‘Of course it did. In fact I was frightened sick. Literally.’
‘How ridiculous. What an awful thing to do.’
‘It was my father’s idea. He thought I was a bit of a cissy.’
‘You?’
George smiled. ‘He said I played with girls too much.’
‘By that could he possibly have meant me?’ Amelia wondered.
‘Yes.’ George looked at her and seeing the funny side of it at last they both laughed.
‘And now you’ve ended up marrying me!’
‘Yes.’
‘So in a way you were blooded on my account?’
‘I suppose so. Yes – in a way.’
‘Then the very least I should do is come out stalking with you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m your wife. And I think a husband and wife should share as many things as possible. If they want to get to know each other the way they should.’
‘Well,’ George said, giving the matter a lot of thought. ‘Only if you’re sure.’
‘I’m quite sure,’ Amelia replied. ‘Anyway, if I am to have views on such things, then I should see them first hand. As I did with salmon fishing.’
Afterwards, as they sat by the fire with Amelia reading her book and George writing up his fishing diary, Amelia realized why she had stuck her neck out quite as far as she had. The last thing she wanted to see on her honeymoon was a stag being shot, so obviously the reason she had insisted must have been the hope that a show of such staunchness might in turn help George to overcome whatever inhibition it was which was holding him back from loving her the way a husband should love a wife, whatever that way might be.
The more she thought about it the more she felt she was right, that she had shown willing in order to prove her courage so that he might overcome the fear that was so obviously haunting him.
Her challenge in fact took them back to their childhood, back to the time they had always matched each other’s deeds to prove their undying friendship no matter how great the challenge: climbing the hardest and tallest trees, jumping the widest and most fast-running brooks, attempting to scale the sheerest hillsides, George stripped down to his undershirt and Amelia with her skirts thrown over one arm, both of them intent on not being outdone by the other. It had been harder for Amelia, encumbered not only by her clothing but by the protocol of her gender. Even so, as they had grown up and Amelia had developed into an athletic teenager, much to his surprise George had found he had a match on his hands, particularly after she had persuaded him to lend her some of his boys’ clothes.
‘What are you laughing about?’ George said, looking up from his writing. ‘Is it your book? I never found The Moonstone very funny . . .’
‘No, not my book. I was just remembering when we had a bet about jumping the brook where we used to catch crayfish. I made you lend me some of your clothes--’
‘And I fell in because I was laughing so much. Except I don’t know why I was laughing because I remember thinking what a handsome boy you made.’
‘I thought I must have looked stupid. Because of the way you were laughing. Anyway, I won. And not because you fell in – because I jumped further than you.’
‘Like a rematch?’ George’s eyes lit up at the idea.
‘Any time.’
‘We’ll have to find a good spot on the river.’
‘And you’ll have to lend me some of your clothes.’
‘You wouldn’t fit into them now. We were much more of a size then.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Muir has got some bloomers,’ Amelia suggested with a straight face.
‘Or perhaps Eoin will lend you a kilt,’ George replied with a smile. ‘Anyway, we’ll find a good leap before we go back south and have some money on it.’
‘Done,’ Amelia said, offering her hand. ‘Shake on it.’
They shook, and Amelia hoped George would keep holding her hand, which he did for a moment, looking into her eyes and smiling.
‘Bedtime, I think,’ he said, after a second or two. ‘We have a very early start tomorrow.’
Amelia followed the same routine as the night before, preceding George upstairs where she hopefully waited for him to arrive and join her. Once again she was disappointed, for having kept herself awake by reading for over half an hour in her bed, there was still neither sight nor sound of him. This time, however, Amelia determined not to lie there tamely waiting, for that was to run the very real risk of falling asleep, so pulling on her dressing gown she went downstairs in search of her husband.
She found all the lights out and the fires doused. She also found the front and back doors were locked and bolted from the inside, indicating that George most certainly could not have gone for a midnight walk, unless he intended climbing back in through a window. Puzzled, Amelia returned upstairs, her way lit by the nightlight in her hand. When she reached the landing she nearly jumped out of her skin as a door swung open behind her and George appeared in his nightclothes.
‘I was afraid you might be asleep,’ he told her, before she could ask. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘Well as you can see I’m not asleep,’ Amelia replied. ‘In fact I’m very wide awake.’
‘You really should be asleep. As I said, we have a very early start.’
‘Why not come to bed, George?’ Amelia suggested. ‘Then we can both get to sleep.’
‘I was going to sleep in my dressing room tonight. Because of the early start.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Amelia sighed, taking his hand. ‘Come on.’
She dragged the obviously reluctant George behind her along the landing and into their bedroom, where with a good deep yawn she took off her dressing gown and collapsed into bed.
‘We do have to get up most frightfully early,’ George reminded her, standing at the foot of the bed.
‘I know, George, so you keep saying,’ Amelia replied with another huge yawn. ‘Good night.’
She turned over and pretended to go to sleep. Moments later she felt the covers lift and George slip into bed beside her. For a moment he did not move, as if afraid he might have woken her, then, when he felt sure she was still sleeping, he turned on his side away from her to fall asleep minutes later.
Amelia lay on her side of the bed facing her husband’s back and wondering what precisely was the matter with him. Supposing he might be just terribly shy, she wondered what she might do to woo him, before realizing with intense embarrassment that there was nothing she could do since she herself knew nothing at all about the art of making love. So she carefully and slowly turned away from him to face the window opposite, staring out at the night sky until, after what seemed like an eternity, she finally fell asleep just half an hour before cockcrow.
Five
They were up high in the glen, several miles from the lodge. Again the day was fine but cold, due to the north-easterly still blowing in from the distant sea, but Amelia was well dressed against the chill just as she was stoutly shod in deference to the terrain. They had been out since dawn and it was now nearly midday, yet Amelia had kept pace with the stalking party, finally earning grudging praise from Eoin who like his employer had made no allowances for the supposed frailty of her sex, the two men having stalked their prey exactly as they would were she not with them.
They had spotted a magnificent stag about two hours after setting out and so far, due to Eoin’s undoubted skills and cunning, the beast would seem to have no idea whatsoever of their presence, making its way across the hillside, stopping briefly to graze or help itself to some leaves from the branches of trees on the outskirts of small coppices around the glen. Several times it disappeared into the woodlands yet Eoin seemed to know instinctively where it would exit, swinging the party in a quick detour downwind of the copse so that they would be in position when and if the stag made its reappearance, which invariably it did. Only once did they lose it completely, when it began to run as if suddenly frightened, cresting a steep hill well ahead of wher
e the stalkers hid and disappearing entirely from sight.
‘A wild cat probably,’ Eoin muttered as he searched the horizon through his field glasses. ‘I could see something moving in the heather on his flank and it probably startled him. But he’s no panicked. He’s just putting distance betwixt him and whatever.’
‘What’s over that hill, Eoin?’ George asked. ‘If it’s moor then he’ll probably have bolted over it for cover.’
‘There’s quite a tricky burn, sir. Running through a gorge. He’ll no make it across there, so he’ll have to run north where there’s a copse.’
‘So if we were to cut through to the left of those trees,’ George suggested, pointing to the woodland ahead, ‘and along that track which must run parallel to your burn, we’d still be downwind and above the copse where he might have taken refuge, would we not?’
‘Aye,’ Eoin agreed. ‘But we can only go as far as where the track bends, for if we go further we’ll be on the wind and he’ll pick us up. Are you set, missy?’
Eoin turned to Amelia, who secretly had been only too glad to stop so that she could catch her breath. In fact when she saw how the land unfolded ahead of them she would have been even happier to call it a day and turn for home. But her pride would not allow her even to contemplate such an attractive notion any further so with a nod to the gamekeeper she picked herself up, armed herself once more with her tall walking stick, and followed on the heels of her husband.
Half an hour later they found themselves at the point of the designated track where it turned almost in a U around a huge boulder. With one hand behind his back Eoin signalled to them to stop, dropping down below the ridge at the foot of the rock. George and Amelia at once followed suit, George ending up flat on his stomach like Eoin while Amelia sat with her back firmly positioned against the stone. They remained motionless like this, playing dead for maybe ten minutes or more as they listened to the sound of an animal very near by, its feet in the heather and its jaws slowly ruminating its food. Amelia looked at George, hoping to take courage from him, but to her astonishment she saw he was lying with his head in his hands and his eyes tightly closed. She began to edge herself towards him so that she could put a hand on his, but before she had moved an inch Eoin glared at her reprovingly and put a finger to his lips. So all Amelia could do was lie watching George, noticing with alarm that he now seemed to be shaking all over.
Afraid that he might be suffering from some form of fit, Amelia was just about to disobey all the orders she had been given to remain absolutely still so that she could see to her husband when almost right above her on the ridge the stag appeared, a magnificent ten pointer silhouetted against the sky, his great head tilted slightly upward as he nosed the air for scent. She had never seen such a mighty deer, certainly never one of this size and majesty. The deer in Sussex were beautiful little creatures, but tiny in comparison with this massive monarch of the glens, whose splendour was further increased by the fact that it was standing directly above them on a promontory. As she took in its beauty she knew at once that she could not bear it to be killed, yet she had absolutely no idea at all as to how she might prevent the slaughter, ignorant as she was how this huge fierce creature might react. She remembered stories about infuriated stags pinning people to the ground with their antlers and goring them to death, and certainly having seen this particular creature’s horns at close quarters Amelia had no trouble in believing such a thing. So if she alerted the stag to the present danger there was every possibility it might turn on them before Eoin could get hold of his gun and kill it.
Worst of all, George was lying nearest to it, still with his eyes tightly closed, quite probably unaware that he was in danger. She realized there was only one thing she could do and that was to get close enough to Eoin to implore him sotto voce not to shoot, to draw his attention to George who was lying hidden from the gillie by a large rock which stood between them. But even as she turned to the gamekeeper she saw his gun was already at his shoulder and aimed straight at the stag’s heart.
‘No!’
Aghast, Amelia swung back round and saw George up on his feet, stumbling across the rocks in an attempt to reach Eoin. Above him, alerted by the sudden noise and movement, the stag had lowered his great head and turned to face its enemies.
‘No!’ George shouted again, almost now on top of Eoin who was still taking careful aim. ‘No, you fool! Don’t shoot, man! If you shoot they’ll court martial you!’
He lunged for Eoin’s rifle but he was too late to stop the gillie from shooting, although not too late to deflect the aim, so that the bullet fired almost directly up in the air above them well clear of the quarry. George struggled with the bewildered Eoin for possession of the rifle while above them the mighty stag lowered its head, turned tail and fled in a cloud of dust and dirt kicked up from the track.
‘What are ye doing, sir!’ Eoin was yelling. ‘Have ye taken leave of your senses, man?’
George stared at him, both hands still on the gillie’s rifle.
‘You’re the one who’s taken leave of his senses, you fool,’ he replied quietly. ‘They’ll shoot you.’
‘Who will, George?’ Amelia asked him, coming to his side and putting her hand carefully on his arm to remind him of her presence. ‘Who will shoot Eoin, George? And why?’
He looked round at her with lost eyes, and she could see he did not know her.
‘For God’s sake,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t you see? There’s only one thing that can happen now. Don’t you understand?’
He looked at her with anguish, before his legs started to buckle and it was only by using all her strength that Amelia was able to stop him from falling, while she called to Eoin to fetch up the bearers.
Six
The two workers off the estate who had been employed to follow them on the stalk helped bring home their employer on the old sure-footed pony whose job it should have been to bring home the dead stag. George had fallen into utter silence since his outburst on the ridge, allowing himself to be lifted onto the pony and held in position by one of the men, who kept a firm hold of him all the long way back to the lodge. Once home, while Mr Muir set off in pony and trap to fetch the doctor from the village, with the help of Mrs Muir Amelia took George upstairs to the bedroom where they laid him gently on the bed.
‘He’s such a braw man, I canna imagine what might be his trouble,’ Mrs Muir said, looking down at the now comatose George. ‘Maybe a brainstorm. Maybe a seizure, perhaps.’
‘A seizure?’ Amelia took the hand of her young, handsome husband who lay apparently blind and deaf to all. ‘You don’t think it can have been a seizure, surely, Mrs Muir? I think he’s shocked. Something happened up there on the hillside, something which brought back some awful memory or other, and I think he’s probably just very badly shocked.’
‘The man could have had a heart attack for all we know, madam,’ Mrs Muir sighed. ‘We had best undress the poor soul, had we not? And it’ll take the two of us, seeing the weight of him.’
‘Perhaps we should just take off his top clothes, Mrs Muir, until the doctor has seen him,’ Amelia suggested, unwilling to share such an intimate experience with her housekeeper, particularly since she had not yet herself seen her husband unclothed. ‘We could take him down to his underthings and cover him with the eiderdown.’
‘Very well, madam.’
Together they set about the task of undressing George, Mrs Muir proving herself so dextrous that Amelia got the impression she was well used to dealing with a man’s dead weight, which given Mr Muir’s high colour and apparently short temper would not prove surprising. But as to what could have caused her own husband’s sudden collapse, Amelia had little idea. All sorts of alarms were ringing in her head although not for one moment did she believe it was anything as serious as a heart attack or a seizure. Having witnessed the whole thing at first hand she was inclined to stand by her own interpretations of events: that George had revisited some terrible scene from his not so
distant past which had in turn precipitated his strange outburst and subsequent collapse.
‘I’ll need a more of a hand with his breeches, madam,’ Mrs Muir said, bringing her back to earth. Looking up she saw Mrs Muir staring back at her as the housekeeper struggled to slip the unmoving George out of the last of his top clothes.
‘Thank you, Mrs Muir, but I really don’t think we need to bother any further,’ Amelia replied. ‘After all, I imagine what is wrong with my husband – if there is anything wrong with him – may prove to be mental rather than physical.’
‘If he no recovers his lost consciousness you’ll still need a hand to get him abed properly, madam,’ the ever practical Scotswoman assured her. ‘You’ll not manage him on your own.’
Assuring her that if she was needed further she would be called, Amelia thanked the housekeeper for her help and dismissed her, and was left alone with her sick and silent husband.
‘George?’ she said, coming to his bedside in the faint hope that he might now be able to hear her. ‘George – can’t you hear me? It’s me. George. Amelia.’
But all George could hear in his head was the thunder of the guns and all the sounds of his war. He was hundreds of miles away somewhere in the muddy fields of Flanders and could neither see Amelia nor hear her. What he could see was a man with a rifle and another man falling to the ground, his skull shattered by the close-range shot.
‘I won’t let them do it,’ he told her. ‘I shall tell them everything. I shall tell them the truth. I shall tell them it wasn’t your fault.’
‘Tell who?’ Amelia asked in a whisper, kneeling down carefully beside the bed so as not to frighten George in this moment of sudden consciousness. ‘Who are you talking to, George? And what isn’t their fault?’
George turned his head and gazed at her with a look of pure tragedy.
‘He’s killed Walker. And now they’ll kill him.’
Before Amelia could discover anything further, he turned his head away again, closed his eyes, and fell back into a stupor.
The Kissing Garden Page 9
