“But where are you going?”
“To see Eustace, of course,” said Virginia, from the door.
“But you haven’t drunk your coffee. I made you coffee and you haven’t even drunk it. And what are you going to say to him? And how are you going to explain?”
But Virginia had already gone. Alice was speaking to an empty room, an open, swinging door. With an exclamation of exasperation, she put down her coffee cup and went to the door as though to call Virginia back, but Virginia was already out of earshot, running like a child through the tall summer grass, across the fields in the direction of Penfolda.
She took the field path because it would have taken too long to get into the car and turn it and drive back along the main road. And time was too precious to be wasted. They had already lost ten years, and there was not another moment to spare.
She was running, through a joyous morning of honey-scents and white daisies and tall grass that whipped at her bare legs. The sea was a dark, purplish blue, striped with ribbons of turquoise, and the horizon was blurred in a haze that promised great heat. She was running, long-legged, taking the steps of the stiles two at a time, and the ditches of the stubble fields brimmed with red poppies and the air was filled with the petals of yellow gorse flowers, blown to confusion, like confetti, by the sea-wind.
She came across the last field, and Penfolda lay ahead of her, the house and the long barns, and the little garden, wall-enclosed from the wind. She went over the last stile that led into the vegetable garden, and down the path and through the gate, and she saw that the cat and her half-Siamese kittens lay in the sun on the doorstep, and the front door stood open and she went indoors and called Eustace, and the house was dark after the brightness of the day outside.
“Who’s that?”
It was Mrs. Thomas, carrying a duster, peering over the banister.
“It’s me. Virginia. Virginia Keile. I’m looking for Eustace.”
“He’s just coming in from milking…”
“Oh, thank you.” Without bothering to wait and explain, she went back out of doors, and started across the lawn, making for the cattle court and the milking parlour. But at that moment he appeared, coming through the gate that opened into the far side of the garden. He was in shirt sleeves, aproned, wearing rubber boots and carrying a polished aluminum pail of milk. Virginia stopped dead. He closed the latch of the gate behind him and looked up and saw her.
She had meant to be very sensible. To say, calmly and quietly, “I want to ask you about the letter you wrote me.” But it didn’t happen like that at all. For everything was said in that long moment, while they stood and looked at each other, and then Eustace set down his bucket and started towards her, and she ran down the slope of the grass and into his arms, and she was laughing, her face pressed into the front of his shirt, and he was saying, “It’s all right. It’s all right,” just as though she were crying, not laughing. And Virginia said, “I love you,” and then she burst into tears.
* * *
He said, “Of course I telephoned. Three or four times. But you were never there. It was always your mother and each time I felt more of a fool and each time she said that she’d tell you I’d called and that you’d ring me back. And I thought maybe you’d changed your mind. I thought perhaps you’d decided you had better things to do than come and have tea with someone like me and my old mother. I thought maybe your mother had talked you round. She didn’t lose any love on me, not from the first moment she set eyes on me. But you knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I knew. And I wondered. Once, I nearly rang you up. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten … and then I lost my nerve. And then, out of the blue, my mother said we had to go back to London and after that, there wasn’t any time. And in the train, I asked her, straight out, if you’d ever called and she said never. And I believed her. That was the terrible thing, I always believed her. I should have known. It was my fault, I should have known. Oh, Eustace, why was I such a ninny?”
They had come indoors, ostensibly to find a clean handkerchief for Virginia, and for no particular reason had stayed there, ending up, inevitably, in the kitchen, sitting at the scrubbed table, with the air filled with the smell of baking saffron bread, and the only sound to disturb them the slow ticking of the old-fashioned pendulum clock.
“You weren’t a ninny,” said Eustace. “You were seventeen. That was another of the things that bothered me. It would have been easy to persuade you, push you around, before you’d even had time to grow up and make up your own mind about things. That’s what I said in the letter. When you never rang me back, I thought maybe you’d got cold feet. So I said that if you wanted to wait a couple of years, I’d be ready to wait too, see how we felt about things then.” He grinned, ruefully. “It took some writing, I can tell you. I’d never said such things to a girl before, nor have since.”
“And you thought I’d never even bothered to reply?”
“I didn’t know what to think … And then, the next thing, I saw in the paper that you were getting married.”
“Eustace, if I’d got the letter, I wouldn’t have gone back to London. I’d have refused.”
“You couldn’t refuse, you were under age.”
“I’d have had hysterics, then. A nervous breakdown. Made the most ghastly scenes. Made myself ill.”
“You’d still have gone.”
She knew that he was right. “But I’d have known you were there, waiting. And I would never have married Anthony. I would never have gone to Scotland. I would never have wasted all these years.”
Eustace raised his eyebrows. “Wasted? They weren’t wasted. What about Cara and Nicholas?”
Virginia’s eyes stung with sudden tears. She said, “Now it’s all too complicated.”
He put his arms around her, kissed the tears away, pushed her hair back off her face. He said, “Things happen the way they’re meant to. There’s a pattern and a shape to everything. You look back and see it all. Nothing happens without a reason. Nothing is impossible, like meeting again, walking into The Mermaid’s Arms and seeing you sitting there, just as though you’d never been away. Like a miracle.”
“You didn’t behave as though it were a miracle. In no time at all you were bawling at me.”
“I was scared of getting hurt a second time. I was scared that I’d been mistaken about you, that all the things that were so important to your mother had become important to you, too.”
“I told you. They were never important.”
He took her hand in his. “After the picnic yesterday, I thought it was going to be all right. After being with you and Cara and Nicholas, and swimming and cooking the fish, and you all seeming to enjoy it so much, I thought then, coming up the cliff, that it was like being back where we started. And I thought I would be able to talk about that time, when you went back to London and I was left not knowing what had happened, and we never saw each other again. I thought we could have talked about it, perhaps made a new beginning.”
“But I was thinking the same, you stupid man, and all you did was to tell me to go back to Scotland and learn how to be a farmer. I want to be farmer’s wife, but I don’t want to be a farmer. And I wouldn’t know one end of an Aberdeen Angus herd from the other.”
Eustace grinned again, faintly sheepish. “I told you, it was those photographs of Cara’s. We’d seemed so close all day, and all at once I realized that we weren’t close, we belonged to different worlds. We always have done, Virginia. A place like Kirkton and a little farm like Penfolda, well, you just don’t talk about them in the same breath. And suddenly it seemed insane to imagine that I could ask you to leave all that, give it all up, just for the sake of being with me. Because that’s all I’ve got to offer.”
“And that’s what I want. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Kirkton was Anthony’s house. Without him to keep it going, it has no life at all. Anyway, I’m going to sell it. I decided last night. I shall have to go back, of course, break the news to
everybody, put the whole thing in the lawyer’s hands…”
“Have you thought about the children?”
“I never stop thinking about them. And they’ll understand.”
“It’s their home.”
“Penfolda’s going to be their home.” She smiled at the thought, and Eustace took her shoulders between his big hands and leaned forward to kiss her open, smiling mouth. “A new home and a new father,” she finished when she had got her breath back.
But Eustace did not seem to be listening to her. “Talk of the devil,” he said.
And Virginia heard the children, coming across the garden, talking, their voices high-pitched.
“Look, there are the kittens. Look, they’re in the sun, and they haven’t drunk their milk.”
“Oh, leave them, Nicholas. They’re having a sleep.”
“This one isn’t sleeping. It’s got its eyes open. Look. Its eyes are open.”
“I wonder where Mummy is? Mummy!”
“In here,” called Eustace.
“Mummy, Aunt Alice Lingard wants to know if you’re ever coming home again.” Cara appeared at the kitchen door, her spectacles crooked, her hair hanging out of its slide. “She gave us some bacon and eggs, but we’ve been waiting and waiting and she says Mrs. Jilkes will think that she’s been in a car accident, and died…”
“Yes,” said Nicholas, appearing, hard on her heels, with a kitten spread-eagled by pin-like claws across the front of his sweater. “And we didn’t wake up till ten past ten when Aunt Alice came up to see us, and we very nearly didn’t have any breakfast at all, we very nearly just waited until lunch-time … but I was … so hungry…”
His voice trailed away. He had realized that nobody was talking but him. His mother and Eustace were simply sitting, watching him, and Cara was staring at her mother as though she had never seen her before. Nicholas was disconcerted. “Well, what’s wrong? Why isn’t anybody talking?”
“We’re waiting for you to stop,” said Virginia.
“Why?”
Virginia looked at Eustace. Eustace leaned forward to draw Cara towards him. Very gently, seriously, he set her spectacles straight. Then Nicholas saw that he was smiling.
“We’ve got something to tell you,” said Eustace.
ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES BY ROSAMUNDE PILCHER
WINTER SOLSTICE
SLEEPING TIGER
ANOTHER VIEW
SNOW IN APRIL
THE END OF SUMMER
THE EMPTY HOUSE
THE DAY OF THE STORM
FLOWERS IN THE RAIN AND OTHER STORIES
UNDER GEMINI
WILD MOUNTAIN THYME
VOICES IN SUMMER
THE BLUE BEDROOM AND OTHER STORIES
THE CAROUSEL
THE SHELL SEEKERS
SEPTEMBER
COMING HOME
ENTER THE ENCHANTING WORLD OF ROSAMUNDE PILCHER …
PRAISE FOR COMING HOME …
“Rosamunde Pilcher’s most satisfying story since The Shell Seekers.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Captivating … The best sort of book to come home to … Readers will undoubtedly hope Pilcher comes home to the typewriter again soon.”
—New York Daily News
… FOR SEPTEMBER …
“A dance of life!”
—Philadelphia Inquirer
“Her characters inhabit your daily life … [a] rich story to get lost in … the sort of novel so many seek to imitate and fail. I’d call Pilcher a Jane Austen for our time.”
—Cosmopolitan
… FOR THE BLUE BEDROOM AND OTHER STORIES …
“Breathtaking … A book you will want to keep, to read and re-read!”
—Grand Rapids Press
… FOR THE CAROUSEL …
“Delightful … It exudes comfort as it entertains.”
—Publishers Weekly
… FOR VOICES IN SUMMER
“I don’t know where Rosamunde Pilcher has been all my life—but now that I’ve found her, I’m not going to let her go.”
—The New York Times
THE EMPTY HOUSE
Copyright © 1973 by Rosamunde Pilcher.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-96127-8
EAN: 80312-96127-5
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition published 1973
Dell paperback edition/May 1989
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition/December 1996
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN 9781466825017
First eBook edition: February 2013
Rosamunde Pilcher, The Empty House
(Series: # )
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