“We already are. We already have been,” she whispered, the hectic color in her cheeks underlined her meaning.
“I hope you’ll visit me at Hethering,” I said.
“We have only three days for a honeymoon.” Her smile faltered. “It’s France for sure after that.”
“Then you come,” I told her.
“Come where?” Chase had left the piano and overheard a bit of our conversation.
“Clarry wants me to visit her at Hethering.”
“You’re at Hethering?”
“I’m Jeremy’s agent until the war ends,” I told him. “Caroline wants to stay in the city.”
Chase’s eyes looked questions, but he held them back save one. “Do you still have that magnificent piano?”
“Yes, but my poor playing isn’t equal to it.”
“I’d like to be the judge of that.”
“You and I can visit together when Ronald goes to — to France,” Daisy looked happy with her plan.
“Of course,” I said. “Please do.”
Daisy winked at me. I hoped Chase didn’t see her, but he must have because he winked at me too.
*
I returned to Hethering and the quiet progress of weeks toward Christmas. The war, begun with furious clashes, settled into retreat and trenches, endurance and skirmishes over bits of territory as small as nine hundred meters. The names of Mons and Marne and Ypres were written in blood on our souls.
Dickon’s company trained in the north. His letters were brief, I knew the men drilled to exhaustion. But in every one a wistful phrase mentioned our childhood or the beauty of the land he’d left behind. I knew he chose these words to ask did I still care for him, did we have a future together?
I matched him sentence for sentence: first describing my daily round, then a few shy words to answer his unspoken questions. Yes, I still cared. Yes, I would wait for him. I began to clean and refurbish Willow’s cottage and touched on our cherished memories.
At first Jeremy did not write, nor did I. Despite forgiving each other our last quarrel, we licked the wounds of its hurtful words. As October ended, he relented. At first he wrote only of Hethering. I replied with calm descriptions of the estate passing from autumn into winter, and signed my screeds “Your Cousin, Clarissa”.
On All Saints Day, his letter began “My dearest Cousin”, and with warm words he thanked me for my care of Hethering. He finished this letter thanking me:
“You’re the constant, bright light of my life. Your love will guide me from this maelstrom like the North Star brings the weary traveler home. They say everything in our lives will be changed at conflict’s end. I want that for us, Clarry, you know I do.”
*****
How could I encourage Dickon when I loved Jeremy? Because I truly believed Jemmy would never abandon his child, even if the war changed society’s opinion about divorce. A small part of my heart whispered my marriage would be a barrier to a shameful affair. Was this unfair to Dickon? Of course it was, but then Dickon knew about my history with Jeremy.
Still, my conscience troubled me and I brooded over several outcomes, each sweet and sad, while I sat at my mother’s piano. I played Für Elise over and over. It reminded me of Richard Marchmont and I wondered what he would think of Dickon Scard as my suitor. My fingers tangled over the keys, and it was only then I heard a scratch at the door.
Daisy’s pretty face appeared. “So this is where you hide yourself away,” she said. “May I come in?”
“How did you find me?” I asked. Henry knew when I closeted myself in my mother’s refuge, I was ‘not at home’ to callers.
“Oh, Henry told me you weren’t available, but I couldn’t wait another minute. I let myself in the old schoolroom door — you haven’t removed the key from its secret hiding place, you know. Once I was above stairs I followed the music.” She looked around the room at its lovely features and unique furnishings. “What is this place?”
“My mother’s retreat,” I said. “Her sitting room. Father gave me the key when I returned from Europe.”
“Your playing is much improved,” she said. “Chase will be pleased.”
“Is he here with you, hiding in the school room or waiting in the car?”
“No, no, I came alone. I’m staying with Clifton and his wife, they have a cute little place near here. It’s hard to pin Chase down these days.” She picked up a page of my music. “You make these notes sing. Better than I could ever do, despite my singing master.”
“But you have a pretty voice,” I protested.
“We never got that far. He was all technique, strict and sour tempered. He made me learn songs by reading the notes, sometimes with syllables, more often with numbers — he had little music in his soul.” She pouted and pointed to the first measures of Für Elise. “This pretty melody would be ‘five four five four five three four two one’.” She sang the notes, giving each number a pitch.
“Numbers for notes,” I said. “What an odd combination.” The minute I said that word, a bolt of realization streaked across my mind. I’d searched and searched and never found the combination to my mother’s hidden safe. “Will you sing those numbers again for me, Daisy?” This time I wrote them down.
I couldn’t wait until she left. I put aside the painting over my mantel and worked the numerical dial. 54 right, 54 left, 53 right, 42 left. I placed the marker on 1 and the safe opened.
Daisy clutched my arm. “Clarry, have you opened this before?”
“I’ve only known about it for a short time,” I said. “I didn’t have the combination. But Für Elise was a favorite of my mother’s. The music was on the piano for me to find.”
“She left you a clue,” Daisy said. “How utterly amazing. To think I gave you the answer.”
I had to agree. I had to reward her. Together we looked at the few items in the safe. All were blanketed in dust.
“Go on,” Daisy said, “or I will.”
I reached for an oblong leather box, and blew the dust off it. We both sneezed. The hinge creaked when I opened it. I heard Daisy gasp. A heart pendant was threaded on a fine gold chain.
“A garnet?” I said aloud.
“A ruby,” Daisy breathed. “It’s exquisite.”
There were two small leather boxes. We each took one. Mine held a tiny gold baby’s ring with a folded paper. “For darling Clarissa,” its faded ink read.
Daisy held out a small golden key. “This is all,” she said, placing her little box on the piano.
We both eyed the packet of letters tied up in an old ribbon. We reached for them at the same time. The ribbon crumbled in our grasping hands and the letters scattered on the floor.
My eyes were weeping from the dust while Daisy helped me pick them up. I saw the signature “Edward” on one and bundled them together, putting them back in the safe, shutting them away with the jewel boxes and their contents. I twirled the dial and replaced the picture.
“Your mother was a private lady,” Daisy said. It was all she said and I wondered at her reticence. Her married happiness made her a kind person.
“Let’s wash our hands,” I said. They were grimy and our clothes needed a good brushing. “We’ll go down to the salon and I’ll call for a magnificent tea to celebrate.”
“Without my brother Blaise, we’re sure to get every cake,” she said, and we descended the stair from the tower laughing.
*
After Daisy left, I went back to my mother’s room, lit the lamps and retrieved Edward Dane’s letters. It took time to put them in order, and there were odd intervals in their dates. I scanned them, leaving a careful reading for later. I did learn that he couldn’t write on patrol, but one letter referred to a ‘confession’ he’d made, and I couldn’t find it.
I stood and stretched. It was nearly dinner time. I opened a cabinet beneath the bookshelf and pulled out two slim volumes hidden in the music stored there. Each had a small lock keeping their contents private. I took the little gold key
and fitted it into one lock and then the other. My mother’s journals were open to me now. Would I read them? How could I not.
I looked at the dates atop each entry. They were a rough match of Edward Dane’s letters. I decided to read them in tandem. I wanted to know the story of my birth, of how I came to be in this world. I wanted to read my natural father’s confession.
*****
We had a mild start to December that year. I was in our rose garden, placing burlap sacks over our delicate canes, when the sputter of an engine caught my attention. An automobile the color of an American greenback had pulled up by Hethering’s steps. As I walked toward the house, I saw a man and a woman.
I was certain it was Daisy, but was that Chase with her? I began to run, waving my hand and calling to them. They turned to face me, but that was all. I stopped my happy cries and stumbled on as quickly as I could. Daisy’s clothes were perfect as always, but on her left arm was a black crape band. I looked at Chase and he too wore the current badge of mourning.
“Come inside,” I said. Henry met us at the door. “Tea,” I told him. “Strong, black and as hot as you can manage.”
Daisy’s pretty face was ugly and swollen. Chase’s eyes had grey shadows beneath them. Without their usual merry gleam he looked at once what he was: a man, no longer a boy. We sat down and I took Daisy’s hand. “Tell me,” I said, but I already knew.
“Ronald was in France flying reconnaissance,” Chase said, his voice rough.
“He crashed. There was a fire. There’s nothing left of him,” Daisy, twisted her handkerchief, her eyelids trembled but no tears came, she had wept them dry.
“There was enough to let us know he didn’t escape,” Chase said, his quiet words choked.
“I’m so very sorry.” I poured them tea and added teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar to Daisy’s cup. She still looked to be in shock. “Will you go home to Boston, Chase?”
“No, no. I’ll be in France, too, by and by, playing the piano.”
“Wh-what?”
“The War Office wants me to entertain, travel from place to place give the men some music, a little bit of comfort to help them go on. I’ve an ear for that sort of thing.”
“They want his ears for more than that,” Daisy said.
“Hush now, that was Ronald’s last confidence,” Chase’s admonition was kind but firm was gentle with her.
“You’re spying?” I whispered as if loyal Henry was a German agent.
“Nothing so official,” Chase said, avoiding my gaze. “Just a hint to the general’s staff should I hear an interesting word or two.
“You can’t go too, you can’t leave me alone,” Daisy’s face grew mottled with anger and grief.
“Oh, Daisy,” I said. She threw my hand away from her.
“Don’t pity me, I won’t have it.”
“I don’t pity you.” Of course I did, she was so frightened. “I’m just so sorry.”
“You will be sorry,” she said between gritted teeth. “Jeremy left for France, too. Did you know that?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Had Daisy lost her reason? “That’s not true,” I said. “Jemmy’s drilling a regiment for Kitchener’s army.”
“They plucked him from his cushy berth and dropped him at the front,” she said. Her eyes gleamed. “Too many brave men have died. They slot in the safe ones to plug the line.”
“Daisy,” Chase’s voice held a warning note.
“How do you know this?” I managed. How could she know when I didn’t?
“Caroline visited me when Ronald d— when I lost him,” she said. “Jeremy spent his embarkation leave in London.”
He spent it with his wife and son, and not a word to me. I looked up to see Chase’s steady grey eyes hold mine. “Everything’s in turmoil, Clarry. You’ll hear something soon. Mail from France comes every day.”
“Why write now if he didn’t before?” Daisy rose, her brittle voice echoed the clatter of her untouched tea cup. Chase took her arm and they said hasty goodbyes.
*
I paced Hethering’s echoing halls into the night. My thoughts banged about my head, circling from fear to outrage to heartbreak and back again. For two days I buried myself in the estate books, racing for the front hall when I heard the post boy’s bicycle bell, but there was no wire, no letter.
On the third day, I filled a picnic hamper and set off for Willow’s cottage, scuffling my feet in the crisp leaves lining the paths of the Marchgate Wood. I left my provisions in the larder and made up Willow’s soft bed with sheets folded over sprigs of dried lavender. This was my house, my land, my refuge from Jeremy’s machinations, his complications. I pommeled goose feather pillows the way I wanted to beat my fists on his chest.
The last of the day’s weak sunshine warmed my shivering body while I sat huddled on Willow’s bench. Jeremy was in France now, in mortal danger, gone from Caroline, gone from Hethering, gone from me. How could he leave me without a word of farewell? Clouds scudded faster and faster across the pond’s blue mirror. They crossed the channel from France to England, would Jemmy ever come back to me?
I slammed the flat of my hand against the bench. The chasm between Jeremy’s words of devotion and his callous behavior broke my heart and not for the first time. Did he love me? Did he use me? Yes to both questions. He galled my pride, he devastated my soul. My chest hurt every time I breathed, my head ached with frozen tears.
“I hate you!” I screamed. But I didn’t. I loved him. My cry startled a flock of geese into flight and I spun around to watch them fly from me too over the pale fire of wheat rising behind me.
Then everything stopped but an involuntary rasp of air into my lungs as I saw the familiar figure of a man at the top of the hill.
Jeremy was in uniform, his tall frame broad with months of marching. His stride was deliberate and determined. Gold grass whirled around his polished boots as he came on. I shaded my eyes with my bruised hand. I wanted to remember every bit of this moment. The pain lodged within me dissolved, healing my broken heart with happiness.
He came so close I felt his breath on my lips as he said “Clarissa.”
“I know,” I said. “Daisy told me.” I dropped my head on his chest, and in an instant we were in each other’s arms.
“How will I leave you,” he mourned. “I’ve loved you from the day you were born, from the moment your mother put you in my arms. I’ve loved you as a baby, as a cousin, a friend, my soul’s last refuge on this earth. I’ve loved you as man loves a woman, past shame and circumstance and adversity.”
He held me so close our hearts beat together. I savored his newfound muscle and sinew, I reveled in his familiar scent. “How can I go now,” he whispered. “When we’ve never really had the love —”
“We will have it,” my voice fought its way through my scalding tears. “We will.” He kissed them from my eyelids, they mingled on my face with his. I took his hand and pulled him into the cottage, to Willow’s little bedchamber where night after night she’d dreamed of her own lost love.
I had no shame in uncovering his strong body, I’d known it my whole life. I ran my fingers over its planes and hollows, memorizing him with touch. I had no shame in letting him take my garments one by one. His hands trembled over my breasts. He stripped the pins from my hair and buried his face in its unbound silk.
“Clarry, you are more beautiful than my dreams,” he said. We stood together in the dying sunlight as we were always meant to be. Our love demanded union before the war took him, maimed him, killed him.
As shadows lengthened around us, he laid me back on the bed and touched my body with reverence and wonder. He made love to me so slowly, every touch brought its own spark of pleasure. He whispered endearments held back for years and I spoke my own without shyness. The love we’d shared in Geneva’s moonlight faded to a quicksilver dream. This was burnished, everlasting gold, the treasure of a lifetime.
*
We didn’t sleep, only lay
quiet, our limbs entwined, our mouths still pressed against each other’s heated flesh. I reached to pull Willow’s embroidered coverlet over our cooling bodies.
Jeremy put his mouth to my ear. “I’ve not made love since our night in Geneva.” His lips traced a line to the soft place between my neck and my shoulder.
I moved my hips to feel him firm against me. “I don’t want you to worry —”
“About a child?” he asked. “I’d rejoice in our child.”
“I will too,” I said. “I’ll defy the world.” He pushed my hair out of my eyes and kissed me with lingering sweetness.
“But I want you to know,” I said when I could. “There’s little danger —”
He kissed me again with such intimacy and intent I almost forgot what I had to tell him. I tried to speak again, but he kept his smiling mouth against mine to stop me.
“There’s something you have to know,” I managed, twisting away.
“It’s all right, Clarry, I do know,” he said. “Our baby isn’t in danger. Daisy told me.”
“Daisy told you?” I looked hard at his loving face. “Daisy told you — what?”
“I should have said ‘Daisy sold me’,” his smile turned wry. “She needed money. She’s desperate to go to America.”
“But Ronald was wealthy.”
“He had little of his own money,” Jeremy said. “I would have given her what she needed, had she only asked, but her wits are addled. She taunted me, she said she knew something shocking about you. She said Uncle Richard wasn’t your father.”
“How could she know that?”
He reached one long arm to his discarded uniform tunic and brought out a yellowed letter. “It’s addressed to your mother. It’s signed ‘Edward Dane’.”
I took it from him and scanned the pages. Here was my father’s confession. Here he told my mother their connection was more than an arrangement, that he loved her, that he wanted me, that when he returned he would come to claim us. Daisy stole the letter the day we opened the safe, hid it when we picked up the fallen letters. She read the most private facts about my life and then used them to her advantage. I was shocked and then angry.
Susan Speers Page 12
