The Winter Folly

by Taylor, Lulu

  Nicky shook his head. ‘No. Don’t know him.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any reason why you should.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. Little Alexandra Crewe, all grown-up and married.’ He smiled at her cheekily. ‘Well, you beat me to it. I’m nowhere near all that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Do you live in London now?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I’m busy disgracing the family name. Pa is furious with me but I’ve told him I’m going to do what I want while I damn well can. He thinks I’ve gone totally off my rocker being a photographer. No better than a tradesman as far as he’s concerned. He doesn’t understand that it’s different now, practically respectable.’

  ‘So that’s what you do now?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked pleased with himself for a moment, his shoulders hunching in a kind of nonchalantly proud way. ‘You know the kind of thing – fashion. Art. Photo essays for literary magazines.’

  Alexandra was impressed. ‘And . . . foreign wars and things like that?’

  ‘Not exactly. No.’

  ‘Where will I have seen your work? In The Times? Or Vogue?’

  He laughed a touch ruefully. ‘Er . . . no, none of those, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then where?’

  He grinned. ‘All right, you’ve caught me out. I’m not doing much proper work, if you must know. I just do a lot of stuff on spec. I get pretty girls to model for me and then try my luck with the pictures in case anyone is interested. Sometimes they are. I got some published in the Picture Post recently, lovely shots of a girl by the seaside. And whenever I go to one of those ghastly deb parties, I take pictures of the girls for their parents, and then try and hawk them to London Life – what was the old Tatler till just recently. They’re in the market for that kind of thing. I spent an afternoon in the East End taking pictures of urchins to see if a magazine wanted them, but no one did. But I’m going to break through one of these days, see if I don’t.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ Alexandra said with complete sincerity. Nicky had always been impossibly glamorous as far as she was concerned.

  She noticed he was staring at her, his brow furrowed a little as his gaze moved over her face, looking at her in a different kind of way.

  ‘You know, you’re rather a looker under that awful makeup you’re wearing. You should come and pose for me.’

  She flushed, not knowing whether to be flattered or hurt. ‘Well—’

  ‘Really, I mean it. I’ve got a studio set up in my flat. Come and see me there and I’ll take your portrait. I’m quite good if I do say so myself.’

  ‘How did you amuse yourself today?’ Laurence asked as they sat together in the tiny room that was both their sitting and dining room, eating the meal she’d prepared.

  ‘I met an old friend, actually.’

  ‘Really?’ Laurence flicked his cool gaze up at her. His pale blue eyes always had a chilly look about them. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Not she. He.’

  Laurence’s fork stopped in the movement towards his mouth, hovered and then continued on its way. When he could speak again, he said, ‘Who is this “he”?’

  ‘A friend from home. Nicky Stirling.’

  ‘Stirling . . . Yes, I’ve heard of them. The family from that big house near your village.’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right. We used to play together as children. It was very strange seeing him again; he’s changed so much. He’s a photographer now. He suggested taking my portrait.’

  Laurence put down his fork. ‘Did he? That’s an odd career for a man like him. He’s probably just amusing himself. I don’t suppose there’s any harm in you sitting for him.’ He looked thoughtful and she could see ideas passing through his mind as clearly as a film playing out. He was thinking about how it might enhance his social cachet to have an aristocratic photographer take his wife’s picture. They would frame the result and prop it up on the side table, and when visitors came and admired it, Laurence would be able to say casually that it had been taken by an old family friend, Nicky Stirling, the heir to the Northmoor title, had they heard of him?

  ‘You don’t mind then?’ Alexandra ventured timidly.

  ‘No, of course not. Arrange something. And we must have him to supper to thank him for his interest.’

  Alexandra thought of the scrap of paper in her coat pocket with Nicky’s strong black handwriting scrawled across it: a number and the words Telephone me tomorrow morning.

  ‘All right,’ she said, a flutter of excitement winging swiftly inside her. ‘I will.’

  The next day she had to find a telephone box to make her call, and she felt almost furtive as she left the barracks and walked into Knightsbridge like a spy on a secret mission. There was a public telephone by the station but she had to wait for a man in a mac to finish a very long conversation, and she stood there feeling foolish and faintly guilty. At last the man hung up and pushed his way out of the booth and she stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the sour smell within. She took out some coins, dropped one into the slot and pressed the button, then dialled the number that she already knew by heart, holding her breath as it connected. The ringing tone sounded a dozen times and she exhaled her disappointment. So that’s how it was. He hadn’t really meant it. He’d forgotten. A strange and unexpected grief pierced her; it was as though a shutter between her and the past had been raised for moment, letting her glimpse a forgotten world, and now it had slammed down again, leaving her in darkness. She slowly held out the receiver to replace it on its cradle when she heard the tinny sound of a voice emanating from it. ‘Hello, hello? Who’s that?’

  Gasping, she snatched it back to her ear as she reached out and pressed the second button so that her coin rattled downwards and she was connected. ‘It’s Alexandra. You told me to telephone you so I have.’

  A pause. Had he forgotten her entirely? Had she been presumptuous in thinking he really meant her to do as he’d suggested?

  ‘Oh, yes. The beautiful Miss Crewe. I mean . . . Mrs Sykes. I hoped you would call. Are you going to sit for me?’

  Her heart was thumping in her chest. ‘Yes . . . yes, please. I’d like to very much.’

  ‘Good. Come tomorrow at two. Don’t wear that make-up whatever you do.’

  She touched her cheek. It was quite bare. She’d already thrown the panstick in the bin. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Here’s the address. Are you ready?’

  Chapter Eight

  Present day

  John was in a good mood on Saturday morning, released from the burden of the VAT return which had been emailed to the accountant the previous afternoon. When Delilah woke, he was lying next to her propped on one arm, gazing down at her with a tender expression. She smiled happily at him, blinking sleepily, and he bent in to kiss her.

  ‘Mmm, you taste delicious.’ He pressed his mouth to her ear. ‘I can’t resist you . . .’

  His lips trailed warm kisses down her neck, setting off a delightful tingle on her skin, then he returned to her mouth, kissing her gently and letting his tongue probe softly until she opened her lips to him.

  Delilah savoured the dark taste of her husband. At times like this, she felt the decade or so between them. He wasn’t a milk-and-honey boy but a man, and he tasted of musk and old leather, citrus cologne and what she imagined cigar smoke ought to smell like but didn’t. She loved the masculinity of his scent and the way it made her feel. Sometimes she recalled Harry, who now seemed bland and flavourless compared to John. She hadn’t really known that an almost mystical bond could be felt through sex until she and John had made love, and she’d experienced a deep, animal desire to be connected, and to give in return all the pleasure that was received. There was also his unembarrassed desire to dominate without being dominating, and after years of Harry deferring to her in every way, it had been exciting and invigorating to feel that she didn’t have to be in complete control. It was part of what had made her fall so giddily, so addictively in love.

  His hand wen
t to the silkiness of her nightdress and he pulled down the straps so that her breasts fell free of it. He slid it off her and discarded it, then took her breasts in his hands and kissed each one softly. She let out a long breath. She hadn’t realised how much she wanted this or how much she’d missed this feeling of pure desire. Sex had been mechanical for them lately, performed with the end of pregnancy firmly in mind. But now she was hungry for his mouth and body, and she pulled him to her quickly, wanting to feel the firmness of his chest against hers and run her hands along his broad back and down to his buttocks. He brought his mouth to her neck, kissing and anointing her skin with tiny licks and nips. She murmured appreciatively as he worked his way up to her mouth, and kissed her hard again, his passion stronger now. She could feel his hunger for her and she pressed back against him, relishing the way his hardness dug into her belly, eager to possess her. She dropped her hand downwards and found the soft opening in his pyjama bottoms, reaching in to touch him. He moaned softly as she wrapped her hand around him.

  ‘I can’t wait long for you,’ he warned.

  ‘I don’t want you to.’

  He pulled off his pyjamas in a quick movement as she lay back to welcome him, lifting her arms to him and relishing the weight of his body as he rolled onto her. She knew that he loved the feeling of her soft belly and breasts under him and the way she opened herself to him. He sighed with pleasure as he ran his hand over her hips and along the curve of her waist. She curled her legs around his thighs, urging him to find the place and there he was. It was so familiar and yet each time she revelled in the sensation of their bodies being joined, and the delicious fulfilment as he pressed home.

  They didn’t speak but stared into each other’s eyes, reading the emotions there. They could see that they were both at the mercy of their physical passion as it grew stronger and fiercer, both finding excitement in the other’s arousal. She pulled him closer and deeper, rising up to meet him, feeling as though she would never be able to have enough of him. But their morning passion was fast and urgent and the end came quickly, as their desire for one another sped them on until they both reached the brink of pleasure.

  When they were lying together afterwards, she sighed contentedly, happy that they had made love with such enthusiastic enjoyment after the way it had been recently. ‘That was very nice.’

  ‘It always is. You always are.’ He trailed his finger along the soft flesh of her inner arm and said slowly, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been a grouch lately. I know I’m not easy to live with sometimes. You’re so good to put up with me.’

  She grasped at the feeling of connection between them. ‘Are you okay? You’ve been so down, and you seem to be getting more morose, not less.’

  John looked away and sighed, rubbing one hand across the dark stubble on his chin. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t explain it . . . this place. It’s hard for me, you know? Sometimes I feel like this house wants to smother me alive. There’s no end to the demands it makes on me. And then there’s Dad.’ His expression saddened. ‘He’s getting worse. It’s taking him away from me. For years, it was just the two of us and now that his memory is going, it’s taking the past – my life, I mean – with it. I’m going to spend the morning with him today and I’m dreading it, dreading seeing what else has been lost. There’ll only be me left to remember soon. It feels very lonely.’

  She felt a surge of sympathy for him and squeezed his arm for comfort. ‘Oh, darling – we can build new memories together.’

  He smiled wanly. ‘I hope so. Fingers crossed.’ He paused and said, ‘Are you doing your pregnancy test today?’

  ‘Later,’ she said, trying to hide the tremor of anxiety she felt at the thought. ‘I’ve run out of kits. I’ll need to pick up some more.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, dropping a kiss on her cheek. ‘Let me know when the big moment happens, won’t you?’

  Saturday breakfast was a long, lazy meal served in the round blue dining room in an old-fashioned way that always reminded Delilah of a hotel, with napkin-lined bread baskets, hot dishes with sausages, bacon and scrambled egg, and coffee served in a silver pot. As she poured out some milk, she said, ‘Why don’t I come over with you this time?’

  John looked up from his porridge and the newspaper. Erryl had dropped the papers off early that morning, and then they were left to themselves for the rest of the weekend since Delilah had put a stop to the tradition of Janey coming to do Sunday lunch every week. When it was just the two of them, she was happy to do it herself; if there were visitors to entertain, she appreciated Janey taking the strain of cooking. ‘Come where?’ he asked.

  ‘To visit your father, of course.’

  John’s expression became closed, almost anxious. He sighed and took a sip of his coffee, before saying, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’d like to.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’d want to spend a perfectly nice Saturday morning sitting with an old man you barely know – a man who’s never going to know you. He hardly remembers who I am half the time.’

  ‘But I’m part of the family now. I want to show support – both for him and for you.’

  John looked over at her, a touch of pleading in his eyes. ‘Darling, I’d find it more supportive if you stayed away. It’s tedious enough for me, answering the same questions over and over again. I’d find it uncomfortable if you had to endure the same thing, without even the memory of my father as he used to be to sustain you through the boredom.’

  She stared back, not sure what to say to that. It seemed odd that there was this kind of division between people who lived so close to one another, with her in the big house and the old man in the coach house next door, and only John allowed to move between the two. She ate a spoonful of her own porridge slowly, savouring the nutty, salty taste softened by a swirl of cold cream. She said, ‘I think you’re worrying too much. I met your father in the garden the other day and he was perfectly fine.’

  ‘Oh?’ John stiffened for a moment and blinked rapidly. Then he sat back in his chair and fixed his gaze on her. He looked so handsome, she thought, in his old cotton shirt, washed to down-like softness, and dark jeans. ‘Did you two have a chat? Did he remember you?’

  She hesitated before answering, wondering why John seemed just a touch anxious, then said, ‘He didn’t know me, I’m afraid. But if he saw me more often, perhaps he might get to know that we’re married.’

  ‘I shouldn’t count on it,’ John said, his gaze turning back to the cricket reports in the paper. ‘He barely remembered who Vanna was, and that was before he lost his marbles.’

  Delilah said nothing, hurt by the mention of Vanna and the inference that if the old man couldn’t remember the stylish and fascinating Vanna, he was hardly likely to recall boring Delilah. At least, that was what it sounded like to her. She wanted to laugh it off but somehow felt wounded.

  ‘Did he say anything else?’ John asked idly as he turned the page.

  ‘Yes, actually.’ It was, Delilah thought, the perfect opportunity to ask about what had been niggling at the back of her mind. ‘He seemed to think I was someone called Elaine. He was quite insistent that I was her, even when I tried to tell him that I wasn’t.’

  John went quite still and his jaw tightened.

  ‘Do you know who that is?’ she asked. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’

  There was a small pause and he replied, ‘No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. It must be someone from his distant past. That means more to him than the present these days.’ He began to move quickly, putting down his paper, drinking the last of his coffee and pushing back his chair all at once. ‘You can see why it’s pointless coming to spend a morning with my father. If he thinks you’re someone else, then it’s only going to confuse him, isn’t it? Much better if we do it my way. I’ll see you at lunchtime.’

  A moment later she heard the kitchen door slam, indicating that he’d gone out that way to take the shortcut to the coach house.

  ‘Bloody man!’ she said w
ith exasperation, putting down her spoon. He’d used her question about the mysterious Elaine as a reason to stop her going with him to see his father.

  I can’t understand it, she thought. Why wouldn’t he want me to go with him? Surely I could make it easier for him.

  She sat back in frustration, wondering why he refused her help. At first, the two of them had been so connected, but all the passionate lovemaking and long hours wrapped in each other’s arms talking had not made him share every part of his complicated heart with her. Now she was worried by how much they seemed to be moving apart. Ever since she’d come to the house, John’s misery appeared to be increasing. His nightmares came more often and his dark moods were more frequent, as though something inside him was tormenting him with ever greater force. And yet he refused to let her in. How could she help him if he didn’t? And what would her life be if the man she loved gradually turned into a stranger tortured by the burden of his inheritance and yet unwilling to change anything?

  It must be the house, she thought. That and his father. It’s all I can think.

  It seemed that there was only one way she could ease his pain. John appeared to have placed all his hopes of salvation in a baby, and the longer they went without a sign of one, the worse things were becoming. She stood up, a wave of anxiety flooding through her. Was that the only way she could heal him? And what if her growing fear proved correct? What if they – or she – couldn’t have a child?

  She shivered and pushed that vision of the future from her mind, and began to lay the breakfast dishes on the mahogany tray.

  Delilah missed Janey’s solid, amiable presence in the kitchen. She wondered idly if she could take Ben a cup of tea in the garden, then remembered that it was Saturday and he would be in his cottage over at Home Farm, and was disappointed. It occurred to her that she could surprise him with a visit. She could see him now, slouchy in jeans and a T-shirt, out of those gardening things for once, his feet bare and his hair wet from the shower. His grey-green eyes would widen with surprise, then a smile would broaden across his face, and he’d say, ‘Delilah! This is an unexpected pleasure. Why don’t you come in?’ She knew he would be happy to see her. She would do it. She would get in the car, drive the couple of miles over to the farm – it was part of the Fort Stirling estate and not far away – and she would take him something nice from the garden as a pretext . . . She stopped unloading the breakfast tray and stood stock-still in the kitchen.