He reached out, stroked my cheek. “Beautiful Clarissa,” he said. But as I moved toward him he stepped back from me. “You said you’d wait for me. You promised.”
“I did wait . . . I waited so long.”
“I can’t stand the thought of you with him . . . with anyone else.”
“I don’t want to be with anyone else. I’ve only ever wanted you.”
He stood holding on to the fence, staring out across the moonlit field.
“I think I should go away, leave here; leave England.”
“But you’ve only just come back . . . no, no, don’t say that. Please . . .”
He turned to me. “Clarissa, you’re married. You have a life now . . . a life with Charlie. What do you suggest I do? Wait for you to one day fit me into your diary, so that we can meet for tea and reminisce about old times? Wait in the hope of one day being invited to your home for dinner—so that I can see you, so that I can watch him with you, watch him love you . . .” He turned away, ran his hands through his hair. “We have to move on. I have to move on.”
“No. I won’t let you,” I said, and I reached out but he pulled away again.
“What do you want from me, Clarissa? Do you want us to have an affair? Is that what you want?”
“No! Oh, I don’t know . . . but I can’t—”
“I could be your butler, eh? Or perhaps Charlie’s valet . . . polish his shoes for him, service his wife when he’s not about. Is that the idea? Am I getting a little warmer?”
“Tom!”
He closed his eyes, shook his head. “We can’t, Clarissa, we can’t . . .” He turned to me. “Look at me. I have nothing.” He shrugged. “I’m nobody. How could I ever take care of you?”
“But I love you, Tom.”
“Forget about me; love your husband, Clarissa.”
And then he jumped over the fence, and walked off through the paddock toward the light of his mother’s cottage.
Chapter Twenty-two
I didn’t want to go back to London, but I knew Mama would. She didn’t want to stay and watch what was left of her home be dismantled, packed into crates. She’d said to me the previous day, “I shouldn’t have to do this . . . I shouldn’t have to see this.” And she was right, I thought.
“I’ve been thinking, Mama, perhaps I should stay here with Henry,” I suggested over breakfast. “It seems wrong for us to leave him, for him to be here on his own—sorting everything.”
“But what about Charlie?” she asked.
“He’ll be fine. We have Sonia now,” I said, referring to our new maid. “She’ll look after him. I can stay here until the end of the week, and get Charlie to come down and fetch me then.”
She looked at me quizzically, and I saw the thought flash through her mind: Tom Cuthbert. Then she said, “You’re right, of course, I would feel better if one of us were to stay here with him. But are you quite certain that Charlie shan’t mind?”
“Quite. I’ll telephone him now.
“Mama would prefer it if I were to stay here with Henry. Would you mind awfully if I did?”
“Yes, I jolly well would. Do you really have to? There’s no doubt a bloody army of helpers there—and those two friends of his.”
“There’s not an army of helpers here, Charlie. And Julian certainly can’t do anything,” I added. “I think Henry only brought him down for a break. And to be honest, Henry’s not much use either. He’s simply not able to cope with it all on his own.”
“Really, Clarissa, I need you here . . . I need you here with me.”
“But it’d only be for the week.”
“The week! You mean I shan’t see you all week?”
“I’ll call you. Every day. I promise. And on Friday, you can drive down here.”
He muttered something, then said, “Well, it doesn’t seem as though I have any choice in the matter. But it’s really not on, you know. You’re my wife . . . you’re meant to be here for me.”
“You’ll be fine, dear. And they do say absence makes the heart grow fonder . . .”
It wasn’t as though I was planning anything sinister. I simply wanted to stay a little while longer at Deyning. And even if Tom Cuthbert hadn’t been there, I’d have elected to stay and help Henry. But yes, I wanted to see Tom again too. I couldn’t leave him. Not yet.
After waving off Mama, I spent the morning sorting china and crockery with Mabel in the dining room, listing each dinner and tea service, checking for chips and cracks before she wrapped them in newspaper and placed them into a crate. Henry had gone down to the farm, where there was to be an auction of livestock the following week, and I wasn’t altogether sure where Michael and Julian were, or even if they were still at Deyning.
“I think we’ll make that do for now, Mabel. I’d quite like to take a walk, have some fresh air. Perhaps we can finish off later this afternoon.”
I saw her roll her eyes. “Right you are, miss. Well, I’ll be helping Mrs. C if you need me,” she said, and then she picked up another box and carried it from the room.
I wandered outside, on to the terrace. It was a warm day, already humid, and I wondered whether to walk to the lake, take a swim. I wondered where Tom was. He could be anywhere, I thought.
I walked back into the house and headed for the kitchen.
I poked my head around the baize door. “Mrs. Cuthbert?”
She appeared in the scullery doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh, hello, Miss Clarissa. Can I get you something?”
“Actually, I need Tom. I wondered if he’d help me move some boxes.”
“Oh, Mabel and I can do that for you, dear.”
“No, these are very heavy boxes. Books.”
“Ah. Well, I imagine he’s still at home, I’ll go and fetch him for you.”
“No, no, it’s quite all right, I’ll go,” I said, and then I disappeared before she could say anything else.
I knocked on the cottage door, waited a moment and then turned the handle and stepped into the small hallway. “Hello!”
I glanced into the room on my left: a tiny room with a low beamed ceiling and crammed with furniture. I stepped back over the hallway and opened another door: a kitchen, even smaller. Ahead of me, a steep, narrow staircase. I climbed it, quietly, not sure what I’d find, but wondering if Tom would be there, in his bed, asleep. At the top of the staircase I opened the door immediately on my right. Mrs. Cuthbert’s bedroom: immaculately tidy, with a pink bedspread on a small single bed. I stepped back out of the room, gently closing the door, turned to the other the door and lifted its latch. The room was in semidarkness, the curtains still closed. And there he was: lying facedown, sleeping.
I could have left. I could have descended that narrow staircase and left the cottage, but I didn’t. I entered the small sloping roofed room closing the door behind me, and then I slipped off my shoes, went over to his bed and knelt down on the floor next to him. I didn’t touch him; I sat listening to his breathing, watching him. A faded blue curtain gently swayed by the open window next to me, and but for the sound of birds outside, the place was perfectly silent. I closed my eyes for a moment: thank you for keeping him alive . . . thank you for keeping him safe.
A white sheet wrapped tangled around his midriff; two legs, so perfectly formed, sprawled out across another; and an arm hung listlessly from the edge of the bed.
I studied that forearm, dangling in front of me, noting its shape, its dark hairs and scars; and then I lifted it, and pressed my lips to his flesh. He stirred, pulled his arm away, moved on to his side and opened his eyes, blinking at me.
“Am I dreaming?” he asked, in a thick, sleepy voice. A voice I’d never heard before.
“Yes,” I replied, rising to my feet, “this is a dream, Tom . . . just a dream.”
I unfastened the buttons down the front of my dress, stepped out of it and laid it over a chair, on top of his clothes. I rolled down my stockings, one by one, and placed them carefully over the same chair. I untied m
y camisole, lifted it up over my head and placed that too upon the chair. And then I pulled the comb from my hair, and placed it upon a chest of drawers. I turned to him, watched his eyes pass over my body, saw him swallow, his mouth open slightly, and then I climbed into his bed, next to him, naked.
We made love without uttering any coherent word. And afterward, I dressed in silence and left the cottage. I remember walking back to the house feeling the most sublime sense of peace. Had I no shame? No, not with him; never with him.
A little while later, I walked to the lake. I changed into my bathing costume at the boathouse and then swam across to the island. And as I sat on the jetty looking back at Deyning in the distance, I remembered all the summers and all the picnics I’d shared there—on that island—with my brothers. I saw them rowing over the water toward me, calling out my name, laughing. And then I saw a figure, standing by the boathouse, completely still, looking back across the lake at me. I watched him strip off his clothes, dive into the water and swim toward me. And I watched him emerge from the water.
“Miss Clarissa, will you be needin’ anything . . . anything at all?” he asked, standing in front of me, naked.
“Hmm. That depends what you had in mind, Cuthbert,” I replied, looking up at him, squinting into the sun.
“Can I be gettin’ yer summit to drink, p’raps?”
“Yes . . . that would be rather nice. A glass of champagne, I think . . .”
“Very well, m’lady.”
And he turned, and dived back into the water.
“Tom! No! Come back!”
A few minutes later I saw him emerge at the other side of the lake. And I giggled out loud as I watched him pull on his clothes and then run up through the field, toward the house. What on earth is he up to?
I lay back against the warm timber and looked up at a never-ending blueness. How perfect some moments are: there was not a cloud between heaven and me. And as I languished there in the sunshine, I could hear the unabashed joy of young birds in the trees behind me, the rumbling of a distant motor. I closed my eyes, remembering our lovemaking of earlier that morning. And then I thought of Charlie. Dear Charlie. I didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to deceive him. But somehow it didn’t feel wrong to be with Tom. You see, I’d given him my heart, promised it to him so many years before.
When I sat up, there he was, rowing toward me this time, fully clothed, a cigarette in his mouth. He climbed out of the boat, lifted out a large basket and a rug, and walked toward me.
“You were quick.”
“Time is of the essence, ma’am.”
“Oh God, I do hope you’re not stuck in character for the whole afternoon.”
“Why? Do you not like it? I thought it might excite you . . . me playing that part.”
“I don’t need you to play any part,” I said, as he spread the rug out next to me. “Though I do rather like having you wait on me.”
“Aha! I knew it. Well then, m’lady, I’ll be applyin’ for yer position as lady’s maid.”
“Gosh, that would be novel,” I replied, and giggled. “And I can just see you in the uniform.”
“Yes, and it shall be my job to see to it that you’re properly dressed . . . and undressed, each day, of course,” he continued, sitting down, and pulling a bottle of champagne from the basket. “But there may be more undressing than dressing,” he added, glancing at me.
I rolled on to the rug and lay on my stomach.
“But you can’t undress me more than once.”
“Yes, I can,” he said, glancing at me again with a wicked grin. “I could spend all day dressing and undressing you.”
He popped the champagne, pulled a glass from the basket and poured it, licking the spillage from his hand and handing me the glass.
“Where did this come from? Papa’s cellar?”
“Of course.”
“I thought we’d finished that.”
“Not the bottles I’d purloined.”
“You’re shameless!”
“I know. But I happen to know this very gorgeous creature,” he said, lying down next to me, “who rather likes champagne. It was an act of mercy, really.”
I laughed. “You think champagne will keep her alive and gorgeous?”
“Absolutely. Champagne and me. Lots and lots of me.”
I rolled on to my side and looked up at him. “You’re right. Lots and lots of you will keep me alive.”
He turned to face me, his head propped in his hand. “I think we should build a house here . . . and shoot anyone who comes across the water.”
“That’s not very friendly,” I said, smiling at him, his humor.
“I don’t feel like being friendly with anyone apart from you.”
I reached out, stroked his face. “We’d have to have some friends . . . we’d get bored of each other, cooped up here on an island, day in, day out.”
“No we wouldn’t. We could simply pretend to be other people when we got bored of our real selves.”
I laughed again. “Ah, you mean you play lady’s maid to Miss Clarissa.”
“Yes, that sort of thing. And I’m sure I can come up with a few more.”
“Such as?”
“Let me think . . . Groom to Miss Clarissa—or rather to her horse?”
“Horses, please. I’d have more than one.”
“Gardener to Miss Clarissa?”
“Broughton!”
He raised an eyebrow. “And then we’d have to spend an awful lot of time in the hothouse . . .”
I smiled. “You do seem bent on domestic service.”
He ran a finger down my nose. “But of course. It’s my family’s line of business.”
“Perhaps I could be Issie, the extraordinarily well-endowed parlormaid to Lord Cuthbert,” I suggested.
He looked up at the sky and shook his head. “No. I’m afraid I can’t see you being very convincing in that part.” He turned to me, “You can only ever be Clarissa.”
We lay there for a while staring at each other, smiling. We’d already finished our glasses of champagne when he rose to his feet.
“Come,” he said, offering me his hand.
“But where?” I asked.
He placed the bottle and glasses back into the basket, threw the rug over his shoulder, and then led me away from the jetty, into the trees.
“But where are we going?” I asked again, carefully dodging nettles, ducking branches, but happy enough for him to lead me on.
“Away from eyes,” he replied.
When we emerged from the shadows, at the other side of the island, he stood on the bank looking about; surveying the landscape for eyes I presumed. Then he put down the basket and spread the rug out once more. I was cold, shivering.
“You really need to take that off . . . let it dry,” he said, sitting down. “Here, take my shirt.” He pulled it off, over his head, and handed it to me, then turned away as I rolled down my bathing suit and put on his shirt. I hung the damp costume over a branch and sat down next to him on the rug. Ahead of us was nothing but water and empty cornfields, the hazy outline of hills in the distance. He took hold of my hand and for a while we sat in complete silence, staring out in front of us.
“I did wait, Tom,” I said at last.
“No, let’s not speak of it, not now,” he said, and then he took hold of me, pulled me down onto the rug and kissed me.
We made love again, there, under that bright Sussex sky, and afterward we swam in the lake; moving through the water separately then coming together once more, our bodies entwined under its dark wetness. When we emerged from the water, teeth chattering, he wrapped the rug around us both and held me in his arms. We spent the remainder of that afternoon lying on the bank, cocooned and naked inside the rug. We talked about his plans for the future. He said he simply wanted to get on with his life now and wouldn’t be returning to Oxford.
“But what about the bar?” I asked.
“I don’t want to go into law, not no
w. I couldn’t go back to all that now.”
“What will you do?”
“I’m not entirely sure.” He turned to me. “But I’ve been thinking about America . . .”
“America?”
“Yes. There are opportunities there. Opportunities to make a lot of money.” He paused, staring at me. “You could come with me.”
“Come with you?”
“Yes, come with me. Come with me, Clarissa.”
“But what about Charlie, and Mama?”
“Leave Charlie and come with me.”
My head was swimming. “Leave Charlie?” I repeated. “But it would kill him. He loves me. I’m everything to him . . . all he has.”
He looked away, closed his eyes.
“I have to see you, Clarissa. I can’t stand the thought of living in the same city, the same country, and not being able to see you . . . be with you.”
I pressed my lips against his neck. “But you’ve lived without me for quite a while . . . and survived.”
“That was different. There was a war on. I wasn’t free, wasn’t able to see you.” He sighed. “And now I’ve seen you”—he tightened his grip around me—“held you, tasted you . . . I can’t bear to let you go again.”
“And Charlie?” I asked, again.
“What about him? Were you thinking of him when we made love this morning?”
“No! Of course not. But it’s different here. You belong to me here . . . and I belong to you here.”
“Here,” he repeated, wistfully. “And here is about to disappear. Deyning is about to be sold. So, after these few days, is that it?”
“Please, don’t make it sound so brutal.”
“Well, it is, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not. But I can’t see any other way,” I said, sitting up, putting my head in my hands. “America . . . it’s just not possible.”
He grabbed hold of my wrist, pulled me back down to him, and wrapped his arms around me. “I want to make love to you for the rest of my life,” he said, kissing my face. “And when I breathe my last I want you there. I want the last word I utter to be your name, the last face I look upon to be yours . . .”
And I began to cry, for I too couldn’t bear the thought of a future without him in it.
The Last Summer Page 21
