‘Look at this dear little mite,’ Madeleine said, gliding into the bedroom. ‘Getting stronger every day,’ she said, holding out a tiny bundle of blankets to Edie. ‘I took him for a walk around the cottage, but he’s hungry and desperate for his maman,’ she said, her voice surprisingly tender as she gazed at Edie’s son.
Edie made herself comfy against the pillows. ‘Come here, darling,’ she said, taking her son and putting him to her breast. ‘I’m sorry, I was drifting off,’ she admitted, trying not to weep again.
‘Eden, you’re grieving. I understand, but there’s too much pain at once. You need to get away from here – from its memories – so you can look at it all from a distance for a while.’
Dear Madeleine, practical as ever.
Edie gazed at her son’s tiny head with his thatch of dark hair. He was perfect. Strong of heart, like his father, she thought, determined to win through and beat the odds that said he wouldn’t make it, presumably as Tom had in the battlefields of Flanders.
‘Why haven’t you given this child a name yet?’
Edie shrugged to mask her guilt. ‘The hospital gave him such little chance of survival.’
‘But Matron never gave up on him,’ Madeleine reminded.
Edie recalled the stout woman’s determination. ‘We’ve lost a generation of sons to war. I refuse to lose another child without throwing my own war at the enemy,’ she said as she’d helped another nurse drag a special box she called an incubator into Edie’s ward. ‘Think mother hen sitting on her clutch of eggs,’ she explained to Edie. ‘It’s going to keep him constantly warm and protected. And you, my girl, are going to stare through this little glass window and pray for your son to hold on and live. You’ll hardly touch him but he’ll know you’re there and he’ll feel your love.’
And that’s how it had been; day after quiet day in hospital, she’d wept for her father, despaired over Tom and had watched the rapid rise and fall of her son’s sparrow-like chest as he rallied and somehow defied the doctor’s prognosis. Days had stretched to weeks until Edie noticed a season change as the soft and golden afternoons of summer surrendered to the crispy sounds and sharper, whiter light of autumn. Edie had walked her infant around the hospital gardens, smothered in layers, ever fearful of the danger of winter’s onset but equally determined that he inhale the fresh, bright air into his tiny lungs.
His early arrival gave him a somewhat ghostlike presence. Madeleine had summed it up one afternoon as they walked together near the small duck pond.
‘He’s so quiet. I thought babies cried for everything.’
While Edie had never wanted to say it aloud, she had been thinking identically that her son was near silent. She often wondered if he sensed her grief.
Matron had reassured her. ‘Be grateful, dear. Soon enough you’ll be begging him to stop asking you every question, from why the moon rises to whether an ant thinks.’ She’d patted Edie’s arm. ‘You’re both doing so well. Look at how he thrives. You’d know if anything was wrong.’ She tapped her heart. ‘I have a huge respect for a mother’s instinct. He’s a baby who was only meant to be born later this week. He’s doing a great job after four weeks to be here, getting stronger. He needs time and understanding. He’ll let you know when he’s beginning to catch up to his peers. He deserves a name,’ she’d added with a firm look.
‘I love you, Matron.’
‘Well, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I have a special place in my heart for the Valentines. I do hope you’ll visit and let me watch this little fellow continue to thrive.’
They shared a smile. ‘Our family is now non-existent. Perhaps we might make you an honorary aunt.’
‘Aunt Tilda it is,’ Matron had beamed. ‘He’ll be small for a long time,’ she had warned. ‘I’ve seen it before. Most don’t make it but your family is blessed and that boy is a survivor, so cheer for him always . . . even when he walks late or toilet trains long after your friends’ children. And when he’s not winning the races at school or learning his times tables as fast, be sympathetic and remember this moment. He’ll need time and understanding to catch up.’
And now here was Tom’s son in her arms, sucking greedily at her breast, and she could feel the weight he’d put on; Matron was right. Her boy was beginning to thrive. If only Tom could see him now.
Her mind drifted to that morning, that last kiss, how she’d lost sight of him when he’d turned the corner and left her life.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Madeleine interrupted her thoughts.
Edie shook her head, gave her friend the pluckiest smile she could muster, but knew it was a sad one. ‘I was trying to pick through our last morning together. But I’ve been over it repeatedly in my mind for signs. There was nothing, Mads. Nothing at all to suggest anything was amiss.’
‘I know, cherie.’
Edie gave her a soft look of apology.
‘Listen, Eden. I’ve had an idea. Let us go to Paris.’
‘What?’ Edie looked at her friend, perplexed, searching for a vague hint of amusement that her remark was a joke.
‘Paris will help heal you, darling,’ Madeleine said. ‘I have a plan. I know you won’t take a grand tour or anything like that, but I’m talking about just a few days. I’ve heard you English say that a change is as good as a rest and I believe it. I think if we change the scenery for a short time, you’ll come to terms with what you need to.’
‘Mads, you don’t just get over this with a snap of the fingers or a trip across the Channel. I’m hurting . . . so deeply. I have moments where I just don’t want to wake up and face another day. If not for him . . .’ She gave her baby an affectionate glance, stroking his downy dark hair.
Her friend gave her a look of warning. ‘But what good does all this moping do you, Eden? Will anything you do bring back the men you’ve lost?’
Edie gasped. ‘Don’t.’
‘Answer me.’
‘You know it won’t.’
‘But do you know that? You can grieve for the rest of your life but it doesn’t mean you don’t have to get on with a life. Let it be about you and the child now.’
‘Mads —’
‘Grieve, by all means, but do it in here,’ she said, pointing at Edie’s heart. ‘Don’t make your son pay the price for your heartbreak in the same way you’ve hinted that your father made you bear the burden for his sorrows.’
Edie felt the truth of Madeleine’s words stir her courage. Just for a beat of her heart it felt like she’d stepped out of the shadow of despair and into some sunlight of rationality. For a moment, even though her unhappy world made no sense, Madeleine did, pushing her to grasp that she alone could shape her future. Madeleine was still talking: ‘. . . as for Tom, the fact that you’ve had no news could be taken optimistically.’
Edie shook her head. ‘Tell me how, Mads?’
Her friend lifted a single, angular shoulder. ‘No reported injuries or deaths. That means your husband is out there somewhere. He’s going to turn up. Now, you could kill yourself searching in vain, or you can trust Tom’s love for you is stronger than whatever it is that is keeping him from you. So, pick yourself up, Eden Valentine, and start your life again for this little boy’s sake. Get strong now. Everyone’s parents die. Your father lived a long life.’
‘But he died thinking his grandson would not make it!’ she replied in a surge of bitterness.
‘Well, nothing’s going to change that now,’ her friend said. It was brutal but Edie was used to Madeleine’s candour.
The Frenchwoman bent down before her, earnest grey-green eyes regarding Edie with such intensity that she dared not look away.
‘I didn’t say this would be easy, but let’s plan to go to Paris sometime soon – just for a few days . . . bring your son, of course. There you’ll be able to contend with the decision about your father’s shop and home that you’re avoiding; you’ll be able to actually talk about what to do with the cottage here in Epping too. I know the thought of liv
ing in London again is frightening. I’ll help you every step of the way, Eden. I’ll babysit, I’ll change nappies – we’ll do it together. Don’t give up the dream of the salon. Be true to Tom – be a good mother to his son and be a good wife who follows through on her promise to be the most exciting young designer London has seen in a long time.’
Edie smiled softly as she lifted her baby’s tiny frame gently to help him burp. ‘I thought you said you’d never go back to Paris?’
Madeleine could see that a sparkle had entered Edie’s gaze. ‘Never say never, Eden.’
Edie frowned and it was obvious she was seriously considering the offer. ‘I would feel as though I’m running away from my problems . . .’
‘And what harm is there in that? Stand back from it all and your problems lose their size; you get a sense of everything else around them.’
Edie nodded. ‘I have the money from the sale of the cloth,’ she agreed. Tom had set up an account for Edie, specifically for her new salon.
‘You could sell your father’s shop too.’
At Edie’s wounded gaze, her friend hugged her. ‘Be realistic, Eden. No man wants his suits made by a woman. Not yet anyway, but a man who knows your father’s reputation may well urge his wife to come to your salon.’
Edie audibly gulped. ‘You make it sound so easy. What about him?’ she said, looking down at her sleepy child, warm and snuggled against her breast.
‘Don’t make it too difficult in your mind. You have help. We can hire more if you need. He’s portable right now and such an easy boy . . . and Tom has provided for you both. You won’t have to sell the cottage either. I know you won’t want to do that but you can move into the city and with the proceeds of your London home and father’s shop, you really can set up in town.’ She hugged Edie. ‘What do you say?’
Edie remembered the money in the leather satchel and how Tom was determined she realise her dream, but family was also part of his dream. ‘We’ll go next spring. He’ll be stronger – strong enough to make that journey. I’ll come with you to Paris next April,’ she answered, visibly trembling with her excited decision.
Madeleine nodded as though she’d won a victory but had no intention of gloating.
Edie looked into the yawning expression of her child and she saw his father reflected in the gesture. ‘I’m calling him Tommy. Thomas Daniel Valentine.’
‘Bravo, ma cherie,’ Madeleine replied, leaning in to kiss the baby. ‘Bonjour, Tommy, tu es si beau, mon petit.’
18
APRIL 1921
It seemed impossible to Alex how quickly time had slipped away. He had deliberately kept himself frantically busy. There was so much catching up to do on the company’s business dealings and that made it easier not to confront the painful truth: that he’d escaped one no-man’s-land to run the daily gauntlet of another. Life at Larksfell, though privileged and ordered, felt as empty of hope as the trenches had. He realised he had no right to be feeling like this, of course, and he berated himself through each interminable night of restless sleep that if he just persisted, it would get easier and he would feel connected to this life again.
But the notion that he may have belonged to someone else nagged in its darkly silent way. It hunched in the shadows of his mind like an unspoken accusation that had taken form . . . and yet it was shapeless. It had no face, no name, no voice, just a sound. The sound was of heels clicking on stone but it was always leaving him; had he been with someone who abandoned him? He’d had a lover, of this he was sure. The red handkerchief attested to that, and so he carried it like a talisman wherever he went, hoping that maybe one day its secret would be revealed and he would be there to discover it along with the truth about his past few years.
In the meantime he’d made a private pact with himself that he would not torture the rest of the family with his angst. Why shouldn’t they believe that he was deliriously happy to be returned to the bosom of the family, proud to take up the reins of his father’s empire, and with a full heart that he was home at Larksfell and the world was at peace?
And so Alex Wynter had thrown himself into picking up the threads of where his father had left off and acquainting himself with the entire reach of the Wynter industrial and corporate empire. It had meant relentless meetings with the firm’s accountants, lawyers and bankers as well as travelling east to west, mainly up north, to visit all of the manufacturing locations. Manchester was where he invested a lot of time and Alex was also pleased to attend several football matches to cheer on his family’s favourite team. He gave up most of his hours getting to know the managers who were busily running all the various strands of the diverse organisation that Wynter & Co had become, ensuring they felt safe that the son was going to be as supportive as the father.
He had admitted to his mother the previous evening that he felt ready to start making strategic decisions.
‘I wonder if you might also feel ready to rejoin our lives?’ she pondered, as though thinking aloud.
‘What does that mean?’
She fixed him with her cool, pale gaze. ‘You’re here in person but not in spirit, Lex. My conversations with you are always tinged with the sadness that I have you back, but not fully.’
He shook his head, baffled. ‘What am I missing here, Mother?’
‘It’s been eight months since your return but it feels to me as though you’re on a frozen lake, skating over the top, taking the fastest route to the other side, hardly daring to look left or right.’
He indulged her. ‘What’s on the other side?’
‘Old age, my darling. You’ve passed through autumn and winter barely noticing them and here we are welcoming spring and I bet you can’t even tell me when you last took a day to notice anything about it.’
‘Make a point, Mother.’
‘I thought I had. Stop working so hard and start enjoying your life. It’s important, Alex. You’ve had a ghastly few years and I don’t want you to look up and realise another year has passed!’ His mother shook her head as though she could see right through to his churning thoughts. ‘Tell me where you go to in that troubled mind of yours.’
He hadn’t been able to give her an answer, preferring not to confide his sense of dislocation. Alex shook his head as he’d shrugged.
She’d risen, squeezed his hand. ‘I’m going to bed, darling. Tomorrow, promise me you’ll rejoin life. If an opportunity presents itself, give it a chance.’
He’d frowned, but was glad to be let off the hook of her pale-eyed scrutiny.
Eight months! Alex stretched, heard the soft crack of complaint in his spine and considered that he’d been here all morning without shifting from his seat. He glanced out of the French windows and could see the early bulbs in bright roar – jonquils and snowdrops were leading the charge with the merry colours of Clarrie’s croci not far behind. Soon the Wynter gardens would be a splendid meadow of spring cheer.
To be fair, he argued silently, the time had also given the family a chance to settle into its new shape and for Dougie to accept being the middle son again, although Alex was deliberately shifting greater responsibility to his brother. The brothers met regularly now to share their ideas for the future and for Dougie to update Alex on various projects that he was now spearheading.
Alex returned his attention to the latest file of paperwork requiring his signature, but his thoughts distracted him. He wanted to get these back to London by tomorrow. He dragged the nib of his fountain pen across his blotter but was irritated to realise he was out of ink. As he began the process of refilling the pen, there was a knock at the door that startled him. The plunger snapped back and ink splattered predictably in a brief and localised rainstorm all over his precious red handkerchief lying nearby. He stared at it, horrified.
‘Damn!’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Master Lex,’ Bramson said as he half appeared around the door. He took in the scene immediately and sensibly waited while Alex got the lid back onto his bottle.
&
nbsp; ‘Something wrong, Bramson?’
‘Not at all, Sir. Um, you have a visitor. Miss Aubrey-Finch is here to see you.’
He frowned. ‘Me? Is my mother in?’
‘No. Clarrie has run her into Hove today to see some friends. She won’t be back until this evening.’
‘Ah, yes, she mentioned something about that.’
‘Miss Aubrey-Finch seemed to know about that too, Sir,’ Bramson said.
Alex looked taken aback. ‘She surely can’t be here to see only me. There must be a mistake.’
‘No mistake, Sir,’ he replied dryly. ‘I have shown her into the orangery.’
He sighed, glanced at the stained handkerchief and felt strangely sickened that it had been tarnished. He could see tiny spots of ink had bled onto that fine stitching around the heart. He was surprised how much it hurt to see it. ‘Well, I suppose it must be about time for a coffee,’ he offered, distracted.
‘Already ordered, Master Lex.’
‘I’ll get down there, then,’ he said and winked at his butler, hoping he was covering his angst well enough.
Bramson’s expression didn’t shift. ‘I’ll let your guest know.’
Alex emerged from his father’s study – his study now – and drifted across to the warmer side of the house, which caught the morning sun. His mother’s pride, the orangery, was aglow with the sharp spring light, twinkling through the panes of glass that formed a ceiling and arched beneath a cloudless blue dome. Corinthian columns soared like alabaster sentinels and around them spread the dark, shiny leaves of figs and palm trees. At lower levels ferns added a softer background for Cecily’s breathtaking array of orchids with their complex, fragile arrangement of petals, while simple-veined leaves were a foil for the gregarious blooms.
Alex saw Penny admiring an exquisite, trumpet-like flower that was neither pink nor white but had a blushing quality to it. Alex couldn’t help but notice the neat figure and curve of his distant cousin’s breasts as she bent over the bloom.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ He startled his guest and grinned. ‘Mother is very proud of her vanilla orchid. So few gardeners can grow it outside of subtropical regions.’
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