The Letter

by Ruth Saberton

  Once she reached the top of the hill, having conceded defeat for the final half mile and pushed the bicycle instead of riding it, Daisy paused to admire the landscape. Unlike London, with its endless rooftops peeling away to infinity, the view from here stretched to wooded hills and valleys in one direction and back to the sea and Rosecraddick in the other. The swirling pewter sky seemed to hold the world in its arms and as she recovered her breath Daisy felt her spirits rise. There were possibilities in this openness and broad sweep of sea and sky that she’d never felt in the city. The air was sharp with salt and rich with the smell of earth and rotting leaves and freedom. Her godfather – the awkward conversation at mealtimes, the closed doors and general air of reproach – felt very far away, and so did the long months of her illness and the even longer months of recovery.

  “I’m on the top of the world!” Daisy shouted to the wind and the scudding clouds. Something wonderful was waiting; she could feel it in the promise of the green leaves on the trees and the new crops in the fields. Life was all around her, rich and teeming with energy, and being sixteen and filled with hope she felt a part of it. Bad dreams were forgotten, along with her stern godfather. Even her troublesome leg seemed to be causing her less discomfort than usual as she hopped back onto the bicycle and pointed it downhill. Soon Daisy was freewheeling faster and faster, her hat and hairpins long lost and her red curls streaming behind her. The air whipped tears from her cheeks, her feet slipped from the peddles and she felt as though she was flying. This was far more exciting than the flat streets of Fulham!

  Faster and faster Daisy flew until the countryside was a sage blur. Eventually, when the gradient levelled, the world came back into focus – but still the bicycle carried her along with ease and she laughed out loud. As she steered towards the village, Daisy decided she would write to Papa and tell him about this. She was sure he’d agree that cycling was beneficial for her health, that there was no better way to see the countryside and—

  The nearer the lane drew to the village, the more rutted it became from the passing wheels of carts. Intoxicated with the heady blend of speed and exhilaration, she hadn’t been paying attention – so when the front wheel hit a deep rut and the bicycle swerved, Daisy flew over the handlebars. For a sickening moment the world spun around as she lay winded, gazing up through an ocean of weeds to a sky webbed with cloud.

  Her head was throbbing and something sticky dripped into her eye. There was an awful lot of it…

  It was blood, Daisy thought abstractedly as she lay in the ditch. It was probably nothing to worry about though; Papa said head wounds always bled horribly. All the same, it would stain her new blouse and that was a shame. And what about Nancy’s bicycle? Had she damaged it? Stricken, Daisy tried to sit up – but the world cartwheeled and, with a moan, she sank back onto the lane. Oh dear. This was quite a tumble.

  “My God! Are you all right?”

  Daisy knew then that she must have hit her head very hard, because it seemed that Kit Rivers was peering down at her and looking most concerned. She must have thought about him so much that she was dreaming him into being. Papa had talked at length about Freud and the subconscious mind, so Daisy knew just how powerful dreams could be.

  “You’re not really here,” she said crossly. “Are you?”

  “I promise I am,” said Kit, his arm behind her head supporting her weight. “Do you think you could sit?”

  Daisy wasn’t certain but she nodded, which made her brain feel as though it had come loose in her skull. She did her best not to groan. She wasn’t concussed, she decided, and she didn’t think any bones were broken.

  But talking of broken—

  “What’s happened to the bicycle? Is it all right?”

  “Never mind the bicycle! You’re bleeding!” Kit pressed something soft against her forehead (his handkerchief, she realised) and dabbed the wound. “That’s a nasty cut. It’ll need cleaning, and some arnica. Are you dizzy? Do you think you might have concussion?”

  But Daisy was far more concerned about Nancy’s bicycle than her own injuries, especially when she caught sight of it upside down and with the wheel still spinning.

  “Is it broken?”

  Kit sighed. “If you insist on worrying about the bicycle, it looks fine to me. The chain’s still on and the wheel doesn’t appear buckled.” His hand brushed her hair away from her face so that he could get a closer look at the cut. Daisy’s breath caught in her throat as his forefinger traced her cheek. This touch and his closeness were making her feel far shakier than the tumble. She hadn’t imagined a thing! These feelings were real – and from the way his hands trembled, she knew Kit felt them too.

  “Your bicycle’s safe,” he assured her.

  “It’s not mine. I borrowed it. I promised to be careful.”

  Kit laughed. He had a nice laugh; it made Daisy feel as though she was wrapped in sunshine.

  “We’re not well acquainted, Miss Hills, but I don’t think being careful is one of your most striking personal qualities. Swimming off dangerous coves and hurtling down hills at breakneck speed are hardly careful activities. What will be next? Maybe you’ll learn to fly an aeroplane?”

  “Explaining this to my godfather is next,” Daisy said gloomily, touching her hand to her forehead and wincing. Reverend Cutwell would never allow her to bicycle anywhere now. Her hat was lost, her hair was a mess and she’d probably shown her ankles to a young man, although thanks to the swimming episode Kit Rivers had already seen far more exciting parts of her than her ankles. She was so cross with herself. “Of all the stupid things to do!”

  “You hit a rut,” Kit said kindly. “Anyone would have come off.” He paused, the green eyes twinkling at her with amusement. “Although I do admit, not everyone might have hurtled towards it at such speed!”

  “You saw?”

  “I most certainly did. You flew past me as I climbed the stile out of the woods. Nearly took me out, actually.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you,” Daisy apologised.

  Kit laughed again. “I’m not surprised. You looked as though you were having a marvellous time. Before you fell off, of course.”

  “Oh, I was,” she agreed. “It felt like flying. It felt free. And anyway, I didn’t fall off. I hit a rut, like you said. That’s different.”

  “Totally different,” he agreed, lips twitching. “Hurtling downhill on a bicycle sounds wonderful. I must try it some time. I’m quite certain it beats hunting for thrills.”

  Daisy wasn’t sure what to say to this. Not a great deal of hunting took place in Fulham, so she didn’t feel qualified to comment.

  “Can you stand?” Kit was asking.

  She nodded cautiously. “I think so.”

  Slowly and gently, he raised her to her feet. The earth felt a little uncertain beneath her boots and the sky rolled once more, but to Daisy’s relief she didn’t feel faint. Even the cut on her head seemed to have stopped bleeding.

  “How’s that? Can you walk, do you think?” Kit asked.

  She nodded again. “If I go slowly. Thank you for helping. I’ll be fine now.”

  Kit looked affronted and his fingers tightened their grasp. Daisy liked the way it felt to have him hold onto her, tethering her to the earth. It felt safe.

  “You don’t think I’m going to abandon you and go on my way? That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly. I’m going to walk you back to the Rectory, if you think you can make it that far? Otherwise I’ll send for the trap.”

  “Of course I can walk!” Daisy said indignantly, although she wasn’t certain she could. Her legs felt as soggy as the overcooked vegetables Mrs Polmartin liked to serve up.

  “I’ll wheel the bicycle and you can hold my arm,” suggested Kit. “We’ll go exceedingly slowly and if you feel unwell you’re to let me know and we’ll stop. I can always fetch help if you think you require it.”

  Daisy thought she would rather crawl back on her hands and knees than have the Reverend send Merlin and
the trap. She was rather hoping that she’d be able to find Gem and ask him to clean and return the bicycle, while she stole inside to wash and change before anyone else noticed her torn skirt and cut head. Some careful rearranging of her hair before dinner should hide the injury. It was fortunate that her godfather was short-sighted.

  When Kit had managed to right the bicycle, spinning the wheels to make certain the chain was intact, they walked slowly back to the Rectory while Daisy leaned heavily on his arm and stole sideways looks at him. Even simply dressed in corduroy trousers and a battered tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and plain cuffs, he made her breath catch. A cap was rammed onto the thick blond hair, and golden stubble dusted his jaw. He was wearing scuffed country boots and was dressed for a walk, but she noticed that the top of a notebook was sticking out of his pocket. Had he been walking to seek inspiration for his writing? Like Wordsworth? She would have loved to ask but it felt like a rather personal question. If Kit Rivers wanted to talk about his own poetry, Daisy knew he’d do so without any prompting from her.

  They walked through the village, the men touching their caps respectfully as they passed, and finally they reached the Rectory, choosing to take the back path past the woodshed rather than walking to the front door. Daisy breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the stable yard was empty and the trap missing; Reverend Cutwell must be out on parish business, which meant he would be none the wiser about her misadventure. Here was another secret she would need to ask Kit to keep. There seemed to be a pattern emerging.

  “Back safe and sound,” Kit said, leaning the bicycle against the outhouse wall and smiling at her.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure – although I must say, Miss Hills, rescuing you is starting to become a habit!”

  Daisy pretended to be outraged. “May I remind you that I didn’t need rescuing from the cove? I was swimming perfectly well.”

  “In your undergarments!” Kit grinned.

  “Shh!” mortified, Daisy glanced around, but fortunately nobody was about to overhear. “You promised that was a secret.”

  “And so it is, but not between us,” he pointed out. He stepped forward and quietly added, “Since we were both there, and I believe we’ve both thought about it a great deal since, it’s hardly a secret is it?”

  He’d thought about it since? There were goosebumps on Daisy’s arms now.

  “No,” she said finally. “I suppose not.”

  They stood for a moment, not knowing quite what to say to one another, smiling shyly. Daisy wondered if he was recalling how it had felt to hold hands, however briefly. If only she could ask him, could talk to him properly, but somewhere they weren’t in danger of being overheard.

  As though reading her mind, Kit said in a low voice, “The weather forecast is set fair for the next few days. Will you be swimming at the cove? Maybe at low tide? Tomorrow?”

  Daisy’s mouth dried as though the beach had been poured into it. Was Kit arranging to meet her? Did he want to see her again? She swallowed.

  “Yes. Yes, I will.”

  “Wonderful. Well, until we meet again. Maybe by chance at a cove? Tomorrow? For a swim?”

  Daisy nodded and Kit looked as though he was about to say something more, but the clop of iron-shod hooves on cobbles and the appearance of Gem stopped him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Kit,” Gem said, doffing his cap and looking startled.

  “Good afternoon, Gem,” said Kit evenly. “If you have a moment, would you be so good as to take Miss Daisy’s bicycle and give it a clean and maybe some oil? That would be marvellous.”

  Gem glanced at Daisy in surprise and then back at Kit. “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “Thank you, Gem.”

  Kit turned to Daisy and smiled, a slow smile so full of unspoken promise that it squeezed her heart until she thought it would burst. He took off his cap and bowed his head. “Until next time, Miss Hills. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr Rivers,” Daisy echoed.

  Together she and Gem watched him walk away. Then, once Kit was out of earshot, Gem whistled.

  “What was he doing here, Miss?”

  Daisy decided to tell the truth. Gem was no fool and she could tell he’d already noticed the cut on her head and the rip in her dress.

  “I fell off Nancy’s bicycle and Kit was kind enough to help me walk back.”

  Gem’s dark eyebrows shot into his thick fringe. “Well, you know how to fall on your feet and no mistake, Miss Daisy! Walked home by Kit Rivers himself. Get you!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You! Being escorted home by Kit Rivers!”

  Daisy stared at him. She had no idea what Gem was talking about.

  “You don’t know who he is, do you?” Gem said, and she shook her head.

  “What more is there to know?”

  “Mr Kit is Colonel Rivers’ son and heir,” Gem told her. When she still looked nonplussed, he added, “From Rosecraddick Manor. The big house you admired when we drove here from the railway station? Kit’s the Honourable Christopher Rivers and one day he’ll own just about everything around here. He’ll only be the lord of the manor, Miss! The likes of him don’t usually speak to the likes of me and you, do they? It’s all titles and fancy folk for them, although Mr Kit’s not so bad as most of the toffs. He’s a pretty decent sort.”

  Daisy stared at Gem.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he said.

  It was just like a fairly tale! Maybe Kit wasn’t quite the handsome prince, but she’d been rescued by the lord of the manor’s son. Gentle Kit, with the sea-green eyes and angel’s smile – the unassuming young man who loved poetry and made her heart race – was the heir to the enormous house and surrounding land. He was the only son of the most important family in the area. The funny, teasing, laughing Kit was landed gentry.

  She couldn’t take it in.

  She didn’t need to. What did it matter who Kit was? Daisy already knew how she felt about him. Her heart had told her everything that mattered.

  Chapter 5

  Daisy, July 1914

  “Heavenly day for a dip!”

  Daisy, who’d been dozing in the sunshine, looked up to see Kit striding across the beach with a wicker basket swinging from one hand. He was simply dressed in linen trousers and a white shirt, and as he approached her the sun turned his hair to gold. For a brief moment he looked like an angel. When he sat down beside her and produced a bottle of ginger beer, Daisy decided this must be exactly what he was. After a morning spent swimming in the salty sea (wearing the hated woollen suit this time) and basking in the sunshine, she was thirsty.

  “Fancy seeing you here!” she teased, sitting up and tucking her hair behind her ears as he handed her a bottle.

  “I know. We must stop bumping into one another like this.” He flipped the stopper on his bottle and clinked his drink against hers. “Here’s to saltwater swimming and its myriad health benefits.”

  “Myriad? Is that one you’re trying to work into a poem? I can’t imagine it’s easy to rhyme,” Daisy said, and he rolled his eyes.

  “You’d be surprised at the extent of my poetical skills, Miss Hills. I’m a very well-read man. I don’t suppose Shakespeare had to put up with such disrespect!”

  “You’re comparing yourself to Shakespeare now? I feel very honoured such a future bard would spend time with me!”

  He tickled her ribs until she gasped and shrieked for mercy.

  “There’s nobody I’d rather spend my time with,” he said gravely and once she’d recovered her breath.

  “Same here,” Daisy replied, and they sipped their ginger beer in companionable silence while the waves broke on the shore and the gulls danced and called to each other high above.

  Daisy meant every word. She had never had a friend like Kit or felt about anyone the way she did about him. In the weeks since their first meeting they’d seen each other every day, either at t
he cove for a swim or on the cliffs for a walk, and Daisy could no longer imagine a world without him playing a part in it. She was becoming accustomed to life at the Rectory, where she had taken over organising the daily meals and helping to keep house. Already she’d adopted a routine: after breakfast she would help Nancy clear the plates and then clean some silver or organise the flowers in St Nonna’s, before slipping away to meet Kit. Reverend Cutwell was delighted to observe that all the swimming and fresh air were working wonders for her health, even going so far as to concede that saltwater bathing might not necessarily be the work of Satan – but Daisy knew that the sparkle in her eyes and the flush of colour in her cheeks were attributable to something other than the fresh Cornish air and swimming. Her appetite was good, she brimmed with energy and she was always singing as she went about her chores. Falling in love was a far better cure for her health problems than anything her papa could have devised. She’d put on weight, her skin was dusted with a cinnamon sprinkle of freckles, and her brown eyes were bright. Even the red curls tumbling to her waist bounced with health. When she regarded her reflection in the speckled bedroom mirror, Daisy was pleased. She even thought she was developing a bust at last; she’d spent ages turning sideways to admire it until Nancy, coming in to clean, had interrupted her mid-preen.

  “Who is he, Miss?” Nancy had demanded, hands on hips and blue eyes full of curiosity.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Daisy had retorted. There was no way she was telling Nancy anything about Kit, even though the two girls had become friends of a sort. No, Kit was Daisy’s wonderful, magical secret.

  Nancy had snorted. “You must take me for a fool, Miss Daisy. It’s as plain as day you’re mooning over a fellow.”

  “I am not!”

  “You are too! It had better not be my Gem,” Nancy had warned, wagging a finger. She and Gem were officially courting now.