The Letter

by Ruth Saberton

  “My jacket’s over there. Drape that over yourself to cover up – I mean warm up,” he suggested.

  Daisy didn’t protest. Her original plan of drying off in the sunshine abandoned, she tore up the beach, oblivious to the stones bruising her soles, and seized the tweed jacket that was draped over the rocks at the back of the cove. It was heavy and, as she burrowed into it, Daisy caught the tang of musky cologne and cigarettes and strong young male. She shivered again but this time it wasn’t from the icy seawater.

  “May I turn around?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Huddled into the jacket and sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms clasped tightly around them, Daisy thought she was probably as decent as a shameless girl who went swimming in her undergarments would ever be. Whoever this young man was, she hoped he wouldn’t tell the Reverend about this incident. She’d be back on the train home before you could say hussy.

  The stranger strolled up the beach to join her. His lips looked a little blue and, warmly wrapped in his jacket, Daisy felt guilty.

  “If you look behind those rocks you’ll find my basket. There’s a towel in it. Please, use it,” she said.

  He shot her a grateful smile. Two dimples danced in his cheeks and it felt a little as though the sun had come out. “I’m a tad on the damp side, I must say. Thanks.”

  Daisy didn’t answer. Instead she fixed her gaze on the horizon while he rummaged in her basket. She felt all wobbly and strange. It must be the exercise and the water.

  “Hey!” he called over his shoulder. “You’re reading Keats?”

  “I am,” Daisy replied. “I love his poetry.”

  “Me too!” said the young man with feeling. “The way he uses language is just beautiful. Ode to a Nightingale is simply exquisite. If I can ever write verse even half as well as that, then I’ll die happy.”

  “You’re a poet?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I dabble a bit, that’s all, but nothing in his league.”

  “I wish I could write poetry,” sighed Daisy. She had tried many times but had soon realised it wasn’t her gift.

  “Me too,” he laughed. “I keep trying!”

  Moments later he returned with the towel. The sun had climbed higher in the sky since she’d left the water and there was a real strength to it. She’d dry soon, Daisy thought with relief, and then she could change into the spare undergarments she’d packed. Once he’d left, obviously.

  The young man passed Daisy her towel.

  “Here, Miss, you need this more than I do. You’re still looking cold.”

  The towel was a little damp and as she held it in her hands Daisy shivered to think that the fabric had passed over his body. The idea was intimate and strangely thrilling.

  “Thank you,” she said, starting to blot her curls, which were turning into springs.

  “I’m Kit, by the way,” the young man said, holding out his hand as though they’d just been introduced at a garden fete. “Kit Rivers. How do you do?”

  “Daisy Hills.”

  She took his hand and their fingers slid together in a perfect fit, as though they’d done so a thousand times before.

  I know you! she thought, and she knew by the flicker of surprise in Kit’s mesmerising eyes that he felt exactly the same.

  “For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,” he said softly, his fingers closing around hers.

  Romeo and Juliet. Of course, Daisy knew the next line of the play, but her heart was racing too hard to speak. Unnerved, she slid her hand away and the moment was lost – if it had ever really happened at all.

  “I really was swimming, by the way,” Daisy said quickly, partly to counteract the rather strange cartwheeling sensation in her stomach. It was something she’d never experienced before. “It’s the reason I’m staying in Rosecraddick. I have to bathe in salt water every day for my health. My father is a doctor and he says it’s the best thing to bring back strength to a limb.”

  She waited for him to ask her what was wrong – most people did – but Kit Rivers just nodded.

  “There’s nothing better for the soul than swimming in the sea. I swim as much as I can. I love the water. Sailing’s fun too. Do you sail, Miss?”

  Daisy laughed. “Not much sailing goes on in Fulham. I’ve never even been on a boat. Truth be told, until a few days ago I hadn’t even seen the sea.”

  Kit Rivers looked outraged. “That’s terrible. I have a little sailing boat and you’ll have to come out on the water. I insist.” Then he grinned. “But maybe fully dressed this time?”

  She blushed but found she liked his teasing. Kit was putting her at ease by making a joke of the situation.

  “I do have a bathing costume, but it’s made of wool and so hard to swim in. It becomes full of water and pulls me under, so today I decided to chance swimming without it. That’s why I was swimming off this smaller cove. I thought nobody would see.”

  “You were right there. They wouldn’t usually. I only climbed down the steep way on my walk back to the village because I was…”

  Kit paused and an expression of sadness crossed his face. Daisy waited and he exhaled slowly.

  “I had a bit of a row with my father, and I needed to get away. This is somewhere I often go to when I need to think and have some solitude. Nobody comes here. Usually.”

  Daisy wondered what this argument had been about, but she didn’t ask. They’d both sought the cove for personal reasons and some things, like her health and her swimming in her camisole, were private. And talking of that…

  She took a deep breath. “You won’t tell anyone I was doing this, will you? Please?”

  He shook his head. “I swear I won’t breathe a word. Besides, I always think swimming in all that lot is utterly rotten. I hate wearing a bathing costume and I avoid the things as much as I can.”

  “So what do you wear instead?” Daisy asked and then wished she could sink beneath the sand as Kit’s mouth curled into a grin. She was such an idiot!

  “Let’s just say I’m creative,” he said. “Swimming’s supposed to make you feel free, isn’t it? I can’t say I ever feel like that when I’m weighed down in a knitted costume that stretches to my knees.”

  “It isn’t much fun,” Daisy agreed. It was time to change the subject and she twirled a ringlet around her forefinger before letting it spring free, a habit she always reverted to when she was anxious. “My godfather isn’t worried about fun, though. He’d send me straight home if he knew about this.”

  “Is that who you’re staying with, your godfather?”

  “Yes. He’s the Vicar of Rosecraddick.”

  “Killjoy Cutwell is your godfather?” Kit exclaimed. “Sorry, that’s dreadfully disrespectful of me, Miss Hills. I apologise if I’ve caused offence.”

  But Daisy was too busy giggling to be offended. Killjoy Cutwell! It was the perfect name!

  “No offence taken, Mr Rivers. He is a misery but he’s an old family friend. Do you know him?”

  Kit pulled a face.

  “I certainly do. He’s christened and confirmed just about everyone here, and preached enough fire-and-brimstone sermons to put the fear of God in me and the rest of the parish.”

  “Yes, I can imagine he has,” Daisy replied with feeling. “I’m sure he thinks I’m destined for hell.”

  “It’s not a destination exclusive to you, you know! We’re all going there as far as he’s concerned. Heaven will be very empty!”

  “Goddaughters who swim in their underclothes get there sooner,” Daisy sighed. She’d lasted only a matter of days at the Rectory and Papa would be so disappointed in her for letting him down. She had a feeling her mama would have understood though. Her mama would maybe even have done the same herself.

  “Reverend Cutwell won’t hear a thing about this from me, Miss Hills, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die,” Kit Rivers said.

  Daisy burst out laughing at the old schoolyard vow. “Cross your heart
and hope to die? How old are you?”

  “I’m eighteen,” he said proudly, “but I’m not too old to cross my heart! How about you?”

  “Too old to cross my heart? Certainly, I am.”

  He nudged her with his elbow.

  “I bet you you’re not.”

  “I am.”

  He gave her another nudge. And another. And another. His elbow was bony and Daisy soon relented because it was digging into her ribs and making her giggle.

  “All right! All right! I’m nearly seventeen.”

  “So you’re sixteen.”

  “Yes! I’m sixteen.”

  Already counting down until her birthday in September, Daisy suddenly found she was even more eager for the day to arrive. Seventeen sounded far more grown-up than sixteen and it was certainly closer to eighteen. Why this suddenly seemed to matter so much she wasn’t sure, but she suspected it had something to do with the way her insides swooped when Kit’s laughing green eyes held hers – just as the dusting of goosebumps on her arms had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with being near to him. She was fizzing like shaken ginger beer.

  It was odd. And inexplicable. And utterly, utterly wonderful.

  They basked in the sunshine for a little longer and talked easily. Kit explained to Daisy where the safest spots for swimming were to be found and told her a bit about the village. In turn she told him about her polio and the long months spent in the sanatorium reading and losing herself in literature. Kit was widely read, and it was a joy to be able to discuss Byron and Shelley with him as well as listen to him confess that he aspired to be a poet. By the time they’d dried off in the sun, they knew a great deal about one another and it was a surprise to discover that the tide had receded, leaving glistening wet sand where gulls pecked and rock pools shimmered. Kit said this meant he would safely be able to scramble over the rocks to the next bay and head along the coast.

  “Only do that on a spring tide like this,” he warned. “Otherwise it’s very dangerous. You must take care.”

  Daisy had thought that, after London, Rosecraddick would feel like a safe place, but she was swiftly realising she had been wrong in making such an assumption: Cornwall was full of dangers she’d never even dreamed of. As Kit Rivers bade her farewell and continued on his way, Daisy watched him and knew deep down in her heart that meeting him was without doubt the biggest danger of them all.

  “And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss,” she whispered, gazing down at her hand. How could it feel so different yet be totally unaltered? The skin was the same fair colour and her nails were the same pale pink ovals they’d been before, yet it felt as though her hand now belonged to a new version of herself. Suddenly all the plays and all the poetry she’d ever read made perfect sense. She’d barely understood them until this moment. She hadn’t known what they really meant.

  But she did now – and she knew why.

  In just the blink of Kit’s green eyes and the touch of his hand, Daisy Hills had fallen headlong and hopelessly in love.

  Chapter 4

  Daisy, May 1914

  The following morning dawned wild and stormy. It certainly wasn’t the weather for venturing down to the cove for a swim. Even if the skies had been ink blue and the sea silky smooth, Daisy suspected she wouldn’t have been able to swim a stroke anyway because she’d barely had a wink of sleep. The dream had come again.

  As always, the nightmare faded moments after she opened her eyes, but this morning the nagging unease had taken longer than usual to leave. Unable to fall back asleep, she’d tossed and turned until the light had stolen through the thin curtains. It was just a silly dream, she’d told herself sternly. Even so, the sense of foreboding was enough to cast a shadow over her morning and the bleak weather only exacerbated her mood.

  As the light had crept in and the nightmare had ebbed away, she’d lain in her big brass bed, listening to the old house settle and creak around her. Her thoughts had raced back to Kit with the swiftness and inevitability of an incoming tide. Since their meeting she’d been able to think of little else.

  On her walk home after yesterday’s swim, Daisy had replayed every second of the time they’d shared on the beach. Her mind had been so full of Kit’s ocean-deep eyes, perfect bone structure and curling blond hair (which she could imagine needed constant cutting) that she’d scarcely noticed the steep path or felt the burning ache of her leg. Instead she’d floated back to the Rectory, where she’d hardly been able to eat a mouthful of the mutton stew Mrs Polmartin had served for supper. Several times she’d drifted into a daydream over her plate. This had led to some worried remarks from the housekeeper about illness, but Daisy had known her lack of appetite owed nothing to polio and everything to the chance beach meeting. Nancy, also picking at her supper, had raised her eyebrows at Daisy in a knowing way.

  After supper Daisy had been dispatched to cut flowers for the house; Mrs Polmartin had explained that they lasted longer if they were picked in the evening rather than the heat of the day. Daisy had snipped the blooms at random while her mind had wandered back to Kit. The housekeeper had tutted in disapproval at Daisy’s dreadful flower-arranging skills, but this had barely registered with Daisy; she was far too busy wondering if Kit had quoted from Romeo and Juliet because he’d felt the same charge of energy and the flicker of recognition that she’d experienced.

  He must have done, surely?

  Once she was safely up in her attic room, Daisy had lain on her bed and written all about their meeting in her new journal. It seemed wholly fitting that this new diary with its beautiful blank pages should record the event; nothing less was worthy of it. Something important had taken place and her life had spun away on a different tangent. She would never be the same again. When she closed her eyes she saw again Kit’s slow smile, heard his soft considered voice, felt his fingers as they took hers.

  She was in love. There was no logic to any of it, but it was a fact.

  Daisy had put the lid on her pen and gazed thoughtfully out of the window at the sky, where a small smile of moon glimmered among the clouds. So this was love. This skittering of the pulse and swooping sensation in the stomach was what falling in love felt like. She’d read all about this emotion, of course, but until a few hours ago it had seemed as relevant to her own life as Homer’s tales or Beowulf. Now Daisy wished she’d studied more carefully.

  It made no sense. Apart from his name, she knew almost nothing about Kit Rivers. As she’d put her diary away, Daisy had tried to tell herself that she was being ridiculous. Maybe she was coming down with a fever from bathing in the cold water. That would explain her wobbly legs and vanishing appetite. It might even be the reason for her racing heart.

  But it didn’t account for why, whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see was Kit – or why her heart squeezed with longing.

  Eventually Daisy had drifted off, but then the dream had come again. After that she knew she wouldn’t sleep. With eyes that were gritty and heavy, Daisy had watched the world grow lighter as the day crept in, in a thousand hues of grey. The sea was topped by white horses and the cloud was a thick scarf obscuring the sunshine. There would be no swimming today and no chance of coming across Kit Rivers again. The disappointment made her heart feel as bleak as the world outside.

  Daisy had spent the morning cleaning silver with Mrs Polmartin until her fingers were sore and her head was pounding from the smell of the polish. The Reverend had made noises about her cataloguing his sermons, and the thought of spending the rest of the day trapped inside with her godfather was unbearable. By the time lunch arrived Daisy knew she had to go outside and breathe, before the Rectory with its shut-up spaces and constant smell of boiling cabbage suffocated her.

  Giving up on luncheon – a gristly affair today of mince and potatoes – Daisy lay her knife and fork down.

  “Nancy, may I ask you a favour?”

  The other girl shrugged, which Daisy took to be an affirmative. Nancy didn’t say a great
deal apart from “Yes, Miss” and “No, Miss”, which didn’t make for much of a conversation – unlike Gem, who was more than happy to chat away. Daisy wasn’t sure whether her status as the Reverend’s goddaughter was the reason for this awkwardness or whether Nancy viewed her as a rival for Gem’s affections. Neither issue should have given Nancy cause for concern. As much as Daisy liked Gem, it wasn’t the stable lad who made her heart shiver, and a doctor’s daughter wasn’t so very far removed in status from a farmer’s niece.

  “May I borrow your bicycle?”

  Nancy bicycled to and from the Rectory each day. She looked surprised by the question though. “Where do you need to go, Miss?”

  Now it was Daisy’s turn to shrug. “Nowhere, really. It’s just that I’m supposed to strengthen my leg every day. Saltwater bathing is the best thing but the sea’s too rough today. I thought riding a bicycle might help a little.”

  “Never mind too rough! You’d catch your death in the water,” shuddered Mrs Polmartin. “I honestly wonder what doctors are thinking nowadays.”

  Daisy opened her mouth to explain the benefits of hydrotherapy but thought better of it. Modern ideas, she had soon discovered, were viewed as little more than a step away from witchcraft in these parts.

  “I’ll need it back by six,” Nancy said. “And don’t get it muddy, mind. Pa will kill me.”

  “I won’t! Thank you!” Daisy jumped to her feet, beaming. She could have hugged Nancy.

  “You won’t be so happy in a minute. The hills here are hellish,” Nancy warned, pulling a face. “Everywhere is uphill from here.”

  But Daisy didn’t care. She’d willingly cycle up a mountain just to feel the wind rush against her cheeks and to see the delicious blur of passing scenery. Before long she was peddling up the lane, her skirt billowing behind her and her straw hat slipping from her head. Nancy wasn’t wrong about the hills and by the time Daisy had travelled through the village, past the manor house and towards the woods, the muscles in both her legs were screaming and her breath was coming in harsh pants. Once she reached the summit of the next hill she’d have a rest, Daisy promised herself. Then she could have fun freewheeling back down. The exhilaration of the descent would more than make up for the effort of the climb. Besides, peddling hard meant that she could hardly hear her chattering thoughts about Kit Rivers above the thudding of her heartbeat.