A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel

by Margaret Graham

  The windowsill was split. She ran her finger along it. Was it age, or the heat of the sun? Would it be cold on the pass through the Pyrenees? Would James be laughing with Archie and Ian about the fool of a girl who had followed him? Would his blue eyes still be as angry? She’d never seen him like that, not even with Tim.

  The man with the cart stopped, and was lifting off the cloth. He folded it carefully and put it beside the cart. The baskets contained tomatoes, and the square was becoming busy with customers. As she looked, more stalls were set up, and the noise level grew. She heard laughter and thought that she would never even smile again. The heat rose over the square. She wept again. He had gone, and she had left the Institute and lied to everyone, and it was all for nothing. She was a fool.

  Madame Colbert tapped on the door. Bridie called in French, ‘No thank you, Madame Colbert. I’m not hungry.’ It was what she had said all day yesterday, and so it would be again today, because although she had money to pay for the room, she wasn’t sure that it would be enough. Was it tomorrow she could go back? And what about Madame Beauchesne? Would she guess she had lied? What about the letter? How would she retrieve it from Marthe?

  She walked about the room, thinking, thinking, but then heard a slight tap at the door, and a man’s voice saying quietly, as though his mouth was pressed to the door, ‘I think we should leave, Miss Brampton. We have a journey ahead of us. We could eat on our journey.’

  Bridie turned slowly, dragging her hand across her face, wiping her mouth. ‘Who? What?’

  ‘Ah, we have met, but a while ago, first at your uncle’s wedding, and then at Sir Anthony’s dinner. Perhaps you remember me. It is Herr Bauer.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘First, before any more “buts”, may I suggest that you pack, and we embark upon our train. I took the liberty of obtaining a ticket, as I think you might have expected to only need a single journey. It is usual, if heading for Spain.’

  Herr Bauer? He knew about Spain? The heat bombarded her through the window; the noise of the street was growing louder. Herr Bauer, who had been with the fascists at Sir Anthony’s dinner. Herr Bauer knew she was here? Herr Bauer, who probably knew the Nazis who bombed Guernica and Bilbao, and killed Maria and Estrella’s families. Had he followed her? Was he after James and the others? She peered down into the square, but it was too far to jump.

  He said again, quietly, ‘I would prefer not to spend too long convincing you that I am not a villain as we have a train to catch, Miss Brampton. May I just say that Madame Beauchesne phoned your family, as Lady Lucinda Fortnum was concerned at your absence and so “exposed your cover” is what I believe you would say.’

  Bridie stood stock-still.

  He tapped again. ‘After this complicated journey of words, Miss Brampton, Colonel Potter suggested, as I was in the area, that I try and locate you in Arles, a common disembarkation point for those off to do Spain. If located, Colonel Potter requested that I accompany you to Calais, where I have further business. Your mother awaits you there. Colonel Potter asked me to convey the fact that your mother said that if you do not come, she will come to Arles and drag you back by the hair.’

  These last few words convinced Bridie that Herr Bauer was indeed acting on behalf of Colonel Potter and she wept again, with relief, because she needed her mam, needed to go home. She opened the door. ‘I have a return ticket,’ she said.

  Herr Bauer took her rucksack as she left the room, having washed, and tried to straighten her skirt and blouse. She snatched it back. ‘I’m not helpless,’ she muttered.

  His smile said, Oh really? But he said nothing.

  They hurried down the stairs to the lobby. Madame Colbert was behind her desk and merely smiled, waving them past. Bridie halted. ‘I need to pay.’

  ‘Monsieur Williams has already done so.’ Herr Bauer moved her out into the heat of the morning. It was still only eight thirty. James had paid. Perhaps he wasn’t as furious as he had seemed. Herr Bauer was striding ahead of her, carrying an attaché case, requesting that she keep up, or they would miss the train, which might further annoy her mother. She hurried alongside.

  Once they were near the station, Herr Bauer checked his watch, bought a newspaper, and indicated a pavement café. He bought croissant and coffee for them both, then buried his head in the newspaper. Bridie hadn’t realised just how hungry she was, and thirsty. There was a carafe of water and glasses on the table. She gulped down the water, then the coffee, then the croissant, while he merely sipped his coffee, his eyes never leaving the newspaper. The moment she had finished, though, he was up, tucking the newspaper into his attaché case, and hurrying into the station, then on to the platform, and then the train. He insisted they use the ticket he had purchased for her, as they could then sit together as their seats were reserved. At that point no-one sat near them. She said, as they settled next to one another, ‘You knew James wasn’t with me.’

  He nodded. ‘You had booked a single room.’

  She persisted, ‘But you knew where he had gone.’

  Herr Bauer hesitated for a moment, before smiling. It was then she realised that his smile seldom reached his silver-grey eyes, which were almost transparent, and never seemed to be still. They reminded her of someone, but who? She couldn’t think.

  He said, ‘I deduced. For where else do the romantic go to jeopardise their lives today, not realising that it is a cause that is surely already lost?’

  She barely listened, so intent was she on remembering, and then it came to her. It wasn’t someone, it was Uncle Charlie’s springer spaniels, looking, scenting, alert, seeking, always seeking.

  ‘Why did you say you were you in Arles, Herr Bauer?’

  He shrugged. ‘I wasn’t in Arles. I diverted to Arles at the request of Colonel Potter, who wondered perhaps if I would be in time to collect a package of two young people. I only managed one, you.’ He nodded to his attaché case. ‘I have business to attend to, as grown-up people do, Miss Brampton.’

  His tone was ironic.

  Stung, she retorted, ‘He wouldn’t let me go with him, when I’ve given up everything to do something, to stop the fascists. Franco is lucky, you Germans are helping him, and what are Britain and France doing? A big fat nothing to protect democracy. What else are you fascists and Nazis going to do, or should I say, to take, and that’s not just me, but what Madame Beauchesne says, and a lot of people too?’ She crossed her arms and slumped back as the train started.

  He said nothing, merely began to read his newspaper again. She said, quietly, because another two people had found their way to seats near them, ‘Anyway, what is Uncle Potty going to do to get James back?’ She was scared now. ‘He might get hurt.’

  Herr Bauer continued to read the newspaper, or so she thought, but he said, still scanning the French news, ‘I presume he thought about that before he went. You clearly didn’t, which is why he showed a glimmer of sense when he refused to let you join him. Your friend, Uncle Potty, can only do so much to protect foolish young people from playing dangerous games. He hoped I would find you both. I haven’t.’

  ‘He’s not a child, and neither am I. I’m nearly seventeen.’

  He turned the page, the paper crackling. ‘Then, Miss Bridget Brampton, may I beg you to start behaving like an adult, and cease to cause others to break from important tasks. You would do well to sit quietly and think about that, and how you are to rescue your life, and repair the trust you have damaged.’

  Evie paced the deck of the ferry she had taken to Calais. The last time she had done this alone there had been hospital tents visible along the coast, the pounding of audible guns, and a heart that was clasped by an iron hand of fear. She had come to collect Gracie, who had been hurt by shrapnel, and amongst other things, had lost her ear. Now another hand clasped her heart, one that seared; full of disappointment, rage and worry.

  As they drew into harbour she waited at the site of the gangplank, barely able to hold herself still in the face of so many
conflicting emotions. It seemed an eternity for the ship to edge towards the quay, by which time the passengers were gathering either side, and behind her. She thought of all those who had embarked on the return journey along with Gracie so many years ago, the mutilated, the distraught, the exhausted. Here she was, fetching home an idiotic daughter, who had lied so convincingly about how she longed to take Easterleigh Hall forward, who had let James go off on some escapade during which he would, in all likelihood, be killed. Bridie had not only facilitated him, but had conspired to go with him. How could she?

  Evie dug her clenched hands into her jacket pockets and made herself count the wheeling gulls, and listen to the specifics of the chatter around her, or she’d . . . Well, she didn’t know what she’d do, but she had to somehow find some control before she put one step onto the quay. But even as she thought that, Ver’s devastation, Richard’s misery and Aub’s shock and pain added to her own, and swept over her like a crashing wave.

  There was a jolt as the ferry closed on the quay. Hawsers secured it, the gangplank was set up. She clenched her fists tighter still as the excitement of the passengers surrounding her grew. She breathed deeply, telling herself that she must calm down, but instead she remembered Mrs Moore’s heartbreak, her disbelief that the young woman she adored could make such plans and lie to their faces. It was then she spied her daughter standing against the press of people streaming away from the ferry. She stood alongside Herr Bauer near several bales of rope.

  Evie stared at the bales, not at Bridie. Were they for transportation or a permanent fixture on the quayside? Above, the gulls still called and whirled, and passengers still streamed past her and down the gangplank. At last, when she was in control of herself, she joined them, still fixing her gaze on the bales. Once on the quay she stopped, standing to one side of the passenger stream, unable to move towards her daughter because love had caught and held her. Bridie looked so pale and exhausted, but still with her shoulders braced in defiance. She felt such pride, but such fury and disappointment, such enormous love, and pity. Dear God, where could they go from here when trust had been so badly damaged?

  Herr Bauer strode towards her, a newspaper folded beneath his arm. She walked towards him. Bridie remained by the bales, as well she might. Herr Bauer lifted his hat, and stopped a mere two feet from Evie. He bowed slightly. ‘The package is contrite, angry and feeling inordinately foolish and guilty, or so I think, Evie, if I may call you that?’

  ‘Of course, Herr Bauer. I am so grateful to you, and to Colonel Potter, who has used his extraordinary contacts to pull the irons from the fire for us. And it is not the first time. He helped us in the war.’

  ‘Ah, indeed. Yes, he asked me to make a slight diversion. It is of no consequence, but I must now resume my journey, just as you, my dear Evie, will probably re-embark on this ferry for the return trip? I wish you well with everything. The young are impetuous but seldom mean harm.’ He bowed and left her, clipping along the quay, merely nodding at Bridie as he passed.

  Evie saw Bridie lift her hand, as though it was very heavy, and call, ‘Thank you, Herr Bauer. You have been very helpful and kind.’ Evie’s love soared again.

  The passengers had all disembarked, and the last, an elderly man, limped in Herr Bauer’s wake. Evie gestured to Bridie to join her, and as Bridie approached, the anger returned, and Evie spun on her heel and hurried back up the gangplank. She heard Bridie call, ‘Mam, please wait for me.’

  Evie couldn’t wait. ‘You’ve managed this far without any of us, Bridget, so just follow me, because I can’t find the words to speak to you at this precise moment and until I do, I suggest you try to make good the hurt you’ve caused to those who love you.’

  Two days later Bridie was leaning back on the wall of the indoor exercise arena in her jodhpurs, having mucked out the stables because she couldn’t bear the ongoing silence in the kitchen any more. She watched Dave to the left of the mounting platform. He was in his wheelchair and talking to his blind friend, Daniel Forsyth. On the mounting platform Young Stan was guiding an older man with only one arm, and two legs, but one foot, onto the double saddle, with one of the under-gardeners standing at Terry’s head.

  Clive was standing on Terry’s right-hand side, guiding the man’s leg over the double saddle. She heard Clive saying, ‘That’s the way, Norman, you know the ropes. Matron said you’re up to this, so that’s that, you ruddy well are.’

  Norman said something as Clive put his hand on his back, and Young Stan showed him how to hold the reins with just one hand. Clive laughed and said, ‘You shouldn’t use language like that or she’ll deal with you in her own special way.’

  Since her return, Aunt Ver and Uncle Richard had not spoken to her, beyond saying, almost in unison, ‘What were you thinking? Why didn’t you tell us his plans?’

  Her mother had said nothing more on the ferry until they had set sail, and then, though the wind had been fierce, Bridie had heard the fury and hurt in her words, the accusations of betrayal towards Monsieur Allard, Madame Beauchesne, Bridie’s friends, her family, herself. In reply, Bridie had screeched, ‘Someone had to do something, the Republicans need me and James. And you did something too, when a cause needed you: you fought for votes; Da went to war.’

  Her mother had held up her hand. ‘You talked us into sending you to a prestigious institute, and then you used it to follow James. You left your horses and your patients, and they need you just as much, if not more, than the bloody International Brigade. Tim has never lied. He’s just done what he needs to do, and not hidden who he is. That’s what’s wrong with you, madam.’

  On her arrival home, Mrs Moore had whacked her with a wooden spoon across her knuckles, then wept. She had whispered, ‘Bridget, what have you done?’

  Since then, the kitchen had been virtually silent. She had suggested macarons. Her mother had ignored her. She had suggested her version of mushroom soup. Again her mother ignored her, and Annie too had avoided her since her return. Maria and Estrella had been embarrassed, as though it was their fault. They had offered to leave. Evie would not hear of it. Bridie had written letters of apology to Madame Beauchesne, Monsieur Allard, Colonel Potter, and through him, Herr Bauer. Lastly she had telegraphed Lucy and Marthe and they had replied, missing her but enjoying the remainder of the course. It had hurt but she deserved it. Today, in her break, she had plucked up courage, at last, to visit the paddock.

  No-one had looked up when she slipped through the entrance, but Terry had whinnied.

  She heard the panic in Norman’s voice, as Clive carefully removed his hand. Someone should be up behind him. Who would it be? Clive replaced his hand. Perhaps it would be no-one, but that wasn’t wise. Clive must at least walk beside Norman. She stood upright, but said nothing. She had no right. Just as she had said nothing when her mother had held up Tim as a shining example. She had wanted to say that she had found him in Da’s office, but she had promised she would not. That he had punched her, that . . .

  She shook her head now. She had not because she had done worse: she had sent him away when Prancer died, and she had told no-one. Perhaps she should have done, because it wasn’t her decision to have made.

  ‘Well, are you helping or not? Don’t just stand there miles away. I’ve said it twice and I won’t again, young madam.’ It was Dave, bawling across his wheelchair. ‘I need someone up on the saddle, you runaway. You’ve had your adventure, stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something.’

  Young Stan was grinning at her as he crouched down, next to Norman. ‘She’s been a bad, bad girl, has our Bridie. But we’re all allowed to be, once in our life. Isn’t that a fact, Norman?’

  Norman said, as Bridie hurried across the paddock, kicking up the sand, ‘I don’t give a monkey’s arse who does it, as long as someone does, before I fall off the bloody thing.’

  She skirted round Dave’s wheelchair, whispering, ‘What’s this I hear about you and Estrella? Fast worker, eh?’

  Before he could p
inch her, she was up the ramp, face to face with Young Stan, who looked her straight in the eyes, waiting. She murmured, ‘I’m sorry—’

  He shook his head. ‘Louder, and face the front, so we can all hear, including Terry. He’s missed you. None of us have, but he missed you.’

  She breathed in, and pushed back her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ she shouted, her voice reaching the back of the building. ‘I’m right sorry. I should have thought of you more, all of you, and this.’ She waved her hand around the exercise building. ‘All of this,’ she repeated. This time she gestured to Easterleigh Hall.

  ‘And?’ Dave called up. ‘You haven’t finished, Bridie.’

  ‘I acted like a child. I thought I must do something, because no-one is doing anything, not really, to stop them: the Nazis in Germany, the fascists in Italy and Spain. But I ignored the fact that to do that I had to lie; I ignored the things and people who need me here.’

  ‘And?’ Dave called again.

  ‘I’m sorry, alright? I’ve said I’m sorry. What more do you want?’

  Dave was still looking up at her. ‘I’m getting a crick in my neck waiting, Bridie. And?’

  Terry shifted his weight; the under-gardener, who she remembered was called Ron, held his bridle; Norman gripped the saddle; while Clive held him. Young Stan squatted to reassure him, twisting round, saying, ‘Get on with it, bonny lass. It’s getting boring here, and me back’s killing me.’

  She didn’t know what they wanted, and anger surged. ‘Alright, I’m really sorry, but I still think James is doing what he thinks is right, just as everyone else has always done. Look at Mam with her votes, and Da with his war, and Aunt Gracie, and everyone. But I was wrong in the way I did it – I bloody know that – but I was still right. So bloody there.’

  Young Stan looked down at Dave. They both nodded. Clive grinned; the under-gardener, Ron, laughed and rubbed Terry’s nose. Norman said, ‘Now she’s said it, can we get on?’