesitation was obvious and deliberate. Fiona slanted a narrow, pale glance across her shoulder and smiled beatifically.
As she had intended the words brought her Sally’s sudden attention – which had been for at least the past half hour notably in other more private quarters. ‘You – what?’
‘Bumped into him. Well. Found him, I suppose is more accurate—’
Sally sat up, her expression an almost comical mixture of affront, indignation and laughter. ‘Fiona MacAdam! If you think that just because—’ She stopped.
‘—you dragged me out from under a burning building—’ Fiona continued in equably agreeable tones ‘—it gives me any right to interfere in your private life—’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’m nosy,’ Fiona explained with a devastating smile.
‘You’re impossible.’
‘Yes. That too, probably. Anyway – having heard the odd snippet from you and from Hannah about this young man I decided it was high time to make his acquaintance.’
‘You what?’
‘You said that once, Sal. Honestly – it can’t be denied – breeding does out—’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘You see what I mean? Hardly devastating repartee? Anyway—’
‘You said that once,’ Sally said.
‘Anyway,’ Fiona ignored her, ‘knowing the young sergeant’s name, rank and regiment – oh, and if you haven’t seen him for the last ten minutes, he is still a sergeant—’ she grinned at the involuntary answering twinkle in Sally’s eye, ‘I took it upon myself to have a word.’
Sally turned and looked at her, this time the brewing storm clouds of temper overpowering the easy give and take of friendship, ‘you – what?’
Unimpressed, Fiona could not repress her laughter. ‘Sally! I’ll have to take you in hand! Are they the only two words you know?’
Sally was not to be so easily deflected. She stood up, walked to where Fiona lounged in the only comfortable chair in the room, perched herself on the windowsill directly in front of her. ‘You – went to find – Eddie Browne?’ she asked, her husky voice very emphatic. ‘Might I ask why? Might I ask – how dare you?’
Fiona did not answer immediately. She studied with an odd, tender amusement the fierce face before her. ‘Sally, my sweetheart,’ she said, apparently irrelevantly, but suddenly with no affectation, no amusement in her voice, ‘you haven’t been yourself lately, have you?’
Sally held the pale eyes for a moment, then looked away. ‘I’m tired.’
‘So are we all.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ The words were truculent, the expression on the sharp-boned face perilous.
Fiona affected a sigh. Her eyes were very alert. ‘What you’re suffering, dear heart, is so obviously over and above the demands of duty, so very obviously—’ she hesitated, half laughed, ‘female – if I might use the words to a fighter for equality?’ Her tone was light, the expression in her narrowed eyes attentive, ‘I have to admit that I jumped to a conclusion. Two conclusions. One of which turned out to be wrong. The other I’m still certain is not. What I want to know is – if it isn’t Sergeant Browne – and having spoken to him, much to my disappointment,’ she grinned unrepentantly, ‘and perhaps to his – I suspect it isn’t – who is it?’
Sally’s face closed like a shut door.
Fiona leaned forward, true, warm sympathy in her face. ‘Sally – what is it? You seem—’ hesitated, ‘so very unhappy?’
There was a brief moment’s fraught silence. The unexpected, open question – the unexpected sympathy – had caught Sally so off guard that the composure which, with practice, had become second nature, had deserted her. Tears stood in her eyes. She sat for a moment, rigid, upon the windowsill, and then with a loss of control that was as shocking as it was sudden she bowed her head into her hands and gave way to painful, all but silent weeping.
Fiona surveyed the shaking shoulders for a moment. Then quietly, knowing instinctively that the weeping girl was for the moment beyond banal words of comfort, she got up and went to the corner of the room where she knew from many previous visits the kettle and the gas ring were kept. A few minutes later, with the quiet, miserable tears abated and a sniffing, red-eyed Sally, abashed but in control once more, watching her with wary eyes, she deposited upon the small table a tray containing a pot of tea, a jug of milk and two dubiously clean cups.
Sally said nothing as, still in silence, Fiona poured a splash of milk into the cups and then the tea. ‘This war’s having a most devastating effect on me. It’s making me positively middle class,’ she said conversationally.
Sally accepted her tea with muttered thanks.
Fiona took hers back to the chair, sniffed it, tasted it, lifted her eyes to her friend.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Sally said.
‘Try starting from the beginning.’
Sally ducked her head, sipped her tea, blinking.
‘I’m a good listener,’ Fiona offered.
‘I can’t.’
Fiona shrugged, lifted her cup again.
‘It – it isn’t just me.’
‘It rarely is.’
In the ensuing silence they drank their tea. Sally, the tears having started after so long, was having trouble in staunching them.
‘For heaven’s sake, Sal,’ Fiona said at last intently, ‘cross my heart, wish to die, spit in any bugger’s eye – I won’t tell, whatever the deadly secret is. But what in God’s name’s wrong?’
‘Ben Patten,’ Sally said abruptly.
Fiona stared at her. ‘Ben Patten? Doctor Ben Patten? Hannah’s brother?’
Sally nodded, already regretting the impulse that had made her speak. But yet there was relief too. His name lay on her tongue for almost every waking hour, and so rarely could she speak it.
Fiona sat for a very long moment in silence. Then she let out a long, sighing breath. Her expression was very concerned indeed. ‘Well. You’ve certainly kept that quiet,’ she said at last quietly. ‘How long?’
Sally’s sudden laughter was almost a sob. ‘How long? How do I know? A year? From the moment I saw him? Ask me how badly.’
‘How badly?’
Sally pulled a wry face. ‘Bad.’
Fiona heaved a long, slow breath. ‘Why don’t you tell me – right from the beginning? – I’m no one’s favourite nanny, God knows, but you know what they say about a troubled shared?’
Sally grinned, half-heartedly. ‘Right from the beginning, you say? You’ve got all night?’
Fiona considered. ‘Well – there’s a baby captain of the Scots who thinks he might be on to a good thing this evening, but it never hurts to keep them on their toes. Yes. And all tomorrow if you want it.’ She set her teacup aside.
Sally sat for a very long time, hunched against the light of the window. Behind her the setting sun dipped, scarlet in a forget-me-not sky. The light upon her face, Fiona slouched in the armchair, the pale eyes alert and affectionate. ‘Tell you what—’ she moved lazily, picked up the bag that lay beside her chair, ‘forget my lousy tea. It so happens that I’d filched a little something as a sundowner.’ She reached into her bag, brought out a bottle. ‘Genuine Latour. Not easy to come by, old thing. Got a couple of glasses? Not that it matters, but it does make things a little more civilized.’
Sally fetched glasses and a battered corkscrew. Fiona, with some ceremony, broached the bottle and poured the rich wine. Then she sat on the floor, gestured Sally to the chair. ‘Right,’ she said, with an iron smile, ‘get on with it.’
The bottle was emptied within the hour. Sally surveyed her half-empty glass. ‘And then – last night – we had this row. My fault, really. I get so tired of—’ She stopped.
‘Of his tender conscience?’ Fiona asked shrewdly.
‘Yes. And – more than that—’ Sally made a small, sharp gesture with her free hand, ‘—with his absolute conviction that he’s right all the time – that he knows what’s best for everyone – he’s so damned certain about what’s right and what’s wrong.’
Fiona laughed a little softly. ‘Adam was probably the same. It’s what drove Eve to try the apple.’
‘Charlotte didn’t want to marry him in the first place. It’s been a total disaster from the first moment. He knows it. But he won’t admit it. He’d never hurt her. He thinks of everyone but himself.’
‘Oh really?’ Fiona’s voice held the faintest, caustic edge of sarcasm. ‘And have you told him about this – rumour? The interesting gossip you picked up about the distant, reluctant wife and the interesting brother?’
‘Oh, of course not! How could I? Especially now—’
‘Oh, sweetheart, how truly and despairingly working class of you.’
‘Fee, it isn’t funny!’
Fiona drained the last of her wine. ‘I know it isn’t.’
‘And you’ve got entirely the wrong impression. You don’t know him as I do, Fiona – I love him. Stupid it may be, but I can’t help it! I don’t care where it’s leading. I don’t care if he’s tied to someone else. I just wish that sometimes – sometimes—’ Her voice trailed off. Fiona watched her. ‘That sometimes he’d be a little more—’
‘Human?’ Fiona offered cheerfully.
Sally made a very rude noise.
Fiona gracefully came up on her knees, leaned one elbow upon the arm of Sally’s chair, looking up at her intently. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said very soberly, ‘for telling me it all.’
Sally grinned lopsidedly. ‘You mean you’re still talking to me? Hardly fit company for an “Honourable” am I?’
‘Better than you know.’ Fiona, never serious for two moments strung together, made a bony fist with her hand, bounced it on Sally’s knee, ‘Half the blue-blood bores I know don’t have any better background.’
‘You do know that I’d rather you didn’t – spread it about?’ It was only barely a question.
Fiona spread exaggerated, laughing hands. ‘Who would I tell? Who do I speak to? The question is – what are you going to do?’
Sally looked through the window at the dying sun. The night before, after an argument that had started from nothing and had finished in tears and exhaustion, they had made love as violently as that first time, with the guns of the evening barrage booming about them like the knell of doom. ‘I don’t know. It’s all so odd, isn’t it? The war, I mean – everything’s changing – nothing’s permanent – it’s so hard to see anything clearly.’ She dropped her face into her hands for a moment, rubbing her eyes. ‘It’s as if we’re all different people than we were.’
‘I suppose we are.’
Sally shook her head. ‘Not Ben. Ben’s the same. He’ll always be the same. Oh God – I truly can’t see where it’s going to end. Sometimes I get so tired of it – the secrecy, the hole-in-the-corner nastiness of it all – I just want to stand up and shout it out: I love another woman’s husband. He loves me. So what? Other times – I just want to run away.’
‘I heard a rumour’, Fiona said carefully, ‘that Sir Brian was thinking of offering him a research post after the war.’
Sally’s head jerked up, her brows drawn together.
‘He hasn’t told you?’
‘No.’ The word was brusque. ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Hannah mentioned it the other day. Sally – if it’s true – and I wouldn’t be surprised – then any breath of scandal—’ She stopped.
Sally was sitting very still, her eyes distant.
‘He won’t leave his wife, Sally.’ Fiona laid a sympathetic hand upon her arm. ‘You know it. Sir Brian Bix-Arnold is a stuffed shirt of the oldest and direst order. The slightest sign of anything so devastatingly improper as a love affair—’ She made a movement of a finger across her throat. ‘And as for divorce! You might as well talk of murder! Ben would be out before his feet had touched the floor. You know it.’
‘Yes.’
‘This appointment could be the beginning of a truly brilliant career. Sir Brian has taken Doctor Ben Patten under his wing – his influence is enormous – and he’s the best man in a field that Ben, I gather, feels quite passionate about – that he’s already spent a lot of time on. His work on gas gangrene, with Sir Brian has made him quite a name—’
‘I know. I know!’
‘He won’t give it up, Sally,’ Fiona went on inexorably. ‘Whatever he says, he won’t give it up.’
Sally leaned back in the chair. The sun had gone, the shadows gathered in the corners of the lofty room. The fire had died, and the air was chill. ‘I know,’ she said again.
Fiona sat back on her heels, picked up the empty wine bottle, surveyed it a little ruefully then stood it on the windowsill. Then she turned back to the still figure in the chair, her head cocked a little to one side, her small, tentative smile encouraging, faintly teasing. ‘Are you sure you couldn’t manage to fall for the entertaining Sergeant Browne, bless his subversive little soul? So far as I can make out there’s no fragile Mrs Browne to complicate matters.’
Despite herself, and as Fiona had intended, Sally had to laugh. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure. And honestly, Fee, you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick entirely. If I did fall for him he’d almost certainly run a mile!’
Fiona laughed at that. ‘You may be right.’
‘I most certainly am. So you can stop matchmaking. God almighty – another emotional involvement’s all I need just now!’
‘Ah well,’ Fiona stood up, brushed her long skirts, ‘it was worth a try.’ The mischief died as she looked down at the shadowed face, ‘You aren’t sorry you told me?’
‘No. You were right. It does help a bit – to have someone to talk to.’
‘Even if she can’t come up with an answer?’
Sally’s smile was bleak. ‘There is no answer, Fiona.’ She shook her head, a quick, almost exasperated movement, ‘There is – no – bloody – answer.’
The Southdown Convalescent Home nestled into softly rolling countryside a mile or so from the village of Beestone in Surrey, a brick-built manor house in eight acres of parkland. Each time that Charlotte stepped from the train on to the tiny platform of the little country halt she lifted her head and breathed the soft air with pleasure. The walk to the home was through narrow lanes, the hedgerows alive with birds and threaded beautifully with every kind of wild flower. Low, wooded hills lifted to the summer sky, gentle and green and as undisturbedly peaceful as time itself. She never hurried; there was no need. Peter would be waiting – looking for her. His face would light at her coming, like a candle lit before a shrine. His hand would reach for hers. And the golden, helpless beauty of him would fill her with that astounding, enchanting lift of love and strength, of pure, invulnerable certainty that was his gift to her. She had never been so utterly happy; had never, she knew, looked so utterly lovely. And her plans were laid, very surely.
‘I think’, she said, strolling in gentle June sunshine, the wheels of his chair crunching upon the gravelled path, ‘that we should live in the country. The air would do you so much more good. Think how pleasant it would be – French windows into a pretty garden, perhaps a little stream—’
He glanced round at her, smiling, happy to join in the game. They often did it – spoke of things that would not – could not – be, as if they were possible. ‘Bit different from the old Bear.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Her answering smile was gentle, secret, ‘Very different from that.’ They had reached the top of a low ridge. Below them a small ornamental lake edged with willows glimmered like quicksilver in the sun. ‘Would you like to stop here, or shall we go on down to the lake?’
‘Can you manage that far?’
She laughed softly. ‘Silly boy. I can manage much further than that.’ With easy competence she manoeuvred the chair down the slightly sloping path, then found a flat patch of grass and turned the chair so that he should have the best view. ‘There.’ She checked the brake, tucked the blanket around his legs then arranged herself very decoratively at his feet, her skirts spread about her like the petals of a flower, her lifted face flowerlike too, the skin flawless, the blue eyes wide and bright.
He looked at her helplessly, enmeshed in her shining beauty, in the delicate almost virginal feminity of her.
She saw it, and she smiled. Then she turned a little, leaning against the chair, her knees drawn up in front of her, hands linked loosely around them. ‘I think Ralph’s going to ask Hannah to marry him at last.’
The silence lasted long enough for her to slant a small glance across her shoulder at him. He was looking at her with such a funny, astonished expression that she giggled like a child. ‘Oh, come on – Ralph’s adored Hannah ever since we were children together.’
‘Well, I know that. But – well, I suppose I just never thought he’d get round to it. Whatever possessed him?’
‘I did.’ The words were light. Charlotte had picked a small pile of daisies and was threading them into a chain. ‘I had a sisterly chat with him. Faint heart never won fair lady and all that. I mean – distant adoration’s all very well, but it’s a bit impractical, isn’t it?’
‘Do you think she’ll accept him?’ Peter was watching her with a fond mixture of amusement and surprise.
A small, indefinable expression flickered across the pretty face. ‘I hope so. She’ll be a fool if she doesn’t.’ It was no part of Charlotte’s plan to consider any such nonsense. She held up the chain, shaking it out. ‘Did you know that Ralph actually tried to get himself killed? You know – the business of the medal and all that? He told me. He swears he wasn’t being brave at all; he was trying to get himself shot. Ironic, isn’t it?’
Peter was silent.
‘He thinks Hannah knows. Or at the very least suspects.’ She added a couple more flowers to the chain, draped it across her silk-clad knees. ‘He’s writing to her. Today. Of course – if they marry—’ she hesitated, threw a swift glance at his face, ‘it would be perfect, wouldn’t it? They’re both so good with the children. So dedicated. So – when we go to live in the country – they can run the Bear.’
Not looking at him, she rose very gracefully. His eyes followed her movements, faintly, questioningly puzzled. She leaned to him, lifted slim arms to drape the chain of flowers about his neck. ‘Because we are going to live in the country, Peter, aren’t we? Just you and me – with a garden, and a stream – happily ever after.’ She did not draw away from him but leaned closer, watching him. She saw his lips part a little, saw the sudden hurt, the depth of longing in his eyes. And the moment before her lips met his in a long and gentle kiss, she smiled.
When she drew away they were both trembling. Peter’s face clenched suddenly in a grimace of anger and frustration. ‘Charlotte!’
She laid a cool hand against his lips, her other hand moving caressingly in his thick, unruly hair. ‘Don’t say anything, my love, just think about it. Think about you and me in a little cottage somewhere. Think about me taking care of you, loving you, for ever and ever. Think about summer days like this – winter evenings around the fire – No!’ She felt his involuntary movement and gently tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging at it. ‘Don’t say anything.’ She bent to him again, kissed him again, and this time his hand crept up and cupped her head, holding her to him. She drew away at last, dropping a feather-light kiss on his nose, his forehead.
He shook his head uncertainly. ‘You aren’t serious?’
She watched him, sudden, provocative mischief dancing in her eyes. Then she laughed, reaching for the handbrake, swinging the chair around, ‘Of course not. It’s a game, isn’t it? A game we like to play?’
He craned his head to look at her. His skin was golden with sunshine, the fair hair bleached to gold.
She smiled down at him.
‘Yes,’ he said after a moment, a little less than certainly, ‘of course. That’s all. A game we like to play.’
In the late autumn of 1917, in the month that saw the final convulsions of the Bolshevik Revolution which took Russia out of the war, and the devastation of two war-weary armies in the battle for a tiny village too appropriately named Passchendaele, Ben Patten snatched a short leave. The previous months had seen success for Allied arms at the Messines Ridge, and signs of a slow but sure advantage gained in Flanders, until the weather had again taken a hand and bogged down both attackers and defenders in a quicksand of mud that sucked horse, man and machine into its gruesome maw with indiscriminate relish. Earlier in the year there had been near revolt in the battered, blood-drained French regiments who had fought so gallantly and for so long along the Aisne. Europe was war-weary, yet still the nightmare showed no sign of ending.
The night before Ben left for England Sally lay curled against him in the narrow bed that saw all of their lovemaking, in his quarters in the château at Amiens.
‘Are you looking forward to it?’
‘Going home?’ He moved a little, restlessly. ‘I don’t know. Funny, isn’t it? In a way it’s all you think of – going home – yet when it happens—’
‘Mm.’ It was a common problem. Men were known, now, actually to refuse leave, or to stay in France rather than to leave their mates and face loved ones who had so little idea of what life in the front line was like that they might have been strangers.
Sally shifted a little, rolling away from him. ‘They’re bombing London again – badly from the look of the papers.’
He had lit a cigarette. The smoke spiralled into the chill dusk of the room. ‘Yes. Since the bad raids in July the pressure seems to have been fairly steady. It’s funny—’ He trailed off. ‘
‘What is?’
‘Charlotte. I’d have thought she would have been terrified – remember how she was about the zepps? But – she seems to be taking it in her stride.’
‘Not much else she can do, is there?’ Sally’s voice, despite herself and as always when Charlotte’s name came up, was brusque.
The small silence was not easy. ‘Sally?’ Ben said.
‘Mm?’
‘I’ve been offered a post. After the war. With Sir Brian. Research.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’
The silence this time was deafening.
He stubbed out his cigarette, turned to her, leaning on one elbow, massive above her. ‘You – know?’
‘Yes. I heard the rumour months ago.’
‘Where from?’
‘From someone who’d heard it from someone who’d heard it from someone. Come on, Ben – you know how word gets about.’
‘You didn’t say anything.’
This time she allowed the silence to develop to truly difficult proportions before saying, ‘Neither did you.’
‘I – wasn’t sure if I would take it. There didn’t seem much point in saying anything until I’d made up my mind.’
‘And now you have.’
He rolled on to his back, his eyes on the ceiling. ‘It would be utter stupidity to refuse such an offer.’
‘Yes.’
She turned back to him, her hand moving in the thick curled hair that covered his chest. ‘You’ll tell Charlotte?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘She’ll be pleased, I expect.’ Her voice was dry, ‘I daresay she could quite fancy herself as Lady Patten.’
His arm tightened about her, crushing her to him. ‘Sally – Sally!’
‘Stop it. We agreed. Now is now, and next is next. The war isn’t over yet. We could all be dead by tomorrow.’
‘Hannah said you were up at the Front again last week – dodging bullets was the way she put it. You didn’t tell me?’
Within his arms she shrugged.
‘Oh, Sally, be careful.’
‘I always am. Be careful yourself. Don’t get run over by a tram back in dear old Blighty.’
‘I won’t.’
They lay in quiet for a moment. Then, ‘This job,’ Sally said, ‘it would mean a lot to you, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes. The chance really to do something. To work with the best minds – the best facilities—’
‘Jolly handy, Hannah and Ralph deciding to tie the knot at last.’
‘The Bear, you mean? Yes.’
‘So. You’ll move out? Move—’ he felt rather than saw the small, wry smile, ‘up west?’
‘Sally—’
‘All right, all right.’ She turned suddenly, sliding on top of him. Outside, unnoticed, the evening barrage had begun. The window rattled. ‘Well, given that you’re off tomorrow, Ben Patten, you might at least make your goodbye something I can remember while you’re away?’
‘A research post?’ Charlotte, pretty as a picture in green and white, her teacup precisely balanced upon her lap, smiled with the polite interest she would afford an affable stranger, ‘Is that good?’
Ben was standing with his back to the fire, the height and breadth of him dominating the room, his own teacup lost in his big hand. ‘It’s very good indeed. An honour, in fact. Sir Brian is a remarkable man. I admire him enormously. He’s brilliant in research and he has influence. I’d be a fool to turn down such a chance.’
Charlotte’s expression had not changed, there was nothing in the pleasant smile, the bright, serene eyes to indicate the sudden sharpening of her interest. ‘What – exactly – would it mean?’
‘We’d be based in London, and in Oxford—’
‘And—’ Charlotte had lowered her eyes and was tinkering delicately with the slender silver spoon that lay in her saucer. ‘The Bear? What of your work here?’
He shrugged a little. ‘That would have to go, I’m afraid – but with Hannah and Ralph here to carry on, and Pa too whilst he wants to, I won’t be too badly missed. Anyway – who knows? – with this kind of opportunity I might find myself in the position where someone actually listens to me – I can do more good under those circumstances in a year than I’ve managed in a decade fighting a bunch of bureaucratic idiots who don’t know typhus from a cold in the head.’
Charlotte nodded slowly, very thoughtfully. ‘I see.’
‘So – you wouldn’t mind?’
His wife lifted her handsome head, the innocent eyes wide. ‘Mind? Why ever should I mind? Why Ben—’ there was the slightest, acid edge beneath the pretty laughter that brought a faint flush to his face, ‘you don’t mean you’re actually asking me? Of course I don’t mind. Of course you must take it. I think it’s all rather—’ she drew the word out in capricious amusement, ‘—splendid. Oh, yes, of course you must take it. How very exciting.’
Ben drained his cup, set it on the mantelshelf. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased. Now – you’re sure you won’t come to see Peter with me?’
‘Oh, no. I don’t think so. The poor man sees quite enough of me I assure you. I’m sure he’d rather see you alone. Besides, he’ll be home very soon – we’re converting the dining room as a bed-sitting room for him, did you know? It will give him the independence he needs, but still enable us to care for him.’
‘Yes. Pa told me. He told me, too, how hard you’ve worked to help Peter. I wanted to thank you.’
Very precisely Charlotte placed the cup she held upon a small table. ‘Don’t be silly, Ben. No thanks are needed. Anyone would have done the same. Off you go. You’ll miss your train.’
‘How did Peter seem?’ Will Patten, frail, indomitable, the old eyes still windows into a soul that, despite all, found much to amuse it, tamped down the tobacco into his pipe and settled before the fire.
Ben sat in the chair opposite, elbows on knees, nursing a precious brandy. ‘Quieter than I remember him – but that’s not surprising, of course. I thought he looked remarkably well. He seems to have come to terms with his paralysis extraordinarily quickly. I must say, I wondered how he’d be once the first shock wore off – so many of them simply’, he gestured with the glass, his face sombre, ‘give up.’
‘You can hardly blame them.’
‘No.’
‘And the war? Is it true we’re on the offensive at last, or is it just flag-waving propaganda?’
‘No. It’s true. There’s a feeling that it can’t last much longer. Oh – there’s a long road ahead, but – well, it has to end sooner or later, doesn’t it? Or there’ll be nothing left.’
‘And – you think there’s a chance we’ll get there after all?’
‘More than a chance, yes. Though – who knows – Fritz may have a few surprises for us yet.’
They smoked in companionable silence for a moment. Then, ‘Good news about the research post,’ Will said gruffly. ‘I remember old Bix-Arnold. We were at Oxford together. Good man. Bumptious. Narrow-minded. Opinionated. But good. You’re doing the right thing.’
Ben hid a smile, finished his drink, stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’m lucky to get the chance.’
‘Nonsense, m’boy. He’s lucky to get you. Though from what I remember of old BA, wild horses wouldn’t drag it from him.’
Ben grinned openly at that, stood and stretched. ‘I’ll turn in, if you don’t mind.’
The old man nodded peaceably. Ben stood for a long moment looking down at him, affection warm on his square face. Then he touched the narrow shoulder.
‘Goodnight, Pa.’
‘Night, lad.’
A small light burned beside the bed in the pretty, feminine bedroom that he was sharing with his wife, his own room having long since been allotted its quota of refugees. Charlotte, her fair hair loose about her shoulders, the graceful folds of a rose-pink nightdress with high, frilled neck enveloping her slim body, was sitting up in bed, propped against a pile of pillows, a book upon her lap.
She glanced up as he entered, smiled coolly.
He had been home for three days and three nights and in that time they had not once made love.
Very precisely he began to remove his clothes, folding them neatly, stowing them in drawers and wardrobes, incongruous amongst pale and perfumed silks and satins.
‘I want to talk to you’, Charlotte said, closing her book, a finger keeping her page, ‘about Rachel.’
‘Oh?’ He shook out his cravat, folded it carefully.
‘I think she should go away to school. And soon.’
He stopped. Turned, staring at her in surprise. She outfaced the look without a tremor. ‘Go away to school?’ Ben asked.
‘Yes. She’s becoming impossible. And the influence of that dreadful school you all insist she attends is as much to blame as anything. Just because you live in a stable, Ben, it doesn’t mean you have to be a horse. I won’t have a daughter of mine growing up a gutter urchin.’ She lifted her chin and regarded him levelly, her mouth set in a straight, sure line, daring him to challenge her.
Ben said nothing for a moment. He turned back to the mirror, started to unbutton his shirt. His first sight of Rachel had been something of a shock. The child was truly beautiful; not with the fragile prettiness of her mother, but with a strong and brilliant beauty that was stormily matched by an intemperate and volatile disposition. Only he, Charlotte and Sally knew the inadmissible roots of the child’s looks and nature. Yet within moments of being with her, her thin arms thrown vice-like about his neck, the music of her excitement bubbling about him, he had been totally enchanted with her once again. ‘Oh, Papa, Papa! I’m so pleased to see you! Darling Papa! How long can you stay? Will you come with me to the park? Have you seen Flippy? She’s grown so much! And Pippa’s had puppies – do please come and see them. Oh, and Papa! I had a letter from Toby, a letter just for me! He’s been promoted – he’s a – oh I don’t know – a something else now. Isn’t he clever?’ She had gabbled and laughed, interrupting herself, kissing him, swinging about his neck, her eyes alight with love and laughter.
‘You really think she needs to go away?’
‘Yes.’ The word was flat. ‘She’s running wild. The home isn’t what it was, Ben – there are too many children and not enough help – not enough discipline. I don’t want the child growing up an undisciplined hooligan.’
—And you do want her where you don’t have to see her every day. To see the black hair and blue eyes, the enchanting, goblin smile, to see the obstinate courage of her when once more she faces your dislike and disapproval— his doubts were all in his face as he turned to look at her.
She returned his look without turning a hair, without a flicker in the cool, steady eyes. ‘I’ve found a school,’ she said composedly. ‘It’s in Suffolk. Near Bury St Edmunds. It’s a lovely old house in very nice grounds. It’s run by two sisters, very well qualified. I was there last week and I was most impressed. The girls I met were beautifully mannered, the school curriculum seemed to me to be very well planned.’
‘You seem to have got it all worked out?’
‘Yes. There wasn’t much else I could do in the circumstances, do you think? I mean – you can hardly want me to run to you with such trivial household decisions whilst you’re so very occupied in your work in France.’ Her tone was faultless, yet he glanced sharply at her, detecting the irony in the words.
‘And Rachel? How does she feel?’
Charlotte made an infinitely small gesture of distaste. ‘Oh, how do you think? I told you – the child is totally undisciplined – she threw herself about and screamed like a wildcat. What would you expect? If the day has come when a ten-year-old child can impose her own wishes upon parents who are only doing what’s best for her then the world has changed indeed.’
There was a silence that was broken only by the rustle of Ben’s clothing.
‘It’s arranged then?’ Charlotte asked.
Ben, in his dressing gown, turned. She had tilted her head to look at him, the lamp behind her gilding her hair, limning her delicate features in light, leaving her wide eyes in shadow. Her white hands, soft and smooth, were folded upon the book. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the silk of her nightgown. He cleared his throat.
‘Ben? It’s arranged?’
‘Yes. If that’s what you want.’ The sudden thudding of his heart, the stirring of his body was totally uncontrollable. In the abrupt silence he saw her face change almost imperceptibly, her body stiff and still beneath his eyes.
Her hands, as she marked her place in her book, closed it, laid it upon the bedside table, trembled a little. ‘Good. I’ll go ahead and make the arrangements.’ Not all her efforts could keep the tension from her voice. She turned from him, sliding down under the covers, her back to him, her shoulder hunched almost to her ear.
He let the dressing gown slide from his shoulders, stood naked above her. She would not turn her head. ‘Charlotte,’ he said.
‘I’m very tired, Ben.’
‘You’re my wife, damn it!’ His voice was very low. As he reached for the bedclothes she turned on her back, staring up at him, rigid with dislike. With disgust.
He was beyond control. Beneath the nightdress her body was smooth and cool, her skin soft and delicate as silk. As his bulk, thrusting, fell upon her he knew he hurt her – in truth at that moment he wanted to hurt her, to produce some warmth of reaction, some fire to rise to his, even, if necessary, in hatred. She lay inert beneath him, lifeless as rag, cold as charity. As his climax came she opened her eyes and watched him, unblinking. When he had done she withdrew from him fastidiously, slipped silently from the bed and left the room. He rolled on to his stomach, face buried in the pillow. He heard the water running in the bathroom next door, heard the bedroom door open again, heard the opening of a drawer and the smooth rustle of silk as she changed her nightdress. He rolled on to his back, watching her, as she came back to the bed. She did not look at him. As if she were alone she smoothed the sheet, plumped the pillows, slid back into bed, settled herself with her back to him and turned out the lamp.
He lay in the dark and the deafening silence for a very long time, listening for guns and thinking of Sally.