Returning to the house with this resolve in mind, I was idly flicking through the post when a letter addressed to me at the Wilcoxes’ house in Dublin caught my eye. Lady Wilcox had written NO LONGER HERE. PLEASE FORWARD across it in bold black letters. I took the letter into the sitting-room and curled up on the sofa to read it. The only noise in the airless room was the ticking of the clock, but soon I was deaf to that.
It was from Rex Philpott, the first letter I had ever received from him. The return address of a nursing home in Folkestone, Kent, was printed on the letterhead.
Dear Caroline,
Forgive this horrid scrawl. I wanted to write to you to let you know that I am still alive—if barely—and am told by my nurses every day that I am on the mend. I was hit quite soon after returning to France and pretty badly smashed up. This is the first time I’ve been able to put pen to paper. My mother insisted on parking me here—I feel rather an old fogy, as I’m surrounded by seventy-year-olds complaining about their hearts. It would be so delightful to have a visitor, especially one under thirty. Perhaps my aunt will be decent enough to give you a summer holiday in a few months and you could pop down to see me then. Caroline, I have thought about you often since we met. It is a memory that has stayed with me when so many other memories seem to have oozed away. Funny about the old brain cells, isn’t it? I’m off the morphine now, but I must admit it has done my neuroses the world of good. I feel quite uncomplicated for the first time in my life. It would be jolly to hear from you. I hope you’re enjoying Dublin.
Yours,
Rex
And Lady Wilcox had never said a word about him, I mused, touched by the almost childlike tone of the letter. She must have known months ago what had happened! What an icicle. Perhaps she had kept it from Amelia too, for surely Amelia would have been concerned and wanted to write to him. A devious woman...
It made sense to go see Rex before I went to Ireland. After all, I didn’t know how long I would be staying there. I wanted to see him. It was a strange feeling, for I had only met the man once. It was the imploring, beckoning tone of the letter that worked on me like a charm, especially after Violet’s rejection. I would take flowers and a box of chocolates and make him feel better for a little while.
The next morning on the train, moving through the peaceful English countryside, my daffodils did not go unnoticed. A couple of middle-aged ladies engaged me in conversation about the War. Having been so cooped up lately, I chatted gladly, even telling them about my mother’s death. Their sympathy felt nice. When I mentioned that Captain Philpott had been a friend of my brother, I was subjected to plenty of knowing glances. How romantic and charming, I could see the ladies thinking, moist-eyed. I did not feel romantic and charming, for a strange detachment seemed to have come over me since my mother’s death. Even the conversation with Violet had not really sunk in. I thought that she, too, carried some of the same scars, and would not grieve much for the loss of my friendship.
“Those daffs are lovely. Lovely spring flowers,” one of the women said. “Cheer the poor boy up. Isn’t it incredible what those boys have sacrificed for us? They deserve every ounce of gratitude we can give them, don’t you think?”
I saw a little flash of envy in her eyes. Perhaps she wanted to be the young girl comforting the wounded soldier. If only she knew how fleeting this errand was, I thought. I was no Florence Nightingale, selfless, devoted.
As I sat there with lowered eyes I felt like an imposter. What the women thought they saw was not in fact real, and I was not forthright enough to explain the mistake. What if I said, “He was my brother’s lover?” Where would their sympathy be then? What if I said, “I’m in love with a woman and have just been sacked because of it?”
I pulled out my book with shaking hands and tried to read, feeling the women glancing every now and then at my bent head. The poor thing, I imagined them thinking, so young, barely twenty, and already an orphan. My God, that was what I was now. Alone in the world.
The train pulled into the station. I knew the nursing home would not be far away. I said goodbye to my companions, who fervently wished me good luck and God bless. I stepped out of the train into the warm sun and sniffed the salty air eagerly.
Rex was staying at a place called The Pines. A starched matron met me at the door and led me silently along a corridor to a small room. Pausing outside the door, she whispered, “Don’t tire him too much. He’s still quite weak. Were you aware of his disfigurement?”
“No.” I gaped at her.
“Well, we’ve seen much, much worse. But he had quite a serious head injury—it’s healing up fine now, but he’s still bandaged. And then of course, they amputated his foot before he even reached us. His face got quite badly scarred too, but we’re hoping we won’t have to operate again... Go along in now. I’ll come and get you when time’s up.”
She put her head in the doorway and murmured something, then gestured to me to go in. Apprehensively, I entered the sunny little room.
Rex was lying on the bed with his head partially covered, one leg elevated (I averted my eyes from the bandaged stump), and his hands busy rolling a cigarette. His face was in shadow.
“Rex,” I said softly.
He gasped. “Caroline! They said you were coming here... I couldn’t believe it, I thought they’d garbled the message somehow. Come in and make yourself t home.”
I arranged the flowers in a vase. “Can you see them?” I asked, for he was so quiet.
“Darling, they’re beautiful, there’s nothing wrong with my eyes.” I sat down in a chair beside the bed and Rex gestured to me to come closer. I pulled the chair forward. “My voice is a little weak—my vocal cords seem to have got banged up, along with everything else.”
I laughed nervously and he patted my hand.
“It is comic, isn’t it? Good to hear someone laughing in this room.”
I looked hard at him for a moment. Something had changed about his eyes. The pupils were so enlarged that they almost swallowed up the blue.
“Oh, my eyes do look beastly, it’s these drops they’re giving me,” he said vaguely. “I get the most confounded migraines. I feel like a dowager or something.”
I laughed again, squeezing his hand.
“I brought chocolates,” I said, handing him the box.
“Oh, yum. I’m being fed the most awful pap here. Blancmanges and so forth.” He pried open the chocolate-box lid and surveyed them gleefully.
“This is like being in the San at school,” he continued. “I expect you didn’t have the boarding-school experience, Caroline. But I must say, it was one of the wonders of Eton. One always had the most wonderful conversations in the sick bay. They’d leave us alone for hours. I met some of my dearest chums that way.”
He chose a chocolate and ate it with relish.
“Now, Caroline, do tell me how you managed to show up out of the blue like this.”
I had not thought about telling him the whole truth. So, very simply, I explained that I was no longer working for his aunt, that I had left Dublin after receiving a telegram about my mother’s impending death, and that she had died a couple of weeks previously.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, pressing my hand. “So sorry.”
“There’s more to it, Rex. Lady Wilcox caught me in a compromising position with one of the . . . servants.”
He stared at me oddly.
“One of the servant girls,” I said, blushing.
“Good Lord,” Rex said at last.
“I know it must sound very strange. I assumed it might get back to you sooner or later, so I’d rather you heard it from me.”
He nodded. “Of course. And do you intend to see this woman again?”
“Yes. I’m going back to Ireland tomorrow. I love her.”
He was silent for a little while. “And does she love you?” he asked.
“I think she does,” I said. “I suppose I need to know one way or the other. I could just let it go, but . . . I don’t want to.”
“Well,” he said, sighing, “you seem like someone who knows what she wants.”
I shrugged. “Do you really think so?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“You don’t seem shocked,” I managed to say.
“Nothing surprises me now,” he murmured. “I suppose I know what I’m capable of, and what other people are capable of. We English are a strange race, you know. I think the French are right to laugh at us. We’re just as sexually active as they are, but we’ve succeeded in throwing this wonderful veil of propriety and convention over everything. Perhaps I’m just cynical because I’m a public-school boy and an Oxford man. Your brother was certainly shocked at the stories I told him about my schooldays, where he apparently had done nothing. But, Caroline, humor me for a moment. You look so terribly serious, and I’m afraid this is going to make you even more serious.”
“Oh dear,” I said, smiling, but sadness was spreading over me already.
“It’s very simple. I’m wondering if you and I mightn’t make a go of it. We like each other, we make each other laugh, we even seem to understand each other. Quite frankly, I’m besotted with you. I know you’ll say that I’ve been flat on my back for months and I’ve had too much time to brood about things. I just can’t think of another girl I’d ever want to marry.”
I got up from the bed and walked over to the window, my heart beating rapidly. Why was he saying this now, after I had told him about Grace? It seemed completely out of character. I had never expected to be proposed to at all, and to be proposed to by a frail young man whom I was fond of threw me into sudden, painful confusion.
I stared out into the vast garden where roses and daffodils bloomed in the flowerbeds, where elderly men sat slumped in chairs taking tea in the sun, smoking, reading newspapers, chatting. Among them a few young men lay, or hobbled about on crutches. A dark-haired girl sat by a young man’s side on a blanket. They seemed to be laughing about something; she was spreading jam on a crumpet for him. She handed it to him almost maternally. Perhaps she was his sister. It was hard to tell, because of course they wouldn’t kiss in front of the others.
I felt tears prick my eyes. Why couldn’t Ralph be down there basking in the spring sun? If only I were visiting him now with news of our mother’s death! We could have grieved together... But instead, I had to be strong; I had to be clear.
I turned around and took a few hesitant steps toward Rex’s bed. He was looking at me gently, even with some hope. That was the worst thing, seeing hope in his eyes.
“Rex, why should you want to marry at all? The thing is, I don’t. The minute I marry, I have to be Mrs. Somebody and step into a role that I don’t want. It doesn’t appeal to me.”
“But even you must need a shoulder to lean on from time to time,” he said, sighing. “I thought you were like me, Caroline.”
“Like you . . . in what way?”
“That you were able to love both sexes,” he muttered.
“So you already knew?” I did not like the idea of him hearing about Grace and me, of him speculating about my sexual tastes, about whether he had a chance with me. Perhaps the scandal made me seem more vulnerable, I thought, more likely to be open to his advances now that I had been disgraced. That was the way men saw women, wasn’t it? They would take advantage of any weakness; it was a scenario that Grace knew well. I had been spared it until now because I’d lived like a nun.
But Rex was looking at me with sympathy. He gestured for me to sit down beside him again, and I did.
“My aunt is a wretched gossip. And a wretched employer, I’ve no doubt. She volunteered it in one of her recent letters. I’m afraid it’s something juicy she can tell her friends at tea parties. They lead a very dull life, you know...”
“Damn her,” I could not help saying under my breath.
He caressed my hand gently. “Oh, Caroline, that generation is a complete loss. Let it pass. But think about what I said. If things don’t work out with this young woman . . . we could have lots of freedom. I’d want that for myself and I’d be happy for you to have it, too. It could be the best of both worlds. Will you think about what I’ve said?”
I looked at his tired face, at his forehead lined with pink, raised scars. It seemed so strange that he should be thinking of marriage—and to me? Yet as he stroked my hand I felt myself return to those moments in the wood. They were vivid to me too, shot through with many different emotions. Perhaps he’s right, I thought for a second, and then the sensation of holding Grace in my arms flashed through me. There was no doubt there.
“Rex, I’d rather we be friends. Can’t we just be good friends, like this?” It was hard to see him crumple with disappointment.
“There are so many other people in the world than me!” I told him. “You’re charming, you won’t have to search long for someone to love.”
“You simply don’t understand how I feel about you,” he said wearily.
“But, Rex,” I ventured, “it’s mostly because of Ralph, isn’t it? Let’s face it. You would have walked right by me in the wood if I hadn’t mentioned his name. You would have thought ‘nice girl,’ at the most.”
He stared at me. “It’s not about him anymore.”
I jumped as the matron knocked on the door. She came bustling into the room.
“Well now, Captain Philpott. Looks like we’ve had a lovely chat, haven’t we?”
“I’m afraid I’ve been boring poor Caroline,” Rex said. “You must release her from me, Matron. She’s chafing to go off on her romantic adventure. A quest. How nice! Do you think I’ll ever be able to go on a quest again, Matron?”
“I think you’re a little overtired, is what I think, Captain,” the matron said firmly. “Let me show Miss Singleton to the door.”
I clasped Rex’s hand. To my surprise, he held it warmly and brought it to his lips.
“At least you came,” he murmured. “Bless you.”
All the way back in the train I held my book open before me, but I did not read a word. God, what was best? Had I been unnecessarily cruel? I did not think so. I had not told him, either, that I would consider his proposal seriously. But I didn’t dismiss it completely. I couldn’t. If things fell through with Grace—if she refused to see me, if I could not track her down, if I returned to England defeated and disillusioned—perhaps Rex, with all his charm and intelligence, would be the one to convince me that he could provide a new and liberated life for me.
It would be a different kind of liberation, one I did not trust. I could not imagine being attached to a man and having affairs with women, which he seemed to be implying was the ideal state for me. For him of course, yes, it would be wonderful to have a woman at his side and also be able to play the field with young men if he liked. That was the way it was done in his upper-class circles, I had no doubt.
But I wanted something else, and I would try for it, I thought, though the odds were no doubt against me. And there was comfort in knowing that at least one person in the world knew my secret and did not despise me.