The Gamekeeper's Wife

by Clare Flynn

  Now that they were engaged, she attempted to infantilise him too. ‘Chrissy, do come and look at my babies,’ she said one afternoon when he came upon her sitting with their mothers in the green drawing room. ‘Come and stroke them. You haven’t paid my lovelies the slightest attention and they will be very cross.’ She pouted at him and turned her eyes down to reveal her long lashes to best effect.

  He glanced at his mother to see if she had registered the exchange and would acknowledge the humiliation she had forced upon him. But she merely gave him a watery smile and turned back to her conversation with Lady Bourne.

  Christopher approached Lavinia and peered down at the small big-eyed dogs. He liked dogs well enough, but thought these two resembled rodents more than dogs.

  ‘Remind me of the dogs’ names again.’

  She obliged, wagging her finger at him. ‘Now don’t forget again or I will have to get very, very cross with you.’

  He closed his eyes, wanting to turn around and walk away from her. ‘In that case, remember my name is Christopher. If you refer to me as Chrissy I’m liable not to hear you.’ He forced a beaming smile to his lips.

  ‘Oh, Mr Spoilsport. You are such a bore. I was going to let you hold Popsy and Petal but now I won’t. They don’t want to be with such an old grump as you. So there.’ That pout again.

  ‘Ah, well, I’ll have to find something else to do then.’ He gave her another winning smile, nodded to their mothers and left the room.

  Finding the atmosphere in the house oppressive, he went outside. The weather was unseasonably mild – the thermometer on the wall in the stable yard showed it was fifty-four degrees. His mother had been disappointed by the absence of snow to show off Newlands to best effect. At least the constant rain and drizzle that had marked the beginning of the month had now passed on.

  Christopher called in on Hooker, feeding him a handful of oats as he passed his stall. He strolled on to the sunken gardens, knowing he was unlikely to be disturbed there. Being Christmas, Fred would not be working and no one else ventured in there.

  Once inside the quiet haven, he headed straight for the bench where he and Martha had enjoyed their first kiss. He sat there alone, lonely, unable to push Martha from his mind. The garden appeared sad, monochrome, tired. He and Fred had made massive inroads into the overgrowth and the pruning, but in the absence of new spring growth, the place was denuded, scalped. It looked like he felt.

  Christopher thought of his sister, Jane. At least she would be spending Christmas for the first time in her life with her mother. At least she would be enveloped in Martha’s love and affection. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying not to think about them both and how much he wished he was with them now. All he wanted was to be in the company of the two people he loved the most, no matter how simple and humble the surroundings. Instead he was shut up in a house that was decked with holly and candles, with garlands arrayed like a magic kingdom, and filled with people he thought nothing of and who in turn cared nothing for him.

  A robin appeared and settled itself on the handle of a spade standing upright in an adjacent bed. Fred must have left the spade out – unlike him to be so careless. The flash of red on the breast of the tiny creature was like a tongue of flame. As Christopher watched the little bird sitting there, surveying the drab grey world around it, he remembered some lines of a poem by Emily Dickinson he had been required to learn by rote at school. His housemaster was an American and had a passion for sharing the poetry of his homeland, in defiance of the more rigid British curriculum of the school.

  * * *

  Hope is the thing with feathers

  That perches in the soul,

  And sings the tune without the words,

  And never stops at all,

  * * *

  As he watched the bird, it began to sing, and Christopher felt it was singing for him alone: a command performance. The trilling and chirping was light, sonorous and was indeed a tune without words. For the first time since he had said goodbye to Martha, he felt his spirits lift. Hope. Did he dare to hope that his life might one day be better?

  He remembered what Martha had said about hope when they were in that bedroom in the inn at Northington – that hope was a terrible burden. But she had meant the kind of hope that stopped you getting on with life, that froze you in time. He realised now that there was a different kind of hope, one that was about finding a way to go on living, to climb out of despair, perhaps not to attain happiness, but at least to reach some form of contentment, satisfaction, purpose.

  He remembered how he had felt overseas. The freedom, the challenge, the strong sense of purpose. How the heat of the island of Borneo had seemed to infuse the blood in his veins with strength and energy. Returning there might restore his self-respect. Maybe he couldn’t do it yet, perhaps not for four or five years, but once he and Lavinia had produced the heir to Newlands and to the Bourne title, or he had passed the age of thirty, he would be free to do as he wished. He determined to hold that memory of Borneo in his head as a source of hope, as his ‘thing with feathers’, perching in his soul.

  Chapter 21

  As Martha’s confinement approached, she became more terrified every day. Her knowledge that her first pregnancy had resulted in Jane’s brain damage caused her to fear what was about to befall her. On top of that, the longing for Kit that she had so long repressed came back to haunt her. She was about to give birth to their child; she wanted him to be with her.

  But he had let her down. No. He had let his sister down. Martha still couldn’t understand why he had failed to attend the funeral. Not even so much as a letter of condolence or a wreath of flowers. She could understand why he would be angry at her, after Reggie broke the news of her marriage to him. But to ignore the passing of his sister? Then she tried to rationalise his behaviour. He barely knew Jane. Only one morning fully in her company. Perhaps, now that Martha was out of his life, he had found it easy enough to set aside thoughts of his half-sister too. Maybe he had seen Jane only as a creature to be pitied and had not felt the strength of blood ties and the growing bonds of affection that she herself had experienced, so that every day, Jane’s absence was like a dull ache inside her.

  Her misery and anxiety were made worse by Reggie’s excited anticipation. He brushed her concerns aside, telling her that as a second-time mother and now with a fully developed body, the problems she had experienced as a frightened fourteen-year-old would not be present this time. He reminded her so many times that he was a trained doctor, that there were other nurses and doctors at hand and that the midwife would attend her from the first signs of labour. Martha tried to repress her annoyance. It was all very well for him. He wasn’t going to be the one bearing down in agony trying to push out a baby.

  Despite her fears, Martha was eager for her child to be born. She wanted to fill the yawning hole that Jane’s death had created in her life. This baby had been conceived in love. Since Kit wasn’t here to share the joy of its birth with her, she had to take some consolation from the fact that Reggie Henderson was unequivocal in his longing for the child to be born. One thing was clear, her baby would not want for affection.

  In the event, her delivery was rapid and uncomplicated. The midwife was efficient and reassuring, exercising a quiet authority and banishing Reggie from the house, to Martha’s intense relief and despite his protests that he was a doctor. This time, no doctor was needed and Martha was cradling her new son in her arms only five hours after her contractions had started.

  She relished the few brief moments she had alone with her baby before Reggie appeared at the bedside to look at the child. He stroked a finger along the infant’s cheek then bent his head to kiss it. Martha tried not to recoil from the smell of tobacco.

  ‘Well done, my dearest. I’m so happy it’s a boy.’ His face was beaming. ‘Now, we need to name him.’

  Martha said nothing, still entranced by the tiny bundle lying in her arms, with his miniature snub nose, tightly closed ey
es and thin covering of pale brown hair. She breathed in the warm, animal smell of the child and closed her eyes, bathed in happiness.

  ‘I rather thought Kenneth, after my late father. We could call him Ken or Kenny. It’s always struck me as a good solid name.’

  ‘No,’ she said, sharply, wanting to tell him it was her decision alone, but knowing that she must not.

  ‘Very well.’ He produced a piece of folded paper from his jacket pocket. ‘What about George?’

  Martha thought of George Shipley and snapped, ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘I’m starting to get the impression you have already decided, my dear.’ He frowned. ‘I hope you are not going to suggest calling him Christopher.’

  She ignored the pointed remark. ‘I want to give him a simple name. One that won’t be shortened.’

  Henderson bent his head over the piece of paper. ‘John?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She tried to soften her tone.

  ‘Or James?’

  ‘Must we decide now?’ She was drowsy, the tiredness after the exertions of birth kicking in.

  ‘Well, no. But it’s as well to settle these things quickly. A child needs a name. It doesn’t seem right to leave him without one, and I was thinking of going to register the birth this afternoon.’

  Weary and wanting to sleep, she said, ‘David. Let’s call him David.’

  Dr Henderson frowned then, evidently deciding it was unwise to pursue the matter further, said, ‘Very well. David it is.’

  Chapter 22

  As his wedding to Lavinia approached, Christopher’s sense of doom grew. Closer acquaintance with his bride-to-be had done nothing to endear her to him. He tried to blot the coming wedding out of his mind and steered clear of the planning, which had absorbed every waking moment for Edwina Shipley, Lady Lavinia and her mother.

  In vain, Christopher tried to convince Edwina that a small-scale wedding with only family members would be more desirable – but his mother saw it as the means of cementing the Shipleys into the upper echelons of society and would not be swayed. And Lavinia had made her own views apparent – the bigger the better. The marriage was to be featured in Tatler, Country Life and the Illustrated London News, as well as the quality dailies.

  The nuptials took place at St George’s, Hanover Square. As Christopher waited at the altar, standing beside his best man, a fellow student from his Cambridge days, all he could think of was Martha. If only it were she, about to process up the aisle towards him. But were he to have married Martha it would have been a quiet affair. No pomp. No ceremony. Only love.

  The organ roared into life, playing Handel. Christopher kept his eyes fixed on the altar, without turning to watch Lavinia approaching on the arm of her father. Eventually, Roddie, his best man, prodded him, at the same time throwing him a meaningful look. Christopher, resigned to his fate, turned towards his bride.

  Lady Lavinia looked undeniably beautiful. Her gown was in ivory satin and lace with a train that seemed to run the length of the church, her veil a cascade of tulle and she carried a waterfall of white roses. She smiled a radiant smile and Christopher shaped his lips into a smile in return, his heart thumping like the organ.

  The church was packed, both downstairs and in the upper gallery. All these people, here to witness what felt to Christopher like a public execution. He kept hoping for divine intervention: an earthquake, a bomb, a sudden unexplained flood – or an interruption from the back of the church calling a halt to the proceedings.

  But there was no reprieve. They each made their vows and he slipped the ring on her finger, then it was all over. He was bound to Lady Lavinia Bourne for the rest of their lives.

  The wedding breakfast was at Claridge’s. Every minute was torture to Christopher. In the wedding portraits, he appeared either glum or bewildered. Lavinia made up for his dourness by flashing a smile whenever she was required to pose for the photographers, and when speaking to any of their guests. When not, her face was as miserable as his.

  Christopher had put his foot down about a Paris honeymoon and a Calais crossing, declaring that Paris and northern France held too many bad wartime memories for him. Such was his ferocity on the point, that even his mother backed off. Instead they settled on Biarritz, sailing from Portsmouth to Bilbao on a night crossing to avoid even having to pass through Paris.

  Lavinia was seasick, confined to their cabin for most of the passage through the Bay of Biscay. Christopher spent the trip walking the decks, or reading in one of the salons, grateful that his new wife’s illness had postponed any possibility of their consummating the marriage. By the time they landed and arrived at their hotel, Lavinia was pasty-faced and tired.

  Their suite in Le Palais hotel was sumptuous and spacious, with twin bathrooms, a large bedroom and a comfortable drawing room. Chilled champagne, flowers and chocolates awaited them, and Lavinia immediately perked up. They retired after dinner, both exhausted from the journey. When Christopher returned from the bathroom and got into bed he found his wife was already sleeping or, he thought, more likely feigning sleep.

  The following morning, he awoke and found the bed empty, and heard the sound of a bath running. Lady Lavinia was evidently as little eager for marital relations to commence as he was.

  The day was cloudy and cold for May in the south of France. Christopher suggested a walk after breakfast and Lavinia, rather grudgingly, agreed. They trudged along the promenade, beside a windswept beach, the silence between them heavy. When they went into a café to take coffee, Christopher asked if there was anything she particularly wished to do.

  ‘Go home and be with Popsy and Petal,’ she said, her lips pouting and her brow furrowed. ‘I still don’t see why I couldn’t have brought my darlings with me.’

  ‘You know perfectly well the quarantine laws prevent that. We’re only here for a week. Surely you can manage without them for that. And it is our honeymoon.’

  ‘A week’s a lifetime for me, without my girlies.’

  He closed his eyes, he too wishing he were at home. Anywhere but sitting here in a crowded café with steamed-up windows, beside a woman with whom he was unable to communicate.

  Lady Lavinia inspected the room, craning her head to see if there was anyone she knew – or wanted to know – among the clientele. Her frown deepened when she failed to find a familiar face. ‘I knew we should have waited until June or July. Anyone who’s anyone won’t be here ’til next month. We’re too early in the season.’ She scowled at him.

  They finished their coffee in silence. Once outside, Christopher said, ‘Look, Lavinia, we have to find a way to rub along together. This may not be what you wanted, but we’re married now and need to make the best of it.’ He’d almost said ‘what we wanted’ but had caught himself in time.

  She looked sideways at him. ‘I didn’t want to marry you. I only agreed because Daddy said I must.’ She sounded petulant. ‘It’s jolly unfair that because Percy died, I had to marry you. Especially when you have a leg missing.’ She started to cry.

  Christopher stared at her in disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want to marry me beforehand? We could have called it off.’

  ‘Daddy and Mummy said I absolutely couldn’t.’ Her sobbing grew louder.

  Suddenly impatient, he said, ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t want to be married to you either.’

  ‘What?’ Her face was aghast.

  ‘That’s why we both need to make the best of a bad situation. Once we’ve had a child, I will free you of any further marital obligations. Our parents will be happy and we will have done our duty. We can lead separate lives.’

  Tears flowed down her cheeks. ‘You don’t want me? You only married me to have a child?’ She blew her nose loudly. ‘Don’t you think I’m pretty?’

  How was he going to spend the rest of the week in close confinement with a woman like her? She was a spoilt child. Infantile. And stupid. Very stupid. ‘Of course, you’re pretty,’ he said.

  ‘So why don’t
you want me? And you a cripple, after all.’

  Christopher stopped dead. She waited for him to catch up with her, but he didn’t, forcing her to step back towards him.

  ‘I’m only stating facts. Don’t you see it’s horrid for me? Being married to a man with a missing leg? There’s no point in trying to pretend otherwise. You are crippled. You have a limp and a false leg. I know it’s not your fault but can’t you see it from my point of view?’ She sighed. ‘I suppose as long as I don’t ever have to see it… the stump, I mean. I talked to Mummy about it and she said that as you are a gentleman you would be considerate and maybe leave your false leg on in bed and keep it covered up whenever I am there. That way I can try to pretend it’s not missing.’

  He stared at her, unable to comprehend her insensitivity. How she could be so blind to the implications for him of the loss of a limb?

  Realising words were pointless, he turned away and set off down the promenade away from her. He walked rapidly, moving as fast as he was able, conscious of his limping gait. He walked past their hotel and on to the end of the esplanade, taking a pathway up to the top of the cliffs above the beach. He turned his jacket collar up to afford some protection from the biting wind. Following a path along the top of the cliffs, he came to a rocky promontory, where the Biarritz lighthouse towered above the sea. He stood on the clifftop watching the waves crashing on the rocks below. The scene was wild and desolate and perfectly mirrored his mood.

  He moved into the lee of the great lighthouse, sheltering from the worst of the wind. How had he got into this empty sham of a marriage? Condemned to a future with the prattling Lavinia. Worse, a life without Martha in it. He was only twenty-six and the best already lay behind him: his time at Oxford and in Borneo, his few precious stolen moments with Martha. Now he had to look forward to day after day of Lavinia’s scowling face or simpering smile greeting him across the breakfast table: her mood based entirely on the presence or absence of her yapping lapdogs. And worse still, having to do what was required to give her a child. He shuddered at the thought of his humiliation in the face of her disgust at his physical disfigurement – and of her evident distaste for him and the prospect of him touching her.