The Letter

by Ruth Saberton

  Daisy curled her hands into fists and dug her nails into her palms as she fought to hold her nerve. Mama would never have allowed herself to be bullied in this way, and neither would she. Daisy would keep her dignity and she would remain polite, but she would not be cowed.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said evenly. “However, you’re wrong about your son’s intentions towards me. They were truly honourable. Kit and I are engaged to be married.”

  Disbelief flared in the older woman’s eyes. “Never!”

  Slowly Daisy pulled Kit’s letters from her pocket and passed them over. They made a thick bundle and her heart swelled to think of the words of love and the promises they contained. A mere glance at these would be all it took to make his mother accept the truth. Then Daisy could ask where Kit had been lost in action and leave the Manor as fast as she could. If she never saw the house or Lady Rivers again, it would be too soon. If she didn’t know better, Daisy would have said that Kit’s mama was insane.

  Lady Rivers scanned the letters.

  “And the ring?” she said eventually. “It exists?”

  Daisy held out her hand. Without uttering a word, Lady Rivers reached for Daisy’s fingers and held them up so that she could scrutinise the ring in the light. The diamonds sparkled with the same brilliance as Kit’s love, Daisy thought, and she could tell by the frown creasing his mother’s brow that she understood the significance of it. This was no shallow fling. Kit Rivers had been serious about marrying Daisy Hills.

  “My son has exquisite taste in jewellery, at least,” was all she said.

  “We are engaged,” Daisy answered quietly. “I love Kit and he loves me. We’ll be married as soon as we can.”

  “Nonsense! Even if you were engaged, he’s dead!”

  “Lady Rivers, Kit’s not dead!” Daisy cried. “I know it makes no sense but I trust my feelings. If you’ll only tell me where he was posted when he went missing, I can travel there and start to search for news. My father’s a surgeon with the Royal Army Medical Corps. He’ll know how to look for Kit and we’ll find him. I know we will.”

  A spasm of peculiar emotion crossed Lady Rivers’ face. It looked rather like fear.

  “You won’t find him. Christopher’s dead and he’s never coming back. Accept it.”

  What was the matter with this woman? She was Kit’s mother. She should be fighting too.

  “I can’t and I won’t accept that. Not ever. I love him and he’s my fiancé. You have the proof in your hands.”

  Lady Rivers glanced down at the letters and her face darkened. “Well, I’d better do something about that.”

  Then, before Daisy could stop her, she hurled Kit’s letters onto the fire.

  “No! No!” Horrified, Daisy leapt forward to try to snatch them back, but it was too late: the precious pages had burst into bright flames. With a cry of dismay she dropped to her knees, the heat searing her fingers as she tried to salvage the charred remains, only for them to turn to dust.

  Daisy was so distraught she couldn’t speak. Silence filled the drawing room, punctuated only by the hiss of the fire and the weary tick of the clock. Daisy marvelled at the pain that stabbed through her; it was as though she had lost Kit twice in one day. All his words, his thoughts, his outpourings of love were ash. Thank goodness she hadn’t brought his poems with her. Those were even more precious. She must find a safe hiding place for them, she realised now – one that Kit would be able to find should he return before her.

  Lady Rivers turned to Daisy. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss or is our business here concluded?”

  “Kit’s letters,” Daisy whispered. “You burned them.”

  “Yes. How very unfortunate that they slipped from my hand. Now it’s as though they – and you, for that matter – never existed.”

  In a swish of skirts Lady Rivers returned to her writing desk and picked up her pen. “See yourself out, Miss Hills. I have letters to write and arrangements to make. I would appreciate it if you could show some respect at this time of family mourning and leave Kit’s memory to his family.”

  As she walked away from the Manor, Daisy couldn’t stop shivering. The meeting with Lady Rivers had shocked her to the core. It broke her heart to have watched Kit’s letters burn, but she knew that her love for Kit didn’t abide in these items but in her heart – and no matter how bleak things felt and looked today, Daisy’s heart was telling her that Kit was alive. She would find him and they would be together.

  She would never stop looking. Tomorrow, her search would begin.

  Chapter 15

  Daisy, August 1916

  Daisy had no time to waste. Kit’s parents might be willing to accept that he was dead, but she never would. As she cycled home from the Manor, her soul stinging from Lady Rivers’ spitefulness and the loss of her precious letters, she blotted her eyes with her sleeve and gave herself a stern talking-to. She couldn’t crumple now; she had to be brave. After all, Kit and all those who were away fighting had suffered far worse. What were unkind words compared to shells and bullets? Lady Rivers’ insults had hurt her dreadfully but Daisy would survive them, just as she would survive the loss of her treasured letters.

  What Daisy couldn’t survive was losing Kit. How could she face a lifetime without him? She would have to begin the search as soon as possible, Daisy decided. Even without Lady Rivers’ help she would surely be able to trace him somehow. Getting in touch with his regiment might be a start. Perhaps Papa would be able to help. Her father was bound to have contacts at field and auxiliary hospitals. If she joined the VAD and was sent to France, she would at least be nearer to finding out where Kit had last been seen.

  This was not the end, Daisy vowed as she freewheeled down the lane with her hair flying, having left her hat in her haste to leave the Manor. She would search for Kit and she would never give up on him. Never.

  The Rectory was quiet when she returned. Daisy wheeled the bicycle around to the back of the house, then let herself in through the scullery door. There was no sign of Mrs Polmartin or Nancy, and the absence of the dog cart suggested that Reverend Cutwell was about on parish business. Daisy knocked softly on his study door and when there was no reply she opened it, exhaling with relief to find the room empty. Having selected some writing paper and envelopes from the drawer, Daisy headed to her room, where she spent the next hour writing a long letter to Kit, telling him her plans and promising that she would come to find him. This letter would never be posted but it helped Daisy to pour her heart out to him. Nobody disturbed her, and by the time she finished the letter and tucked it into her hiding place beneath the floorboards, twilight was seeping in from the woods. Then, and only then, did Daisy soak up the horror and the shock of her day and, in full grief, begin to cry.

  Tears fell down her cheeks as the fire of determination was quenched by cold reality. She cried for Kit and herself and for everyone whose lives had been blighted by this war. She sobbed and sobbed, stuffing the quilt into her mouth to muffle the sound, but images of Kit continued to tumble through her memory, followed by Gem’s laugh, Nancy’s once happy face and even Dickon’s swagger, all belonging to a lost and golden time when none of them had truly understood just how blessed they were. If only they had realised! If only she could go back to those sunny carefree days, even if just for a minute! This thought only made her cry harder, and by the time the sun vanished Daisy could scarcely breathe from weeping. Eventually she slipped into an exhausted sleep with the letter to Kit clutched in her hand.

  That night the dream came again and, as always, Daisy awoke in the small hours. Fragments of the nightmare fluttered past her eyes, but this time they didn’t panic her as they had in the past. Instead Daisy drew a strange comfort from them because Kit – she was certain now that it was Kit she sought in the dream – was still there, even if he was out of reach. He was waiting for her to catch up with him.

  So that was what she would do. First she would hide his poems in a safe place wher
e only she or Kit, should he return before her, could find them. Her diary and treasured things Daisy would leave here in the Rectory, safe and undiscovered until she came back to fetch them. Although it would pain her to part with these, she had already lost Kit’s letters and she couldn’t risk losing anything else on her travels. If she was to journey abroad to eventually help with nursing the injured there, it would be best to pack only the essentials to take with her. She would send Papa a telegram and prepare to join him.

  There was nothing left for her in Cornwall now.

  “My aunt’s having a séance,” Nancy told Daisy two weeks later. “Do you want to come before you go gadding off to France?”

  “Hardly gadding,” Daisy said mildly.

  Her skin rippled with anticipation. The telegram had worked its magic and her father had agreed she could join him in France. Daisy was too young to volunteer, but Papa thought he might be able to circumnavigate this issue. Even if he couldn’t, Daisy was determined to find a way.

  It seemed impossible that in just a few days’ time she would be sailing across the English Channel, with every mile bringing her closer to locating Kit. Daisy had refused to mourn or give up. All her energy was focused on finding Kit and their being reunited. Any tears had been shed in secret and she was resolved to move forward.

  “All the more reason to come to the séance,” Nancy was saying. “You’ll be able to know for sure then if he’s alive, won’t you? Save you wasting your time wondering.”

  Daisy stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “The séance,” Nancy repeated. “You do know what one is don’t you, Miss? It’s when dead people talk to you through a medium.”

  “I know what a séance is,” snapped Daisy. Spiritualism was growing increasingly popular since the war had started and she understood how some might find comfort in the idea that the dead could pass on messages. Papa said it was all a confidence trick with shysters preying on the grief-stricken, and Daisy was inclined to agree. The thought that the dead were floating about in some kind of foggy afterlife, where they may or may not be able to reach mediums, made her shudder.

  “It’s utter nonsense,” she said firmly. “Dead people can’t contact us.”

  “Do you know that for sure?” asked Nancy.

  Daisy shook her head. She didn’t know for sure, of course, but such a notion didn’t sound very likely.

  “Well, then. What’s to lose? Our Sal went to see a medium to speak to her Sid, who was killed at Wipers. Sal said she really did speak to him because he knew all kinds of things that only he would know.”

  “What a conversation to have in the house of a vicar!” exclaimed Mrs Polmartin. She glanced nervously around the kitchen just in case the Reverend Cutwell happened to be passing the scullery, and then added, “When’s this séance then, our Nancy?”

  “This afternoon,” Nancy said. “I’m going in case Gem comes through.”

  The thought of vibrant Gem with his dancing blue eyes, floppy dark fringe and infectious laugh being summoned from the afterlife made Daisy shiver. Surely it was nonsense?

  “Do you think this medium could talk to my Bertie?” Mrs Polmartin pressed. Her eyes were bright with hope.

  “Sal says she’s ever so good and she has all kinds of messages come through.”

  “You can’t believe all that claptrap?” Daisy asked.

  Nancy shrugged. “It has to be worth a try. Lots of people do believe it. You’d be surprised, Miss.”

  “I certainly would,” Daisy agreed.

  “It would be so wonderful to speak to Bertie again,” sighed Mrs Polmartin. She was stirring her tea round and around as she spoke, until the cup became a miniature whirlpool. She looked out of the window and her chins wobbled. “Do you know, Nancy, I may just go along. It can’t hurt, can it? And if she’s genuine then she’ll know I called him Bobo. That could be our test, couldn’t it?”

  “You don’t need to test her. Our Sally says she’s the real thing,” Nancy said, finishing her tea. “Up to you though.”

  “I think I will go,” decided Mrs Polmartin. “Will you come, Miss Daisy? Just to see?”

  Daisy wasn’t keen but in spite of her scepticism she found herself agreeing to accompany Mrs Polmartin, who was so excited she’d started to shake. Besides, it was a nice walk across the fields to the Trehunnists’ farm, with the last butterflies of summer dancing in the long grass and the skylarks soaring high above. She would miss Rosecraddick when she left, Daisy thought. It was here that she’d regained her strength and become a woman, so Cornwall would always hold a special place in her heart. This was her and Kit’s place and it was beautiful and bittersweet to her.

  The Trehunnists’ farm was on the westerly side of the village. When Daisy had arrived in Rosecraddick it had been neat and well managed, with smart fences, closely grazed paddocks and hedges that were regularly maintained. The fields had been filled with crops and the lane to the house had been gravelled and tidy. The women of the village and the assortment of men left behind had done their best to work the land, but it was a growing struggle. The fields they hadn’t managed were a tangle of long grass splashed with vivid ragwort and spiked with tall thistles, and the lane leading to the house was rutted and rough.

  Even the farmhouse looked desolate. The curtains were drawn in the windows, weeds grew through the path and tiles had slipped from the roof. The stables at the side, which Daisy recalled had housed the strong plough horses, were now dilapidated and smothered in ivy. Bees hummed in the wildflowers, heavy with pollen, and somewhere a pheasant called from the encroaching covert. The boys had been so keen to go away and fight that they hadn’t spared a thought of what might become of the home they were fighting for. Would any of it still be there when they returned? And how many of the lads who’d left so eagerly would return to restore order to the fields and the fences?

  None of it made any sense to Daisy. This war was a bad dream that showed no sign of ending.

  “Poor Anne Trehunnist,” remarked Mrs Polmartin, as though reading Daisy’s thoughts. “Two boys gone and her husband. What a cross to bear.”

  “There’s still Dickon,” Daisy pointed out, although in truth nobody had seen anything of him since he was invalided out of the army. The bully she remembered who’d taken such joy in causing trouble for her and Kit was suffering from what they were now calling “shell shock”. Kit had written of it in his poem Madness; the macabre images of men clawing at their eyes and rocking forwards and backwards muttering were straight from Hades. Nobody deserved that fate, no matter how vile that person might have been, and Daisy pitied Dickon with all her heart.

  Mrs Polmartin sighed. “Young Dickon’s not himself, Miss. Maybe he never will be again. Some say it would have been better if he’d died.”

  “That’s a wicked thing to say!” Daisy was shocked but the housekeeper shook her head.

  “There are some things worse than death,” was all she said.

  Daisy wanted to ask what this meant but Mrs Polmartin’s face had taken on a shuttered look. Although the sun was shining, Daisy felt chilled and drew her shawl across her shoulders. She felt as though she was being watched. Maybe it was the shrouded look of the house?

  When Anne Trehunnist welcomed them at the front door, Daisy was taken aback to see the change in Dickon’s mother. She had been a plump woman when Daisy had arrived in Rosecraddick, always beautifully dressed on Sundays, and with the same thick blonde tresses as her sons and Nancy. It was impossible to believe that this thin and stooped figure with sparse grey hair scraped back into a bun was even the same person. Grief, Daisy thought, was like poison. Deep lines scored the sides of Mrs Trehunnist’s mouth now, and her eyes were the faded blue of a rained-out sky, as though all the tears shed had washed away the colour.

  Daisy and Mrs Polmartin were shown into the dining room, where the brocade curtains were drawn and the lamps were lit. The fire was burning in the grate and shadows leapt across the walls. Nancy was alre
ady seated at the table with several other women Daisy knew from the village. The only one she didn’t recognise was a tall lady dressed in deep purple and with dark hair pulled back into a bun from a high forehead. She looked just like a headmistress, Daisy thought as she took her seat. There was nothing particularly mystical about her. Was she really a medium?

  Then she wanted to laugh at herself. Honestly. What was she expecting? A crimson cloak? A broomstick? Black cats? How Kit would tease her when she told him about this nonsense!

  The medium glanced at the gathered women and one by one they stopped chatting, until a hush fell.

  When the medium spoke, it was almost in a growl. “Lay your hands out,” she told them, indicating that they should starfish their hands on the table in a circle, with their fingertips touching. Daisy, in between Nancy and Mrs Polmartin, began to feel nervous. It wasn’t that she believed any of it; rather, this stuffy room was so filled with desperation and despair that she wished she hadn’t come here. Daisy longed to be outside and in the fresh air. Kit would never be in a place like this – alive or dead. She wished she could leave but the medium had already started, breathing heavily in and out through her nose and with her eyes closed.

  “With whom do we wish to speak today?” she asked.

  “My son!” Mrs Polmartin cried, pushing a picture across the table.

  The medium opened her eyes. They looked odd, Daisy thought: blank and far away. For a while the medium was silent. Then she began to speak in a low and halting voice. “B… There’s a B. That’s the start of his name. I’m getting B… B wants to speak to Em.”

  “That’s Bertie!” exclaimed Mrs Polmartin. “And I’m M! I’m Maude. Oh, it’s him! It is!”

  “I have a message from Bertie to Maude,” said the medium slowly. “Bertie wants to tell Maude that he needed the socks. The socks are warm, Ma. I’m so cold.”