by Angela Arney
The thought startled her. Not even Eleanora. For the first time Liana faced up to the fact that her love for Eleanora and Raul had become hopelessly muddled. Often suspected, never acknowledged, that night she faced it for the first time. A pure, single love was no longer the bright shining beacon which in the past had always led her onwards to success. Everything she had achieved, she thought had been for one single all-consuming love; love for Eleanora and Raul. But now uncertainty struck at the very core of her soul. The beacon was dim, its place taken by murky confusion. Instead of one love, two loves struggled for supremacy, and Liana realized she was faced with a choice: love the daughter or love the father. For long seconds her world stopped turning, then, keeling over, disintegrated into a heap of fragmented emotions.
Eleanora had done that. Eleanora had destroyed her world. Eleanora, when she had demanded the restoration of the castello, had forced the issue. By demanding attention for herself she had trespassed in the place sacred to Raul, and in doing so had blurred his image. Appalled at the path down which her thoughts were travelling, Liana tried to shut them out. But the need to keep Raul’s memory close twisted at her heart with a tearing pain. Eleanora could not be allowed to blot him out; she needed him. It was wrong, she knew it was wrong, but Liana wanted Raul intact. No-one, not even Eleanora, could be allowed to get in the way.
Despairing, she turned to look at Nicholas. In the past, he had always been her anchor, the constant factor which fed her sanity and kept her in the world of today, the here and now. She looked at the familiar outline of his body. He was the other dimension to her life, the man who had given her Broadacres. There were two things she could not, no, would not give up: Raul and Broadacres. Or was it Broadacres and Raul? Oh, God, she didn’t know, wasn’t even sure about that!
Suddenly her mood changed and a furious, raging anger consumed her. Nicholas and Eleanora had come back from Italy and between them had succeeded in turning everything on its head, making a complete nonsense of her life.
She looked at the still figure for a long time. It was difficult to equate the sleeping Nicholas with the stranger who had violated her body. Shuddering she turned away and took refuge again with the square of silver moonlight. The unimaginable had happened. This man beside her was Nicholas, the quiet, gentle man she had thought she knew inside out, who, because he adored her, would do anything to please her. Yet this man was the same man who had plunged into her, tearing her flesh until it bled. He had degraded and abused her in the most terrible way a man could abuse a woman. Even her deceit did not justify such terrible revenge.
Because of him another door to the past, which of late remained closed most of the time, had been brutally forced open. In a matter of seconds the present had dissolved into the past. How long had Nicholas taken to rape her? It seemed like hours, although in fact it must all have been over in a matter of minutes. But, oh, God, how evil and repulsive that short time had been. In those minutes Nicholas had metamorphosed into the soldiers of Naples, becoming every single hated one of them: the buttons of his jacket had been the buttons of their uniforms pressing into her soft flesh; his grunts had been theirs as they took their pleasure; and the pain, too, had been the same. Liana had forgotten the terrible pain of a huge and rigid penis rasping into a bone-dry vagina. With that single, violent act, Nicholas had dragged the sordidness of Naples from the past and planted it firmly in the haven which had been Broadacres. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Finally, in the darkest hour of night, the hour before the sky begins to turn leaden with the first grey light of dawn, Liana turned her face into the pillow, and began to weep.
*
The morning dawned the same as any other morning. Liana rose and went across to the window and looked out while Nicholas remained in bed. Nothing was said. Of course, they both knew it was not the same and never could be but to all intents and purposes their marriage was wearing its usual face. Nicholas was desperate to talk but was afraid to, and anyway, what the hell can I possibly say, he thought. If Liana doesn’t want to speak then I can’t. But, oh, God, Liana, if only you knew how much I’d give to be able to erase the past twenty-four hours. You deceived me, true, but what I did – Nicholas closed his eyes – he could not bear to even begin to think about it. Then a terrible thought struck him. She might leave him. He could not blame her. But how would he live? Life without Liana would be unbearable.
Lying there motionless on the bed, it seemed to Nicholas that the room hummed with their thoughts, random signals jostling to get into some sort of order; and without either of them saying a word they came to an agreement. Life would go on as usual, on the surface. That was how it would be. But will I, will either of us, be able to sustain it, wondered Nicholas. It will be like walking on eggshells. What was Liana really thinking? Her studied composure gave absolutely nothing away.
She continued looking out of the window. Don’t speak, Nicholas, not yet, she prayed, don’t say a thing. I can’t cope yet. Maybe some time in the future I will be able to. I don’t know. But at the moment I don’t want to speak to you, I don’t want to touch you and I never, never want to have sex with you again. That part of our life is finished for ever.
But she said nothing, just stared out of the window with unseeing eyes, the pearly beauty of the early morning mist unheeded for the first time since she had arrived at Broadacres. We will survive, she told herself, gripping the edge of the window sill, fingers taut, skin stretched over knuckles. Somehow we will survive because there is no alternative – whatever the cost, wherever the path led: that had been her vow. There was no going back. And anyway she could never leave Broadacres, never! But it was better not to talk. Some things were too terrible to talk about. Much better to pretend it had never happened, and then perhaps in time it would become unreal. Perhaps in time, it would be as if it never had happened. She latched on to that faint hope.
*
Six weeks later Liana made an appointment to see Donald Ramsay’s partner, Dr McCallum. His examination was competently brisk, professional and distant.
‘I can confirm that you are about six weeks pregnant,’ he said. He looked at her speculatively, wondering why on earth she had not gone to see his partner. Donald Ramsay was like part of the Hamilton-Howard family, always over at Broadacres riding with Lady Margaret. It would have been logical to have seen him. ‘Does your husband know?’
‘Not yet. I wanted confirmation before I told him.’
Dr McCallum looked at Liana’s sparse medical notes. She had never been ill, or if she had, she had never consulted Donald Ramsay. The notes merely consisted of a record of her first pregnancy and the delivery in December 1944. He did a quick calculation. Her daughter would be sixteen and she would be thirty-five by the time she had this baby.
‘It’s a long gap,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry. Modern obstetric practice has come a long way since 1944. As you will be thirty-five by the time the baby arrives, I will book you into Winchester Hospital for the delivery.’
Liana picked up her handbag and rose, indicating that the consultation was over. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ she said crisply. ‘I shall have the child at Broadacres, with a midwife in attendance.’
‘Too risky,’ said Dr McCallum. ‘You could lose the child.’
‘Risky or not, that is what I want,’ said Liana.
It was quite clear there was to be no more discussion. Dr McCallum flushed; he felt like a schoolboy. Liana had put him firmly in his place. He was surprised. He had not met her before and everyone had raved about the Countess of Wessex. Couldn’t meet a nicer woman, they said. He looked at her now, her face set in a determinedly arrogant expression, daring him to contradict her. Haughty bitch, he thought angrily; but if she insisted on putting her own life and that of the child’s at risk, there was very little he could do about it.
*
It was the week before Christmas. Broadacres was already festive with decorations. The Christmas tree had been delivered the da
y before and stood as usual in the East Gallery, ready for Eleanora and Peter to decorate it as they did every year. Logs crackled cheerily in the open fireplace of the breakfast room lit by the pale winter sunshine which flooded in.
Liana carefully buttered a slice of toast and spread it with honey. They all had to be told. Now was as good a time as any. She took a breath, hesitated a moment, then said, ‘I am expecting another child. It will be born late July next year, nineteen sixty-one.’
Careful to avoid looking at Nicholas, she smiled at Margaret, sure in the knowledge that she would be pleased. At least, she prayed her expression resembled a smile but it was difficult pretending to be pleased when inside she was seething with a mixture of fear and anger: fear at the prospect of having another baby – even now, sixteen years later, she could recall the pain of Eleanora’s birth and, as Dr McCallum had pointed out, she was not young from the point of view of childbirth; and anger directed at Nicholas. With that one violent act, he had succeeded in smashing all the years of careful contraception, all the years she had spent maintaining Raul secure in his place in her firmament as the father of her only child. She hated Nicholas for that most of all.
The moment she uttered the words Nicholas knew why she would not look at him, would not even glance in his direction. God, how he knew! Pregnant! Just what she had been trying to avoid for the past sixteen years. How she must hate him. A child, a permanent reminder of the terrible way he had forced himself on her. But in spite of everything he could not stop the little flicker of pleasure at the thought of another child – a son, he hoped. Then almost immediately he cursed himself for his selfishness. How could he be pleased that a child resulted from that disastrous union? A terrible fear surged through him: supposing he were punished and there was something wrong with the child? He would never, never forgive himself, and neither would Liana. No, God was not cruel; it was not the coming child’s fault he had been conceived in violence.
He looked at Liana. What was she thinking? Impossible to tell from her face, but he knew well enough why she had chosen this particular time to make her announcement. It was not so difficult to follow her reasoning. With all the family present, private conversation was impossible, and that was what she wanted to avoid. She could not bear to talk to him. He turned towards her, knowing full well what was expected of him. Like Liana, he, too, had his part to play in the charade that nowadays passed for their marriage.
Pandemonium broke out at the breakfast table, and Nicholas took advantage of it to kiss Liana. ‘Darling, what wonderful news.’ How hollow the words sounded in his ears; surely everyone must know something was wrong.
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’ Liana looked up then and stared him full in the face for a second, her black eyes cold and wintry. ‘You’ve waited long enough,’ she said.
Nicholas quailed before the withering hatred of her glance. She was never going to forgive him.
Eleanora leaped up shrieking, impulsively pushing her father aside to fling her arms around her mother’s neck. She was ecstatic. ‘Great, great,’ she yelled. ‘I’ve always wanted a brother or sister. But I’d prefer a brother. Oh, I do hope you have a boy, Mummy.’ She kissed Liana then quietened down and giggled. ‘Wait until I tell the girls at school. It proves you can still have sex when you’re over thirty!’
‘Eleanora!’ reproved Margaret, but she burst out laughing. ‘That is not the kind of remark you should make to your mother.’
Liana and Nicholas forced themselves to join in the laughter, and their awkwardness passed unnoticed.
‘I shall have to take over this new property company you’ve just set up,’ said Nicholas smiling, determinedly playing his part as the happy father-to-be. ‘I’m sure Donald Ramsay told you to take life easy.’
‘Dr McCallum is my physician, not Donald Ramsay, and no, he did not tell me to take life easy.’ Liana frowned at the thought. ‘I shall continue as normal. Now is not the time to hand over the reins to anyone else.’
‘But I’m not anyone else. I’m your husband.’
‘I know who you are,’ said Liana icily. Then seeing Margaret gazing at them open-mouthed and realizing they were both letting their guard down, she softened her tone. ‘But you have to admit I am better at financial matters than you. With the bank rate rising and the new credit restrictions imposed by the chancellor, we can’t afford to make any mistakes with the new company. I’d be grateful if you and Margaret would take over the tourist administration for Broadacres next year: that would leave me free to concentrate on building up the property company.’
She had offered a sop to his pride and also to maintaining their façade. Nicholas took it gratefully. There was no other choice.
The news travelled with lightning speed throughout the estate. Eleanora and Lady Margaret saw to that. Everyone at Broadacres fussed over Liana. Although they had to do it in a surreptitious way. ‘Lady Liana’s stubborn,’ said Mary Pragnell to her daughter Meg, ‘but she needs looking after just the same.’
‘I know that, Mum. I’m not daft. I’ve been working here now for over sixteen years.’
Mary Pragnell sat, fat legs straddled comfortably apart. Sixteen years had not made a great deal of difference to her appearance – a few more pounds added on to her ample figure but her face was unwrinkled, and as smooth and rosy as one of the Broadacres apples.
‘I forgets, you know,’ she said in her broad Hampshire accent. ‘Time passes so quick. But you’re right. More than sixteen years, and we’ve a lot to thank her for. Comfortable lives we’ve all had because of her, and now your Rolf has a job on the estate, too. He’s a good lad. He will be able to take over the home farm when Wally and me retires. Lady Liana has it all arranged. I doubt Lord Nicholas could have organized it as well.’
Liana knew very well that everyone was keeping an eye on her, and in spite of her stubbornness and her refusal to ease up on anything, in her heart she was grateful. They were good people. She was lucky to have them around her, especially now that everyday life was so difficult. Sometimes she thought that she could not go on pretending everything was fine; it was such an effort. But somehow she did, they both did. She and Nicholas existed side by side, everything appearing perfectly normal. But in reality they were completely alone, in separate but parallel furrows of unhappiness. Liana often sensed that Nicholas wanted to reach across and bridge the chasm between them. But she had made up her mind to hate him, and so she always rigidly withheld herself, aware of the danger of softening, the danger of forgiveness. She was not going to even think about changing her mind. Why should she? It was a question she asked herself time and time again. Why should I? The answer was always the same. Let him suffer and go on suffering. Just as I am.
Desperately unhappy, hating the fact that her body was growing heavier and heavier with child, his child, the child she had never wanted, she refused to give him an opening. Yet at the same time, she was as terrified as he of breaking the flimsy thread which still held them together. Emotion, affection was clamped down upon and shut away. And yet there was something she could not conceal from her inner self – the curious knowledge that she still needed him. Liana could not understand her own conflicting mass of emotions, but she knew he needed her, too.
Nicholas was sure that if only they could be open with each other, discuss their life and problems without losing their tempers, they might stand a chance of redeeming something. But there was no way of opening up the conversation. Liana was polite but distant, very, very distant, and Nicholas never summoned the courage to try; he was too afraid of her reaction.
They remained aloof and separate in unhappy silence, treading warily around each other. On bloody eggshells, thought Nicholas, often angry, but powerless to change anything.
Liana continued working at her normal pace, driving herself up and down to London, tramping around Knightsbridge and Kensington, buying up properties and personally supervising the lettings until finally Dr McCallum became worried. It was the beginning of Ju
ly. The baby was due at the end of the month and her blood pressure was high.
‘What the hell can I do?’ he asked Donald Ramsay. ‘I’ve explained to her the dangers of toxaemia. I’ve told her that she could lose the child, and maybe even her own life. But she takes no notice.’
‘Perhaps she doesn’t care,’ mused Donald.
The tension between Liana and Nicholas had not gone unnoticed by either Dorothy or himself although to his amazement none of the rest of the family seemed to have noticed it. Donald worried about it. What on earth had gone wrong?
‘That is something I have thought myself,’ confessed Peter McCallum reluctantly.
‘Confront her with it,’ said Donald briskly.
‘You know her better. Wouldn’t it be easier if you said something?’
‘Much better coming from a comparative stranger. Might shock her into taking notice.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Peter, privately thinking that in fact Donald was ducking an unpleasant task. But he was a good doctor. He did not shirk it, and tackled Liana head on at the next opportunity. ‘I’m ordering you into hospital,’ he said after the routine examination. ‘Your diastolic blood pressure is a hundred and you’ve got protein in your urine. From now until the baby is born you must be under observation and have rest.’
