by Gloria Cook
From A Distance
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Copyright
From A Distance
Gloria Cook
To Una and Rod Searle, good friends and a blessing
Chapter One
It was only three o’clock in the afternoon but already nearly as dark as night. A gale had been raging all day from the south-west and, like some malevolent monster, it was still lashing rain against the windows and walls of Ford Farm. The house, the animal sheds and storage buildings had not been spared. Slates, chimney pots and guttering had been hurled down and smashed on the cobbles and flagstones. Debris was embedded in areas of thick mud. Ripped-out thatch danced at crazy heights in miniature whirlwinds. Howling in banshee tones, the wind was indiscriminately bringing down branch after branch of the trees around the farm perimeter and in the woods at the bottom of the valley behind the property. Loose objects like flower pots were being tossed about, and gates, fences and even the washing-line posts had been brought down.
An enormous gust of wind made the oldest timbers, eighteenth-century in origin, the working part of the huge, rambling farmhouse, creak and heave noisily, making it seem to shudder on its thick stone foundations. Emilia Harvey was filling Thermos flasks with hot tea and paused to look anxiously towards the kitchen door, willing her husband, the farm owner, and her father, the manager, and the farmhands outside in the uproar to stay safe. In boots, gaiters and weatherproofs, they would be having a tough time securing the stock, specially the ewes – it was lambing season – and in making repairs thought urgent to hedges, and ensuring the lanes were safe to pass through to the nearby village of Hennaford. Also, her sons would be cycling home about now from the boys’ grammar school in Truro. The day had started off with just a swift wind, and although it was late spring there had been a wintry feel and a peculiar tension in the air. She had wondered if Will and Tom should attend today – but at the ages of thirteen and twelve they saw themselves as young adults and had poured scorn on her disquiet; and they had rugby today, it would take more than a threatening storm to keep them at home. The match would have been abandoned, but there was still the six-mile ride back to negotiate through any amount of missiles and fallen wreckage and deep pools of muddy water. Emilia took comfort in Tom’s sensible nature. Hopefully he would keep his more reckless brother out of any danger.
Despite her concern, Emilia smiled. There, kneeling up on one of the window seats, was the source of her most constant joy, her five-year-old daughter, Lottie, who was watching the wilful machinations of the fierce weather with animated glee.
There came a juddering crash and a prolonged splintering from outside. Lottie, who was much given to drama, squealed loudly and clapped her hands. ‘That’s another slate down.’
‘All very well for you to say, young lady, but Daddy’s going to have to see to an awful lot of repairs.’
‘And you,’ Lottie said, without taking her eyes off the exciting scene outside. ‘You do as much work as he do. More sometimes.’
‘Perhaps. I’ve going out to the dairy to help prepare for the milking in a little while, and,’ Emilia stressed, ‘you, my love, will have to trot along to the sitting room and stay with Granny and Tilda. No mischief, Lottie. Promise me.’
Lottie wasn’t listening. ‘Uh, uh, oh…’ She was watching her doll’s pram, new and shiny, a recent birthday present, being driven on its little rubber wheels by the gale. It hit a corner of the horses’ concrete drinking trough with such force that the front of the little grand carriage was staved in. ‘Oh! Dulcie! She’s in there!’
Emilia dropped the huge iron, copper-spouted kettle back down on the hob of the range. ‘What’s happened? Lottie, what are you talking about?’
Lottie jumped down from the window seat and shot towards the back kitchen.
‘Lottie!’ Emilia dashed across the room and stopped her opening the door. ‘You can’t go outside. There are things flying about everywhere. It’s too dangerous.’
‘Mummy! I have to go. I have to rescue her!’ Lottie used desperate expressions on her mulish little face and raised her grubby hands. Taller and more statuesque than the average child her age, she looked fearless. Like Emilia, she was resolute and direct, but her boldness and spontaneity sometimes gave the inhabitants of the farm cause to fear for her safety. ‘Dulcie will be dead else.’
Emilia reached for Lottie’s hand with the intention of taking her to the window so she could see for herself why she was fussing about one of her dolls. Although Lottie returned her mother’s adoration it didn’t mean she was more obedient towards her, and she set her tiny red mouth in a tight line, glared out of her dark brown eyes and clamped her hands behind her back. ‘I’ve got no time for this,’ Emilia said, and hefted her up underarm and carried her to the window.
‘See?’ Lottie bawled indignantly, struggling to get free. ‘My pram’s broke. Dulcie’s in grave danger.’
Emilia peered through the darkness and chaos and saw the pram being rammed against the trough, then it toppled over on to its side. The doll and covers were already spewed across the yard. ‘Oh, Lottie, this really is too bad.’ She was cross with Lottie for disregarding her order the day before to bring all her toys inside. Lottie didn’t really care about the doll, and was not at all impressed that it wasn’t of the usual girly sort but a felt-bodied googly-eyed doll. She preferred boys’ toys and she was constantly being reprimanded for hiding away games and other possessions of her two brothers. Emilia knew her daughter was only longing to go outside so she could boast to Will and Tom that she had made a daring rescue in one of the worst gales that had ever hit Hennaford. ‘What’s Daddy’s going to say? He chose the pram specially for you. You are a naughty little girl.’
Lottie stopped struggling and Emilia put her down. Lottie changed her look to one that was designed to be sweetly appealing. It worked with most people for she was captivating and amusing. ‘If we bring it inside, Mum, we could mend it. He’d never know. I like mending things. I want to be a motor mechanic when I grow up.’
‘I’m afraid the damage is too obvious. I’ll slip outside and put it in one of the outhouses. You’ll go to bed early tonight for this, Lottie. I’ll tell your Daddy about it.’ Wryly, Emilia pulled in her lower lip. Many a mother would have smacked her child’s leg or sent her to her room over such a misdemeanour, but Lottie’s birth into the Harvey family was extra special, so she was unwearyingly pandered to by most of them.
‘He’ll send me to bed early for a whole week. Again!’ Lottie shrieked in hard-done-by tones.
‘What’s the matter with our little maid then?’ Emilia’s mother, Dolly Rowse, had come through from the sitting r
oom, which was in the building’s fine Victorian extension, set at a right angle and facing the road. With the farm’s housekeeper, Tilda Lawry, she had been cleaning up soot blasted down the chimney by the wind. ‘Why was she screaming, Emilia?’
Mournful and long-faced, Lottie dragged her feet to her grandmother and complained about her future punishment as if it wasn’t her fault her pram was damaged. Dolly Rowse, in her usual hairnet and wrap-around apron, owned a forbidding brow and an often alarming, candid nature. She could be tart with Emilia but, while she insisted her grandsons be respectful and quiet in the house, she had unending patience for Lottie. Dolly picked her up, kissed her and colluded with Emilia in an indulgent smile. ‘Well, my handsome, you shouldn’t have left Dulcie outside, but as long as you’re not out there getting hurt that’s all that matters. You come with Granny and she’ll look in her handbag and see if she’s got a nice bar of chocolate just the right size for a pretty little girl.’
Lottie was swept away, chuckling in delight, and Emilia smiled after them.
The sky was suddenly lit up in eerie shades of yellow, green and gold, and very shortly afterwards came a drawn-out threatening rumble. ‘I wondered when you lot were going to make yourself known,’ Emilia muttered about the thunder and lightning. ‘Now, to get that pram.’
She was worried about Alec’s reaction to the broken doll’s pram. Eight years ago they had lost a daughter at only three and a half weeks old, born prematurely and blind and deaf, with cerebral palsy and a weak heart. Alec had adored Jenna. Her death had devastated him. A quiet, deeply thoughtful man, sometimes given to periods of brooding, he refused to give up the belief that somehow he should have prevented Jenna’s tragic condition, that he should have protected her, and Emilia knew the loss had left him floundering for explanations that were unattainable. Alec had hardly dared look at Lottie or hold her until she had started talking and walking, until it was clear she could see and hear perfectly and had normal intelligence. Emilia had wanted to call her Anna, but Alec had insisted her first name be Charlotte, after his grandmother who had lived to the good age of eighty-six, and immediately he had called the baby Lottie, as the old lady had been known. While grateful that his daughter was as healthy and apparently as strong as his sons, he wanted her to be feminine, something of a delicate lady, as it had seemed Jenna was going to be, and he did not approve of her mutiny against the usual pastimes of little girls.
Emilia made a mental note to go after Lottie and make sure she had a clean dress on, that her short hair was brushed and her socks pulled up, in case Alec arrived home unexpectedly. He was a gentleman farmer, he had a large workforce, and although he worked most days for long hours on the land, he sometimes suddenly appeared at home. Once he had turned up in a sort of daze and had sat motionless in his den, and when she had asked him why he had come home he had shrugged and replied he didn’t really know. Alec was getting more and more absent-minded, and from being kind and patient was turning unaccustomedly irritable. He had always been frustrated with business matters that involved paperwork, due to a condition which meant he couldn’t read or write properly, but now he was getting testy about issues he formerly would have not cared about.
While the wind and rain continued their battering and complaining, and the flashes and crashes in the heavens came ever closer, Emilia, praying the lightning wouldn’t bring down the newly erected electricity power lines, hurried to the back kitchen and carried the oil lamps through to the kitchen table in case they were needed. She put on her boots and mackintosh, thinking about how complicated it was nowadays to read Alec’s moods. He had always been cynical of the usual order of things, like class observances – she had been a dairy maid here but he had chosen her to become his second wife. Of a powerful build and noble bearing, he had taken lately to walking with his head down, either because keeping it upright was becoming a bother to him or he was signalling for even more remoteness.
Sometimes when Alec looked at her, ever since the time she herself had come to terms with Jenna’s death, Emilia got the uneasy feeling that he thought he had lost part of her too. In the most significant way he had, but she was always on her guard to conceal it. The truth would destroy Alec, and he in no way deserved that.
There was a sudden clatter and a burst of young excited voices outside the door. Startled out of her musings, Emilia was relieved to hear her sons safely home. No doubt they had enjoyed the ride, which must have been in some ways hazardous. They were typical boys who would rather play games or lark about than get on with their homework or see to their chores, but today they would be eager to change their clothes and clear the yard of debris, seeing it as a daring deed rather than a duty.
She opened the door to them and heard Tom – sensitive, dignified and shrewd Tom – mutedly agree with his careless, energetic older brother’s boastful claim that the ride up the hill at Devil’s Arch was ‘just like fighting through a battlefield but a heck of a lot more fun.’ Emilia didn’t kiss Will, it would have embarrassed him, but Tom instantly returned her affectionate hug, laughing as his dripping arms and wet face made her wet too. ‘Did you know Lottie’s pram is battered to death out there, Mum?’ he said seriously, knowing there was tension ahead, and some rebellious shouting on his little sister’s part. And probably screaming. Lottie screamed for ages when she got started.
‘I’m just about to steal it away into the cart house,’ Emilia whispered, as if in part of a conspiracy. ‘Tom, will you see what you can do with it tomorrow?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘It’s only fit for the scrap heap now,’ Will scoffed. ‘She’ll be in for it from Father. She’d better not have put anything of mine inside the pram.’
Emilia sighed.
Leaving pools of water on the linoleum the boys flung off their outdoor things and went into the kitchen, then after raiding the cake tin they went upstairs to dry themselves and change. Emilia overheard Will state in his uncompromising way, ‘Lottie had better not plead to come outside with us.’ She knew it was a warning to Tom, who, even though he wouldn’t agree to allow Lottie to join them in the adverse conditions, would want to stay and give his little sister a drawn-out explanation on the wisdom of her staying inside and promise her all manner of treats in compensation.
Emilia was reaching once more for the door latch when it was opened and Alec stepped over the threshold, the abandoned, ruined doll held up in one accusing hand. He let it drop with a thud on the draining board. Emilia lowered her gaze. She couldn’t help feeling guilty and this unsettled her. Alec’s annoyance had never made her feel this way before, and there was not the slightest need for it. Alec had never been dictatorial or demanding. Only her great secret, something she cherished although she shouldn’t, made her suffer this guilt.
‘I take it she hasn’t been playing outside today.’ Alec’s frustration and hurt was evident in his strong voice. ‘I’ve put the pram, what’s left of it, in the cart house.’
Emilia looked up at him. ‘She’s with Mother and Tilda in the sitting room. Alec, Lottie is sorry about the pram. I called her in for tea yesterday and after that it was dark and she must have simply forgotten about it. The boys are safely home. I’ve made flasks of hot tea. Would you like some?’
Alec gazed back and Emilia dropped her eyes again. He knew she was making excuses for Lottie. ‘I know the boys are back. Their bikes are cleaned and oiled and properly stowed away. Be careful, Emilia, when going across the yard. I’ve come to escort you. I’ll get the flasks. Listen…’
‘What is it?’ She glanced out of the window, alarmed. What was the gale about to wreak on them now?
‘The wind has dropped.’
‘Oh, thank goodness. Now we can start getting things back to normal. How much damage is there out and about, darling?’
‘It’s pretty bad.’
Next instant she was blinded and it was as if the house was rocked from roof to ground – the world seemed to be falling down all ar
ound her. Emilia screamed and flung out a hand to grab at the nearest thing, the huge cloam sink.
Alec met her panicked expression with something akin to shock, then he thrust open the door.
‘Be careful, Alec! What on earth’s happened?’
‘Lightning’s hit the roof of the cart house. It’s caved in. I was inside there only a minute ago.’ He touched the St Christopher medal around his neck, then superstitiously he touched the door; touched wood. ‘I was lucky. I’ll have to make sure the walls are safe.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, darling. The boys can help me. You see to the milking, and be careful.’
When he’d gone back outside, she whispered to herself, ‘You’re such a good husband to me, Alec.’ After fourteen years of marriage they were still in love. There was much to admire about Alec. Because he was polite and receptive to women his company was sought after by those of all ages and backgrounds. His good looks and enticing masculinity was remarked on often. At forty-one, ten years her senior, his tumbling, coal-black hair was silvering in a distinguished way, and this new habit of his of stooping a little, rather than diminishing his attraction, was bringing out the desire in his admirers to care for him. Emilia would have everything she could ever want in Alec if not for – she closed her eyes tight to forbid a vision. Of another man.
Why did her thoughts go so often to him? She had not seen him for eight years, so why did it feel as if he had left Hennaford, left Cornwall, only yesterday? It would help if they didn’t keep in touch. But she could not bear that. She kept his Christmas and Easter greeting cards and secreted them away to pore over in private moments. To imagine him writing the simple polite words that were usual to cards. To Emilia, Alec and family. With every good wish, Perry and Libby Bosweld. To everyone else it was just a formal message from one of the estate’s former tenants and his young daughter. Occasionally it had been pondered on by others in the family, why the disabled, one-time army surgeon bothered to keep sending cards, especially as the Boswelds had left Hennaford after a scandal involving Perry’s promiscuous sister, Selina, but to Emilia it meant everything. For the deep love for Perry, which she had not sought but which had grown inside her, had not diminished one tiny bit by time or distance. And on Perry’s cards, and the ones she sent to him, were roses. Roses were special to them. And by this she knew he still loved her.
