Cast the First Stone: A stunning wartime story

by Angela Arney

  Broadacres filled her life these days. Broadacres and its people – the wooded valley brimming with golden sunlight; the dew on the fresh long grass of the meadows in early morning; the crystal-clear chalk streams feeding the broad River Itchen. It was this she loved, this which gave her life purpose. Broadacres was the reason she still schemed and strived, pursuing the many skeins of her business interests with a fanatical devotion. The money was for one thing and one thing only, to maintain Broadacres and its way of life in perpetuity.

  ‘I wonder if she really is happy.’ Nicholas fidgeted with the letter.

  ‘Why should she say she is if she isn’t?’ Liana said sharply. She did not want Nicholas to start doubting Eleanora’s words.

  ‘To help ease our feelings,’ answered Nicholas slowly.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Liana was very positive. ‘It’s not in Eleanora’s nature to do that. She has always blurted out the truth, usually regardless of the consequences. If she says she is happy, believe her. Take comfort from that. At least things haven’t turned out to be a complete disaster for Eleanora; and Peter must be reasonably happy as well, otherwise surely he couldn’t be such a prolific writer? Books, plays, and now film scripts. Hardly a day goes past without his name being mentioned in the newspapers – always some article about his latest success.’

  ‘I suppose you are right,’ said Nicholas. ‘Anne tells me Peter is going to Hollywood next week to do another film.’

  ‘There you are then. You have nothing to worry about.’

  Liana returned to her papers, wishing Nicholas would leave. Eleanora and Peter might be happy, but he was not, and she could not bear looking into his eyes and seeing the perplexed pain and suffering. Like herself, he could not fully comprehend the disaster which had overtaken them. Then suddenly, as it often did these days, her mood swung violently from something near to compassion to a sudden terrible rage. Oh, God, why did he always remind her so of James? The same old questions ricocheted round inside her head, always the same questions, but never any answers. Why had he let William stay that fateful Christmas? Why had he not warned her of his brother’s madness? Her hand gripped the pen tightly, and the familiar mantle of bitterness wrapped its coldness around her. She did not care how much pain he was suffering, it was nothing, nothing compared to hers.

  ‘I worry about us, Liana. God, I worry about us.’

  Somehow Nicholas scraped together the courage to tackle Liana head on. Since his confession that night at the Ritz, she had withdrawn from him completely, shutting herself away in a high tower of bitterness. The bad patches their marriage had gone through at other times paled into insignificance now. Liana had turned into a stranger, a cold, unpitying woman he could not reach. She blamed him for the death of James, just as he, too, blamed himself. But it was not all his fault, surely she could see that?

  His cry did touch Liana’s heart. Like a bedraggled bird the tiny spark of pity flew in from the darkness, begging her compassion, but before she could respond, it flew out again. There was nothing she could do.

  ‘Stop worrying. We are surviving,’ said Liana, not raising her eyes from the papers before her.

  ‘I don’t want to just survive. I want to live again, be your husband.’ Even their nights were spent apart now. Liana had moved his things into a bedroom along the corridor.

  ‘Sex will not solve anything.’

  Nicholas lost his temper. ‘Christ! Do you think I don’t know that? I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about talking. I’m talking about sharing our grief, about coming to terms with it.’

  Liana looked up and Nicholas wished he had never broached the subject. For a few seconds he saw through the windows of her eyes into the terrible bleak bereavement of her soul, a living hell of doubt and torment. And behind it all, flickering like so many ghosts, brief snatches of what life might have been if only, if only . . .

  Nicholas turned and left in despair. Fool! He rounded on himself bitterly. There is nothing you can do. There is nothing in this world that you can do to make reparation for the death of James. He could visualize his future so clearly. It lay before him – long, long years, all bleak and barren. The only spark of hope was Eleanora, his beloved daughter. He would go to Florence. Liana did not want him here.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Dorothy Ramsay carried the tea tray out into the garden and through into the summer house. The paper-thin bone china cups shone translucent in the sunlight. A large cake plate was piled precariously high with fresh crusty scones and at the side were two bowls, one of clotted cream and the other of strawberry jam.

  ‘This is a lovely surprise,’ she said, ‘and you’ve timed it perfectly. Just in time to sample the first strawberry jam of the season.’

  ‘I could smell your cooking from the other side of the valley,’ said Peter smiling. ‘That’s why I came.’

  ‘Well, now you are here, Peter, perhaps you can talk some sense into my silly old husband. Try persuading him not to drive that pony and trap until he’s got more strength in his hands.’

  ‘Good heavens, woman. I’ll never get more strength unless I use them. Anyway, Pegasus has got more sense than most humans. I hardly need to use the reins. He knows exactly where to go.’

  Peter ignored their good-natured bickering. ‘I’m afraid you’re out of luck,’ he told Dorothy. ‘You’ll not get me on your side. I agree with Donald; he’ll be perfectly all right. That old horse is as good as a nursemaid any day.’

  ‘Men,’ snorted Dorothy. She sounded annoyed but Peter could see a glimmer of a smile. She knew when she was beaten. ‘You always stick together.’ She began to pour out the tea. ‘How long do you think it will be before Margaret and Nicholas arrive?’

  ‘Ten minutes or so. They left a long time before me. Nicholas wanted Diabolus to have a good gallop, and Margaret is exercising’, he hesitated, only momentarily it was true, but long enough for the Ramsays to notice, ‘Eleanora’s mare.’

  ‘Margaret tells me Beauty is off her feed.’

  Peter sighed. ‘Yes, the vet thinks she’s pining.’

  Donald grunted irritably. ‘Damned stupid girl. Always was too headstrong. Absolutely no need to go rushing off like that. Beauty is not the only one who is pining. Margaret and Nicholas both miss her terribly; and I daresay even Liana does, always supposing someone could chip their way through that icy shield she has erected and get her to admit it.’

  ‘Donald!’ Dorothy frowned. How could he forget that Peter must be missing Eleanora more than anyone?

  He knew what she was thinking. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten Peter. Which reminds me. How did you get on with Doctor Zuckermann? What did he have to say?’

  ‘Much the same as you, Donald. He doubted that an accurate diagnosis was possible so many years ago, although he admitted there may have been some congenital nervous defect which had been compounded by intermarriage. However, as far as Eleanora and I are concerned, his advice was to marry. In his opinion the chance of any of our children being ill is no greater than that of any other couple. He confirmed my own thoughts: the fear of mental illness is often exaggerated out of all proportion.’

  ‘But William was mentally ill,’ interrupted Dorothy. ‘Surely that cannot be denied.’

  ‘Of course not. And almost certainly he had some form of schizophrenia. But it doesn’t necessarily mean that anyone else is going to suffer from it.’

  Donald snorted. ‘There you are. Just what I tried to tell Eleanora, but the damned girl wouldn’t listen. She only wanted confirmation that illness had existed in the family and that there’d been a few eccentric ancestors. Once she’d heard that, she shut her ears.’ He leaned forward towards Peter. ‘You must talk to her again, Peter. Then she’ll come back.’

  ‘No, she’ll not come back. Not now. Eleanora has already fallen in love with someone else. Nicholas showed me a letter from her when I arrived back from the USA.’ Peter managed a weak smile. ‘So you see the whole question is now academic. We can f
orget it.’

  There was silence, and Dorothy hurriedly passed him a cup of tea. Peter sipped it, leaning back in the garden wickerwork chair. Tea, he thought wryly, that so English of drinks, the panacea everyone turns to in a crisis. But it was comforting sitting here with two old people in an English country garden. Last week he had been in California where everyone drank Martinis and the gardens were brilliant with hibiscus and oleanders, and shaded by date palms.

  Here in the Ramsays’ garden, the summer house was shaded by a rambling rose so ancient that its stock was about six inches in diameter and the branches gnarled and moss-grown. But every year, without fail, it produced an abundance of strongly perfumed off-white roses with delicate, tea-coloured centres. They were at full glory now and the lawn was carpeted with the velvet petals of the blown blooms. The rest of the garden was a riot of soft colours, lupins, foxgloves, cornflowers, Canterbury bells, all jostling for space, backed by banks of fragrant wild honeysuckle which had crept into the garden from the copse behind.

  Peter thought about Eleanora’s letter. It had been a shock. He found it difficult to believe that she could have so easily forgotten the long years of love they had shared. True, they had been hardly more than children when it started, but the love was real, and he had dreamed of their life together when they would conquer the world, he with his writing, she with her singing. How could she switch her affection to another man so quickly, so easily? That was not like the Eleanora he had known since childhood. Impetuous she had always been, but loyalty was another of her qualities. Had she really lost that?

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Dorothy’s mind was running along the same lines as Peter’s. She put her teacup back in its saucer with a loud rattle. ‘Eleanora in love with someone else. Rubbish! People don’t change overnight.’

  ‘It’s hardly overnight,’ Peter said. ‘It’s been four and a half months since we’ve seen each other. A lot can happen in that time.’

  ‘Overnight,’ repeated Dorothy determinedly. ‘I think she jumped into bed with the first available man and is now trying to convince herself that she has fallen in love. Forgetting of course, that sex and love are not necessarily compatible.’

  Donald raised his eyebrows at Dorothy’s outspoken comments but had to agree. ‘My main regret is that Nicholas didn’t discuss it with me before blurting out the family history that night in London. I’m sure with a little forethought, we could have made it less traumatic.’

  ‘The fact is, Eleanora and I precipitated the event ourselves by springing the news of our engagement.’ Dorothy thought how very low and depressed Peter seemed as he spoke. ‘It was meant to be a wonderful surprise but it backfired.’ Peter leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes against the sun. ‘Perhaps it is fate and was always meant to be. You see, the first time Eleanora and I planned to ask permission to become engaged was at the New Year’s Eve party of nineteen sixty-two. But by the time New Year’s Eve came, James and William had been drowned and, well, you know the rest.’

  ‘What a mess.’ Donald sighed. ‘I feel terribly guilty myself.’

  ‘Guilty about what?’ Immersed in their conversation, the three in the summer house had not heard Nicholas and Margaret cross the lawn. ‘Guilty about what?’ Margaret repeated.

  ‘What do you think? About never mentioning your damned family secret, of course. As your doctor I should have had more sense. I should have counselled you more wisely.’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Donald. You know we wouldn’t have listened because we didn’t want to. We all share the blame, every single one of us, myself, Nicholas, Anne, and now we are paying the price of years of silence, knowing nothing can ever put right the terrible wrongs we caused by that silence.’

  ‘I don’t totally agree.’ Dorothy busied herself pouring more tea and topping scones with cream and jam. ‘The accident with James could easily have happened anyway. Every year such terrible things do happen to other families and those families have to learn to live with the loss somehow.’ She gave Nicholas his tea and smiled a gentle, compassionate smile, willing some warmth into the tortured spirit she could see in his clear grey eyes. ‘Liana isn’t thinking straight at the moment, but she will eventually. Of course, your lives will never be the same. No-one can lose a child and pretend it never happened. But you will learn to live with the memory, both of you, perhaps even to reflect how sublimely happy his short life was. James never knew pain, was never deceived, never disappointed. His whole life was a song of love.’

  She paused. The circle of faces watched her intently. Aware of each one reaching out to her for some crumb of comfort, even Donald, whom she had always thought so strong, now doubted the wisdom of his actions. It was as if they were all bleeding to death with unhappiness. Someone has to attempt to staunch the wounds and it has to be me, thought Dorothy, because there is no-one else.

  ‘And as for Eleanora and Peter,’ she continued, ‘is it really such an intractable problem; is it really too late? I just cannot believe that she is in love with another man. Once she knows there is no good reason why she and Peter should not marry, she’ll return, and you can start to pick up the threads of your lives once more.’

  Margaret gave a short bitter laugh. ‘Not completely,’ she said. ‘You’re forgetting that William murdered James. Things would have been different if James . . .’ She stopped seeing the expression on Nicholas’s face, then continued slowly. ‘But there can be no happy ending for that story, so we must face facts as they are.’ She turned to Nicholas. ‘Eleanora invited you to Florence. I think you should go and take a good look at this man she says she has fallen in love with. Find out what her true feelings are. Has she really fallen out of love with Peter? Tell her what Peter has found out. In fact, I think it would be a good idea if Peter went as well. She might be ready to listen now that a little time has elapsed. Doctor Zuckermann’s opinion might make all the difference, especially if it came from you, Peter.’

  ‘Impossible for me to go, I’m afraid. I’m due back in Hollywood next week. I’ve signed a contract to work on a new film and I can’t get out of that. Anyway, at the moment I’m sure she doesn’t want to see me.’ Peter knew Eleanora better than all of them. He knew the stubbornness behind which she had always hidden her vulnerability. He had no doubt that she had done a very good job of convincing herself that she was having, as she had put it in her letter, ‘a great time’. It was too soon to convince her otherwise. Besides it was something she had to find out for herself. He struggled out of the deeply cushioned chair and stood ready to leave. ‘Another point to remember is that Eleanora might very well consider that marriage to me is still too risky. Eleanora is no different from many other people. She has her own inbuilt prejudices and fears and, knowing her, I think they’ll be difficult to budge. She has to work things out for herself.’

  The group in the summer house watched his lonely figure walk across the lawn. He let himself out through the side gate, and a few moments later they heard the distinctive whine of his sports car as he drove rapidly away down the lane.

  Margaret frowned. ‘I still think you should go to Florence’, she said to Nicholas, ‘and find out what is going on.’

  *

  Eleanora pushed her way through the crowd thronging the enormous railway station of Florence. It was always crowded, night and day. Foreign tourists, easily distinguishable by their clothes and luggage, wandered about consulting timetables and guidebooks, trying to read the signs and find their way. The Italians, inveterate travellers themselves, imbued the place with throbbing life: swarthy peasant families from the south; children trailing after their parents in seemingly never-ending hordes, each one carrying their own bag of food for the journey containing a lump of bread and some salami; the prematurely aged mothers, always laden with the latest baby and luggage, looking harassed, while the men stood grouped together, flat caps on the backs of their heads, smoking, drinking, joking and laughing and eyeing every pretty girl who passed;
it never ceased to amaze Eleanora that the station always seemed to be overflowing with monks and nuns, too.

  ‘Where do they all come from, and where are they all going?’ she had once asked Raul.

  ‘God knows,’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t ask me about the Catholic Church. I’m Jewish. All I know is that Florence is a huge railway junction, and to get almost anywhere in Italy by train you have to come into Florence.’

  In her surprise Eleanora forgot about the surfeit of religious brothers and sisters. ‘I didn’t know you were Jewish. Are you a practising Jew?’

  ‘I thought you knew. Levi is a Jewish name, but no, I’m not a practising Jew. In the same way you are not a practising Christian.’

  ‘Well, I was,’ Eleanora found herself saying defensively. ‘What I mean is, we always went to church every Sunday. It was expected, so we went. People noticed if our pew was empty.’

  It was Raul’s turn to look surprised. ‘A pew is a seat, isn’t it?’ Eleanora nodded. ‘Why on earth should you be expected to sit in the same seat every Sunday?’

  Eleanora hesitated. She had never mentioned to him or anyone else in Italy that her father was an English earl, and that her title was Lady Hamilton-Howard. The fact that she was living with Raul and had walked into the coveted part of a principal understudy in Così Fan Tutte had caused enough jealousy. If the rest of the company knew she was a wealthy, titled lady, Eleanora had a shrewd idea her life would not be worth living.

  ‘I told you. I come from a small country village in Hampshire. People are very old-fashioned in the country.’

  Raul laughed. ‘The same the world over,’ he said, and forgot the conversation.

  Eleanora had not forgotten. Now, struggling through the crowd, trying to find her father who should have just disembarked from the Milan train, she reminded herself to tell him. Nicholas, the Earl of Wessex, would have to stay behind in England; here in Florence he was plain Mr Nicholas Howard. A hotel room near the Santa Trinità bridge had been booked for him in that name.