The Rose in Winter

by Sarah Harrison

  She soon realised that any perceived lack of confidence in him – from their first meeting – had simply been a military man’s thoughtful reconnaissance. Once he had decided to advance his plan, he was determined and single-minded. After her initial uncertainty among the well-heeled theatre buffs, she became gradually aware of the cache of being an interesting couple. Stanley may have been twice her age, but he was a distinguished bachelor, who had had an excellent war (wounded twice and recipient of the DSM and bar) and who was also a man of means. In the dress circle bar beforehand, they were approached by an elegant, older woman who greeted Stanley as a long-lost friend. When introduced, she gazed at Barbara with a sort of charming, kindly curiosity, as if he’d brought a kitten along in his pocket.

  ‘Am I allowed to say I’ve been admiring you from afar? Who, I asked myself, is that enchanting young thing with the rose in her hair?’

  Barbara touched the flower. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How did you two bump into each other?’ The woman smiled encouragingly, her large, bright eyes darting back and forth between them with frank speculation.

  ‘At home,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Ah, of course.’

  ‘Barbara’s father is Sir Conrad Delahay.’

  ‘You don’t say?’

  The question was rhetorical, but still it was like facing the polite interrogation of her mother’s friends. She was glad when the final bell rang and Stanley cupped her elbow gently to lead her back to their seats.

  They were both moved by the play and full of admiration for the writing and the performances. It certainly gave them plenty to talk about over supper at the Savoy. She talked at least as much as him, though the production must have raised a host of ghosts and memories for him. He was a quiet, thoughtful listener to her jejune chatter.

  As they waited for a cab to arrive, he said, ‘When they reopen the theatre here, perhaps I can bring you to see some Gilbert and Sullivan, for a little light relief.’

  ‘That would be fun.’

  And so the likelihood of further meetings opened up.

  The season continued on its merry way. She felt herself to be quite an old hand now, adept at small talk and a sought-after dance partner, light on her feet and quick to master steps. She had a lot of fun and champagne, and some mildly risqué escapades in sports cars, some of them involving kisses, which were exciting only because they were stolen and therefore part of the general larks.

  In between all of this, she saw Stanley. He took her to the theatre and to the ballet and dinner at a succession of grand restaurants – the Boulestin and the Savoy, Quaglino’s – all of which made a nice change. She began to look forward to these outings which, in contrast to most of her social life, were measured and calm. Stanley was never less than the soul of propriety, but she did not find their time together dull. On the contrary she felt safe and spoiled. The only awkward moments were when Stanley arrived to collect her from the house and fell into conversation with her parents. Then it was impossible to ignore the disparity in their ages and she would feel like a child, waiting in her party dress. But the moment he escorted her out to the waiting car, she relaxed, knowing that for the next few hours she would be the whole focus of his attention and the season seem miles away, a distant hubbub that she was happy to escape for a while.

  Her father, a man of the world and a pragmatist, kept his counsel, making no comment except to enquire from time to time how she’d enjoyed her evening. He did however tell her that Stanley was ‘an exceptionally fine soldier’ and (until now was the implication) ‘a rather a solitary chap’, so she was given to understand that she had been singled out.

  Julia was, by nature, less cautious and more curious and the morning after Barbara’s fourth evening out with Stanley, she tapped on the bedroom door.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘I’m asleep, Mummy …’

  ‘Well you’re not now and I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’ Julia put the cup down on her bedside table and sat on the dressing table stool, elegant legs crossed, hands clasped around her knee. ‘Did you have a lovely time?’

  ‘Yes thank you.’

  ‘Where did he take you?’

  ‘We went to Madam Butterfly and supper at Rules.’

  ‘Butterfly! Did you cry?’

  ‘Nearly.’ Barbara pulled herself up on the pillows and reached for her cup. ‘If I’d been with someone else I probably would have done.’

  Julia gave a little sigh. ‘Your father hates opera, but when it has such lovely tunes and such a gloriously sad story …’ She cocked her head on one side. ‘Did Stanley enjoy it?’

  ‘I hope so. He chose it.’

  ‘But for you, I expect.’

  ‘He did enjoy it, yes. Actually, he did say he hadn’t seen it before.’

  ‘There you are then.’ Julia watched Barbara sip her tea, with rapt, smiling fascination. ‘Do you like him? Do you get on?’

  ‘Of course. I’d find some excuse otherwise.’

  ‘Ah yes, I suppose you would.’

  ‘I do sometimes wonder if he likes me. Why he likes me.’ Barbara put the cup down. ‘And he does seem to.’

  ‘I told you why!’

  ‘That can’t possibly be enough. I’ve met some of his friends – they’re elegant, sophisticated, well-read—’

  ‘You had an expensive education yourself.’

  Barbara considered St Agatha’s. ‘Perhaps I mean worldly.’

  ‘Take it from me, worldliness is overrated. Besides, Stanley’s no intellectual. He’s a soldier.’ Julia smoothed the eiderdown with a well-manicured hand. ‘And on extended leave, he’ll be going back soon.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘India. Peshawar.’ Julia got up. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t told you.’

  Barbara was herself surprised. Though on reflection she realised they talked very little about him. He either asked her about herself, or they discussed whatever they had seen, or what was around them. Sometimes they were quiet, but these silences were not awkward. She was far from being completely at home with Stanley, but she felt increasingly out of place with her young friends and their minute-by-minute enthusiasms. She was suspended between two worlds.

  After her conversation with her mother, she found herself wondering when Stanley would tell her that he was leaving for the other side of the world. Because he had never so much as mentioned India, she felt shy about asking. The weeks passed and the season, along with summer, was ending.

  One stifling day, towards the end of August, he came down to lunch at Ardonleigh. It was his first visit to their country house. She sensed at once that unlike her parents he was naturally at home in the countryside. Instead of a suit, he wore a blazer and flannels and his face had lost a little of its seriousness; both of these made him look younger. Also, there was something in the air, something anticipatory, a consciousness of occasion, like Christmas or her mother’s birthday. Everyone seemed light-hearted. They had claret with the beef and sauternes with the apricot mousse. She amused them all with her latest and last batch of stories about the season and there was much laughter. She realised she had never heard Stanley’s laugh before, a full-throated bark that creased his face in two.

  After lunch, he asked her if she would show him around ‘the family acres’.

  ‘Oh do, what a good idea,’ Julia said. ‘I’ll ask for coffee in the orangery in about half an hour, how’s that?’

  The precise timing of this should have told her something was afoot, but everything was so agreeably happy and relaxed that she noticed nothing. Myrtle, stricken in years, was too old and fat to accompany them and watched their departure from beneath the chestnut tree, but Shamus trotted briskly beside them as they went across the lawn to the orchard and the paddock.

  ‘You still have your horse?’ he asked. ‘Shall you be hunting in a few weeks’ time?’

  She realised he was teasing her, something else that was new. ‘He’s not a horse he’s an old Welsh mountain pony
and I’ve never hunted.’

  ‘I thought you might be a hard woman to hounds.’

  ‘I’m not a hard woman to anything.’

  A moment elapsed before she thought she heard him say, ‘I know.’

  In the orchard, there were a few small early apples, still green. She reached up and pulled one down.

  ‘He can have one or two of these. No more or he’ll get a stomach ache.’

  He picked another; he hardly had to reach at all. ‘We wouldn’t want that.’

  Jiggins was cropping lazily on the far side of the paddock, but the moment they appeared he looked up and began making his way towards them, head nodding, blowing a soft whuffle of greeting.

  ‘A fine beast,’ said Stanley. He offered his apple in a cupped palm. ‘A pity you can’t meet Beau.’

  ‘You have a horse?’

  ‘I do. In Peshawar.’

  This was the first time India had been mentioned. She chose her words carefully.

  ‘When will you see him again?’

  ‘Quite soon as a matter of fact. I go back there in two weeks.’

  She was nettled by his and her parents’ duplicity. ‘I had no idea.’

  He turned to look at her. ‘I know, and I owe you an apology.’

  ‘How long will you be gone for?’

  ‘Another year, at least.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m very sorry for not making things clearer.’

  Now she felt the burden of his discomfiture, which quite disarmed hers. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I think it does.’

  ‘No, no. Really.’

  ‘I’ve avoided mentioning my going, because I don’t look forward to it.’

  ‘How sad,’ she said, meaning not only his departure that but everything – his unwillingness, her confused feelings.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He pulled on the pony’s forelock, pulled and smoothed, pulled and smoothed. ‘Maybe I’ve had enough of soldiering.’

  She sensed that this was a heavy, difficult thing for him to say and that there was no reply of hers that would make it any lighter. They were quiet, leaning together on the gate. Then he gave Jiggins’ nose a brisk rub and seemed to take a grip, squaring and settling his shoulders and turning his face towards the house.

  ‘This is all quite charming,’ he said as they set off. ‘This house, the gardens, everything.’

  ‘Thank you, we do love it. I feel like a child though, every time I come back.’

  ‘You had a happy childhood.’ It was a statement.

  ‘Yes, very. I’ve been very lucky all my life.’

  ‘All your life …’ She felt him glance at her, but there was no smile in his voice, he wasn’t teasing her. ‘There’s a place I’d like to show you before I leave,’ he said. ‘Would you allow me to do that?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’d like it.’

  A few days later, Stanley drove her down to Devon.

  ‘My house,’ he said. ‘My father built it. My mother named it Heart’s Ease.’

  She could tell from the timbre of his voice how important this was to him and how much store would be set on her reaction. The truth was that this place was not as lovely as Ardonleigh, being both older and plainer. But where the garden fell away beyond the terrace and the lawn, was a view of such sparkling beauty that she exclaimed,

  ‘Oh look, how lovely!’

  They were on top of a hill, below which a band of trees gave way to chequered fields, some already showing the ochre stripes of early autumn. In the middle distance a broad bay gleamed like a smile, a lazy river estuary joined it on the far, eastern end and was protected by a red bluff fringed with pines. Behind the bay a tumble of roofs and wedding-cake white houses gleamed in the sun. She could hear the mewing of high, distant gulls, and see the white flash of their wings in the clear air.

  As she gazed, enchanted, she felt Stanley’s hand enclose hers, something that had not happened since they were first introduced.

  ‘I’m so glad,’ he said, ‘that you like it.’

  ‘Oh, I do! More than I can say.’

  ‘In that case I wonder,’ he added, in an uncharacteristically diffident tone, ‘whether you might consider sharing it with me?’

  Four

  Occasionally, over past months, when the extraordinary thought had crossed her mind she had brushed it hastily – perhaps fearfully – aside. Now that it had been put into words she found she was not just taken aback but appalled. Impossible – she could not do it!

  He must have read her face, because his voice became urgent, distressed.

  ‘Barbara, my dear – I’ve been too abrupt. I don’t know how to say these things. I’ve never asked anyone before, never.’

  ‘That’s all right, honestly. Stanley, thank you.’ She wanted desperately to set him at his ease. What should she say? ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Flattered.’ He understood her all too well, but still she babbled on.

  ‘Yes of course, tremendously. And a little …’ she sought an appropriate word ‘… over-awed.’

  ‘Please don’t be. You mustn’t. Let me show you the rest before you make up your mind.’ He released her hand, adding gruffly, ‘No pony, I’m afraid.’

  In spite of the glorious view shining below them, the tour was not a success, and Barbara could not enjoy it. Everything Stanley showed her, his every proud, explanatory remark, had become for her freighted with an expectation she could not fulfil. In the kitchen garden she was introduce to Mr Prayle, one half of the live-in couple who looked after the house.

  ‘When my parents lived here, this was fully cultivated all year round, but for the time being Prayle keeps it ship-shape and with just enough for him and Mrs Prayle.’

  ‘What a lot of work,’ she said, ‘just to …’ She realised she had embarked on a remark that might sound rude and finished lamely ‘… keep it ship-shape.’

  Prayle was civil and unsmiling. ‘Yes miss, but won’t take long to get everything planted and ready for when the Brigadier wants to come back.’

  Her heart gave a sad, frightened lurch.

  ‘I’m told this is good soil,’ said Stanley.

  ‘Proper good soil sir, the best.’

  ‘Is Mrs Prayle in the house?’

  ‘Down the town sir, at the shops.’

  ‘I’m sorry we shall miss her.’

  ‘She’ll be sorry too.’ Prayle stood patiently, one hand on his hoe.

  ‘We’ll let you get on.’

  ‘Thank you, sir – nice to see you. Miss.’

  Prayle made an abbreviated gesture towards his cap. As he continued to hoe she saw that he had a bad left leg, the ankle and foot encased in a massive built-up boot. A legacy, she presumed, of the war.

  Stanley had seen her look. ‘He was with my company at Ypres.’

  They went in through the loggia, a tiled veranda containing a scrubbed, wooden table, folded deckchairs and more stuff covered by a faded tarpaulin. The house was cool and twilit, with a scent of polish. Barbara was reminded of a church; a place dedicated to one purpose, unlived-in, but cared for. A grandfather clock ticked in the hall. In the drawing room, a screen covered in découpage stood just inside the door. The sofa and armchairs were well-worn, spotless and invitingly plumped-up, but Stanley did not suggest they sit. A wide mirror, topped with a falcon hung above the fireplace, and the fire-irons below it gleamed. In one corner was a piano, with a closed music book on the stand.

  ‘Do you play?’ she asked.

  ‘No. My mother did and could sing quite creditably as well.’ He opened the lid and pressed a couple of notes before closing it again. ‘I keep it tuned in her honour.’

  They didn’t go upstairs – ‘one bedroom is much like another’ – but across the hall into the dining room. Here, there was a long table polished to a high gloss and a massive sideboard carved with frowning angels and the date 1705, which he told her had been a bedhead bought separately and adapted.

  ‘My father
liked interesting old things. My mother was not so enthusiastic.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Provided I’m comfortable, I don’t worry about my surroundings. And, after two decades in the army, I’m pretty easy to please on both counts.’

  Off the other side of the hall, overlooking the drive, was a mannish study, with framed maps on one wall and a bookcase full of seious-looking volumes on the other. A dark red afghan rug lay on the floor and a globe by the window. The desk with its tooled leather top was neat – like everything here, unused but ready for use. The blotter was snow-white, the brass pen tray polished. There was an inkwell made from a hoof, which she commented on.

  ‘A kudu shot by my father in South Africa. Rather a fine thing in its way, but not to everyone’s taste.’

  The only other item on the desk was a photograph, a formal study of three people, a couple in their thirties and a child. The man was tall, handsomely whiskered and unsmiling, standing behind his seated wife. She was solemn too, but Barbara suspected that was due to the demands of the photographer. Her face was soft and round, with doe eyes and a full lower lip, a face made for laughter. But it was the third person that made her exclaim.

  ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How sweet! How old were you?’

  ‘I have no idea. Your guess would be as good, if not better, than mine, what do you think?’

  ‘Two? Perhaps less – look at your curls.’

  ‘Hm.’ Stanley ran his hand over his head. ‘Will you excuse me a moment? I just want to go down and take a look at the boiler, check everything’s in order.’

  His footsteps disappeared along the passage that led to the kitchen. Barbara replaced the photograph and went back into the hall. The front door was in a square portico with windows at right angles on either side. One of these afforded a view of the front gate some twenty yards away, a simple white-painted iron, five-bar affair which Stanley had closed carefully once the car was parked in the drive. Beyond it, the narrow lane that led up from the road was bisected by another – scarcely more than a footpath – which led, she’d been told, in one direction to the town and in the other to the Salting Beacon on the cliff. To the left the lane diverged and led to another house a little further down the hill.