by Gloria Cook
‘Oh, I think I can manage that. And just to please you I’ll eat a slice of cake. I’m suddenly tempted by the lingering aroma of cinnamon from Tilda’s baking this morning.’
Lottie edged into the room, with Faye her shadow. ‘I’ve done you a drawing, Daddy,’ she whispered uncertainly. ‘To make you feel better.’
‘Bring it here, darling. It’s working already. I am feeling better.’ It was Brooke whom Alec was smiling and looking at while he spoke.
Chapter Five
Emilia was driving along the Newquay coast road. ‘You’ve gone very quiet, my love.’ She glanced at Lottie, who was sitting rigidly beside her, her arms crossed in front of her sturdy body, her fingers gripping the opposite sleeves of her cardigan. ‘You were chatting all the way until we saw the sea.’
Lottie did not answer. She was refusing to answer. The telltale signs were her drawn brows and the stubborn tightening of her lips. If Emilia’s mother was with them she would have remarked, with the pride and indulgence given only to grandparents, and which would encourage Lottie in her wilfulness, ‘There that dear maid goes again. You wouldn’t get she to budge now no more ’n if she was old Tolly’s ox!’
Emilia changed gear to drive down the steep hill of Watergate Bay. She watched the road carefully but her main concern was to cheer up her daughter and get her out of her mood before they arrived at Roskerne, the home of Alec’s brother Tristan. It was where Alec had been recuperating for the last two weeks. One trick with Lottie was to begin a process of elimination. ‘Has someone upset you?’
The little scowl hardened.
‘Was it Will?’
Last evening, Will had threatened to hold Lottie upside down and shake her to retrieve the spent matchsticks for the model ship he was making and which she had snatched up and clung on to within the confines of her skirt pocket. ‘Mum!’ he had wailed, when Emilia had reprimanded him over his thunderous threat. ‘She won’t give them back.’
‘She’s just a little girl, Will.’ This was one of Emilia’s stock answers on such an occasion. She hated Lottie being excluded from anything. ‘Let her pass the matches to you or something.’
‘Why should I? She always gets her own way.’ In a temper inherited from Alec’s difficult, unkind father, Will had blazed, ‘You’re turning her into a spoiled brat!’
Dolly and Edwin Rowse, and Tilda Lawry, who had been bringing in a tray of tea to the sitting room, had all laughed at his exasperation. Will had continued, ‘You all are, except Father. I bet he’s glad to be away from Lottie and is getting some peace and quiet.’
Lottie had smirked at Will but had gone off to play in her room, unusually quiet.
‘It can’t be Tom. You never get cross with Tom,’ Emilia said. ‘Did someone upset you at school today?’
Impatient huff.
‘Is it—’
‘I wish I hadn’t come! Daddy won’t want to see me,’ Lottie blurted out, pouting and thumping her fists on the thick leather upholstery of the old, reliable Ford Coupe.
‘Lottie! Of course he will.’ They were climbing the steep hill up past the Watergate Bay Hotel, which was near to the cliff edge and overlooked a beach of fine golden-grey sand, on which heavy, frothy white waves of the Atlantic Ocean were charging and breaking like a conquering horde. The surrounding land, apart from the occasional dwelling, was wild with springy turf, golden gorse and pink and purple heather, and spread with creamy yellow primroses.
‘Daddy doesn’t love me.’ Lottie’s head was bowed. ‘Granny’s cross with him.’
‘Of course he loves you. You mustn’t carry tales to Granny, Lottie. It’s not fair to Daddy. He’s been through a lot, you know.’ Emilia was worried. In this state Lottie would either throw a tremendous tantrum and refuse to get out the car when they stopped, or she would sob as if in the greatest distress. And there was some cause for Lottie to be upset with her father. When Emilia telephoned Roskerne every evening to ask Alec how he was and update him on the events of the farm, Lottie always fussed to speak to him. She would shriek excitedly down the receiver and Alec always chided her. Emilia had tried explaining to Lottie that Daddy was unwell and at the moment couldn’t stand shrill noises, but last evening, when Will had got to the telephone first and complained about his sister’s behaviour, Alec had refused to speak to Lottie afterwards, saying he had no time for a naughty little girl.
Emilia prayed Lottie wouldn’t spoil the visit to Roskerne. She had missed Alec and was eager to join him for the weekend and then take him home. This fortnight had been the longest they had spent apart.
‘You’re looking forward to playing with Adele, aren’t you? If the sun’s out tomorrow I’m sure Vera Rose will take you both to play down on the beach.’
‘I suppose so.’ Lottie straightened out her dark expression a little. ‘Will Jonny be there? He’s my favourite cousin. He’s funny, more fun than anyone I know.’
‘Jonny’s studying at Oxford, remember? You’ll enjoy yourself, sweetheart. You love Uncle Tris. And Aunty Winnie is going to make your favourite strawberry blancmange. Daddy does love you, Lottie, and he will be pleased to see you. Please be a good girl. For Mummy’s sake? Eh?’
Lottie eyed her sideways. ‘Are you trying to bribe me?’
‘Lottie! Where on earth did you get a phrase like that?’
The little girl was giggling now and chewing at the ends of her hair. ‘It’s something I heard a girl say once to Jonny. I think he wanted to kiss her.’
‘Look, nearly there,’ Emilia cheerily changed the subject. Eighteen-year-old Jonathan Harvey, Tristan’s son from his first marriage, a somewhat uncontrolled individual with handsome film-star looks, had discovered the delights of the fairer sex at an early age and was a diligent pursuer of conquests.
Tristan Harvey had made a very successful second marriage to a war-widowed Harvey cousin. He and Winifred, their child Adele, and Vera Rose Stockley, the sporty, good-natured teenaged daughter from Winifred’s first marriage, were waiting for them at the bottom of the steps of Roskerne. It was a solitary, imposing building, a fine example of Victorian flair and innovation. It had been run-down from roof to grounds when Tristan had married Winifred eight years ago but he had brought it all up to excellent order. Only the gardens, exposed here to salt-laden winds, refused to balance the order by providing flourishing trees and healthy blooms.
‘How’s my little ragamuffin?’ Tristan swept Lottie up in his arms. ‘You should have brought Faye with you. We’d have had three little girls to amuse us.’
‘Yes, yes, Uncle Tris.’ Lottie nearly throttled him with a tight hug round his neck. ‘Faye could’ve danced in her tutu. Adele could’ve read one of her poems. And I could’ve acted a play for you. Tom pretends he’s Long John Silver and me, I’m Cap’n Flint. I make a good parrot.’
‘I’m sure you do, poppet. You and Adele can perform something for us anyway before dinner tonight. Hello, Em. It’s good to see you.’ Tristan was as dark in colouring as his brothers but, unlike Alec and Ben, he was lean in body. Of the three he was the calmest and the friendliest. A neat moustache covered some of the scars he had received from the wounds that had nearly taken his life at Passchendaele. Emilia felt an affinity with Tristan. He had been an officer over her brother, Billy, who had died in battle. He kissed Emilia on both cheeks. ‘You’re looking a bit stretched. Isn’t she, Winnie? Hope you’ve not been fretting about his nibs in there.’
‘How is Alec?’ Emilia asked, climbing the wide stone steps.
‘As quiet as usual but he’s progressing well,’ Winifred said, taking her arm and leading her inside the house. ‘And I don’t just mean that in medical talk. Alec’s a wizard on his crutches now and he’s been out and about quite a lot. In the gardens, along the cliff path and even down on the beach with Tris, taking photographs by the dozen.’
Emilia was cheered and hopeful. ‘Where is he?’
‘There.’
Emilia’s keen brown eyes followed Winifred’s pointing ha
nd. Alec was heading for her from the drawing room, his crutches and good leg conveying him almost as fast as his normal long stride. He was looking better, not so pale and wan. ‘Darling!’ She ran to him, arms open wide, throwing herself against his broad chest, clinging to him tight.
Relieving himself of one crutch, using her for balance, Alec brought his mouth down on her offered lips. He kissed her as soundly, as intimately, as if they were alone. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispered, passion and meaning in his words. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
‘Ahem!’ Tristan coughed merrily. Vera Rose and the two girls were giggling. Old-fashioned in nature, Winifred was looking down demurely but she was pleased with the exchange of affection. ‘Shall we go in for high tea? Emilia, I’m eager to learn how your roses are progressing. I suppose they’ll win first prize again at all the horticultural shows this year.’
‘Of course they will,’ Alec said, regaining his crutch, his gaze still on Emilia and transmitting his desire that she stay close. ‘Well, Lottie,’ he called to his daughter. ‘You’re an untidy little mess, as usual. I’ve missed you too. Let Daddy sit down, then you must give me a hug. I’ve got something for you. From your uncle’s shop. You’ll love it.’
‘What it is?’ Lottie demanded, jigging along at his side, her earlier pique forgotten at the promise of a treat. Uncle Tristan’s antique shop in Newquay stocked things called ‘curios and collectables’, all magical and fascinating to her imaginative mind.
* * *
‘I don’t think she liked it,’ Alec said, that night in bed. Emilia was just drifting off to sleep, facing him. He had his arm over her and he brushed his fingertips all the way down her bare back, and lower.
‘Mmmm?’ Emilia murmured dreamily, coming closer for more caresses. ‘Again, darling? Did you say something about Lottie?’
He nuzzled her neck, whispering in her ear, making her shiver deliciously. ‘I like us having to be more adventurous with me having this plaster on my leg. Lottie? Yes. I don’t think she liked the porcelain shoe I gave her. I thought it would make the start of a collection for her.’
Emilia wound her arms around his neck. ‘Perhaps it’s something she’ll appreciate more when she gets older.’
Alec kissed her lips. ‘So she was disappointed?’
‘She loved those enamel dog brooches she saw in Tris’s shop last time we were here. Perhaps she thought you’d got her one of those.’ She reached for his mouth.
‘There’s no pleasing that child.’
‘What?’ Emilia let her arms fall away from him. Alec had made the remark with irritation and accusation. As a mother defending her young she demanded crossly, ‘Is that all that matters to you? It’s only a piece of old china. An ornament. Don’t Lottie’s feelings count?’
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Alec shied away from her. ‘Of course my daughter means everything to me. I can’t believe you’ve just said that.’
‘What I’m trying to say, Alec, is that sometimes you behave as if Lottie is something of annoyance to you.’ Emilia sounded stern. She didn’t want an argument with Alec, but it was time this issue was fully aired.
‘Oh, you’ve been thinking that, have you?’ His anger almost scorched the air between them. With as much ease and quickness as his plastered leg would allow he thrust the covers aside and edged himself gingerly to the brink of the bed. ‘Bloody charming, I call that, Emilia. Having bad thoughts stewing away inside your head against me.’
Emilia yanked the covers in tightly under her arms so she wasn’t exposed to him. It was time Alec was faced with his impatient and indifferent attitude towards Lottie and if he didn’t like it, that was too bad. She could feel his anger increasing and the more it did, so was hers. ‘You’ve got no justification in getting all self-righteous, Alec. Think about it, sometimes you act like Lottie doesn’t exist. You shut her out. You treat her differently to the boys and to the way you behaved with Jenna. I’m not making a fuss over nothing. Lottie’s noticed how grouchy you get with her. You’re making her very unhappy.’
‘You’re talking rubbish! How dare you!’ he raged. ‘I can’t believe you’ve just said all that. It was here in this room where Jenna first stopped breathing, where we first thought we’d lost her. Never in all my life had I felt at such a loss, had been so scared. Not long afterwards we actually did lose our little girl. And now you’re seriously accusing me of not loving our next child? You bitch!’
‘What?’ Emilia was up on her knees trying to get a grip on him, but he shrugged her off. ‘Alec, I’m sorry. I went too far.’ She saw that now. Her adoration of Lottie had made her overprotective, and too hard on those who took her precious daughter to task over her persistent mischief. ‘I shouldn’t have said all that. I’m sorry. I was trying to make you understand how Lottie feels, that’s all. How sometimes you seem a little distant to her.’
‘Distant? If it’s distance you want then you can bloody well have it.’ He struggled up on to his good foot and while leaning against the bedpost he pulled on his dressing gown, then reached for his crutches.
Stunned at what she had done, sorry and guilty over his hurt, Emilia wrapped the quilt around her body and hastened round the bed to him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Out of this room and far away from you. I need a cigarette.’ He was clutching the top of his head. ‘I’ve got a terrible headache now, thanks to you!’
‘You can’t hobble downstairs at this time of night.’ She reached for her negligee. ‘Have your cigarette on the balcony. I’ll fetch you some aspirin, and then I’ll sleep with Lottie. Alec—’ She stretched out a hand but didn’t dare touch him. He was trembling in a shuddering sort of way. ‘I really am sorry.’
Next day Alec refused to talk about the quarrel or leave the room. Sensing she was the cause of the bad feeling, Lottie refused to go in to him. Emilia packed hers and Lottie’s things and they went home on their own.
Chapter Six
Upstairs in his house in Cheyne Walk, London, Perry Bosweld had already been busy at his desk for a couple of hours when his housekeeper waddled into his office and laid a wad of morning post down beside him. Also in plodded his daughter’s neglected black Labrador cross, Casper, who for some years had taken up refuge with the housekeeper in the kitchen. ‘Anything interesting, Mrs Nicholson?’
‘Looks like the usual three or four letters you get every day from your charities, inviting you to give talks at meetings and raise funds for ’em. You work too hard, Mr B.’ In her bright floral overall, her hand-knitted, multi-coloured, sleeveless cardigan, a paisley headscarf restraining her dove-grey hair, and beige lisle stockings and sturdy flat shoes, Mrs Nicholson began her day’s prattlings. ‘There’s one from the local archery club. ’Tis time you went out again and contended a tournament. Haven’t polished a new trophy of yours in ages. Want to lose your championship, do you? That’d be a shame. Miss Libby likes to watch you, you know that. You could get her up from that boarding school for a weekend. Give her something to look forward to, it would. I don’t think she likes it there. Mind you, she didn’t like any of the schools you’ve put her in. That girl, bless her, doesn’t know what she wants and is never likely to. There’s a letter from the merry widow Mrs Irene Farley, that painted Jezebel from Sloane Square; she’s put her name on the envelope. She’s been after you for ages. Well, can’t blame her, you’re a fine-looking, eligible young man. Hope you’ll take no notice of her. I can’t stand her and Miss Libby hates her. All glitter and no brains, that woman. There’s a letter from the Rose Growers’ Association by the look of it. I suppose that’s why you’re up bright and early, to get out to the greenhouse before this spot of sunshine goes. Forecast’s none too good, mind.
‘Dr Bosweld’s written at last. About time. Anyone’d think Donegal was at the other end of the world and not just ’cross the Irish sea. Pretty stamp. She dashed the letter off quick, her writing’s a scrawl, enough to make you think a spider fell in the ink. Envelope’s light, so she co
uldn’t have bothered with more than one page. Just to say she’s arrived safely and settled into her new practice, I s’pose. Don’t know how long she’ll last there. Six months would be a record for her. I s’pose ’tisn’t all her fault, there’s lots of prejudice against women doctors, I’ve heard her getting cross about it. Shame, it is. Good doctors are needed everywhere. Oh, well, she’s always busy, busy that one. I s’pose she’ll be begging you and Miss Libby to jump on a ship and visit her. Be a good thing if you did. The both of you need a change of scene. You’re wasting away ’cause you refuse to let me feed you up and the young lady’s always as pale as a wet weekend. There’s some lovely countryside over there, you know, ’tis said to be as green as grass. Well, I mean it’s got lots of grass. Think there’s an invitation to dinner somewhere among that lot. It’s a very formal-looking affair. Now, Mr B, I’ll have a full cooked breakfast ready in fifteen minutes. Along to the table with you by then, you understand? Can’t be doing with having to climb the stairs and to keep calling you. Can we, Casper? I’m piling up your plate this morning and I won’t be accepting anything less than an empty plate. Understand?’
‘I do. Thank you, Mrs Nicholson,’ Perry said absently, having barely taken in a word, as was the norm.
As she passed through the doorway of the Queen Anne house, Mrs Nicholson cheerfully threw over her stout shoulder, ‘Oh, and there’s a letter from Cornwall.’
‘What?’ Perry threw down his fountain pen and rifled through the pile of letters, making some hit the floor, until he found what he was hoping for. Yes! The ordinary white envelope had Emilia’s handwriting on it. He tore it open. The letter began, Dear Perry. He read the greeting twice. This was the first time she had written to him only and not included Libby. He feverishly sought for clues as to why, going on past the usual I hope you and Libby are well, etc… Did you read in the newspapers about the gale that hit the West Country last month? Cornwall fared the worse and Hennaford suffered a tragedy. There was an account of the death of the local carpenter Leslie Annear. Perry remembered the likeable young father. Alec was injured just after the wind and rain eased off. He suffered… Perry read about Alec’s injuries and how he was recuperating at Roskerne. Of course you may possibly have heard about this from Tristan. Tristan Harvey was involved in some of the same ex-servicemen’s charities as Perry; Perry was chairman or president of half a dozen. There was the mention of roses. On their last meeting alone Perry had given her a mass of multi-coloured roses. I’m expecting a wonderful season with my roses and I’m planning to exhibit Crimson Sun in this year’s village show. Perry’s gorgeous smile could have lit up every room in every house in Cheyne Walk. He had sent the original shrub rose as a bare-root to Emilia to plant. It was of the deepest red, the colour that epitomized love, and had a velvety property, with a strong, haunting traditional rose scent.
