by Peter Albano
The brothers rose unsteadily and left the room.
Elisa Blue actually lived only an hour’s drive from Fenwyck. East of the estate, her cottage was in East Kent south of Shepherdswell. Turning off the main road at Elham, the Jaguar entered a lane like a dirt track, lined with trees and thickets of shrubs and wildflowers. Slowing, Randolph geared down as the rev-counter dropped below two thousand rpms and the high-compression engine began to lug. There were potholes and rocks, the springs of the little machine compressing and rebounding as the tires bounced over the uneven surface. Randolph cursed fighting the wheel and working his accelerator and four-speed gear box. His knees began to ache and the long scar on his right leg sent pangs of pain up his side. Then a narrow beam of sunlight caught his eye, turned his head, and he was suddenly aware of the rare beauty around him. He forgot his aches and pains. The road suddenly became smooth and the Jaguar seemed to glide.
He had never seen such lush countryside. As he slowed the car and looked around, silver shafts of sunlight broke through the branches and fronds, painting the leaves and flowers theatrically, bringing out rare hues of lilac, heliotrope, amethyst, scarlet, and salmon pink in clusters of honeysuckle, bluebells, daisies, poppies, buddleia, red campion, and many other flowers Randolph did not recognize. He saw wild blackberries, mistletoe, holly, chestnuts, and fruit crowding through thick growths of rhododendrons, hollyhocks, foxgloves, nettles, ferns, golden saxifrage, and hazel. When he could see the ground, it was carpeted with mat-grass and honey fungus like round toy stools for tired elves. Oak, poplar, willow, and elm crowded the road in elegant ranks like dancers on the stage of the Royal Ballet, soughing and swaying in the coying breeze and splashing the ground and passing motor car with ever-changing patterns of light. Sparrows, nightingales, and pigeons whirred through the branches in flocks while jackdaws scolded the intruder angrily. Giant butterflies delicately clothed in vivid blues, yellows, and reds staggered through the air in swarms like party confetti. It was breathtaking. Awesome. And Elisa was here. Elisa was everywhere. He knew he was very close to the cottage without really understanding why.
The girl had not left his mind from the moment he met her. But it was hard for him to believe she was what he had actually seen—a delicate, unearthly creature as gossamer as a wisp of cloud slipping past his cockpit. He had been dazed by the hard landing, in shock from the sight of Coop’s frightful death. But she existed. He knew that. She had cleansed his wound and invited him back. And now, he would see her again.
He heard the brook before he saw it, splashing and gurgling ahead of the slow-moving vehicle. Cresting a small rise, he found it below, a gravelly stream hurrying through the wood on its way to the sea, running across the road so that he had to ford it where the rocks had been cleared. In first gear, he splashed through the stream and then climbed the rise on the opposite side. Then he saw her cottage. It was unmistakable.
In a small clearing, it was as he remembered—stone and thatched with a patchwork of swarthy Kentish brick and tile running through the masonry where it had crumbled over the years. Flowers grew up to the building in casual patches and there were animals everywhere. Chickens in a coop, a cow in a small barn, a half-dozen unpenned rabbits, and a goat tethered to a willow behind the coop. Behind the house, the wood had been cleared and he could see small patches of potatoes, cucumbers, turnips, carrots, and many other vegetables. Berries vined up onto trellises, cabbages squatted in long leafy rows. To the south were the wheat field and the small meadow where he had landed. There was order and peace everywhere. An island. A vacuum. His memory was accurate. There was no war here. No fighter sweeps. No maddeningly calm voice in his earphones coldly ordering his lads to their deaths. No eviscerated Coop Hansen and grinning Erich Kochling. And then he saw her. .
Dressed in a bright white spotless cotton dress nipped in at her tiny waist by a shiny patent-leather belt, she walked from behind the house. Braking the Jaguar to a stop, Randolph leapt to the ground, knees suddenly free of pain. Facing the girl who was very near, he caught his breath. She was lovelier than he remembered. The long fine hair was truly golden and in the playful breeze it moved and flowed cloud-like around her shoulders. The huge dark eyes spoke of Celtic heritage, sparkling blue like a tropical summer day. Her features were delicate with a fine straight nose and high molded cheekbones, lips chiseled like the petals of a rose. Balancing her head like an orchid on a stem, her neck was long and regal. Her smile showed perfect white teeth as she extended her hand. “I’ve been expecting you, Major,” she said with a voice that rang as clear as fine leaded crystal.
Holding the soft white hand in his, he was trapped in the blue depths of her eyes, realizing just how attractive she was. Not just physically or sensually. There was mystery and delicacy there and the fresh innocence of a child-woman as if she had stepped from the canvas of a Renoir painting. “You’re real,” he blurted. Feeling foolish, he released her hand and blushed like a schoolboy.
Her laughter was the sound of the brook he had just crossed. “I’m afraid I am, Major.”
He composed himself quickly. “Elisa Blue.”
“Yes. And you’re Major Randolph Higgins.”
“I’ve come for my summer wine.”
“Yes, Major. Your summer wine. I’ve been waiting for you.”
She took his hand and led him to the door.
He had not been mistaken about the cottage. The main room was filled with flowers: he saw them on two end tables flanking the sofa where he had sat when she washed his cheek, on the hearth of the rock fireplace, on a small sewing table in the corner, and on the heavy dining table next to the small kitchen. There were four windows in the room, artfully draped and curtained with lacy materials one rarely saw in an English farmhouse. Potted ferns on the sills grew in each one. Everything was in harmony like the foliage crowding the lane he had just driven; the colors of the flowers, the curtains the patterns of the ferns, the lovely sofa. And it appeared as if each object had even been chosen for size and shape, then carefully placed to complement and harmonize with everything around it. It all exalted life.
She led him to the sofa. As he followed her she seemed to glide as if she were moving to music. The lovely, intricately woven themes of Mozart and Haydn came to his mind. He seated himself but she remained standing. “I’ll get the wine,’’ she said.
She walked to the kitchen, which was only a small alcove sealed off from the room by a low wooden wall and pastel-colored curtains hanging from the ceiling. He could see a few shelves and a hand pump over a spotless porcelain sink. The floor was of oak, hand-hewn and roughly fitted. A curtained doorway in the far wall sealed off what Randolph was sure were rooms added in recent years. He guessed they were bedrooms and storage rooms.
She returned, handed him a glass filled with red liquid, and sank down on the sofa next to him. She placed a bottle on the table before them. “Cherry wine, Major, as I promised,” she said. She touched his glass with hers. They drank.
“Marvelous,” he breathed, holding the glass up to the light. It was clear, unclouded, and sparkled like a tropical sunset. “Never tasted anything as exquisite—delicate.”
“Thank you. Major.”
He took another sip. “How did you know I’d return?”
“I knew.”
“I took quite a thumping—was half off my wick. Might never have found your digs again without a parachute.”
She laughed. “You had no trouble.”
He nodded. “Came directly.”
She ran a finger over his cheek. “How is your injury?”
“You did a fine job. It’s healing very quickly and didn’t require a single stitch.”
“And your shoulder and your knees?”
“How did you know?”
“It was obvious.”
He rubbed his shoulder gently and flexed his knees and chuckled. “Seem to be fit.”
�
�You carry old wounds?”
“Yes. From the first one.”
“Why do you fly?”
“You think I’m too old!”
“No. Too tired. You need a rest.”
Surprisingly, Randolph was not offended by the boldness of the statement. Instead, his curiosity was aroused. “You know a lot about me.”
“I’ve seen you before. When I was a little girl you were driving like the wind on the Hythe road in your little motor car, nearly hit our wagon. Made my father very angry. And I saw you twice at the marketplace in Hawkinge. You live at Fenwyck. Your family has lived there for generations.”
He emptied his glass and she refilled it. “And you, Elisa, you live alone?
“I’m not alone.” She waved her hand in an encompassing gesture. “I have my animals—my flowers.”
“But where is your family?”
She refilled her glass. “My mother left the world when I came into it.” She sipped her wine, stared hard at the floor. “My brother went to sea in the Rawalpindi.”
Randolph felt an electric prickle on the back of his neck. The merchant cruiser Rawalpindi had been sunk in 1939 by Scharnhorst and Gneisenau with terrible loss of life. “I’m sorry. And your father?”
“He’s with the East Whittlesey Fusiliers in Singapore.”
Randolph smiled reassuringly. “Well, that’s a quiet theater.”
She nodded. “Yes. His letters complain of the boredom.” She looked up, a bright fresh smile on her face. She waved, “You like my home?”
“It’s enchanting. You have an eye for beauty.”
“I love life, Major. I love living things.”
“You have a lot of animals—a big farm.” She nodded agreement. “You can manage the lot all by yourself?” he asked.
“I can take care of the gardens and the animals.”
“You have wheat.”
“Yes. The army helps out, you know.”
“At harvest and planting?”
“Yes. They send young men. There’s quite a demand for wheat. Major.” She drank her wine and stared at him over the glass and then took him by surprise, “What’s it like up there? Do you feel closer to God?”
He mulled the question over and took a small drink. “You make marvelous wine, Elisa,”
“Thank you, but you didn’t answer my question.” He sighed, sank back, and spoke slowly, “You mean when other men aren’t trying to kill you?”
“Yes. Please leave out the killing.”
Randolph chose his words carefully, but spoke the truth of his feelings, “You’re by yourself. Totally, and in control of your own destiny, Elisa.”
“I didn’t ask that. I asked about God.”
“You’re closer to the ultimate reality.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of what you are, can be.”
“You don’t believe in God?”
“I can only believe in myself and my men. God has never stopped a machine-gun bullet.”
“You’re a cynic.”
Randolph laughed. “My brother said the same thing yesterday.”
She took his hand. “You should laugh more often, Major. Your smile is brilliant—warm. I’m happy the skies sent you.”
“Sent me?”
“Yes.” She brushed his cheek with her lips. It felt like cool satin against his flesh. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll make you a dinner you won’t forget.”
She moved closer and he could feel her arm, her hip and leg against him. Her eyes had not only caught his, they trapped him. Strangely, he felt nothing sensual or erotic in her closeness. But instead, there was a deep feeling of happiness—an ineffable joy a man might feel in finding a part of himself he had lost long ago. He felt young again but the feeling reversed and for the first time the gulf of years between them came home. “You need a young man. I have a niece and nephew older than you, Elisa.”
The blue of the eyes was heightened by moisture and she stared at him with the naiveté and honesty of a child. “I need you, Major. Come back tomorrow, please.” She grinned shyly, but held his eyes and wrapped her two tiny palms round his big hand. “I’ll prepare you a feast fit for Olympus.’’
“I loved your summer wine. I’ll return.”
They drank and talked of the farm, animals, crops, the sky, and flying. The words flowed around Randolph like leaves stirred by a vagrant breeze, his mind, his whole consciousness captured by the strange girl so close beside him. Words were only a device to keep her at his side. The hours passed and finally he rose. “Got to leave—sorry,” he said sincerely.
Her voice was heavy with disappointment, “So soon?” She came to her feet.
He pulled her close, brushed her cheek with his lips. He felt her tiny hands gripping his shoulders, her body against his. “Tomorrow,” she whispered. “Promise?”
He wanted to kiss her, taste her lips, her mouth, hold her so tight she blended with him. For the first time in his life, he held himself back. Somehow, it would have been obscene. He said simply, “I promise.”
They walked to the door hand in hand.
The next day Randolph arrived in the middle of the afternoon, carrying a large bouquet of orchids his grounds man had grown in Fenwyck’s hothouse. It was the best choice he could have made. She held them, caressed them, running a finger carefully over the delicate blooms as if she had to reassure herself they were real. She threw an arm around his neck and kissed his cheek, murmuring, “Thank you. Major. I’ve seen them at shows but never in my life have I ever had orchids of my very own.”
He could only answer, “I knew you’d like them.” He held her very close.
He almost groaned as she broke away and rushed to the kitchen. In a moment, she returned, carrying a vase filled with the gorgeous blooms. Chortling and laughing like a child on Christmas morning, she placed them on the table in front of the sofa. Suddenly she whirled, voice filled with anguish. “I’m sorry. I’m a terrible hostess. Would you like some wine?” She took both of his hands in hers.
He already felt heady just from her presence. “Not yet. Show me your place. Let’s walk,-Elisa.”
“Of course.”
She led him to the door and into the yard where the Jaguar was parked. Randolph felt a pang of discomfort. Suddenly the red machine did not belong here. She gestured at the animals and tiny outbuildings and spoke with pride, “I have a cow for milk, eggs from my chickens, and”—she pointed to her garden—”over there, potatoes, cucumbers, beets, carrots, leeks, onions.” She gestured at a small glass-covered shelter. “And in there, I have some luck with tomatoes and lettuce.”
Everything was as neat and spotless as her cottage. Not a weed grew in her garden. Randolph shook his head in disbelief. “You do all of this by yourself?”
She smiled proudly and nodded. He stared at her for a moment as the sun freed itself from a cloud and sent brilliant beams to bathe her. Moonlight was made for most women; the sun was created for Elisa. She wore it like a garment especially woven for her. Sunbeams played in her hair, turning it into a canopy of gold sparkling with gems. It painted her face with lustrous shades of ivory and falling snowflakes, and for the first time, he noticed tiny freckles like golden dots on her nose and cheeks. “You’re beautiful,” he said, holding her close. “So very beautiful.” Sighing, she snuggled and held him.
Then, laughing, she broke away, took his hand, and led him down a path into the woods. She knew each plant, each bird, and described them as if talking of members of her family. She walked close to him, always touching; sometimes reaching for his hand, sometimes grasping his shoulder, his arm, or pressing a hip against him when the path narrowed. She was life itself, the warmth of her touch and the music of her laughter rejuvenated him and he was young again. Just walking beside her erased the wounds, the pain, the heartache of dead comrades, made him fe
el vital and strong.
They crossed the brook by removing their shoes and leaping precariously from stone to stone, giggling when they slipped and splashed water up to their knees. Finally across, wet and giddy with the magic of the moment, they pulled on their shoes and reentered the forest.
“This is the most beautiful place on earth,” he said honestly.
She said nothing, but stopped him with a hand on his arm. Then she moved close and circled his neck with her arms. He ached for her with a deep yearning, wanting ache. Her mouth came to him eagerly and this time he could not deny himself.
Her lips were soft warm silk and she groaned as she clung to him. He kissed her nose, her cheeks, her forehead, her temple, her hair while her breath: came hard and warm and she cried out with delight.
Suddenly her hands were on his chest and she pushed gently and reluctantly. “Dinner,” she whispered. “I’ve prepared a feast for my major.”
She led him back to the cottage.
They sat close together on the sofa, sipping their after-dinner wine. Despite the absence of meat, the meal had been superb. First came a salad of lettuce, tomatoes, celery, and beets followed by a thick bean soup flavored with thyme, garlic, and onions. The entree was a baked dish of potatoes, eggs, cheese, spinach, and leeks delicately flavored with herbs. A superb carrot cake topped with whipped cream was the surprise dessert.
“You’re a magician,” he said, drinking his wine and holding her hand.
She stared straight ahead and then surprised him with her question. “Why do you do it, Major?”
“What?”
She stabbed a finger upward. “What you do up there?”
“I’m not sure.” He drank and then circled a finger around the room. “Maybe I do it so you can keep all this.”
“And you can keep Fenwyck?” She stared at him and he felt as if he were being penetrated by blue light. “You defend the realm?” He averted his eyes. “That’s not really true, is it?” she said.
“I’m not sure.”
