The staff officer swallowed, and Sergeant Duckworth bit back a grin. They both knew that Adam had every right to request a written order, but that by the time the message got through the brigadier would probably have lost interest, thereby giving the men a couple more hours’ much-needed sleep.
Further down the line, a shell burst. The officer ducked. Adam didn’t. The officer straightened up, visibly impressed. He was too inexperienced to appreciate that Adam wasn’t being brave; he simply knew by the sound that the shell wasn’t close enough to do any damage.
‘That’s shell sense, that is,’ Adam heard Sergeant Duckworth telling the officer as he and Dog started back for the dugout. ‘Captain Palairet knows what he’s about.’
No he doesn’t, thought Adam. Nobody does. That’s the point.
Back at his dugout, he poured himself a drink, then snatched half an hour’s sleep.
He awoke with a start. All was quiet, save for the scuffling of the rats and the distant crump of the shells. He knew he wouldn’t sleep again, so he got up, fed Dog, and took out his sketch pad. At the entrance to the dugout, a trio of skulls poked through the mud like mushrooms, and on one of them sat a rat as big as a cat, nibbling something clutched in its paws. Adam settled down to draw.
He was working on the tail when Birtwhistle came down the steps, drew his revolver, and spattered the rat across the duckboards.
‘I was drawing that,’ Adam said mildly.
‘Sorry, old man,’ said Birtwhistle. He threw himself onto his bunk and began immediately to snore.
Adam stooped to retrieve the Danger de Mort sign which had been knocked off the table by a fragment of rat. He didn’t feel like starting another sketch. Time to open the parcel he’d been saving.
Sibella had been more than usually generous: four bottles of cognac, a dozen pocket classics, five cashmere shirts, a little glass tube of quarter-grains of morphine, and an expensive-looking box from a Mayfair chemist containing a dozen gelatine sheets impregnated with cocaine. A useful present, said the label, for friends at the Front.
Adam set aside the cocaine to give to Birtwhistle, and arranged the other items on the writing desk. Then he opened Sibella’s letter.
It’s a bribe, of course, she wrote disarmingly, but my younger brother Lyndon will shortly be joining the battalion, so be a dear and keep an eye on him? Oh, and I expect you’ve already heard, but your cousin Osbourne has got his blighty at last! A decent wound to the calf, nothing too horrific . . . Which is hardly surprising, thought Adam with wry amusement, since Osbourne had inflicted it on himself.
He is great friends with dear Belle, Sibella went on, and I fancy that he would like it to develop into something more . . . Adam broke off reading with a frown. He didn’t like the sound of that at all. What the devil was Osbourne playing at? . . . which would be awfully sweet, don’t you think? Belle, of course, isn’t letting on whether she has feelings for him or not, and I’ve given up asking. With Belle one never really knows.
But we’re having such fun now that she’s out! And she does dress divinely. Some people frown on that, and say that these days it’s bad form even to dress for the theatre. Personally, I consider it a duty to look decent for the troops. Besides, it’s not as if the dear girl is turning into one of those appalling ‘flappers’, who smoke in public and lunch out alone. And having lots of boyfriends cannot of itself make one fast, now can it?
And now some complaints, so if you’re feeling low, you’d better stop reading right away. This rationing is getting out of hand. I now have a ‘meat card’, a ‘food card’ (isn’t meat a kind of food?), and a ‘sugar card’. I got into the most frightful muddle the other day when Cook was down with the ’flu. It seems so bizarre, the notion of sugar being rationed! Why, even in quite decent restaurants, the waiters refuse to leave the sugar bowl on the table, in case one steals the lot. And when I think of the acres of the stuff we had at Parnassus! But of course, if one can afford it, one can still get practically anything on the good old BM, so perhaps I oughtn’t to complain.
Although on reflection, yes, I think I ought. These air raids are no longer amusing. Only a few months ago – did I forget to mention it? – a bomb fell just yards from Piccadilly Circus! Blew out all the windows of Swan & Edgars, but left Eros unscathed. Perhaps one should read something into that, though I can’t think what.
Anyway, the whole thing is unutterably beastly, so hurry up and deal with the Hun. PS – I almost forgot! You remember Dodo Cornwallis? Of course you do, you were with her youngest brother when the poor sweetheart was shot. Well, dull little Dodo has gone and snared herself a duke! Dodo! Isn’t it killing?
‘Killing,’ murmured Adam with a smile. Darling Sibella. What would he do without his weekly dose of gossip? Over the years, her letters had grown far more addictive than poor Birtwhistle’s cocaine.
He knew that this was not a flirtation in the traditional sense. Sibella Clyne relished her independence as a wealthy young widow far too much to endanger it; and she must be aware, as was he, that they had nothing in common. But he suspected that she liked the notion of corresponding with an officer at the Front, and he pictured her telling her friends, ‘The poor dear absolutely depends on my letters, it’s really rather sweet.’
‘Eh?’ grunted Birtwhistle in his sleep. ‘What’s that?’
‘Shut up,’ said Adam, ‘you’re asleep.’ He opened the second letter.
It was much shorter than Sibella’s. I hear that the divorce has gone through, wrote Drum Talbot, and that you’re now a free man. I just wanted you to know that if I ever had to choose between you and my sister, I should choose you, every time.
Adam twitched in irritation. Drum wasn’t playing the game; he was being too honest. If you need a billet on your next leave, he went on, do look me up. In fact, please do anyway. The thing is, old man, I’ve been a bit of a muff, and got myself into a spot of bother. I could use your help. Or at least, your advice. You’re so much cleverer than I. I can never seem to . . .
Adam put down the letter. The prospect of his next leave was beginning to weigh on him. The last time, Drum had met him at Waterloo Station, and whisked him off to an endless whirl of parties and jazz clubs. Dodo, Clive, Binty, Sibella . . . they’d all been there, although as usual he’d just missed meeting the infamous Isabelle Lawe, who’d been at a house party in Somerset. Through it all he’d smiled and laughed, and felt like a Martian. The idea of doing it again made his head ache.
Pocketing his letters, he stood up. There was a report to make on the state of the concertina wire in front of the trenches. He whistled to Dog, and together they set off down the line to find Sergeant Duckworth.
Because of the snipers, Adam had to use a periscope to view the wire. As he was leaning it against the top of the parapet of the first section to be surveyed, with Sergeant Duckworth standing by to take notes, a bullet cracked through the sandbag an inch from Adam’s jaw.
If the sergeant hadn’t been with him, he would have sunk to the ground in shock. Instead he merely remarked, ‘Rather close, that one.’
‘As you say, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Looks like the parapet’s only one sandbag thick just here. Best watch out.’
‘Quite.’
With Dog padding after them, they proceeded slowly along the line. It was a clear night with a white frost, and the stars were bright. Far to the west, they were shelling the German lines. Adam watched a yellow flare trail like a comet across the darkness; crimson cloudlets of shrapnel shells; green shellfire bursting in long, dreamlike arcs.
It was breathtakingly lovely. For a moment, Adam forgot that he was standing up to his bootstraps in stinking trench mud; he forgot the scuffling of thousands of rats. Through the periscope he watched a glowing green wave of gas beginning to unfurl and roll slowly towards the line. It was too far off to threaten his men, and as he watched its silent progress it was hard to believe that it might be bringing agony and death to others. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured.
/> ‘What’s that, sir?’ said the sergeant with a start.
Officers weren’t supposed to say that sort of thing. But suddenly Adam felt too tired to put on an act. ‘The gas,’ he said. ‘It looks so beautiful. The colours. They’re almost—’
Something hit him in the chest like a sledgehammer.
He felt no pain. He spun round and sat down heavily in the mud, and the War simply dropped away.
Chapter Ten
Kyme Castle, Lincolnshire, September 1918
Dodo sent Belle a note by a footman, asking her to come to her rooms after tea, and Belle went, bursting to share her news.
‘Not a word to anyone,’ Osbourne had told her. ‘Not a word, infant. I shall need time to square it with my people.’
Of course she’d agreed. To keep the secret, she’d hung his ring on a chain round her neck, and tucked it under her bodice. But as she followed the footman down the endless passages, she kept putting her hand on it to make sure it was real.
A secret engagement. How like Osbourne to come up with something so romantic. Although ‘secret’ presumably only meant not telling the outside world. Dodo must be told at once. And Belle couldn’t wait to write to Eden. She’d already drafted the letter hundreds of times in her head.
They would adore Osbourne. Everything about him was so right. For a start, he was a Palairet. And he had money of his own, which proved that he wasn’t after hers. And he’d been in the army, so Papa was bound to approve.
Now at last she could go home. After six years of thinking up reasons why she couldn’t possibly go back to Jamaica even for a visit, she could finally dare to try. Once she was married to Osbourne, she would be safe. She would persuade him to take her to Jamaica for the honeymoon, and they would stay at Eden, and she’d get to know the twins, and see Mamma. And Papa would smile at her as he used to when she was little. He would be proud of her again . . .
The footman opened the doors and she found herself in an enormous, gloomy apartment with hangings of glacial blue silk.
‘Belle!’ Dodo ran to her and threw herself on her neck. ‘It’s so amazing at last to have you to myself!’
‘Steady on, Dodo!’ laughed Belle. ‘I’ve been staying with you for over three weeks!’
‘Oh, you know what I mean!’ Dodo seized her hand and dragged her into a small, cosy antechamber hung with rose damask.
Belle threw herself onto a sofa and fanned herself in mock exhaustion. ‘I had no idea Kyme was so vast!’
Dodo gave her a slightly strained smile. ‘I know, isn’t it the end? On our first night back from the honeymoon I had to ring for the butler, just so that he could lead me down to my guests.’
‘Guests?’ said Belle. ‘But you’d only just got back from your honeymoon.’
Dodo’s smile tightened. ‘We had forty-eight for a Saturday-to-Monday. It’d been arranged beforehand, but no-one had told me.’ She sucked in her lips. ‘Of course, Esmond was no use at all. “Over to you, old girl.” That’s what he said.’ She went to the window seat, and sat gazing out across the park.
It was unlike Dodo to talk so much about herself, and Belle wondered what was wrong. She decided that the news of her engagement could wait. ‘It’s a shame we haven’t been able to talk,’ she said. ‘Let’s make up for that now.’
Dodo turned back to her and smiled. Beside her, half hidden beneath a cushion, lay something small and book-shaped wrapped in a pink silk scarf. She put her hand on it, then drew back as if it burned. ‘It’s odd,’ she remarked, ‘but when we’ve only six or seven to stay, it’s always much harder to get away. Now that we’ve over sixty it’s easy, because nobody knows where I am.’
‘Is that when you come up here?’ asked Belle.
Dodo nodded. ‘My sanctuary.’
Belle looked about her at the rose-covered sofas littered with magazines and half-finished petit point. She didn’t envy Dodo her exalted position, or this vast, cold mansion on the Lincolnshire coast, but she envied her her stability. Being married must bring such peace.
This, thought Belle, is how married people live. No more endless rounds of packing and unpacking, and trailing about the country for interminable house parties. No more slipping in and out of gentlemen’s rooms; no more having to get rid of them afterwards. This is what I’ll have when I’m married. I shall be safe.
From her window seat Dodo said, ‘You’re such a brick for agreeing to put in another week. This fancy dress party tonight. I don’t think I could stand it without you.’
‘Oh, Dodo—’
‘Did you manage to square it with Sibella?’
Belle raised her eyebrows. ‘Not exactly sure. I sent her a wire two days ago, but haven’t had a reply. But don’t worry, it’s not like her to sulk for long.’
There was silence between them. Then Dodo put her hands in her lap, as if to mark a change of tone. ‘Well,’ she said breezily, ‘let’s talk about you. You look as if something amazing has happened. Or should I say someone?’
Belle studied the lines of strain on her friend’s face. ‘Let’s start with you,’ she said. ‘After all,’ she added with a smile, ‘you’re the duchess.’
Dodo did not return her smile. She’d put on a little flesh since her marriage, and someone – perhaps the dowager duchess – had persuaded her into pastel muslins of unimpeachable dullness, which did nothing for her colouring. Belle thought she looked as if she was about to fade into the wallpaper. If, that is, anything so vulgar as wallpaper could have been found at Kyme.
‘Belle,’ said Dodo with a frown, ‘I have the most tremendous favour to ask of you.’
Belle got up and went to sit beside her. ‘Anything. What is it? You’re not – in some kind of trouble?’
But what sort of trouble could Dodo be in? Gambling debts? A lover? Sniffing too much snow? None of that seemed to fit. Dodo had always been the good one at school.
Dodo was shaking her head. Then she took a deep breath, and drew the silk-wrapped parcel from under the cushion, and put it in Belle’s lap. ‘There. I need you to hide this for me.’
Belle looked down at the parcel. ‘Of course. But – am I allowed to see what it is?’
To her surprise, Dodo blushed scarlet. Then she gave a tight little nod.
Belle unwound the crêpe de chine – and relief bubbled up inside her. It was a brand new copy of Married Love. She tried not to laugh. ‘Marie Stopes? But Dodo, why on earth—’
‘I had the most frightful time getting hold of it,’ said Dodo in a rush. ‘In the end I had to ask Celia, and she—’
‘But why couldn’t you just buy a copy? Everyone’s reading it, it’s in all the shops.’
Dodo gave her a wan smile. ‘Darling, duchesses don’t go into shops. They have things sent up, or they sit outside in the Bentley, while the shop man comes out in a morning coat and takes their instructions.’
‘Oh,’ said Belle. ‘I see what you mean.’
Dodo twisted her long hands together. ‘Besides, I haven’t any money. I mean, I have if I want it. All I need to do is send down a cheque, and someone goes to the bank and brings back the money. But then I’ve got to write everything down in the accounts book, and every second Monday I’ve got to go to Esmond’s study and have them vetted. I’m such a muff at sums, I always get them wrong. So I’ve sort of – given up.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Belle. ‘I didn’t understand. Of course I’ll hide this for you, if you want. But – won’t that be inconvenient? What about finding somewhere in here?’
‘I couldn’t possibly. The maids would find it. Besides, a book would stand out like a sore thumb. Esmond detests bookish women.’
Belle began to feel guilty. Compared to Dodo’s, her life was so free. She had the whole of the second floor at Berkeley Square, and Sibella was a chaperon in name only. Belle went where she pleased, did what she pleased, with whom she pleased. She wasn’t exactly happy, but she was at least busy. And now this sudden chance with Osbourne . . .
‘Th
e thing is,’ said Dodo, cutting across her thoughts, ‘I thought it might help.’
Belle looked at her blankly.
‘The book. That’s why I got it.’
‘Oh,’ said Belle. Then understanding dawned. ‘Oh,’ she said again. Suddenly she wanted to be anywhere but here. She and Dodo had never talked about ‘that sort of thing’. Belle had never talked about it with anyone. The mere thought gave her a hot, prickly, crawling sensation all over; a sick feeling that she was about to be found out . . .
‘You see,’ began Dodo, going scarlet again, ‘Esmond’s not awfully keen on – well, on that side of things.’
‘Dodo, don’t—’
‘No, no, please, I have to tell someone.’
It was Belle’s turn to twist her hands in her lap.
‘I suppose,’ Dodo went on, frowning at her feet, ‘you could say that he’s – well. Not very good at stud. At least, he isn’t with me.’ She picked an imaginary thread off her afternoon gown. ‘At this rate I can’t imagine how I’ll ever get with foal. And then what shall I do? That’s what I’m here for. I mean, that’s why he married me.’
‘Darling, no!’ protested Belle. ‘Esmond – loves you.’ She coloured. They both knew that was a lie. Esmond had never loved anyone. He’d never shown the slightest inclination to marry until he’d turned fifty, when the dowager duchess – ‘the DD’, as everyone called her behind her back – had finally put her foot down, in the interests of ensuring the continuance of the ducal line, and a perfunctory engagement to Dodo had been the result.
Dodo raised her head and looked at her with brimming eyes. ‘Oh, Belle. You’re so beautiful and brilliant and popular. I’ve never understood why you’ve been such a good friend to me.’
‘Because you’re the best person I know,’ said Belle, and this time she spoke with total conviction. ‘I’ve never heard you say an unkind word about anyone. I can’t imagine being like that. I know I couldn’t do it, not even for a day.’ She put her hand on the book. ‘I’ll hide this in my trunk. Whenever you want it, just send to borrow my “Poiret scarf”.’
The Daughters of Eden Trilogy Page 91
