The Gamekeeper's Wife

by Clare Flynn

  He pushed back his chair and got up from the table. ‘I’m going for my ride before doing the estate accounts and I’ll be working in the sunken garden this afternoon. No time for lunch. You’ll see me at dinner tonight.’ Stepping round the sleeping spaniels, he left his stupefied mother and limped out of the room.

  He rode around the grounds aimlessly – through the open fields, over the rolling parkland, skirting the lake, through the woods. His leg was throbbing today, the stump rubbing against his prosthesis, chafing his skin, and there was a phantom itch where his absent left calf should be. He hated that. Hated the way his damaged nerves fooled him into lowering his hand to scratch the leg even though it wasn’t there, his fingers making no impact on the wooden substitute.

  After a while, he loosened the reins, letting Hooker take him wherever he wished, and found himself riding into the copse of trees that surrounded the gamekeeper’s cottage. It was as though his horse sensed it was where he wanted to be.

  Martha Walters was sitting on the doorstep shelling peas. Sunlight, filtering through the newly green trees, fell upon her hair, making a dappled latticework. She glanced up at him, her face expressionless. Christopher eased himself out of the saddle and swung himself to the ground, remembering to take most of his weight on his good leg. He looped the reins over Hooker’s neck, left him to graze and walked towards Martha. She carried on with her task, offering no greeting until he sat down, sitting on the soft springy turf in front of her, his good leg curled under him, the false one stretching out in front.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d come again,’ she said at last.

  ‘I almost didn’t. You didn’t invite me this time.’

  ‘You need no invitation. You own the place after all.’ She stated the fact without resentment.

  ‘I wish I didn’t.’ He leaned back on his arms and looked up at the sky.

  ‘You can tell Mrs Shipley I’ll leave whenever she wants me to.’

  ‘No.’ He answered quickly, affronted that she realised the truth of his relationship with his mother. ‘I’ve told Mother you’ll be staying until I find another head keeper.’ He smiled at her. ‘And I’ve no idea when I’m going to get round to doing that.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve started packing. I’ve not much here that’s mine.’

  She finished the last of the peas, putting the enamel bowl on one side and gathering up the empty pods into her apron. ‘Shouldn’t you be having your dinner now?’ She corrected herself. ‘Your luncheon.’

  ‘We’ve got guests arriving today and I’ve told Mother I won’t be joining them until this evening. I thought I’d give them time to talk without me.’

  ‘You must be hungry?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not really. I hadn’t even thought about it.’

  ‘Well I am. I’m going to boil these peas up and have them with some leftover stew. You’re welcome to join me.’

  Christopher accepted the invitation. He picked up the bowl of peas and followed her inside the house.

  He watched as she tipped the contents of her apron into a large pan, in which she had already sweated an onion and some wild garlic. ‘You’re cooking the pods too?’

  She added some water. ‘They can simmer away. They’ll make a good soup. I’ll eat that tomorrow and the day after. Have to use what I can. No waste. The thirteen and ninepence I get for a widow’s pension doesn’t go far.’ Her mouth formed a tight smile. She set a saucepan to boil for the peas. ‘What will they be eating up at the big house today?’

  Christopher shrugged. ‘Cold cuts for lunch. Soup, I suppose.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Baby chickens tomorrow night, when we have company. Mother seems to think I should be interested in the menus she chooses.’

  ‘And so you should be. You should be thankful for such plenty.’

  ‘You think I’m not? I do know what it’s like to be hungry. Sometimes there was nothing but dry biscuits when the supplies to the Front were held up. And the bread was never less than a week old by the time it got up the line to us. Once the war was over I knew I’d never be able to look at tinned beef again. And before that, when I was in Borneo, we ate what we could. Mostly rice and chicken.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Sometimes it was wiser not to ask what we were eating.’

  When the meal was ready, Martha ladled the stew onto plates and added peas on the side. ‘I used the last of the potatoes I’m afraid. Only two left so I put them in the stew. If you’re lucky you’ll find a piece.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be eating your food, Mrs Walters. I’ll be leaving you short.’

  ‘I told you. Call me Martha. I won’t say it again.’ She sounded gruff, annoyed, and Christopher cursed himself inwardly. His intent had been to avoid seeming disrespectful in the use of her Christian name, but he had clearly offended her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Martha.’ He picked up his cutlery and began to eat. ‘This is delicious. What’s in it?’

  ‘Rabbit. I set traps. I told you I make do with what’s around.’

  He ate, realising how hungry he was after all. ‘It’s the best meal I’ve eaten in a long time.’

  ’Simple food.’

  ‘Simple’s good.’

  ‘Tell me about Borneo. Where is it? I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘Thousands of miles away. The edge of the Empire. It’s part of a huge archipelago of islands, Java, Sumatra, the Dutch East Indies, countless small islands – too many to remember their names, let alone visit them all.’

  ‘Why did you travel there?’

  ‘I went to find and catalogue plants. There’s miles of unexplored jungle and all manner of plant-life that has yet to be discovered and classified.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re an explorer?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that. I’d describe myself as a humble botanist. I was working on a book on the flora of the island of Borneo. Then the war came along, my brother was killed and I had to come home. My father died while I was on the voyage back. Then I went into the army.’

  ‘What made you want to study plants? And go all that way?’

  ‘I’ve loved plants since I was small and used to read about rare species in the books in my grandfather’s library.’

  ‘So you got it from him? He liked plants too?’

  Christopher laughed. ‘I suppose he did. But I doubt he’d ever opened a book in his life. Apart from financial ledgers, I imagine. He bought books by the foot to fill the shelves of the library. All part of his plan to disguise his humble origins. I was the only one who ever read any of them.’

  ‘I used to love to read. I learned at the village school, but when I married Walters I had to leave and there were no books in the house. Da couldn’t read and Walters wasn’t interested. The school teacher, Miss Edmonds, used to lend them to me. She felt sorry for me having to marry that man. Even tried to persuade my da against forcing me to wed him, but Da wouldn’t listen. Said most folk weren’t like her and wouldn’t look well on a girl who’d already been… Anyway, Walters put a stop to the reading when he came home one afternoon and caught me curled up with a book. Jane Eyre it was. He threw it on the fire and gave me a beating for wasting time when I should have been doing housework.’

  Christopher swallowed. He wished he had known all this about the man he had believed to be a brave and loyal servant, an exemplary soldier. He felt ashamed that he had been so gulled by his batman. He remembered the eulogy he had given after his death in front of the small band of men beside the ruins of their blasted dugout.

  ‘I’ll lend you books,’ he said at last. ‘Tell me what you want and I’ll bring them to you.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s kind of you, but I don’t want you to get into trouble with Mrs Shipley.’

  Christopher pushed his plate away. ‘Why does everyone treat me like a child? Even you. I may not want to be the owner of Newlands but that’s what I am and if I want to give you the whole damn library I’ll do so.’

  She was looking at him, her same expres
sionless face showing no signs of pity, regret or embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken that way. Shouldn’t have sworn in front of you, lost my temper.’

  Martha leaned across the table and touched his hand lightly. ‘You never need to apologise to me, Captain Shipley.’

  ‘If I’m to call you Martha, you must call me Christopher.’

  She met his eyes, her gaze steady. ‘Christopher sounds wrong for you. Can I call you something else? Something no one else calls you.’

  He was taken aback by her frankness. He thought for a moment. ‘Then call me Kit. My grandmother used to call me that when I was a little boy. Mother used to tell her off when she heard her but I loved it. She died before I was twelve and no one’s used it since. Percy and Father called me Chris. I hated that.’

  ‘Kit. I like it. Kit.’ She smiled at him and he saw again how her face was transformed, lit from within by the uncustomary smile, the warmth in her eyes.

  ‘You were telling me about Borneo. Don’t stop.’

  So he told her about his journeys through the jungles and equatorial forest of the huge island. Of the caverns filled with stalactites and stalagmites, of mountains rising through the clouds, of rushing streams, houses on stilts high above the surface of the sea, of abundant wildlife, of strange tribal customs, of orang-utans swinging through the trees, of the vibrant coloured plumage of birds so different from the drab monochrome of British birds. She listened to him, spellbound, then watched as he pulled a small sketch book and pencil out of his jacket pocket and drew a picture of the strange dragon creatures he had seen when his boat made a stop en route at the island of Komodo. They sat, facing each other across the table until Christopher checked his watch.

  ‘Oh no. I forgot.’

  ‘Forgot what?’

  ‘The reason for my calling on you today.’

  She frowned. ‘You don’t need a reason, sir.’

  ‘Kit.’

  ‘Kit then. So why did you come?’

  ‘I wanted to ask if you would help me. Work with me? I’ll pay you of course. The full rate for the job. The man’s rate.’

  She seemed puzzled.

  ‘You’d be working alongside me in the afternoons and if you can manage the mornings too you’ll be working with a lad called Fred. Fred Collins.’

  Her frown deepened. ‘I know who he is. But he works as a gardener.’

  ‘That’s right. I want to restore my grandfather’s sunken garden. It’s behind the stable block. Do you know it?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t go near the big house.’

  Kit explained what he had agreed with Joe Hobson. ‘And since you’ve worked in the Land Army and you’re in need of employment, I thought you could help me. Not with the heavy digging. Fred and I will deal with that. But in helping cut back the undergrowth. Weeding. Pruning. Planting. That kind of thing. And only the afternoons if you prefer.’

  ‘Do I get to wear my breeches?’

  He laughed, then felt a shiver of desire at the thought of seeing her clad so improperly. ‘I’ll order you a new pair from Harrods.’

  She laughed too. Then frowned. ‘And Mrs Shipley?’

  ‘Doesn’t know. And I plan to keep it that way. She never goes near the sunken garden. Says it gives her the creeps. She’s not happy about me working there but I told her this morning my mind is made up. There’s no point in me riling her further by telling her there’s a woman working there.’

  ‘The pay?’

  ‘Twenty-four shillings a week. Eleven and sixpence if you do the afternoons only. But don’t mention it – it’s more than Fred gets, as he’s only an apprentice.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be too?’

  ‘You’re not a young lad. And you’ve more experience.’

  ‘Well, that’s very generous. When do I start?’

  ‘I thought I’d take you across there this afternoon. Show you what’s involved. And if that doesn’t put you off, you can start tomorrow afternoon. Unless you want to do the full days?’

  ‘Afternoons suit me. There’s things I have to do here.’

  * * *

  They made their way through the woods, skirting the far side of the lake so that they would arrive at the sunken garden without being visible from the house. The last thing Kit wanted was to be seen with Martha by his mother.

  He showed her the mess that the garden had become, delighted that the monumental nature of the task did not dismay her. The young apprentice, Fred Collins, had already made inroads into clearing the main pathway that ran through the centre of the gardens.

  Kit led Martha over to Fred, who pulled off his cap when he saw his employer. ‘Afternoon, Cap’n Shipley, sir.’ He gestured towards the partially cleared walkway. ‘It’s taking a long time, sir, but I reckon if I can clear this main path first I can get a wheelbarrow through. That should make things easier.’

  ‘Good show.’

  ‘And then there’s the grass.’ Fred jerked his head towards what had once been a velvet-smooth lawn between the pathway and a small lake but was now a field of coarse long grasses, dandelions and buttercups, the growth more than waist high. ‘It will need scything, Mr Hobson says. And probably new lawns laid.’

  Kit decided that even though Fred was still a boy, he was a hard worker and a bright lad.

  ‘One thing at a time, Fred. That’s the only way we’ll get anywhere with this. And you’re right. We need to concentrate on clearing first, then we’ll see what plants are left and which ones can be saved.’

  Martha had said nothing during this exchange. Kit explained her presence to Fred, who, to Kit’s surprise, took the fact that he would be working alongside a woman in his stride. ‘My big sister was in the Land Army. You should see ’er muscles.’

  Martha gave him a rare smile, then turned to Kit. ‘I could start over there.’ She pointed to a single-storey building off the main pathway. ‘In the gardeners’ rooms. Get the place cleaned out, sort through the equipment. See what can be cleaned and used and what will need to go to the blacksmith to be sharpened and resurfaced.’ She smiled again at Fred. ‘And I’ll see if I can find you that wheelbarrow and get the rust off the scythes.’

  Satisfied that he had recruited a strong team, Kit apologised to Fred that he had not done his turn that afternoon and assured him that he would be there the following afternoon to lend a hand with clearing the pathways.

  Fred appeared nonplussed, evidently still trying to digest the idea of the master rolling up his sleeves to labour beside him.

  Kit clapped a hand on the lad’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Fred. We’ll soon transform this place.’ But he knew he had taken on a Sisyphean task. There were nine acres to clear, restore, replant, renew, not to mention the buildings and structures. One young lad with the part-time support of a woman and a crippled man. Tomorrow morning he would arrange for a local craftsman to inspect the buildings and determine whether any urgent repairs were needed. He could already see an ornamental wooden bridge, which spanned the small lake to an island, was in need of mending. It was covered in bracken and was collapsing on one side into the water. A hexagonal summer house near the lawn had lost most of its thatched roof and there were pigeons nesting in the rafters.

  He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘I must go. ’Til tomorrow, Fred, Mrs Walters.’ He couldn’t avoid using her married name in front of the lad. He nodded at them both, then set off to bring Hooker, who had been grazing outside, back to the stables.

  * * *

  As Martha walked home from the sunken garden to the lodge in the woods, she asked herself for the umpteenth time what she was doing. Every time she saw Kit Shipley she swore to herself it would be the last time. And then, when he appeared again, all her resolutions floated away, like dandelion clocks on a breeze.

  He was so different in every way from how she had expected him to be. He was the master of the estate, her employer, a wealthy man, rich beyond her imagination, yet a kind, gentle man, an
interesting man, sensitive, lonely, damaged. Whenever they were together, all Martha’s resolutions evaporated. All she knew was she wanted to be with him.

  One thing was clear. He felt the same way about her. Of that she was certain. Martha knew it, just as she knew that day followed night, that bluebells appeared in the woods every spring, and that she had never felt a moment’s happiness since the day she was raped in the dark of the sitting house. Yet now she felt blindly, deliriously happy. But her happiness was threaded through with a terrible fear. A fear that, as soon as Kit Shipley found out the truth about her, he would not only withdraw from her, but he would despise her.

  Martha could not let that happen. Better to lose him than to have him know the truth. It mustn’t happen. He mustn’t find out. He must never know. She had to stop it now before it went any further.

  Chapter 6

  The following day, after an early ride around the parkland, Kit rushed through his morning’s work before returning to the sunken garden. Knowing that he was about to spend the afternoon in the company of Martha Walters was a spur to his efforts and the previously neglected pile of letters and estate paperwork was significantly diminished by the time he left the house.

  Fred was still working on clearing the central pathway through the garden. After offering some words of encouragement, Kit left him to get on with the job and went in search of Martha. He found her in the long brick building used to store gardening equipment and provide shelter to the gardeners.

  He stood for a moment in the doorway, watching her as she squatted in front of a pile of plant-pots, discarding the broken ones into a sack beside her. She was wearing her Land Army breeches. He swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to suppress the shock of desire that ran through his body.

  Sensing his presence, Martha turned and saw him.

  Kit smiled, then looked away, turning his attention to the building, trying to distract himself from her and his overwhelming wish to rush up and take her in his arms.