Summer's End

by Amy Myers

  She took it in her hands, and held it until he took it from her. ‘Here, I’ll fix it.’ He twisted the thin stem through the lace of her fichu just above her breast, and as his fingers rested on the white skin, he wished just for a fleeting moment that she were not the Rector’s daughter.

  ‘Oh, Caroline, take pity on Robert, will you and dance with him? I’m exhausted.’

  Isabel tottered theatrically past her into the dining room, where the supper was laid out. She managed to revive remarkably quickly, Caroline noticed, obediently offering her own services to Robert. It was the military two-step and two minutes later she saw Isabel dancing with Martin Cuss.

  Robert was a dear, Isabel was thinking as she marched up and down, but not exciting. She could hardly define this to herself, but she supposed she must mean someone who not only admired you but disturbed you. Like Frank Eliot. She noticed no one had suggested inviting him this evening. Not quite socially acceptable, she supposed. What a pity. She bestowed one of her famous smiles on Martin Cuss. ‘Isn’t this exciting,’ she murmured.

  Martin Cuss, concentrating every muscle on trying to whirl Isabel round on a paving stone without sending her headlong into the garden, politely agreed.

  ‘You won’t ever dance the Huggie Bear with anyone else but me, will you, Reggie?’ Caroline collided with his chest and was flung back again, celebrating her release by a hop in the air.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Will you dance anything with anyone else again?’

  ‘On my life. Never.’

  ‘This won’t vanish, will it, Reggie?’

  ‘The terrace?’

  ‘Idiot.’

  ‘No, it won’t.’

  And then when he pulled her after him to walk in the gardens, in the ‘wilderness’ which lay beyond the rhododendron bank, so that they might not be seen, ‘You haven’t vanished, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’ll marry me?’

  She’d always thought this should be a momentous event, but it wasn’t because the answer was so obvious to both of them. ‘Yes, of course.’ Then came the doubt. ‘It’s not like before – with you, I mean?’

  ‘How can you ask that? All those other women seem like practice rows for the big race. I suppose,’ he added with dismay, ‘that doesn’t sound very romantic.’

  ‘It does if it’s true.’

  ‘It is. The odd thing is I didn’t need the practice. I just needed to realise that I loved you. I always will.’

  ‘And I you.’

  ‘Then what are you crying for?’

  ‘Because I’m going to marry you.’

  They both saw the funny side at the same time, and he held her close. ‘You’ll never cry again, Caroline. I promise, I promise.’

  William Swinford-Browne swung Elizabeth into a lively waltz. He had had a great deal of the Rectory punch, to which he had added his own private supply of brandy, suspecting the alcoholic content of the punch to be low. He was happy with himself and happy with the world, especially with a fine woman like Elizabeth Lilley in his arms. Not too little either, he thought appreciatively.

  ‘I’m looking forward to our wedding,’ he announced, steering Mrs Lilley down to the less public lawns. ‘Lucky young people, eh, starting life out together, making their own way. Little youngsters in due course, eh?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Shall I take that glass from you, Mr Swinford-Browne?’

  ‘You think I’m inebriated, don’t you?’ He deposited it by the hedge, and wagged what he told himself was a saucy finger at her. ‘How could I be, when I’m dancing with a wonderful woman like you?’ He put his right arm round her to join the left, which ostensibly had been placed behind her in the interests of the waltz, and she struggled to free herself. She tried in vain since she found her arms firmly held in place by his and to her horror felt his gloved right hand feeling the bottom of the rounded figure he had so much admired. She could not shout, for that would call public attention to her ridiculous position, and had just determined upon drastic measures with her knee when help arrived. Outraged by all men, and Swinford-Browne in particular, Tilly cared nothing for attracting public attention. Indeed she welcomed it. Into a silence as George changed records fell Tilly’s strident voice:

  ‘Kindly confine your sexual gropings to your housemaids, Mr Swinford-Browne. As you did with poor Ruth Horner.’

  It was a long time before Caroline fell asleep that night. All five of them, even George, had gathered in Isabel’s bedroom to commiserate with her tears and howls on the disgrace her drunken aunt had brought on them, and how could she ruin Isabel’s life so callously. Then, without Isabel, they had hurried back to Caroline’s room to chew over the shocking, exhilarating results of the evening until the candles required no snuffing, and they had to creep back to their own rooms in darkness. Caroline had been in no way sure it had been proper to include George, but George had come all the same.

  ‘I’ve never seen Father so angry,’ Felicia breathed, the stars still in her eyes.

  ‘I think that awful man came off lightly,’ declared Caroline. ‘Father and Mother will never let the story get round the village.’

  ‘It will, though,’ George said confidently and with glee. ‘I saw Agnes listening. Anyway, Mother won’t mind.’ He wasn’t, in fact, quite sure what all the fuss was about. Mother was old, and so was Swinford-Browne, and so how could sex come into it? With studied nonchalance he yawned, and wandered back to his own room with a long detour to Mrs Dibble’s larder for leftovers en route.

  ‘But the wedding,’ Caroline said to her sisters as soon as he’d gone, ‘everything’s got to be all right for that. Suppose Robert does call it off?’

  ‘It would have to be Isabel, not Robert, or she could sue for breach of promise,’ Phoebe pointed out gleefully.

  A pause, with the same thought in their minds. Would she mind if she could have money without Robert? They looked away from each other, self-conscious about their instant reaction.

  ‘I’m ashamed of us all,’ declared Caroline, looking round. ‘We’re a Christian household. We’ve got to forgive. Or rather Mother has.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s Agnes who has to forgive,’ had been Felicia’s last words.

  But this episode vanished from Caroline’s mind as she lay in her bed that night, watching the flickering shadows of the candlelight on the ceiling weaving strange, mysterious patterns. What pulsed through her was the memory of her walk back through the garden with Reggie, hand in hand silently like children, and then he said, ‘Which is your bedroom, Caroline?’

  ‘That one.’ She pointed. ‘It hasn’t changed since I was about ten. You must remember. You were in it often enough when we were young. Why?’

  ‘I want,’ his hand tightened, ‘to imagine you there tonight, to imagine what it will be like to sleep beside you and love you. Shall you like that, Caroline?’

  Shall you like that, Caroline? His words floated back as the scented night air filled the room. Shall, not should. It would happen. The room did not seem empty now, for she could imagine Reggie here, beside her. She snuffed out the candle, but the restlessness her thoughts had created in her kept her awake until she heard the moon clock downstairs strike three.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  What on earth was happening? From being its usual happily humming beehive the Rectory seemed to be preparing to swarm, heaving with bodies seething in every direction. True, Caroline was aware that she was herself one of the heavers, but then she was a happy heaver, and so, all too obviously to Caroline’s eye at least, was Felicia. Others, particularly Isabel, were definitely not happy. She had been trailing around like Sarah Bernhardt ever since she got up.

  Yesterday afternoon’s sunshine had disappeared once more into this morning’s close atmosphere and overcast skies, and unlike yesterday the pall seemed reluctant to lift. Caroline had discovered the reason for Janie Marden’s absence yesterday. Her aunt, Dr Marden’s sister, had been confirmed as lost in the Empress of Ireland
disaster. There had been a muddle over names, and the Mardens had been in doubt all this time, keeping their anguish to themselves. Now there was no doubt, and Father had said a prayer for Rachel Smythe. The tragedy of the loss of the liner hit Caroline all the more vividly, now it had touched Ashden, and made her own happiness seem all the more precious.

  Her father’s pall of preoccupation hadn’t lifted either, for she had witnessed the brief encounter between him and Mr Swinford-Browne who had dared march up to him after the service (which he had not attended) and demand to speak to him now. He did not even bother to remove his hat in Caroline’s presence.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Father had replied in his ‘church’ voice, the vein standing out in his left temple which meant he was deeply angry, ‘would be a more suitable time for secular matters. On Sundays I am amply paid by Our Lord to look after His affairs. I suggest six o’clock.’

  Swinford-Browne had seemed about to ignore this suggestion when Elizabeth came to join them, and he promptly, to Caroline’s amusement, changed his mind. ‘Very well.’

  ‘I suggest today we both devote time to contemplating our duty to the Lord,’ the Rector continued.

  ‘Good morning to you, Mr Swinford-Browne,’ Elizabeth intervened calmly. ‘Pray do tell your wife how much I enjoyed my talk with her last evening.’

  That had silenced the terrible Toby Jug. He even remembered to tip his hat to Mother before he marched down the path even more angrily than he had marched up it.

  Caroline had then been torn between waiting for Reggie, who had said he would speak to Father this morning, and accompanying Mother, as the grim grip of her arm indicated was Elizabeth’s wish. Obviously she had noticed Sarah Bernhardt too. Robert had not been in church, and this was ominous since, although he was Chapel like his parents, he had since his engagement to Isabel faithfully attended St Nicholas.

  ‘Today,’ Elizabeth announced, ‘we shall discuss the final menu and invitations. Then you girls can write them out. There are a mere six weeks left to us. Shall we begin now?’

  Caroline’s heart sank, but casting only one hopeful glance behind her to see whether she could see Reggie approaching Father (he wasn’t), she obediently helped shepherd Isabel home and into Mother’s boudoir – a grand name for the untidy large room on the first floor. It had been the nursery; now it was full of patterns, sewing machine, half-completed embroideries, recipe books, memories of their childhood and anything else that Mother took it into her head to collect, including a pile of cut-out scraps for a screen that would never be made. The pile had been waiting patiently for as long as Caroline could remember.

  As soon as they entered and Mother closed the door, Isabel’s (or rather Sarah’s) big moment had come. She burst into tears. ‘What’s the use? The wedding will never happen. And it’s all Aunt Tilly’s fault. I’ll never forgive her, never. Oh, Mother, what shall I do if the Swinford-Brownes call the wedding off?’

  ‘My dear, Robert is twenty-six. How can they forbid him to marry you?’

  ‘They won’t pay for Hop House. Or Paris. Or our allowance. Robert hasn’t a penny of his own.’

  ‘He could earn some. And I’m sure we can find a cottage for you to rent. Or you can live here.’

  ‘Here?’ Isabel lifted her face in horror. ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes, here,’ retorted Caroline. She saw Mother was hurt, and was furious with Isabel for her tactlessness. Isabel’s reasons for marrying Robert were all too transparent now. ‘It will be fun to have you both living here.’

  ‘So everything is settled.’ Elizabeth hid her wounded feelings.

  ‘Settled?’ Isabel repeated dramatically. ‘My whole life is ruined and you say it’s settled. Robert would never –’ She bit off what she was going to say, not so much, Caroline suspected, in loyalty to Robert, but because of the unflattering light it would place her in. ‘It would upset him too much to marry in defiance of his parents’ wishes,’ she finished.

  ‘It has been known,’ Elizabeth murmured.

  Isabel stared at her impatiently: ‘You and Father were different.’

  ‘Were we?’

  ‘It wasn’t as if Grandmother Buckford had quarrelled with your family. She just didn’t approve of you. That’s why she cast Father off without a penny.’

  ‘And a good job too,’ Caroline pointed out to deflect her sister from yet more faux pas. ‘To think we might have been brought up in Buckford House.’ Even as she said it, the word approve struck her with double force. Grandmother Buckford … Lady Hunney … Reggie said he was going to talk to Father today. Had he come yet? I’m going to marry him, she told herself. He’ll be my husband.

  Elizabeth remained silent. So easy for Isabel to say those careless words, and so typical. It seemed only yesterday to Elizabeth: the heartache, the agony of wanting to know whether Laurence would choose her or his mother. That woman’s rudeness in ignoring her parents, ignoring her, all because Elizabeth, without a title to her name, had had the temerity to love her favourite son. Never mind that the Overtons were respected all over Kent, they weren’t gentlefolk like the Lilleys. Gentlefolk? Lady Buckford? A killer whale was gentler than she, and Tilly took after her. Fortunately, like Laurence, Tilly was born with her father’s kindness and compassion. The Earl of Buckford had died when Laurence was only fourteen, and his heir, Laurence’s eldest brother, a bare twenty-one, and Lady Buckford had had plenty of time to sharpen her killer teeth.

  ‘How many on Mr and Mrs Swinford-Browne’s list?’ she asked Isabel briskly.

  ‘Ninety-six.’

  Ninety-six? Grandmother Overton’s teapot was going to be working ten times as hard, Caroline thought. It had only been thirty-two a few weeks ago.

  ‘And yours and Robert’s?’ Mother continued without a blink.

  ‘Sixty-three.’

  ‘And ours is forty-four. At the moment.’ Elizabeth did look dismayed now.

  ‘Two hundred and three in all,’ supplied Caroline helpfully.

  ‘Very well. Your wedding breakfast is a wedding tea, Isabel. You can be married at two o’clock instead of at twelve.’

  ‘Oh no, Mother. Not sandwiches.’ Isabel’s cry was pitiful. ‘Mrs Swinford-Browne has set her heart on a real wedding breakfast. She does have very important friends.’

  ‘Either her heart or our purse must be broken, Isabel. It is too much.’

  ‘They would pay for it all.’

  ‘No doubt. And they will offer to hold it at The Towers. Do you prefer that? Tell me now, before Caroline writes the invitations.’

  It was Caroline’s turn to look alarmed. Was Mother expecting her to write all of them? It was too bad. Isabel, however, looked set on agreeing to anything provided the wedding went ahead.

  The agony of waiting … Oh, how Elizabeth remembered. That was what Isabel was going through now, and Elizabeth would be fighting the Swinford-Brownes every inch of the way if they dared to threaten her moody chick.

  Reggie had come. One look at Father’s face had told Caroline so, as he called her into his study just before luncheon. ‘You are happy, Caroline?’ was his first question.

  ‘Very. You do approve, don’t you, Father?’ For one terrible moment she thought he might not, that he was going to say no, or ‘not altogether’ or ‘it depends’, one of those terribly balanced Rectorial answers. But he didn’t. ‘Reggie is a good man, a credit to his name; steady and just. He’s a worthy heir to Ashden. I know he loves you, Caroline, and therefore I gave him, and now you, my blessing.’

  Relief swept through her like the River Rother in spate. If Father had hesitated, it could only have been because he did not wish to lose a second daughter so quickly. They had grown loving of each other’s ways in the Rectory and the web they had spun around them would be hard to break, voluntarily or not.

  ‘Reggie is speaking to his parents today, Caroline, so we shall not say anything of this to your sisters or George or Tilly. Naturally your mother must know.’

  Caroline was disappointed, having l
ooked forward to a moment of glory at Sunday luncheon, just like Isabel had had on Easter Day, but consoled herself that this way Monday would be a special day too. Anyway, it would be nice to have such a wonderful secret to hug all to herself for a little longer.

  When the afternoon came, a squeeze of Mother’s hand was enough to tell her she knew. Caroline almost whispered to her that they might discuss buying stores for both weddings and save money, but decided not. Isabel should reign in her temporary glory alone, and her elder sister would certainly notice nothing odd about Caroline this afternoon. Caroline could have nothing of importance in her life, could she? Poor Isabel, she’d always be reaching out but never arriving at whatever it was she imagined she wanted.

  She and Isabel found their mother in the boudoir after luncheon, armed with Mrs Beeton under one arm, the shadow of Mrs Dibble hanging over her, plus – the sign of a really special occasion – not only Grandmother Overton’s copy of Mrs de Salis’s Savouries à la Mode but her very own manuscript recipe book begun when Grannie was a bride in 1853 and continued until only a few months before she died, like the old Queen she so closely resembled, in 1901. Here recipes for puddings, catsups, cakes and wines were mixed up with those for furniture polish, pomatum and pot pourris, which had puzzled Caroline greatly as a child when she fell in love with the word pomatum and waited feverishly for it to appear upon their table.

  ‘Perhaps if we chose cheaper food we could manage,’ Caroline suggested doubtfully some time later, enthusiasm for their task rapidly waning. ‘We could pretend this is a teetotal household.’

  ‘This is my wedding,’ sobbed Isabel tearfully. ‘I will not have my guests chewing through Mrs Dibble’s meat puddings. I want it to be elegant.’

  Caroline recognised a deadlock when she saw it, and took up her accustomed role of problem solver, ready to hand over to Mother’s role of soother. ‘Why don’t we start a new fashion. Marry at, say, one o’clock, and offer a late light luncheon, or a savoury early tea, and we could have lobster patties not lobster salad, for example,’ having glimpsed at what Isabel still had blithely written at the top of her preferred menus, despite all previous warnings.