by Kelly Doust
Robin tactfully walked away a few paces.
‘Whatever for, darling?’ Wendy asked, swivelling around to look at her. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’
‘Yes, I do. I spoke to Dad,’ Sylvie gulped, finally meeting her mother’s gaze. ‘He explained what happened all those years ago. With his work, and why he stopped painting. I always . . . I guess I always blamed you. I’m sorry for thinking the worst of you. I’m sorry for running away . . .’ Sylvie told herself not to cry, but she could feel the tears forming.
‘Oh, darling. It’s not your fault,’ Wendy said, hugging her back. ‘We didn’t want you to know the truth about your father’s illness. It was a decision we made together, and I thought you were too young. You’ve always worried so much about pleasing us, and what Lizzie’s always drummed into you about the Dearlove reputation. All I wanted was for you to flourish.’
She pulled back and wiped the tears from Sylvie’s face with the corner of her linen shirtsleeve. ‘I love you, darling. Trust me – you don’t need to apologise.’
Sylvie buried her face in her mother’s soft shoulder. There was something else she needed to get off her chest. ‘Why did you keep protecting me when you knew what I thought of you? You’re so practical and strong, in the face of everything. Take Dad’s illness, for example. I wouldn’t have moved to New York if I’d known.’
‘Oh, darling, but that’s exactly my point! Don’t you see? It was our job to protect you and you had to go make your way in the world.’ She gave Sylvie’s arms a squeeze. ‘Now, tell me more about that grant . . .’
Wendy’s face looked so open and expectant, containing none of the hurt or rebuke Sylvie had been expecting. It was her mother’s solid, steady influence, she realised now, that had given her the strength to move overseas on her own all those years ago, just like Wendy had moved to the UK from Australia in her early twenties. It wasn’t just her father’s DNA that was in her makeup – it was her mother’s as well, of course.
‘Nick suggested this, did he?’ Wendy said when Sylvie had finished telling how they might go about keeping the estate. ‘Is he who we have to thank for your new-found enthusiasm?’
‘What?’ Sylvie frowned. ‘Well, Nick’s going to help us, but that’s not— Look, stop giving me a hard time.’
‘I’m not giving you a hard time!’ Wendy protested, laughing. ‘But be honest with me – is there something going on between you two? What about Nick’s girlfriend? How does she feel about all of this?’
‘What?’ Sylvie asked, her voice cracking oddly. What was Wendy talking about? Nick didn’t have a girlfriend – surely he would have said something? But then, he’d seemed so cagey today, heading off without explanation . . .
‘Just before you came home from New York, I often saw him about town with a blonde lass – tall, athletic-looking. Not as pretty as you, of course, but I definitely saw them at the Pipe&Slippers on a few occasions. I thought it might be over, what with the way he’s been hanging around here so much lately, but then they were there again last Sunday when your father and I popped in for a quick drink.’
A wave of jealousy broke over Sylvie, taking her by surprise.
‘They were sitting in one of the booths,’ Wendy went on. ‘He had his arm around her and they were laughing. They did look quite cosy . . . Oh, I’m sorry, my darling, have I upset you?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Sylvie said, putting on a wide grin, and pushing down a tangle of complicated feelings. ‘Nick’s perfectly entitled to have a girlfriend. Come on, let’s go open a bottle of wine and ring Mark Rutherford and tell him to get stuffed.’
But as she walked back to the house, arm in arm with her parents, she couldn’t help feeling mortified about Nick, and how she’d thought about him that afternoon. No matter what she did, Sylvie thought, she always managed to feel like a prize fool.
33
Victoria: London, 1941
‘Isay, Tori, you do rather look a fright. Lizzie told me to come visit, that you needed cheering up, but you look close to death’s door. Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
Victoria was sitting on the bench in the little park in the square, staring blankly into the distance when she heard her cousin’s voice and saw him walking towards her, waving heartily.
‘Lizzie and Charles’s butler told me you were here.’ Lionel reached the bench and stood uneasily in front of her. He glanced about. ‘He said Lizzie had gone down to Somerset for a few days, but that you’d be in the park – that you’re always out here. Why, can I ask? It’s a bit bleak, isn’t it?’ He shivered, looking around. The late afternoon had a bit of a cold snap to it, with summer slow coming this year.
‘It’s nice here, in the fresh air,’ Victoria said dully. ‘I can’t bear just sitting inside – I feel useless.’
‘Righto,’ said Lionel awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. ‘I hear . . . I’m sorry to hear you had . . . that you lost the baby,’ he said in an embarrassed rush.
Victoria closed her eyes. The pain was still so fresh. In the last months of her pregnancy, the perpetual strafing had had them all living on a knife edge, and her nerves had felt like they were sparking like live wires. And then, after an agonising two-day labour, moaning and contorted with pain, she was utterly exhausted and could barely keep her eyes open as she saw Lizzie cautiously receive the baby, wrapped in swaddling clothes, from the smiling midwife. Victoria had slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when she’d woken, she could have sworn that her baby had been on her chest, suckling at her breast, mewling contentedly. ‘Hello, little one,’ she’d murmured, eyelids fluttering in her sleep. But when she was properly awake and able to focus – hours later – she saw Lizzie’s sombre expression and the midwife’s hastily averted gaze, and realised, with horror, that something had gone terribly, horribly wrong.
As reality sunk in, Victoria let out an inhuman howl, and Lizzie tried to shush her. ‘Don’t distress yourself, darling – there’s nothing you could have done. The umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck so tightly that . . . well, she couldn’t breathe. Take this, it’ll calm your nerves.’ Lizzie offered tablets and a glass of water but Victoria rolled over, her face against the wall, and refused to even look at her.
Now, Lionel shifted uneasily, as Victoria’s silence continued.
‘Here,’ he said, thrusting a box of chocolates towards her. ‘Have these. You look like you could use them. It was quite something, I tell you, to procure them, but I know this chap, see . . .’
Victoria barely took in a word of what her cousin was saying. He prattled on, telling her all about the customers at Morton’s and the shows they’d been playing, and how it was all such uproarious fun because who knew when it would all end. All the while he twisted his felt hat between his fingers, and she wondered at his nervousness.
‘Tori, Tori – did you hear me? He left something for you. This,’ he said, handing her an envelope. ‘Lizzie told me not to say anything, but when I heard about the . . . well, bad luck, old stick. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner. Lizzie made me promise, and you know how terrifying she can be when she gets something stuck in her head. But I felt bad, so . . .’ Lionel trailed off forlornly.
Victoria stared at the envelope in his hands and took it without a word. She clutched it until Lionel finally took his leave, and it was only when she was quite sure he’d left the park and was not coming back that she opened it with trembling fingers.
‘Miss Victoria, I’m glad you’re back. It’s a bit nippy out there. I’ve got a fire going in the sitting room . . .’ Lizzie and Charles’s butler opened the door to her and was fussing about. Victoria was about to walk past him, up to the safety of her bedroom as usual – she just needed time to herself, time to think – when something made her stop and turn back to speak with him.
‘Edgar, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course, Miss Victoria. What is it?’
‘This is very important. Please tell me the truth. Did a fellow come to
visit me, many months ago? Tall, thin, dark-haired. Went by the name of Emil Bruckner.’
Edgar swallowed, turning visibly paler under the glow of the reception hall’s sconce lights.
‘Edgar?’ she asked, her voice rising.
She saw him make a decision. ‘Yes,’ Edgar breathed out slowly. ‘He came by. And sent you letters . . . several of them. Mrs Fortescue wanted me to— Well. You understand my position? Wait here for one moment please, Miss Victoria.’
He left her standing shaking with emotion in the cold marble-floored foyer and let himself into her sister’s cosily appointed sitting room. Using a slim key Victoria had never seen before, he unlocked a panel in the walnut sideboard and pulled out a well-concealed drawer. Picking up a small bundle, he crossed the room and handed it to her. A cache of letters – ten or more of them. ‘I’m sorry. These are for you.’
Victoria snatched the bundle from Edgar. She took one step towards the staircase, but suddenly knew she couldn’t bear to be inside, in this house, for one moment longer. She brushed past a startled Edgar and flew down the steps and out into the square, panting like a wild thing.
‘But Miss Victoria, come back! It’s not safe . . .’
She heard Edgar’s panicky voice behind her but ignored it and ran back into the park, the iron gate clanging behind her – the only place where she still felt close to Emil, the place where they’d been together, and the place where she now read his final letter, pleading with her to see her, telling her that he loved her, that he’d always love her . . .
She sat panting on the park bench and read through the rest of his letters, devouring his words as the darkness gathered around her.
When she’d finished reading, she held the letters to her chest and tears rolled down her face. She remembered Emil looking up at her window and her heart lurched. Everything, everything was ashes. All those months of pain, uncertainty, anger and humiliation – and deception. She remembered handing Oswald back his ring. ‘Better to live honestly than dishonestly. I could never love you, and I know you can’t love me.’ And she remembered Lizzie’s fury when she’d come home and told her that the engagement was off. Oh, the bitter arguments she’d had with her sister and the toxic, silent war that had been going on since she’d come home from the hospital. Could she ever look her sister in the eye again without hating her?
A plane streaked past overhead and the air raid sirens sounded, and there was that familiar, eerie whistle. Victoria almost laughed out loud – it was fitting that the bombs seemed to shadow her, her one unchanging constant throughout this whole nightmarish ordeal. She heard the strafing start in the distance, and the darkness was lit up by the anti-aircraft fire.
Victoria sorted through the letters with trembling hands. There had been an address on one of them, where was it? When she found the envelope she was looking for, she stared at the address for some minutes before getting to her feet, her mind made up. Clutching the letters, Victoria ran out of the park, into the darkness of the street, heedless of the ground rocking from the terrible explosions around her, and into the night.
34
Leaning her pushbike against a vine-covered post, Sylvie smoothed down her primrose cotton sundress – one of her favourite finds from the attic, a fifties frock with a voluminous circle skirt – and looked around at the Henshaws’ garden.
Dew was glistening off the hydrangea bushes on the small farmstead, and the house looked fresh and pretty. The stable doors had recently been whitewashed and bore a handsome sign saying Farm Shop. Sylvie watched as a minivan of tourists pulled up in the drive beside her, and locals and tourists alike casually wandered in and out of the stables to queue at a wooden counter. Business appeared to be booming. Sylvie was overcome with a sense of wonder. If the Dearloves could create something even half as successful at Bledesford, Sylvie knew they might just stand a chance.
Nick’s father opened the front door, his face breaking into a wide smile when he realised who it was. ‘Oh! It’s little Sylvie Dearlove, all grown up! Still a tiny thing, though, aren’t you? How are you?’
‘Nice to see you, Mr Henshaw. I’m well,’ said Sylvie, beaming back. ‘This place is looking amazing, isn’t it? I had no idea! How are you?’
‘Peter, please. Oh well, same as ever. Actually, better than ever. Doris is working in the shop, and it’s good to have Nick home again. He had his own place in town for a while but Doris begged him to move back in. Of course, he’s usually travelling up to London a lot more but hasn’t been lately . . . I say, I like your dress. Reminds me of something my mum used to wear when I was a boy. She was a champion baker, my mother.’
‘I was wondering, Mr Hen— Peter, is Nick in at the moment?’
‘Of course!’ he said, bustling her inside. ‘Come on in. Nick mentioned you’d been spending a lot of time together lately. How long have you been back from New York now – a few months? Are you missing the place? Life must be very different over there, in the Big Apple. Never been myself. I know Nick’s enjoying having you back in town. Can’t stop talking about the Dearloves and what you’ve all been up to over at Bledesford. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he had a case of mentionitis,’ Peter chortled, thoroughly oblivious to Sylvie’s discomfort. But despite her blushing cheeks, she couldn’t suppress a small thrill – Nick had been talking about them, had he, and about her?
‘I suppose you’d like to see him, then?’ Peter asked, rubbing his hands together, eyes shining. Sylvie nodded shyly.
‘Nicholas!’ Peter shouted up the stairs. ‘Someone here to see you. Go on up. He’s in his old room.’
As Sylvie ascended the steps, she felt a prickle of nerves run through her. Lately she’d been avoiding Nick’s calls and would disappear whenever he dropped by. She knew she’d been unspeakably rude, and that there was no excuse, really, particularly after everything he’d done to help them. But she just couldn’t help it, she didn’t want to see him. Now now, she scolded herself. So he had a girlfriend? Well that was his prerogative. They’d hardly made any commitments to each other, had they? He was an old friend, and she needed his help, and it was time to put this silliness behind her and get on with business . . . But she was aware that a tiny part of her still hoped he would appreciate the way she looked in the primrose dress.
Reaching the first floor landing, Sylvie saw that Nick’s bedroom door was shut. She heard music coming from inside. Summoning up all her courage, she rapped her knuckles against it, the butterflies in her belly flitting and dancing about.
‘Just a minute,’ Nick called, before swinging the door open.
‘Sylvie!’ he said, clearly surprised to see her. Looking her up and down, he took in her shapely curves and the smile on this face shut down. ‘I called you,’ he said, frowning. ‘Quite a few times, actually . . . I . . . And I dropped by. What happened?’
Sylvie took in the worn denim shirt with the top buttons undone and the small triangle of golden flesh exposed at his chest. She longed to reach out and touch him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking at her toes in her white Stan Smith trainers. ‘I know I should have got back to you . . .’
Nick raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Is that it?’
Sylvie flushed. ‘I know, I’ve been . . . well, I don’t know what else to say.’
Nick stayed silent. He clearly wasn’t going to make this easy for her.
‘I— I—’ she stuttered, before stopping, almost swooning at the sweet, spiced scent of him – had he always smelled this good?
‘I wanted to apologise. I thought . . . Oh, it doesn’t matter. There’s just been a lot going on, too much to deal with. I broke up with Ben,’ she said, and Nick’s eyes widened. ‘And I’ve decided to stay. In England. So that means I need to get the grant up and running.’
‘Wow.’ Nick’s face was unreadable. ‘That’s a lot of information to take in. I thought you’d gone off the idea, when you went dark.’
‘No, I haven’t. But I was wondering, will you help me?’
Nick watched her carefully but didn’t say anything.
‘I’ve spoken to Mum and Dad,’ Sylvie rushed on, ‘as well as Gigi . . . They’re on board if we can make it work. Plus, I know that whatever we do, it’ll be loads better with your help.’ She looked up at him hopefully. ‘Do you think you can help us, Nick? Please? Can you help me, I mean . . . even after everything?’
Nick looked down. ‘I thought . . .’ He looked down the hall, and then grabbed Sylvie by the hand. ‘Not here . . . just come in.’ A shot of electricity bolted up her arm as he drew her into his bedroom and shut the door.
‘Look, Mum and I have some ideas,’ Sylvie stammered. ‘Would you help me put it forward to the Trust? Unless, that is . . . unless you have too much on your plate? With your . . . with your girlfriend.’
‘My girlfr— What? I don’t have a girlfriend, Sylvie.’ Nick took a step back. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Wendy said she saw you with someone. Blonde girl, in town a few times, at the Pipe&Slippers . . .’ she trailed off, blushing fiercely.
Nick let out an unexpected hoot of laughter, shaking his head. ‘Your mother got the wrong end of the stick. That’s my cousin, Erica. She moved down from Yorkshire six months ago and we’ve been helping her find work. Had a bit of trouble back home with her bloke, and she needed a break. I thought I introduced you?’
Sylvie vaguely remembered a tall, pretty blonde girl at the local pub, working behind the bar. His cousin, hey?
Nick smiled broadly. ‘You were asking if I had too much on my plate? No, Sylvie Dearlove, I don’t. Not for you. For you my plate is free for the filling.’
He suddenly leaned over and kissed her on the lips. Looking up at him in surprise, a slow smile lit up Sylvie’s face as she reached over to take his face in her hands, kissing him back with a delicious, desperate hunger.
