‘Even with Kenneth to help you, how can you hope to trace Father after so long, and in such a huge country?’
‘Anyone who has seen him will remember him. I know where he planned to start. If he changed his mind, he would have told his agent, whose advice I shall take. You won’t be able to dissuade me, David dear. I realize perfectly well that I can’t hope –’ For the first time her voice faltered, and she needed a moment in which to compose herself. ‘I’ve written so many letters, and had so many disappointing answers. I can’t just sit at home, don’t you see, not knowing what has happened and doing nothing to find out.’
She smiled round the table with a firmness which made it clear that there should be no further discussion of her plans. Only later that night, when she found herself alone with Grace, did she make one further comment.
‘It will take a little time to confirm my plans with Kenneth, so I shan’t leave England before March. We can arrange for you to have your wedding before I go.’
Grace flushed. After receiving a written invitation from Mrs Bailey to spend a week at their house in Leicestershire, she had confided to her mother that she expected Christopher to renew his proposal of marriage then. But it seemed forward to take this for granted.
‘Won’t that be too soon?’
‘In view of the fact that you’ve been engaged – or at least had an understanding – for a year already, I don’t see why you should delay. Say a month after he asks you again, to give me time to order your trousseau and make plans for a reception and invite the guests.’
Grace felt hustled, but reminded herself that the month had not yet started to run. A more immediate problem was that of choosing clothes for her stay with the Baileys. Would there be only members of the family present, or might there be a house party at the weekend? The New Year’s Eve party which Christopher had mentioned might prove to be a dance, or even a ball. At the time when Christopher first suggested the visit, there had been no sign that the war would ever end, and so no thought of frivolous behaviour. Even now she did not feel frivolous, but it was to be expected that social life would quickly return to normal. The problem was that Grace had been too young before the war to know what was normal.
Christopher came to collect her for the visit. His sight was good enough for him to drive himself down in a new motor car, with the chauffeur sitting beside him, ready to take over on the journey back. Grace found herself shy of holding hands with someone who seemed almost a stranger. For the past three months, while they were apart, she had remembered him as he was in hospital, lying in bed or walking cautiously. But his stay in Scotland had restored his health and energy. His hair had grown again and he had devised for himself something that was more than a patch although less than a bandage. It covered not just his blind eye but also the most severely damaged skin below and the top of the ear which the surgeons were unable to save.
‘It comes in four colours,’ he announced cheerfully when he noticed her studying it. ‘Black for business or dramatic effect. Lovat green for shooting. A sort of beige flesh colour for loafing around at home. And pink for hunting, just for a joke. We’re hunting tomorrow. The meet’s at our house.’
‘You know I don’t ride?’
‘Don’t ride? Everybody rides!’
‘I did tell you, right at the beginning. The time you came to Greystones.’ But perhaps it was his father she had told; she could no longer remember.
‘Father breeds hunters, you know. He’s got a steady mare waiting for you. No need for you to ride to hounds if you don’t feel up to it. Lots of people just follow the hunt at a distance, in a gentle kind of way.’
‘No, I mean I don’t ride at all. It’s not that I’m frightened of jumping.’ As a small girl, with a pony of her own, Grace had been as great a dare-devil as her brothers, giving the recreation up only when it was discovered to trigger her fits of breathlessness. ‘It’s just that horses seem to make me ill.’
‘Bad luck. But you won’t ask me to sit at home with you, will you? I don’t think I could bear to hear the horn and watch them all canter away without me.’
‘No, of course not.’ There was only the fleetest of moments in which Grace wondered, as she had wondered in the past, exactly how she and Christopher would spend their lives after they were married.
On her arrival it was taken for granted that she would be tired after a long journey in an unfamiliar means of transport. Although Mr Bailey offered to show her round his stables as soon as she was rested, he did not seem put out when she shook her head.
Overnight she came to a decision. It would be impossible to stay in a house like this and become part of a family like this whilst cutting herself off from its chief preoccupation. She must surely by now have grown out of what was probably only a childish reaction to fur and feathers and horsehair. Perhaps, in spite of her denials, she had in truth been frightened of the animals which used to make her ill and had worked herself up into what Nanny Crocker called ‘One of your states, Miss Grace.’
But no, that explanation was not sufficient. Even Pepper had caused her to sneeze and wheeze, and no one could have been frightened of a kitten. Her illnesses as a child were genuine enough – but she was not a child any longer. Surely by now she could keep her chest clear and her breathing steady by an effort of will.
The resolution did not tempt her to leap into the saddle of an unfamiliar hunter with muscles totally unprepared to control a powerful animal. But as the members of the hunt assembled in front of the house next morning she picked up one of the trays from the hall and walked out, smiling, to take Christopher his stirrup cup.
In saying that she was not frightened of horses she had spoken the truth; she made her way between them with no lack of confidence. It was only as she approached Christopher himself that she began to falter.
How large he seemed! Grace herself was tall for a girl and, when they walked together, was pleased that he was taller still. But he had been a thin young man when she first met him and, during the months since he was wounded, had appeared slight and fragile. Now, though, the period of recuperation in Scotland had built up his body. Seated on his chestnut hunter, he towered above her. His tight riding breeches stretched to show every muscle of his thighs, and the cut of his jacket made his shoulders appear even broader than usual.
Why should she feel frightened of him? His eyes sparkled with excitement as he bent to take the glass; but the only creature which had cause to fear him was the dog fox in the spinney whose habits had been the subject of discussion over dinner the previous evening. It didn’t make sense that she should feel the same terror which in half an hour or so would strike the fox. Christopher and his father both claimed to believe that the hunted animal would enjoy the chase. Grace knew better; but that was not enough to explain why she should feel herself to be the quarry, waiting for Christopher to move in for the kill.
So confident and dominant did he appear that her chest tightened with panic. In a moment that breathlessness which had not attacked her for so long would overcome her again. She recognized the symptoms, but it was not these which frightened her. Very soon – in a matter of weeks – she would belong to Christopher. He would not have to hunt her down. She was standing still, waiting to be captured. What would he do with her then? She had had plenty of time to consider the question, but until this moment had continued to believe that he would want to be cared for: helped to come to terms with his wounds, and reassured of her love for him. That picture was out of date. He was the strong one now.
Wasn’t that what she had hoped for? Why did she have to force herself to smile as she took back the empty glass and returned to the house?
Because she was ill: that was the answer. Her effort of will had failed, and she was struggling for breath long before the huntsman called his hounds together and led the way through the gates. Refusing to give in to the attack and retire to bed, she wrapped herself warmly and went out for a walk, counting each breath in and out as her feet moved at a
steady pace. The sound of the hunt receded as she tried to come to terms with her future.
It would have been easier, no doubt, to have married at eighteen, moving without pause from being someone’s daughter to becoming someone else’s wife. Now she was twenty-one and had a life of her own. It was not the sort of life to impress Aunt Midge, who had tried to persuade her to make a career as a businesswoman. But Grace was happy in it.
Why should she have to leave Greystones, which she loved? She reminded herself that a change was bound to come one day. If her father was dead, her mother might well decide that the house and estate were too large for what was left of the family. That was only part of her anxiety, though. She didn’t want to abandon her carving and pottery in order to run a household and bring up children.
Well, why should Christopher force her to do that? He loved her. He would want her to be happy. There was no reason why he should forbid her to continue a hobby which gave her so much satisfaction. Gradually she became calmer and breathed more easily.
When she heard the hunt returning it seemed sensible to go inside the house and wait while the grooms led away the family’s horses. She stood in the hall, smiling, as Christopher strode in; but her recovery was short-lived. He smelt of horse and sweat – and even, it seemed to Grace, of blood. She was overpowered by the mixture of scents as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Not even a horse rearing above her could have made her feel so vulnerable. His excitement in the success of the chase revealed itself in a forcefulness which she had never experienced before. Even Andy, pressing her back against the boulders, had not bruised her lips so hard, nor encircled her with such firm muscles – whilst Christopher himself had always before been tentative, almost shy, in his endearments.
This self-confident man was a stranger. It was not only his closeness which was suffocating her. What robbed her of breath was the appalling realization that in encouraging him to believe that she loved him, she had made a terrible mistake.
Chapter Seven
Lucy was tired and anxious as she returned to Greystones after a three-day absence early in January, 1919. There had been no difficulty in making a provisional reservation on a sailing to Shanghai. As soon as she heard from Kenneth it could be confirmed. But the visit to her bank manager to make arrangements about paying for the journey had upset her. He had expressed himself glad of the opportunity to mention some worries about her account, and had talked of an overdraft.
Lucy knew nothing about her financial affairs. She had no extravagant tastes and The House of Hardie had always been profitable enough to cover the costs of running the household. When Gordon was at home he paid all the bills. In his absence they were sent to the bank for payment, and this was the first suggestion of any problem. Fortunately her signature on a piece of paper had been enough to gain an assurance that her travelling expenses would be covered. But the worry remained, and was increased by the depression she always felt when she returned from Tilsden House.
If only she could take Grace or David with her on one of her quarterly visits – or even discuss the situation with them. Gordon had persuaded her many years ago that there were some things which were best kept secret from children. But Gordon was no longer at hand to share the secret, and what would happen if Lucy herself were to have some accident? The children were no longer children. Surely it could do no harm to tell one of them? Indecision aggravated the anxiety which nagged at her mind. She must write something down, that was the answer: just in case.
At least Greystones remained welcoming. Soon she would have to face the unpleasant task of telling the servants that they would be put on board wages during her absence. Perhaps, indeed, in view of her interview with the bank manager, she should reduce the staff before she left. But not yet. She would need them all for Grace’s wedding reception.
‘Will you have dinner in the dining room, ma’am?’ enquired the parlourmaid as the cab driver carried in the luggage.
‘Well, of course.’
‘I only asked, ma’am, because Miss Grace has been wanting just a tray in the studio.’
‘Miss Grace at home?’ Lucy was astonished at the news. ‘I wasn’t expecting her until tomorrow.’
‘She came home on New Year’s Day, ma’am, poorly like. But she’s picked up again now.’
‘In the studio, did you say?’ Lucy hurried straight there. Although it was four o’clock, and the light of the short winter day had already faded, Grace had not yet lit her lamps but was working almost in the dark. To judge from the repeated slapping sound, she was building up a clay model.
‘Grace dearest, I didn’t expect to find you here.’
‘And I didn’t expect to find you away. So we’re both surprised.’ There was an edge to her daughter’s voice which Lucy did not recall hearing before, as though she had become more sure of herself than usual.
‘I had to pay a visit. Are you ill? Hetty said –’
‘I was unwell, yes, on New Year’s Eve. And still wheezing when I returned home the next day.’
‘You should have stayed in bed, rather than travelling. I’m sure Mrs Bailey –’
‘Yes, I’m sure too. But it wasn’t because I was ill that I came home. I’ve ended my engagement. Or rather, since it was formally ended some months ago, I’ve found that I don’t after all wish to revive it.’
This revelation so startled Lucy that for a moment she could think of nothing to say. In the dim light she watched Grace, who had been bending over her work, straighten herself and lean back against the workbench.
‘Tell me what’s happened,’ Lucy said.
‘Do you remember, when Christopher first wrote to me, you said it was unthinkable to refuse a man who was serving at the front; and I agreed with that. But even then I found it hard to be sure what kind of a man I was agreeing to marry. Until this week, Mother, I’d never known him in his normal life. He wrote letters to me from places of great danger, he visited me on short leaves when he was light-headed with relief at being home, and he talked to me in hospitals when he was anxious about what was going to happen. I did feel that I was some comfort to him in all that time. But now he doesn’t need comforting any more.’
‘Well, of course not. He needs ordinary companionship and love. Why are we talking in the dark?’
There was no gaslight in the studio, which had been intended for use in daylight only. Lucy began to light the lamps which had been brought in when Grace first began to work there in the evenings; but as the first flame filled its mantle with light, her eye was caught by the piece on which her daughter had been working.
As had happened on other occasions when she was modelling with clay, Grace had first of all made a skeleton out of metal rods and wire. Even in its present unfinished state it was easy to see that the model represented a horse and rider at full gallop – and yet it was not a realistic representation; for the clay, still rough in some places, had been smoothed in others to give the impression that man and horse were one.
Never before had she managed to fill her work with such power – especially in the knees and thighs of the rider as they gripped the horse. In the stretched head and legs of the animal, thrusting rather than controlling, there was a different sort of power. Looking at it as a married woman, Lucy could not help interpreting the feeling inspired by the model in a way which her daughter could surely not have intended.
‘Grace, dearest,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re surely not frightened of Christopher!’
‘Frightened? Yes, I think perhaps I am.’ Grace was nothing if not honest. ‘I stood beside him when he was in the saddle, and found that I could hardly breathe. I thought then that I must be frightened of the horse – that it might suddenly rear up and come down on me, smothering me. As of course it might have done. But then, later in the day, I had the same feeling with Christopher himself. He was only kissing me, but I felt suffocated. He’s a hunter. I don’t just mean that he goes hunting. He chases things down. Things like me.’
‘You’re speaking in metaphors. All men are hunters in that sense.’
‘I don’t think so. Frank was and David is. But not Kenneth or Jay or Philip; and not Andy.’ There was a tremor in her voice as she spoke the last name. Lucy lifted her head in vexation. Surely that childish infatuation had faded long ago. But Grace was still talking. ‘And not Father, surely.’
Lucy could not repress a wry smile when she remembered that it had been she who hunted her future husband down. But this was not a time for reminiscence. ‘Most girls,’ she said, ‘are proud to feel that someone wants them enough to pursue them even if they pretend to run away.’
‘And what happens to the girls when they’re caught? They come under the domination of someone they hardly know.’
‘Not domination, dear. It doesn’t feel like that, not when you’re in love.’
‘Then perhaps it’s best to think about it before you do fall in love. Why should I give up everything to share someone else’s life when I don’t even know what sort of life it’s going to be? Why shouldn’t I wait for someone to come and share my life?’
‘Because you’ll wait for ever, that’s why.’ Lucy’s shock gave way to impatience. ‘That’s not the way the world works.’
‘Why should I mind waiting for ever if I’m happy as I am?’
‘You can’t rely on everything going on unchanged. You’ll grow older, for one thing. This week you may have felt that you had a choice, and that you could still change your choice. But in a year or two’s time you won’t be so young. And so many of the men who were of the right age to marry you are dead. Thousands of women who would have become wives in the normal course of events will find themselves condemned to live their whole lives as spinsters. You surely don’t want to be one of those. You’re lucky that someone who loves you is still alive. You can’t simply turn your back on him.’
Grace Hardie Page 23
