by Lorna Gray
Then suddenly, after a succession of vigorous handshakes, they left and it was disorientating after an evening of such chaos to abruptly find ourselves alone, in my house and after all that wishing. It seemed incredible; I might almost have become self-conscious but that, with a lazy sigh, Matthew stretched out his legs before the fire and gently tugged me closer.
All awkwardness forgotten, I rested there in a comfortable tangle of blankets and warmth, simply enjoying being able to watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest while drowsily wondering whether I was asleep already, but then, suddenly, Matthew broke the silence. His voice was heavy with exhaustion as he asked,
“I’m not dreaming this, am I?”
I had to laugh at this apparent symmetry with my thoughts but then, when I spoke, it was with gentle seriousness. “No, you’re not. I’m here, you’re alive; it wasn’t a dream and instead of being lost, you’ve brought us back.” I was rewarded with a squeeze of his arm and then silence again. Eventually I added in a whisper, “Back home.”
The clumsily delivered allusion was followed by an unexpectedly loaded silence. He seemed to have frozen; the hand that had been lazily toying with a corner of my blanket abruptly stilled and I had the sudden bewildering confusion of whether I had somehow presumed too much.
But then he let out his breath in a low weary sigh. “Oh, Eleanor … Will you really make me the gift of that after all that’s happened? I don’t mean today, although Lord knows this is bad enough.” His hand was suddenly beneath my jaw, tilting my face and I could only imagine what evidence he was finding there in the scuffs and bruises of my tattered appearance. “I mean for spending the past week practically forcing you to confide in me when all the time I should have been telling you the truth.”
His gaze flickered. Outside, something broke loose to bang noisily on the tin barn roof. His hand had softened against my chin and I drew away to lay my cheek against his shoulder once more. “The truth?”
He seemed to frown, knowing he had committed himself, but then his fingers tightened possessively on my arm as if he had something difficult to say and was afraid I might run away before he had finished. Eventually he said in a very measured tone, “All those years ago; that row. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
The word was a croak. My heart seemed to have stopped. It seemed he was going to make me admit my guilt after all. I desperately wanted to silence him, to stop him from reliving the hurt but instead I concentrated hard on the vital warmth of his nearness. And listened.
“When you came to see me that morning, you caught me at the wrong end of a week spent making my decision. So many men were marrying their girls just then for very little reason other than for the brief moment of personal gratification it would bring and it sickened me. You’d already lost a mother and your father was unwell; it was impossible for me to bind you to me with nothing to give in return but another death to bear.” His voice was hushed against my hair. “But you … you fought it. I’d convinced myself that if I told you calmly you’d understand and agree it would be better for us both – easier for me if we tackled it alone. But every expression of yours just proved that I hadn’t explained anything at all. So I panicked. And then I took a different exit.”
A log dropped spitting in the grate. It was sending golden flares racing up the chimney and, instinctively, I closed my grip on the fabric of his shirt. “You thought you’d disappointed me, didn’t you? That it was simply because you were too young, too naïve; too gentle … didn’t you? This week, when you gave me shelter, I felt so angry; so uselessly angry because I discovered my fear had destroyed that loving, darling young thing. I thought you’d become so silent.”
His voice was darker now, rough and bleak. “But you’re still you. You have no idea what it meant when I discovered that. I should have told you this long ago; I should have told you back then and I’m sorry to have done it like this, after such a day, when you’re exhausted and I’ve already put you through enough.” His tired voice grew hoarse, and then gruffly finished, “But at least now you finally know.”
After what he had said, my speechlessness felt even more reckless than ever. I floundered, searching for what to say. Perhaps he understood my confusion or perhaps he was just unwilling to let the past go without fighting every last inch of the way, but regardless I was desperately relieved when he suddenly decided to speak again.
“Eleanor,” he said bluntly, brutally clear at last. “I lied to you – do you understand me? I was lying when I told you it meant nothing, and I was lying when I let you think you weren’t enough for me. You were enough. I love you.”
He definitely misinterpreted the silence this time. His hand moved a little against my arm, the other closed restlessly in his lap. “You must hate me.”
Finally I mustered the intelligence to shake my head. I heard his breath catch, and then he said quietly and very carefully, “Is it possible? Is it possible that, somehow, you still seem to want to offer me this?” His gaze turned away to run over the untidy clutter of my living room and for once he wasn’t teasing.
Then his cheek touched to my hair again and his thumb followed, gently, to trace a line across my hand where it lay upon his chest, leaving a tingling trail of sensation before moving on to touch upon the corner of my jaw so that I blinked up at him, struggling to marshal my thoughts after such a giddying rush of awareness.
“Matthew, love …”
I managed to speak at last, somehow putting all the force of my care for him into that single utterance of his name. I didn’t need to say more. Instantly and with an urgency that stole my breath away, he bent his head to kiss me, holding me and crushing me fiercely before pausing long enough to allow for a smile. It was followed by the possessive heat of his mouth against mine and a half-laughing sigh of relief, and then, drawing me into the safe shelter of his arms again, a calmer, more gentle touch of his lips to my hair.
Then silence. Nothing but the long comfortable silence of peace, broken, after a time, by a very faint murmur of; “Eleanor?”
“Yes?”
“Just …” He paused. “Thank you.”
Later, drowsily leaning into his shoulder before the settling fire – having welcomed Freddy home, received the full account of his adventures and dispatched him tired but delighted off to bed – once I felt Matthew’s relaxed body dip towards slumber, I made my own confession in a very private whisper to the silent room. “I’m glad you’ve come back to me.”
I felt his arms tighten lazily, a little happy brush of his cheek against my hair and the slow steadying rhythm of his heart beneath my hand as his breathing drifted. Then, at last, taking in the soft familiar warmth of his nearness, I allowed my eyes to close and I too surrendered to the comforting lure of companionable sleep.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost my thanks go to Charlotte Ledger and the team at HarperImpulse whose enthusiasm at every turn has made my journey into print an absolute pleasure. Thanks also to Judith Samuel for her encouragement, Rob and Brenda Brookes for their interest and memories, Tony Curtis for his automobile expertise and to Malcolm Whitaker for permitting me to delve into his experiences of life on a 1940s Cotswold farmstead.
My thanks to George Booth of www.winter1947.co.uk for providing information on snow depths. Flooding patterns were taken from the 2007 RMS Special Report ‘1947 U.K. River floods: 60-Year Retrospective’. Finally, I give my eternal gratitude and affection to Jeremy Brookes for his time, patience and willingness to invent a solution for any problem.
Lorna Gray
I love a good adventure. In fact, I don't mind whether it comes in the form of a good book, a film or rambling about the ruins of a castle as long as it is guaranteed to have a happy ending.
I am an artist and illustrator by training and I still do draw a great deal. I am also passionate about understanding the past and I love how spoken history provides so many different points of view. I love the fact that writing gives me the
excuse to ask people to share their memories, and I treasure the unique little insights that every new conversation has to offer.
http://www.saltwaydesign.com/
@MsLornaGray
About HarperImpulse
HarperImpulse is an exciting new range of romance fiction brought to you from the women’s fiction team at HarperCollins. Our aim is to break new talent from debut authors and import the hottest trends from the US, bringing you the very best in romance. Whether that is through short reads for your mobile phone or epic sagas that span the generations we want to proudly publish romance fiction that gets everybody talking.
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Writers, we are simply looking for good stories! So, what are you waiting for? To submit, e-mail us at [email protected].
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