“You’re the most wonderful girl I ever met,” he whispered in her ear as they swirled between the other dancers, at once together in both movement and mind.
Audrey didn’t know what to say, except a breathless, “Oh, thank you.”
“Do you like picnics?” It was an odd question for the middle of a waltz, but it was asked with such fervor she could hardly ignore it.
In any case, she loved picnics. “Yes,” she replied.
“That’s good.” And for a dreadful moment, she thought he’d just leave it there. But then he said, “Would you care to join me on one? I’m something of an artist, you see, and I would like to paint you, somewhere beautiful.” Then he smiled so gently. “A beautiful place for a beautiful girl.”
She bit her lip, aware of her footsteps faltering with her nerves. “I’ll have to ask my mother,” she said, praying that she would allow her to go. “I hope you’re a good artist,” she added playfully.
“Not bad. I’m trying to make a profession of it, even though it’s a hard way to make a living.”
This was set to be the subject of her discussion with her mother on the way home.
“He seems like a nice enough young man, and his family is a good one, but his choice of profession could hardly be worse.”
“I’m sure his family money will keep him going until he makes a name for himself.” Audrey prayed it to be the case.
It was not. As the second youngest son, he had no family money to speak of.
The picnic on Blue Bell Hill, accompanied by her mother and an aggrieved fourteen-year-old Gwendoline, was not an unmitigated success. Yet, although her mother kept bringing the conversation back to artists’ poverty, their meeting only bound them closer.
“I want to capture you now,” he had said as he painted her, his voice so quiet that no one else could hear. “So that I’ll always remember how utterly exquisite you are, even when you aren’t with me.” He looked into her eyes. “To see you every day, to feel you near me, that is all I would ever need.”
The heat inside her heart was almost too much to bear.
He looked to her hopefully. “Do you want to be close to me, too?”
She nodded, breaking her pose, as her fingers shook with the enormity of it all.
All she wanted was to spend the rest of her life in his arms.
Their courtship lasted longer than usual. Even though there couldn’t have been anything more certain than their devotion for each other, Matthew’s career continued to prevent Audrey’s parents from agreeing to the match—and without their consent, by law she could not be married. They banned her from seeing him and introduced her to more eligible young men, hopeful that she would see sense.
But sense was not in her heart.
All she wanted was Matthew.
Their wedding was small and modest, and there was no honeymoon.
“We don’t need one,” she explained to her mother, “when our whole life will be like a honeymoon.”
And it was. Suddenly all of the restrictions and rules of her youth were gone, and she was queen over her domain, albeit a small flat in London. Together, they lived like small animals, snug in their little burrow, cooking and eating, reading poetry out loud, cuddling and caressing as if they couldn’t get enough of each other. He played the piano, and Satie and Debussy formed the heavenly backdrop of their lives, decadent, poignant, loving.
As she stood on the brink of his memorial, flickers of their life together came to her. The day he came home with the secondhand bicycle, teaching Alexander to ride it, trying to hold it up for him all the way down the lane. Then there was the time he cooked a cake for her birthday, covering it with pink and red rose petals as he knew that was her favorite flower. And the many evenings he’d sit in the garden, his pipe in one hand, silently watching the sunset, as if reliving life itself.
“Come on, Mum.” Alexander appeared beside her at the church door. “We need to go in.”
Audrey peered into the dark, cool interior.
“Yes, I think it’s time, Audrey.” Zelda hovered behind Audrey’s shoulder. She had helped the younger boys get into their best clothes, which frankly weren’t best-looking at all.
Audrey turned to her. “Could you sit with the boys, Zelda? Help them settle down?” She felt so very alone, vulnerable. How could she deal with the boys in this state? They’d be upset, too—it would be too much to bear.
Zelda glanced around, looking for someone else, but there was no one. “Of course,” she said. “There aren’t many people here.”
She was right. A few of the villagers had come, including Nell, but most of Matthew’s friends and colleagues were also at war. His family was in Somerset—too far to come with restrictions on travel. Ambrose was present, of course, a larger-than-life presence in the middle of the church. He looked at the floor, somberly.
“Proper funerals tend to pull a bigger crowd than these memorial services,” the vicar said with impatience. “We live in busy times.”
Audrey felt a sudden urge to flee, glancing behind her to the lane. Why was she putting herself through this?
Where was Matthew when she needed him most?
A sudden burst of resentment swelled inside her. If Matthew had thought this through before he left, perhaps it would be easier. Maybe he would have changed his mind, decided not to go. He’d been at the cusp of the upper age limit for conscription when the war began—he must have had ways to get out of it. Or he could have taken a reserved job as a manager in a war factory or in engineering. He had good certificates from school, after all.
But he couldn’t help himself.
“I survived the last one, didn’t I?” he had said firmly. “My flight officer will be in need of experienced men like me.” He had put his arms around her, saying softly, “It’s my duty.”
“But you’re an artist, darling,” she’d argued. “Not a fighter.”
He’d placed a kiss on her nose. “Artists of all people understand the need to fight for what is right. Hitler is a demon. He’ll be hard to stop, but we have to try. I don’t want my boys growing up in a world controlled by Nazis.” He’d peeled away from her. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I hadn’t done all I could to stop them.”
The organist was playing “The Lord’s My Shepherd,” and her gaze went up to the great blue stained-glass window, mellowed by the clouds. They had been married there, all those years before, and like a tragic parallel, she recalled every step up the aisle with her father as she clasped Christopher’s little hand in hers and stepped hesitatingly toward the altar.
The poor boy was shaking. He couldn’t understand. His father had been gone so long he barely remembered him. All he knew was his mother falling apart, sliding into a tide of water that dragged her out to sea, further away than they could ever reach.
“Come on,” she whispered when they came to the front. “We have to sit in here.” They filed into the pew, Audrey beside the aisle, Zelda on the other side of the boys.
The vicar began. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”
Audrey’s mind traveled back to her wedding. Although it was modest, there had been more people than there were today. Family and friends from London, Somerset, all over the country had come to join the celebration. It had felt inevitable that they should be together.
Was his death inevitable, too?
Tears plummeted down her face, but she neither tried to stop them nor wipe them away. He had left her, deserted her, leaving three boys, debts, and a house falling down around her ears.
Slipping down into the pew, she began to cry, massive gulps of tears welling up from deep inside.
How could he?
Suddenly, she felt a figure push into the pew beside her from the aisle, and an arm went around her shoulder, pulling her in tightly. It was a swift, urgent
movement, full of energy and warmth.
She looked up.
Of all the people in the world, it was the person she least expected.
“W-why—” she gasped.
“I couldn’t bear to see you up here all on your own.” Lady Gwendoline took out a handkerchief and handed it over. “Whatever happened between us, Aude, Matthew’s death is truly dreadful.”
Audrey began to weep again, allowing herself to be pulled into her sister’s shoulder. It seemed so natural, so instinctive, and she felt herself let go under Gwendoline’s support. At that moment, when she was so utterly alone, Gwendoline was the only person who could have possibly made her feel part of something greater—her own family.
And, overriding years of harsh words and malevolence, she had come.
The service went on. It wasn’t a long one, and soon, to the sound of “Abide with Me,” Gwendoline helped Audrey to her feet and out of the church.
Lady Gwendoline remained with her, quietly greeting people and accepting their condolences. She knew that Audrey needed her, speaking on her behalf, holding her upright when she felt like crumpling on the ground, letting the earth swallow her.
Ambrose came to pay his respects. “Matthew was a very special person, Audrey,” he said, his blue eyes shining into hers. “And you are, too. Matthew was lucky to have found you, and although you must miss him with all your heart, please remember that you are still special, and you are still alive.”
She pressed his hands with her fingers, unable to speak.
He wished her well, and slowly went on his way.
After the short line of mourners had been greeted, the boys leaving ahead of them with Zelda, the two sisters stood together, alone, at the church door.
“Why did you come?” Audrey asked, looking out into the bleak clouds.
“I came to pay my respects. Matthew was a good man. I should have told you that many years ago.” It was plainly said, like it was a straightforward matter of fact. “And then I saw you up there, with no one to put an arm around you, and I couldn’t—” A lump in her throat made her stop, maybe because she’d remembered their closeness as children.
“Thank you,” Audrey said, taking her hand. “It was kind.”
Lady Gwendoline looked at the ground. “Well, I wonder if sometimes—” A confused frown came over her face. “Sometimes life doesn’t turn out the way we expect. Sometimes we need to stand together.” She seemed to collect herself, meeting Audrey’s gaze.
Audrey pressed her hand. “Are you all right, Gwen? Did something happen?”
Lady Gwendoline let out a fragile laugh that fizzled quickly. “Sometimes we give our loyalty to the wrong people.”
“What do you mean?”
Lady Gwendoline pulled her hand away, then linked her arm through Audrey’s. “Never mind that now. I’m here to take you home, help you cook a memorial dinner fit for a king.”
“I wasn’t going to bother. No one’s going to be there.”
“Well, let’s do something for the boys, then. I know a good eggless chocolate cake recipe.”
Audrey shook her head. “Not another of your Ministry of Food creations.”
“This one’s rather good, actually. Let’s give it a try. For us. For Matthew.”
And together, slowly and carefully, they walked down the path to the church gate and headed down the lane back to Willow Lodge.
Gwendoline’s Eggless Chocolate
Sponge Cake
Serves 4 to 6
For the cake
¼ cup sugar
½ teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
½ cup milk and water mixed
⅓ cup butter or margarine
1 tablespoon golden syrup or treacle
1¼ cups flour
⅓ cup cocoa
½ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
For the icing
¼ cup butter or margarine
1 tablespoon cocoa powder
¼ cup milk powder
2 tablespoons sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla essence
Preheat oven to 350°F/180°C. In a saucepan, dissolve the sugar and bicarbonate of soda in the milk and water. Add the butter or margarine and syrup or treacle and mix slowly but well.
Sieve the flour, cocoa, salt, and baking powder into a mixing bowl. Add the mixed ingredients from the saucepan and mix well, again slowly. Pour into two cake tins and bake for 20 to 25 minutes. When cooked, leave the cakes in their pans until cool.
Next, make the icing. Melt the butter or margarine, then mix with the cocoa powder, milk powder, sugar, and vanilla essence until soft and shiny.
Nell
The following Sunday afternoon, Nell found herself dashing through the flower-filled meadow to Rosebury Wood. Never, in her short life, had there been such a perfect Sunday afternoon. The bees buzzed and the warm air was still and fragrant beneath the cloudless blue heavens. Golden sunshine swathed the countryside, as if there couldn’t possibly be a war going on, not here, not anywhere.
As she dashed onward through the fragrant wild blooms—poppies, dandelions, and foxglove—Nell glanced uneasily at the horizon, always anxious that a dozen Messerschmitt bombers would thunder over her tranquility, ruining this one, crucial afternoon with Paolo. But only the coo-cooing of the wood pigeons could be heard, the occasional hoot of a barn owl.
It felt like the most crucial day of her life, a pivotal moment that she would look back on with a nod of recognition.
Nothing will ever be the same.
She nipped quietly over the crest of the hill and down, down toward Rosebury Wood. At the edge of the trees, she looked through the shadowed path. Had she gone insane, creeping into the countryside to meet a young man, the enemy no less? He could take advantage of her if he wanted, kill her even.
Fenley Hall was there behind her—safety. She could turn back now, hide away in her little room, pull the blankets up over her head, block her ears until she couldn’t hear the sound of her own heart.
Her own heart.
She stopped. The thought of going back to the small room—her small life—made her shake herself with renewed bravery. She had already changed from the girl she had been only a few months before. Meeting Paolo, the contest, and now Mrs. Quince’s illness had all made one thing certain: She wanted more from life.
She took a deep breath, said a short prayer, and headed into the wood.
Darkness surrounded her. The deep scent of the trees—oak and chestnut, the occasional pine—enveloped her, and the soft rustle of leaves from foxes, birds, and other creatures put her on edge.
Suddenly a great dark bird flapped into her face. She screamed, batting it away and tripping over a shrub onto the ground.
From there, she watched the bird flap away, up through the trees into the sky beyond.
Was it a bad omen?
She sat up, rubbing the dirt from her hands and collecting her breath.
It had been wrong to come. What had she been thinking? Her rightful place was below stairs, a kitchen maid, a nobody. All these thoughts about wanting more were dreams. She wasn’t built for a different life. She was too shy, too scared.
In her fright she’d scraped her leg. A thin trickle of blood slid down, bright red, and she took out a handkerchief and quickly tied it.
At first, she didn’t see the figure, but as it grew closer, she glanced up.
Someone—something—was heading her way.
She began to struggle to her feet, to get away.
The footsteps hastened, the figure closer and closer.
And then she heard the voice, soft and calm. “Nell! It’s me, Paolo.”
A choke of relief came to her throat as he came into view, his slim frame
with his hand out toward her.
“What happened? I heard you scream and I came.” He went to put his arms around her, but stopped himself, stooping to look at her leg. “Are you hurt?”
“Yes, but I think it’s stopped bleeding. A bird flew into my face. It gave me a fright, that’s all.” She laughed a little, brushing herself down.
“My only fear was that you would not come,” he said. “But now you are here! I am the happiest man alive!”
He yanked her hand enthusiastically on, and she felt a glow of joy surge through her.
Light appeared in the distance, and as they approached the clearing in front of the old hut, Paolo slowed to show her into his “dining space.”
Her breath momentarily stopped.
The clearing in the wood let in sunshine, dappled flecks of gold that danced through the shifting leaves. A small round table was made from a tree stump, a small log on either side. The sound of a campfire crackled, as bright, shifting flames danced blue and gold, sending out a scent of burning firewood in the warmth of the glow.
Paolo bowed as if he were a waiter showing a patron to her table. “This way, my lady.”
Mesmerized, she stood gazing. “It’s magical,” she gasped, feeling delight explode inside her like a universe of the brightest stars. Carefully, like a ballerina testing the floor of a new stage, she trod into the sun-speckled circle. “You did this for me?” she whispered.
He stepped forward to join her in the ring, taking her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss. “Of course I do this for you. You are my special friend. You deserve far more than this, but this is all I have.”
“Am I your friend?” She liked the sound of it, wanted him to say it again.
“Yes, I hope we are friends, good friends,” he replied. His eyes met hers, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but then he pulled away, keeping hold of one hand and leading her to the fire.
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