“Yes, Henry,” I said louder. “I am.”
“What?” he roared, his whole face red and contorted with rage. “You were going to marry me knowing that you had another man’s child inside you?”
“I’m sorry, Henry. It was a mistake. I can see that now.”
“Did you really feel you could get away with this?” He stood over me, looking down threateningly.
“I don’t know,” I said plainly, looking at my hands. “I thought it would be for the best, but now I see I was wrong.”
“We could have been married! We could have gone for years without me ever knowing! I wonder when exactly someone might have informed me, had not Kitty told me this morning?”
“It was Kitty,” I said quietly. Of course it was Kitty. She’s in love with him. She was using the only card she had left. Yet I couldn’t help feeling rather pleased she did it. Proud of her almost, in an odd kind of way. Although this was probably due to my immense relief that someone told him and put an end to this dreadful charade. I can’t believe I’d let myself think it was the best thing to do.
“Is that all you have to say? ‘Oh, it was Kitty!’ As if you don’t care at all?”
“I’m glad you know,” I said stiffly.
“Are you feeling some sense of remorse?” he said sarcastically. He sat beside me and leaned over, his face right in front of mine, threatening and vengeful. “Did you discover that deep down you may even have a conscience?”
“I suppose I do,” I said uneasily. “I felt that the whole thing was wrong.”
“Oh.” He stood up with a start. “The lady realizes that getting married while pregnant with another’s child is ‘wrong.’ Well, well, Venetia.” He laughed sarcastically. “Now I think of it, that was half of your attraction: your lack of conscience. Your complete, unremitting self-absorption. I wonder now how I never saw through it before. You’re nothing but an empty shell, Venetia. A beautiful girl without a soul.” He strode over to the veranda doors, looked out over the fading wisteria and broken cobbles, then added quietly, almost to himself, “I’m glad I finally see you as you really are.”
There was a gap, a silence, where I should have said something, defended myself, apologized, soothed him. But I didn’t. Alastair had shown me that I was a flesh-and-blood human, more than the façade Henry thought he knew. Everything he said was irrelevant. He didn’t know me now, perhaps had never known me. I was only angry with myself for agreeing to marry him in the first place, silently wishing this entire ordeal were over. I was aching all over, my head was throbbing, and I felt the chill of an invisible wind whisking through the room behind my neck, under my hair.
“But, Venetia!” He turned, his voice different, now pleading, a sorrowful yearning. “Why did you do this to me? You know how much I love you. We’ve known each other all our lives. Why did you do it?”
Waves of nausea began rippling over me. “I thought it might be all right, Henry. I never meant to hurt you. I thought I was doing you a favor, marrying you—I know you’ve always wanted that. I know it wasn’t perfect, but I thought I’d get over the past, begin again. I’d get pregnant quickly, and no one would know the baby wasn’t yours. Lots of people do it.”
“But we aren’t ‘lots of people,’ ” he roared, storming toward me. “I am an individual, Venetia. Sometimes I wonder if you’ve ever realized that.” He sat down on the sofa next to me. “Look at me, Venetia. Take a good, long look at me.” His voice was firm, abrupt, and he looked straight into my eyes as I raised them to his. He looked different from every other time I’d seen him; open, alive, as if bringing everything he had left to this moment.
“Yes, I know,” I murmured. As his eyes met mine, they altered, relaxing, narrowing, his rage replaced by hunger.
“Venetia, I want you so badly. I almost wanted to ignore the baby and continue with the wedding. I tried to push it to the back of my mind, but I could never live with that. I hate Kitty for telling me. If she hadn’t come and ruined it all, it would have been perfect. I would have been the happiest man on earth. You would have been mine.” His eyes swept down over my body, and his hand moved to my waist. “You would have been mine,” he repeated, his hands moving fast, running up and down my side, his thick, clumsy fingers grappling over my thighs. I was calling for him to stop, trying to get his hands off me, but he carried on, yelling, “Is this the kind of girl you are, Venetia? Is this what you like?”
I realized that I needed to get out, so I used all my force to push him away, standing up to flee from the room. Only he regained balance fast and strode after me, his hand slapping my face so hard that I fell to the floor with an almighty bang.
Then Mama was there, standing over me, screaming, “What’s going on? What on earth are you doing?”
He promptly stopped and began to smooth down his hair.
“I think you should leave now, Henry,” Mama said briskly, feeling my forehead and helping me up.
He pursed his lips in annoyance. “Yes, I’ve had enough of her now,” he said with meaning, and strode out of the room haughtily.
Mama’s sad eyes caught mine as we listened for the second time that day to his footsteps hard across the marble hall, the voice of the maid showing him out. The great thud as the front door slammed, sending a shower of tiny dust particles slowly rippling through the air like a vanished apparition being laid to rest.
I began to cry; the pain in my body was immense and my head was pounding. Mama helped me upstairs and I collapsed on the bed.
I slept for a while, and then I heard Daddy shouting downstairs. Mama, who was sitting beside my bed, quietly got up and turned the key in the door. I knew she was scared for me, far more scared than I was. He can come for all I care. I know that I can cope with his temper; I know I can cope with anything. I am completely numb.
And that’s where you find me now, Angie, sitting in bed, trying to make head or tail of this whole miserable mess. Mama says I have a fever, and I confess I feel incredibly tired, so I must leave you here and get some rest.
Venetia
Friday, 9 August 1940
What a sad night this has been.
It was past midnight when Kitty scratched on the front door. The Colonel answered and came up to get me, and I opened my bedroom door in Harold’s old brown dressing gown and pattered down to find out what was afoot.
“Something’s very wrong with Venetia, and I think you need to go to the Manor,” she said quietly, adding, with a vague tremor, “And may I stay here for a while, please?”
I told Kitty she could have the small room and hurried back into my bedroom to throw on some clothes and grab my nurse’s bag before darting out into the night. I ran all the way to the lane, stumbling over twice as my thin torch roved over the uneven path ahead of me. At the Manor, I let myself in the side door and headed up the back stairs, stopping to catch my breath for a few moments before knocking.
My main dread—that Venetia was having a miscarriage—was confirmed as I entered the room. It was a tragic scene. In the dim mauve light of her bedside lamp, I saw Venetia sprawled in pain, weeping that she’d never forgive herself. There was a lot of blood and a strong smell of plasma. Mrs. Winthrop was dashing around with towels and cloths.
I sat next to Venetia on the bed and spoke quietly to her, gauging what she was going through, what needed to be done, whether we should take her to the hospital. It was early in her pregnancy, so at least she wasn’t going through labor, and slowly, throughout the early hours of morning, the entirety of her pregnancy was gradually ejected from her frail body.
“Is she going to be all right?” Mrs. Winthrop asked.
“Yes,” I said, although inside I couldn’t be certain. She was underweight, exhausted, and traumatized. She was running a fever and had lost a lot of blood.
“There was a scene with Henry,” she went on. “He found out about the pregnancy and hit her. She fell hard on the floor.”
I put my arm around her as we sat down beside the b
ed. Henry’s explosion must have been the last straw, after the blood loss, the weakness, the heartache. We watched her in silence, and I was relieved when the situation began to stabilize around dawn, and she fell into a light sleep.
“Go to bed now and get a few hours’ sleep, as I’ll have to leave at eight,” I whispered to Mrs. Winthrop.
“I’m far too awake to sleep,” she said. “But I’ll make us some tea.”
I stayed, quietly monitoring Venetia’s fever while Mrs. Winthrop crept in and out, bringing tea and a vase of purple hydrangeas from the garden. She opened the curtains a few inches as the sun rose over the wheat-clad hills, allowing a pastel amber stream to flicker into the room.
It was all over, and Venetia was alive.
When she woke, she lay despondently on her bed for a long while, her large eyes wide open, fixed on the ceiling, or closed shut, tears billowing out.
“What have I done?” she would whisper from time to time. “What was I thinking? I could never have married Henry. What have I done?”
Mrs. Winthrop and I glanced at each other. It was as if the culmination of the whole situation had finally broken her inside.
The Brigadier was throwing a tremendous racket downstairs, as if it were yet another battlefield, the sound of crockery breaking and doors slamming in utter contrast to our quiet little corner of grief.
After eight, I trod sadly back to the village to get some rest before morning surgery, feeling light-headed from the lack of sleep. I reached Ivy House just in time to see the Colonel leave for Litchfield.
“Is she all right?” he asked, although I hadn’t mentioned it to him, and I have no idea how he knew where I had been.
“Yes,” I replied. “She’ll be fine.”
“And you?” He stopped right in front of me, his bulky mass hovering over me.
“I’m—” I began, about to say as usual that I’m all right. But it wasn’t true. “I’m tired. It’s all been rather traumatic, to be frank.” I looked at him and gave him a frail smile.
“Why don’t you go and lie down for a while.” He leaned his head down slightly. “I’m sure the surgery can do without you this morning.”
I could have cried on his large, friendly shoulder, but I just stood there, trying to be practical, holding in my tears. “But what about all the people waiting for me?”
He stood looking at me for a moment, and then he put both arms out, perhaps to put them around me, but then stopped himself midair, deciding instead to plant his hands firmly on my arms. “You need to rest for a while, otherwise you won’t be able to help anyone.”
“I’ll try,” I said, then pulled away, embarrassed by our closeness. “But where’s Kitty? I need to make her breakfast.”
“Kitty has already made me breakfast and, if you ask very nicely”—he smiled, raising an eyebrow—“I’m sure she’ll rustle up some for you, too.”
Friday, 9th August, 1940
The Sharp Light of Day
When I opened my eyes this morning, I found myself blinking at Mrs. Tilling’s small back room, and spent a few abysmal moments piecing together the gruesome events of the last day, my fast and furious demise into a pit so deep I’ll never be able to struggle out.
My Future
Daddy’s unleashed fury—I’ll have to leave home in disgrace
Venetia’s anger, and her unremitting torment
My utter and complete disgrace that will follow me like a shadow of death
My broken heart dissolving my insides into molten lava
My shattered dreams—the end of everything I’ve ever known and wanted
I wandered downstairs and into the kitchen to find some breakfast.
“Is Mrs. Tilling up yet?” I asked the Colonel.
“She’s still at the Manor,” he said, starting to poke through the cupboards for something to eat. “She’s been there all night.”
“Oh dear,” I muttered as I reached for the oats. “It must be Venetia. I hope she’s all right.”
As I made tea and porridge for the Colonel, I couldn’t stop thinking about Venetia, and how it was all my fault she had the dreadful row with Henry. He must have been furious with her. I shouldn’t have told him. I really can’t think how bad people can live with themselves and their guilt. I felt it lurking in me, like a poisonous slime slushing around my body, making everything I do or say come out all yellowy-brown and stinking of sick.
The Colonel sat down at the table, reading yesterday’s paper and giving me a running commentary.
“Well, it’s officially called the Battle of Britain now. The Nazis are bombing all our airfields and factories.”
“Really,” I said, not listening.
He glanced up at me as I slowly stirred the porridge. “Let’s see if they have something more cheery.” There’s always a couple of those humorous or nice-ending stories to lift spirits, and he read one out to me about an air raid warden who was paroling the village of Upper Leigh when he felt a gun in his back and thought the Nazis had invaded. He put his hands up quickly, and as he gradually turned around, he realized he was being held up by a huge heron—he had backed into the bird’s beak thanks to the blackout.
I smiled, but my spirits remained unlifted, and he gave me a heavy pat on the shoulder before leaving for Litchfield Park. I’m sure he wouldn’t be so nice to me if he’d heard the full story.
I went back to tidying the kitchen, and heard Mrs. Tilling come in. They spoke quietly as they passed in the hallway, and then I heard the front door close as he left.
“Hello,” Mrs. Tilling announced as she breezed into the kitchen. “The Colonel tells me you made him breakfast, which I must say was immensely good of you. Now put the kettle on and let’s have a little chat.”
“Is she all right?” I said hastily, busying myself with filling up the kettle.
“I think she’ll be fine,” she said, to my immense relief. “But she lost the baby.”
I know what that means. And I know that my telling Henry was the last thing she needed. She’s been so weak since the bombing. This must have tipped her over the edge. I plonked myself down on a chair, laid my arms on the table, and sank my head into them. “It’s all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault, Kitty,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulders. “Henry should take responsibility for his own actions, although it probably wasn’t helpful of you to tell him. The scene was monstrous. It was too much for her in the end.”
I began crying, trying not to, of course. Poor Mrs. Tilling has so much to deal with at the moment, and I’m sure she doesn’t need some infuriating tattletale girl crying on her shoulder, but each time I stopped, there was another wave behind it, waiting to surge to the front and break apart, as if my entire life had been a series of horrors waiting to be released.
Mrs. Tilling stroked my back. “We all need to remember that you’re young, with so much to learn in life. Henry should never have led you to think he might marry you, but there’s a lot more to it than that. Your mama should have talked to you about Venetia’s pregnancy, rather than pretending that nothing was happening. Venetia should never have deceived him into proposing. Your father should not have put so much pressure on Venetia to accept Henry. Henry should not have hit her. Slater should not have disappeared, leaving Venetia so heartbroken. It’s all a mess. You shouldn’t bear the whole of it on your own shoulders.”
“But why does Henry love her when he could love me? I’m the one who wants to marry him. Why can’t people love other people who love them back? Why is everyone in love with the wrong person?”
“Kitty, look at me,” she said, and I raised my bleary face from my arms. “Being a grown-up is a tough thing. We can’t choose who we fall in love with, or who falls in love with us. Whatever happens in your life, Kitty, you need to remember that you can’t change the way someone feels about you. Love is a terribly odd emotion, and can have very little to do with common sense. Sometimes it’s a cozy, comfortable feeling, like tucking
yourself up in a lovely warm blanket, but other times it just washes over you completely, and you simply can’t help yourself.” She paused for a moment, dwelling on something, and then snapped out of it. “I’m sure that Henry loves you like a sister, but he feels a very different kind of love toward Venetia.”
“But I know what it feels like to be in love,” I wailed. “Don’t tell me that what I feel isn’t real!”
“It is real, Kitty.” She put her arm around my shoulders. “It’s very real.”
I cried and cried, because I had ruined everything, because Venetia would hate me, and because Henry would never love me now. He was out of my life forever.
“You’ll find someone new,” Mrs. Tilling said.
“No.” I shook my head. “I’ll never find anyone else. Not like Henry. No one else is as handsome and funny, and looks at me in the way he does. When he’s here it’s like the sun comes out and everything bad in me, everything bad in the village, the country, the world, is not evil after all. Then it’s perfect and wonderful and heavenly.” I opened my mouth for air before howling into my hands. “And it’s not going to be heavenly anymore. He’s gone, and everything bad is always there and will never be taken away.”
Long after Mrs. Tilling went to the surgery, I remained seated at the table. But by the middle of the afternoon I decided I needed to get out, and so I set out in no particular direction. As I was walking, I found myself going home. I had a nagging need to speak to Venetia. The closer I got the more adamant I became that this was what I had to do. I needed to apologize to her.
But would she ever forgive me?
As I opened the side door, I realized that I’d been forgetting my main opponent. My father. He’d kill me if he saw me. All the pent-up rage he had for his darling Venetia would be taken out on me. After all, I’m the youngest, the least able to stand up to him, the one he habitually takes it out on. Why break the pattern of a lifetime? That hurricane of violent retribution would pound me until there was nothing left but the oozing silence of a crushed soul.
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 26
