by Charles Todd
“It’s been nearly two years. He’ll be in shortly—”
At that moment the sitting room door opened again, and a tall, fair man entered. He was wearing country clothing rather than his uniform. “Here you are,” he began, and then he saw Lydia. She set her cup aside and rose, unable to speak. But I could see the tears glistening now in her eyes.
He stared at her, several emotions flitting across his face. First surprise, then relief, and finally anger. But he came quickly across the room to his wife and put his hands on her shoulders. She flinched in spite of herself, and he dropped his hands at once. “My dear” was all he said, and she nodded, as if she understood without the need for words. He touched her face gently with one finger, and added, “I’m so very sorry.”
“No, it was my fault,” she said tremulously.
Gran, watching them, interjected, “Do have some tea, Roger. You must be frozen.”
The emotional moment between husband and wife was broken, and he stepped back, took the cup his mother handed him with a wry smile, and said, “I was worried. We looked everywhere.”
“I went to London,” Lydia said. “To think, actually. Bess, out of kindness, took me in.”
He turned to me, and I felt the power of his gaze as he thanked me for being such a good friend. My first thought was, He doesn’t believe her. Then where did he think she’d gone? And was that why he wasn’t in London, scouring the city for her? I remembered too her refusal to let Simon bring us here comfortably in his motorcar.
“We ran into each other unexpectedly. I was glad, we hadn’t seen each other in several years.”
“Indeed.”
I looked him in the eye. “I’m glad to meet you at last,” I said, to give him something to think about. “Lydia has told me so much about you.” It was a common enough remark when meeting someone related to a friend, but I gave it the slightest emphasis, on purpose.
He had the grace to flush at that. He knew exactly what I meant, that she had confided in me about the bruises. And I suspect he understood as well why she had brought me home with her. A buffer, in the event he was still angry.
“Welcome to Vixen Hill,” he said, and I knew we had a sound grasp of where each of us stood now.
He accepted a biscuit from the plate his mother held out to him, then went to sit down next to Lydia.
Gran said, “You were careful with that shoulder, I hope.”
“Yes, of course,” he answered impatiently. “But the doctor instructed me to exercise it to bring it back to full strength. You know that.”
“Exercise and walking off a black mood are two very different things,” she retorted, and reached for another biscuit.
Mrs. Ellis mentioned the guests they were expecting, and Roger said, “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Mother?”
“Yes, why not? Eleanor will wish to see Alan’s stone in its proper place, and Margaret is already here. What’s more, I think it will be good for George. He wasn’t able to stay when Alan was so ill. ”
“I doubt it will be good for him,” Roger argued. “He’s changed, Mother, whether you wish to admit it or not. First Malcolm’s death, and then Alan’s. I’m surprised he hasn’t killed himself, to tell you the truth.”
Her son’s bluntness made her wince.
“He was best man at your wedding. Your oldest friend,” Mrs. Ellis reminded him. “Have a little charity, Roger. He needs patience and understanding.”
“He’s moody and unpredictable these days. He’ll cast a pall over the entire event. I hope he’ll change his mind and stay in Hampshire.”
“You have also been moody and unpredictable, my dear.” Her voice was very gentle. “I think Sister Crawford will agree with me that it’s what war does to one’s spirit.”
Roger said nothing, but I could see that he felt otherwise. It struck me that I’d been right about his selfishness.
“It’s starting to rain harder,” Gran reported, rising to walk to the window. “I hope it won’t last for days the way it usually does. The tracks will be nearly impassable. The ceremony spoiled.”
I looked toward the windows and could see that indeed it was raining, the wind picking up to blow it in sheets against the glass. I could just make out the lawns, and the dark line of heath beyond, visible as if through a veil. I was glad we weren’t traveling in an open carriage from the station just now.
Lydia rose. “Bess, I’ll show you the house, shall I? So that you can find your way.”
I thanked Mrs. Ellis for the tea, and went with her. Out in the passage she sighed. “It wasn’t as difficult as I’d expected. I thought—well, never mind what I thought. But I was very glad you were there, all the same. My backbone, as it were.” She smiled, but there was still a touch of anxiety behind it. “My head was thundering in there. It’s better now. The passage is so much cooler.”
But it wasn’t aching from the heat of the fire on the hearth. I said, “You should rest. It’s been a very tiring day.”
“No, I’m fine. And there’s so much to do.”
I said only, “Lydia, if your mother-in-law is expecting a family gathering, I shall only be in the way. Meanwhile, will you at least speak to your family’s physician? It will set my mind at rest.”
She wouldn’t hear of it. I persisted.
“It wouldn’t do if you had problems with a house full of guests. What’s more,” I added, “the blame would fall on Roger, wouldn’t it? I mean to say, that’s the most conspicuous injury, your hair covers the other.”
She stopped in the passage and regarded me for a moment. “What could I say, that wouldn’t be a reflection on Roger? You don’t know Dr. Tilton.”
“Tell him you slipped on the stairs. It’s true.”
“Will you go with me?”
“Of course.”
“Then tomorrow. Before your train leaves.”
With that out of the way, Lydia seemed to be as relieved as I was. We went first to my room, and on the landing I could see for myself the sharp edge of the square mahogany newel post. The cut in her scalp was proof enough of how hard she’d struck it. Hard enough indeed for a concussion.
A fire had been lit on the hearth, taking away the damp chill of the day, and the drapes had been drawn against the rain. I went to the window anyway, and pulling them aside, looked out. The knot garden lay spread out below, an intricate design of boxwoods and flower beds that seemed at odds with a house on the edge of a heath. Around the garden were planted tall evergreens as a shield against the wind and also, I thought, to shut out the landscape beyond.
“It’s my favorite view,” Lydia said, coming to stand beside me. “And in high summer, it’s beautiful. It was put in for Gran, you know. A wedding gift from her husband, Roger’s grandfather. Her room overlooks it too.” We returned to the hall by the main stairs, and Lydia said, “Everything starts here. Those stairs along the wall lead up to the oriel window above. You saw it as we came up the drive. The formal rooms are in the right wing, and the family rooms are in the left. Go through the door—the one over there, that we used when we first arrived—and turn to your right in the passage and you come to the drawing room. Well, we call it that, although it’s not all that splendid these days. After we were married, Roger’s mother told me I could redecorate it to suit my tastes, which was very kind of her. Before I could really set about it, the war began.” We were walking through the door and following the passage now. “That door is the dining room, this one the drawing room, and beyond it is a small library. Across from the library is Roger’s grandfather’s study. Gran uses it sometimes, when she isn’t in the mood to sit with the family.” We retraced our steps, and she opened the door into the formal dining room. It was elegant in dark green upholstery that set off the well-polished wood, and the tall, handsome sideboard. Long dark green velvet drapes trimmed in cream framed the double windows. The carpet was a paler green and cream in a floral pattern.
Lydia pointed to the fox mask carved above the sideboard
. The chairs at the head and foot of the table had smaller versions at the ends of the arms. “The house is said to have been built originally over a vixen’s den. That’s where the name comes from. But one story has it that Roger’s ancestor used the lodge for assignations, and when his wife found out, she killed him and blamed his death on a rabid fox.”
“How charming,” I said with a smile.
“Yes, I felt the same when I first came here. Sadly, the room is used very seldom now. With just the three of us, Gran and Mama Ellis and me, we usually take our meals in the sitting room.”
I could see why. The table would seat twenty comfortably, and with only one hearth, it must be very cold in winter. I noticed the paintings hanging on the walls, mostly landscapes from Italy and Switzerland and by a very accomplished hand.
“Gran painted them. On her honeymoon. Roger’s grandfather had them framed and hung as a surprise for her after their first child—Matthew, Roger’s father—was born.”
She closed that door and turned to the one across the passage, opening it into the drawing room. It faced the drive, and even on such a dreary afternoon, it was well lit and very pleasant. Stepping inside, the first thing that drew my eyes was the lovely hearth of Portland stone—and above it the most astonishing portrait.
The child was beautiful, fair haired and sweet faced, with an impish gleam in her blue eyes, and she had been captured in an informal pose, glancing toward the artist over one shoulder, her smile so touching I stood there in amazement.
“That’s Juliana,” Lydia was saying in a flat voice.
Chapter Three
“How sad!” I replied, meaning it. I couldn’t take my eyes from the painting. Juliana appeared to be on the verge of laughter, and I almost held my breath listening for it. If the living child was anything like this portrayal in oils, I could understand why her memory was so vivid in the minds of her grieving family.
“We use this room only when we have guests. I suggested once to Roger that we move the portrait. And he was furious. He said she belonged here, in a tone of voice that told me I didn’t. It was our first quarrel.”
As she closed the drawing room door, she went on, “He worshipped her, you know. Roger. He took her death so hard that he didn’t speak for months. They feared for his sanity, Gran said. Margaret and Alan were older, they understood death a little better, although that didn’t make hers easier for them.”
I thought about what it would have been like, watching helplessly as the little girl slowly weakened and died.
We walked back to the great hall, and Lydia pointed to one of the chairs in front of the fire. “Let’s sit here for a bit, shall we? Before dressing for dinner.”
What she meant was, she wasn’t ready to face Roger alone in their bedroom.
We sat down, feeling the draft at our backs as the rain beat against the door and the walls. It sounded like distant drums or even muted gunfire.
“What am I to do, Bess?” she said at last, staring into the heart of the fire. “I love Roger. In spite of this. How long will this war go on? What if he’s killed—or horribly wounded? What if he’s like George, bitter and hurtful, and I can’t bear to have him touch me?”
“Yours isn’t the only family asking these questions tonight,” I replied after a moment. “Love isn’t a certainty, Lydia.”
But she shook her head. “You aren’t married. You don’t know what it’s like to love someone and want to have a part of them for your very own.”
It occurred to me that one of the reasons Lydia was so insistent on children was that she had lived these past three years with two widowed women. She could already see what the future held if Roger was killed. In India some wives preferred to throw themselves on the funeral pyre and be immolated with their husbands. Sometimes it was true grief—sometimes it was knowing what a bleak empty life lay ahead of them, especially if they were dependent on the charity of a family that didn’t want them. Death was sometimes preferable to living. The British had done their best to outlaw suttee, but it hadn’t been completely abolished.
I said gently, “Then I’m the wrong person to ask.”
Sighing, she said, “Well. Roger’s leave will be up soon enough. I have until then to change his mind. Somehow.”
I looked across at her bruised face. If Juliana died of a mastoid tumor, it was no one’s fault. Unlike some tragic accident where guilt couldn’t be avoided. Why had her death affected her brother so deeply? Was it the shock of loss, unacceptable to a child’s mind? Had Margaret and Alan also been haunted by their little sister’s death? They too were childless.
“You said you shouldn’t have mentioned Juliana when you quarreled. Did you blame her for your husband’s refusal to have children?”
“Yes, I told him he was afraid he’d lose a child, the way his family had lost Juliana, and it was time now to let her rest in peace and begin to live in the present.”
We sat there in silence for a time, and then Lydia reluctantly got to her feet. “It’s nearly time for dinner. I’m glad you came, Bess,” she said. “It was terribly kind of you—”
She clutched at the back of her chair, suddenly dizzy. But by the time I reached her, it seemed to have passed.
“Don’t fuss. I’m all right, I assure you.”
But she wasn’t. I was certain of that now.
After dinner, I quietly asked Mrs. Ellis if it would be possible to take Lydia to Dr. Tilton’s surgery at this late hour, explaining my concern.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “About the fall on the stairs. Yes, of course, I’ll drive you myself. I think Roger’s a little tired.”
He didn’t appear to be tired, but I said nothing. She rose and went to speak to Lydia. “Will you come with me, my dear?”
Surprised, Lydia said, “Yes, of course,” and followed her mother-in-law out of the room. I went with them, leaving Roger Ellis and his grandmother to their own devices.
In the passage, Mrs. Ellis said, “Miss Crawford feels you ought to see Dr. Tilton. Shall I fetch your coat? I wish I’d known sooner about the fall, my dear, I would have suggested speaking to him straightaway.”
Lydia was angry with me, as I’d expected. “I’m all right, Mama, I truly am. Bess was wrong to worry you.”
But Mrs. Ellis had the last word. “You must do as I ask, Lydia. Tomorrow will be a very busy day, and I can’t have you ill on my hands.” The unspoken reminder that Lydia had already been away for two days when she could have been helping with preparations precluded any argument. Still, she cast a reproachful glance in my direction as she went to fetch her coat.
I brought down my own from my comfortable, warm room, dreading the thought of traveling in a motorcar through the cold and dark night. Still, it was the right thing to do. Lydia was waiting for me by the door, and Mrs. Ellis was just bringing the motorcar around. We dashed through the rain to climb quickly inside. The little heater hardly made a difference where I sat in the rear, and I was glad of my gloves and a scarf. There was nothing to be done about my cold feet as we followed the looping drive and went down the avenue of ash trees.
Mrs. Ellis was saying, “I hope this weather passes before the service. I’d so counted on everything going well.”
“It will be all right, Mama,” Lydia assured her.
The rest of the drive was made in silence, and I watched the headlamps bounce across the dark landscape, touching first this patch of heather and then a taller, twisted stand of gorse. We passed horses standing head down just off the road, and I saw the bright eyes of a fox or a dog before whatever it was scurried into the safety of the shadows. I could hardly see the next turning, but Mrs. Ellis was familiar with the roads and drove with care.
Dr. Tilton’s surgery was dark when we reached Hartfield, and we pulled up instead in front of the house. It was two storeys, looming above us in the now misting rain.
“Thank goodness, there are lights still on downstairs,” Mrs. Ellis said as she set the brake.
“I’l
l go to the door,” Lydia told her, getting down and dashing through the puddles to the house, before we could stop her. The high roof of the porch offered little shelter, and she huddled there for nearly a minute before someone answered her summons. She stepped inside the entrance, and the door was swung shut behind her.
Mrs. Ellis started to call her name, then broke off. “I don’t know what’s troubling her,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know why she and my son are so at odds.”
“You weren’t there when he struck her?” I asked.
“No. But I saw her as she ran out of the room, and I asked Roger what had happened. He answered that she was upset. The next thing I knew, she was gone. I thought perhaps she’d just taken a walk, cold as it was. Later, when I tapped at her door, she didn’t answer, and it wasn’t until Roger went up to dress for dinner that we realized she hadn’t come back. I thought perhaps she’d got into trouble somewhere on the heath. Roger went out to look for her. He came back, his face like a thundercloud and took the motorcar. He was gone for some time, and when he came home again, he told me he couldn’t find her. I stayed up most of the night, thinking she might come back. But she never did. I didn’t know what to think and was all for summoning the police. But Roger was adamant. He believed she’d come home when she was ready. I don’t think any of us dreamed she’d gone to London.” She was silent for a time, watching the doctor’s door. Then she asked, “Did Lydia confide in you, Miss Crawford? Did she tell you why she wouldn’t come home?”
“She was afraid of your son,” I told her. “It was difficult for her to make the decision to return.”
“And when she did, she brought you with her. It was very kind of you to, Bess. May I call you Bess? You are a very strong friend. I just wish I knew what the quarrel was about. Roger wouldn’t tell me anything. I wouldn’t have known he’d struck her if I hadn’t seen her face as she passed me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. But then Roger has been very tense, you know. I expect the war takes a greater toll than we can imagine.”
