In the cab, riding back to Winterbourne, Rachel thought about what Kirsty had said. She was amazed that she had told Jack her secret, and amazed, more, that he had seemed to understand the cost at which it came. I’ll help you. I’d like to.
For the first time, like a bud opening to the flush of spring, Rachel considered it – letting another person close, letting herself be trusted and to trust in return…
She was alive. That was another thing Seth had given her, the gift of her life, ever more valuable for its comparison with the loss of his. She was on the brink of a discovery that would change her world, the discovery at the heart of Winterbourne.
But, as the taxi hurtled towards the daunting house on the hill, she could never have anticipated how great the discovery would be.
Chapter 23
Cornwall, 1947
Every part of Winterbourne is improved this morning. The sky is a deeper blue. The sea is a softer sigh. The birds chirp more sweetly in the trees. How could the world not be changed? Jonathan! I wish to cry his name a thousand times, each refrain louder than the last. I cried his name in the chapel last night; I cried it over and over again as our love at last came to fruition, the inevitable collision of our physical bodies when our spirits had been joined for so long. I am shocked at the ease with which I surrendered myself to him, and yet not surprised at all. I dismissed decorum; I did away with finesse. Our union had been inescapable since I first arrived at Winterbourne, and now, though I never believed it would happen again, I am happy.
Before the captain kissed me, I was convinced I was about to be discharged. Riding Storm was the final disgrace and I could no longer be responsible for his children or his home. But no, Jonathan had other ideas. He wished to keep me, and to keep me more certainly than I dreamed! Passion does not come close to conveying the night we passed. I am reborn. I am awake. I ought to blush at the fleshly extremes of our affections but I cannot. I am too content. After the war, I never thought I would know feelings like it again. I thought I had lost the only man I would ever adore – but no, here, like an angel, is another! Jonathan is my saviour, my future, my light.
Over a formal breakfast, I wonder that my feelings are not clear for all to see. I try to catch the captain’s eye at the head of the table but he avoids meeting me. Who can blame him? It seems absurd, to say the least, that we can be present, together, at this prim arrangement of butter dishes and silver cutlery and china plates, when mere hours ago we were tangled in desire, two bodies made one, his hair between my fingers and his tongue in my mouth.
It is unpardonable! A delicious offence! Last night is a dreamscape of strange and brilliant things, so distant and impossible-seeming today that I would think I had imagined it all, were it not for the scent of him still lingering on my skin.
‘Alice, could you pass the jam, please?’ Constance asks.
‘Of course, my dear.’ My eyes flit over the captain again, his dark brow focused on the morning paper. They call him a cripple, but they cannot know what they describe. No man capable of the love he showed me could be painted as such.
Then again, my love has eased his pain. With my kisses I soothed his burns; with my lips I caressed his legs, and every other part of him. Already I am foreseeing a later point in the day, when I can approach him in a private moment and we can be together. Jonathan (what a thrill it is to use his name!) will turn to me with a ravenous expression and say: ‘Oh, Alice, my sweet Alice, I have been dreaming of you all day,’ and it will be all we can manage not to devour each other completely.
But we will need to advance with care, for the sake of the children. The twins are exceptional and will easily pick out the truth if given so much as a whisper.
I must be patient. I know what is at stake, for them as well as for me. They have lost a mother and will not – should not – accept another so easily in her place. But for me, well, there can be no other outcome. I have coveted this since I set foot here. No, that is a lie. I coveted it before I even caught a sense of Winterbourne, before my interview in London, before I took the job at Quakers Oatley & Sons, before the war…even before the man I lost, the baby I lost? I have always yearned to be part of tenderness like this, a loving, secure family. To think I could fill such a pivotal role for them as wife and mother, for once an Alice Miller to be respected and looked up to, who had achieved, who had realised something concrete, is alluring. I yearn to start again, with no past, no guilt, no demons at my back…
Jonathan will have a plan. As I steal glances at him from the other end of the table (an impossible distance – but to think that I could do away with the breakfast dishes and climb on to its surface, and take his face in my hands and kiss him; I could do that, were it not for my judgement!), I see how hard he is contemplating our next move. He will have spent the hours since our union contemplating it, and he will not share it with me until it is completed in his mind. Only then will he disclose our love to the children and the staff, and only then can it be absorbed into the house. For Winterbourne is part of our family, too. Winterbourne is my new home.
‘Alice, aren’t you hungry?’ Edmund is gazing enquiringly at me.
I look down at my untouched bowl. I ought to be famished for the energy I’ve expended, but the mere proximity of Jonathan is enough to sate my appetite.
‘I’m quite all right, darling,’ I say, holding my hands in my lap because I am afraid their tremble will give me away. ‘Would you like to be excused?’
It is as if I am addressing their father, because at once Jonathan stands from the table, lets his newspaper drop to his chair and abruptly leaves the room. The children scramble to follow, to get ready for the classroom, though I have no idea how I will gather my thoughts for the morning. I finish my coffee and hope for the best.
*
At lunchtime, Henry Marsh arrives at the house. I meet him coming away from his appointment with Jonathan, his doctor’s bag in hand.
‘Alice!’ He greets me in the hall, his smile wide. ‘I was hoping to see you.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.’
‘Would you have time for a walk?’
I nod. It must be done, and sooner rather than later.
We step outside. The day is fresh, its autumn colours fading. Leaves are beginning to fall and the high branches of trees shiver naked against the sky. The grass is damp with frozen dew. Ravens caw amid the topiary.
‘How is the captain today?’ I ask as we head down the slopes towards the lake. Henry walks close enough to me that the material of his jacket grazes my elbow. I wonder if Jonathan is watching us. Part of me wishes him to.
‘Not quite himself,’ Henry replies, with a frown. ‘His mind seemed occupied. I don’t suppose you’d know by what? Are the children in good spirits?’
‘They’re very well.’
Henry shakes his head; I think what a kind face he has, open and willing. Just the kind of man my parents would have urged me towards, a sensible medical man.
‘I oughtn’t to discuss this with you, Alice, but…’ We stop by the reeds, the little copse behind us; the doctor has ensured we are out of sight of the house. ‘But since our outing last week, I have confidence to. I fear that Jonathan is against me.’
‘Against you?’ I am surprised. ‘How?’
‘He does not trust me. I used to have his trust, but I don’t any more.’
Elation washes through me. I know why, I think. He doesn’t trust you because he’s resentful of our friendship. He cannot stand another man taking what he desires!
‘We had a good relationship when I first started treating him,’ says Henry, ‘when he first came back from the war. But something changed before Laura died. He withdrew from me; it’s difficult to explain, and I suppose I ought to be able, making my business from explanations. Jonathan no longer opened up to me. What promised to grow into friendship shrank to mere professionalism. Well, I oughtn’t to mind, I know, after all I am here to tend his injuries, but I wish I knew
the grounds of it.’
I consider, then, that it can’t be about me. Not if it started before Laura died.
‘Never mind,’ he says hurriedly, ‘I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.’
‘I wish I could help,’ I say. ‘But I wouldn’t know what to advise.’
‘Of course not.’
‘I could speak with him, if you think that would benefit?’
Henry looks perplexed. ‘You have that closeness?’
‘Why wouldn’t we?’
He checks behind him, as if fearful someone has joined us. ‘I assumed a governess might not approach her employer on a personal matter.’
‘And I take it you would rather I did not on this one.’
Henry still wears a look of confusion, but then he smiles and it dissolves.
‘Alice, I’m glad to see you today.’ He takes my hands. ‘I wondered when I would again. My dear, I’ve thought of little but you. Tell me you have felt the same.’
I take my hands away.
‘It’s all right,’ he urges, ‘there is nobody here.’
‘I know there isn’t,’ I say, hating to hurt this good man but knowing that I must. ‘But Henry, it’s only fair that I tell you the truth. I admire you as a doctor and respect you as a friend but it can be nothing more. I hope you understand.’
A moment passes. Hurt crosses his features, before he straightens.
‘Of course I understand, Miss Miller.’
‘It’s a personal…complication,’ I say, not wanting him to think it is any shortcoming of his. ‘My circumstances have changed.’
‘Is it him?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The captain, has he forbid you from meeting me?’ Henry seems ignited by this idea, and turns back to the house.
‘No!’ I stop him. ‘No, it’s not. Nothing like that.’
If only I could tell him. I am bursting to tell someone, a friend like Betty, whom I volunteered with in the war, a girl I can relive it with, who will clamour for all the details and I would be only too happy to divulge them. But I can’t.
‘But you don’t wish to see me again,’ he says.
‘It isn’t possible. I’m very sorry, Henry.’
After a moment he nods, assembling himself, and proceeds to act with dignity. He takes my hands again but this time it is definite, firmer, as if readying an ally to advance into the fray. ‘You be careful, Miss Miller,’ he says. His next words falter. ‘You’re an exceptional woman. I don’t know if you have been told that before, but you are. Jonathan and his children are lucky to have you at Winterbourne.’
‘Thank you.’
He lingers, as if unsure whether to say more. But there is clearly nothing more to say, for he drops my hands and turns back up the hill, to return to his car.
*
I wait until the rumble of Henry’s car has faded completely before I move. It is growing cold; the gusts of wind that blow in off the sea are sharp with winter’s bite.
I delay my return to the house while I reflect on what I have done. In abandoning the doctor I have abandoned any reason to hold back: nothing, now, stands in Jonathan’s and my way. Despite the chill I am filled with heat.
It is with some uncertainty that, as I approach the drive, I see the ancient Rolls-Royce parked out front. Tom has the bonnet up. ‘Are we going somewhere?’ I ask.
Tom wipes his hands on an oilcloth and slams the bonnet shut.
‘You’ll need to ask the cook about that.’
When I step inside, I understand what is happening. Mrs Yarrow had meant what she said when we spoke. The cook is surrounded by a collection of her bags. When she sees me she kneels to the children, kissing both of them goodbye.
Jonathan is on the stairs. I feel him before I see him. He leans on his cane, and I long to run to him and ease his suffering but he does not glance my way.
‘Mrs Yarrow…?’ I start.
The cook faces me. We have not spoken since our dispute and it saddens me that her expression is closed, as if she is meeting me for the first time, hello and goodbye, as if none of our confidences have passed and none of our hours been shared. ‘The Norfolk house came good, miss,’ she says detachedly. ‘My sister will be waiting for me there. It’s been a pleasure knowing you, miss.’
Her words are flat. I look to the children for emotion but they show little: it is impossible to know if they are upset by the cook’s departure or not. Another woman gone, another carer leaving, is it any wonder they greet it with fortitude? I am furious with Mrs Yarrow. I will never abandon them, I vow. They will have to drag me out of here in a wooden box before that happens.
‘I wish you the best, Mrs Yarrow,’ I say. ‘Winterbourne will miss you.’
The cook lifts her chin, silently defiant. I expect she is waiting for an apology but I cannot give it. I stand by my refusal to entertain her treacherous imaginings and, in any case, it would be reckless to rake over our fight in front of the de Greys.
‘Why are you going?’ Constance asks the cook. She comes to take my hand, and I, only too pleased to be her anchor, draw her close.
‘I’ve been here a long time, lovey,’ says Mrs Yarrow. ‘It’s time for a change.’
‘But why?’
‘I’m getting old. My family lives far away and I’d rather be close to them.’
‘Aren’t you sad to say goodbye?’
‘I am, dear, but it’s the right decision. Your father understands.’
Again, I try to engage with Jonathan but he merely nods his assent. The cook opens the door, lingering on the handle. She looks behind her one last time, seeming to inhale the many years she’s spent in Winterbourne’s service.
Outside, once Tom has packed the bags into the car, he suggests we take a group photograph. ‘Everybody against the house – what do you think, Captain?’
‘Very well.’
As a couple we stand together, the children in front, our hands resting on their shoulders. All is right in the world, all is just. Mrs Yarrow does not wish to take part – ‘I’m not one for photographs,’ she says tightly – so we are about to disband for surely her presence is the point, before Tom offers to arrange for the image to be dispatched to Mrs Yarrow at her new post, as a memento. The camera clicks and the four of us, the de Grey family, he and I and our beautiful children, are caught in a moment. With Winterbourne gazing approvingly on, my happiness is enough for us all.
Mrs Yarrow climbs into the car. She does not look at us.
The Rolls moves off.
‘Back to class, children,’ I say, briskly clapping my hands. Edmund takes his sister’s arm and together they return inside the house. I want to speak with Jonathan, and imagine that this is our chance, but before I can he has followed them.
*
Early evening, I prepare the children’s supper. The kitchen seems strange without Mrs Yarrow. I keep stumbling across her ghosts: the chipped postbox-red mug she insisted on using for tea; the neatly folded napkins in the scullery drawer, organised by colour; the jar of sweets she kept in the pantry for when the twins were sickly.
‘I don’t like it,’ says Edmund, prodding his potatoes with his fork.
‘Come along, darling,’ I encourage, ‘it’s your favourite.’
‘No, it’s not. I only like it how Cook does it.’
‘Well, Cook isn’t here any more,’ I say, ‘so you’ll learn to like this instead.’
Constance starts crying. ‘Did Father send her away?’ she asks.
‘Of course not!’
‘We didn’t have to get rid of her; she didn’t mean Winterbourne any harm.’
‘Of course she didn’t,’ I say, thinking it an odd thing to say.
‘Then why did she go?’
I put my arms round both their shoulders. ‘You heard what Mrs Yarrow said,’ I soothe. ‘She wanted to see her sister and be close to where she grew up. When you’re grown up, won’t you want to stay close to Winterbourne?’
‘I won’t,’
says Edmund.
‘Whyever not?’
He lifts his shoulders. I remember what he said in the classroom that day about Jonathan not allowing them to attend school. Father’s afraid. ‘I’ll be tired,’ he says.
‘Of what?’
‘Of doing what I’m told.’
I laugh. ‘You’ll be an adult, then, Edmund. You’ll be surprised at what you can do independently from your father.’
‘I’m not talking about him,’ he says.
‘Then who?’
The boy looks at Constance. And she, swiftly changing the subject, asks:
‘What’s that? Have you hurt yourself?’
Instantly I put a hand to my neck. The marks on my skin have spread, more ferociously since my encounter with the captain; now they have crept up my chest, over my shoulders, climbing my throat. Constance has noticed the crimson scratch above my collar. I thought I had covered it up, but evidently not sufficiently.
‘It’s nothing, sweetheart; I snagged myself on a necklace.’
When I saw in Laura’s mirror how the marks had multiplied, though, I fretted at the captain’s reaction. Had he observed them, and been appalled? But there had not been this many last evening, I am sure. They have reproduced tenfold today. And when I consulted the girl in the painting, she was waiting for me with a smile. I have grown used to her subtle changes; I have come to expect them. It seems that with every leap I take at Winterbourne – owning the mirror, owning the children, owning, now, the man of the house – she grows and morphs before my eyes. My dark companion.
‘It must have been sore,’ says Edmund, and both children watch me indulgently, and I cannot decipher if I am reading sympathy or derision.
‘It was at the time,’ I answer, ‘but not any more.’
In the end, I clear the meat and potatoes away and offer them pudding instead. Afterwards we read by the fire, and all I have in my mind is to be their comfort. I stroke their foreheads as we read, and with their bodies snuggled up against mine I feel utterly at peace. The best part of the evening is surely yet to come.