Escape by Moonlight (6 page)

He hugged and kissed her. ‘I came by train,’ he said, putting his cap on the table beside the forms. ‘I went to the hospital but they said you had discharged yourself. Was that wise?’

‘Why not? I’m not ill. I don’t need nursing.’ She sat on the sofa and pulled him down beside her. Her grandmother tactfully left the room. ‘I’m just awkward while I have to wear this plaster. What are you doing here?’

‘I had a letter from His Lordship.’

‘Oh. And he told you to make me go home?’

‘No, not at all, but he is worried about you. I bagged a bit of leave to see for myself.’

‘As you see, there is nothing wrong with me that won’t heal.’

‘How is your grandfather?’

She gave him the latest news and told him about her decision to stay in France, a decision he strongly deprecated. ‘You should have gone home a month ago,’ he said. ‘Then you wouldn’t have been here to break your arm.’

She laughed. ‘I could break it just as easily in Nayton or anywhere else and Grandpère would still have had a stroke, and if I had not been with him, it might have been fatal. My grandparents need me and I’m staying.’

‘But there’s a war on.’

‘So there is. It makes no difference.’

‘If I ask you to marry me, will that make a difference?’

‘Oh, Max.’ She paused to digest this. It wasn’t how she had hoped and expected he would propose. ‘That sounds a bit like bribery, not a declaration of love, not romantic at all.’

‘I’m sorry but I’m worried about you. I want you to be safe.’

‘I will be as safe here as anywhere else.’

‘So you won’t marry me?’

‘Not as things are. I can’t believe the Germans will conquer France, but in the unlikely event that they do, I stand a better chance of remaining unnoticed as a Frenchwoman than the wife of an English officer.’

‘I didn’t mean I wanted to marry you here and now. Surely you would rather be married from Nayton Manor with all your friends and relations about you?’

‘Yes, I would, which is why I want to wait until Grandpère recovers enough to look after the farm again and I can go home. And,’ she added with heavy emphasis and a winning smile meant to disarm him, ‘until the man I love tells me he loves me too and asks me properly.’

‘Oh, you are impossible. What am I to tell your father?’

‘Whatever you like. I have already written to tell him my decision.’

‘He won’t like it.’

‘No, but I have a feeling Mama will approve.’

On Sunday morning, mindful of what Jack had said, Lucy dressed in a printed cotton skirt and a white blouse with a gathered neckline and small puffed sleeves, but the day was not so warm as the previous Sunday and so she
added a warm shawl the colour of port wine which had been her mother’s. She pulled it up over her head as she entered the church and took her place. The organist was playing quietly while the congregation waited for Lord de Lacey and his family to arrive. She looked about her at the flowers, the polished cross on the altar, the de Lacey family banner hanging from one of the oak beams, the embroidered hassock at her feet, and a kind of peace stole over her.

Jack, coming up the aisle in the wake of his parents, saw her out of the corner of his eye and was struck by her serenity. He had decided not to keep their tryst, but now he changed his mind again. He gave her a wink which made the colour flare in her face.

The parson seemed to go on interminably, but at last the service was over and they emerged onto the church path to be greeted by the Reverend Royston with a handshake. Jack spoke to him briefly and hurried away. Lucy slipped past unnoticed and made for the door in the estate wall that led into the woods. She did not see Frank Lambert, who was standing behind one of the larger gravestones, emerge from his hiding place and follow.

There was a moment when she thought she was lost; all the paths through the wood looked the same and there was a lot of dense undergrowth, which stung her face as she pushed past it. But there it was, at last, the clearing and the ruins of the cottage, looking as though it had grown out of the earth like that, all broken and twisted. The sight of it sent shivers through her, more even than the week before because today there was no sun to cast its beams through the branches and brighten the scene.

But Jack was there before her, sitting on a fallen tree
trunk, tending a small fire. His horse was tethered nearby. He rose and took both her hands in his and stood leaning back to look at her. ‘My lovely girl. You came, then?’

‘Yes, but I wasn’t sure you would.’

‘How could I stay away? I have thought of nothing else since I parted with you last week.’

‘The painting?’

He laughed and his laugh crinkled up his eyes and made her want to laugh too. ‘Oh, certainly the painting. Now come and sit here beside the fire.’ He led her to the place where he had been sitting and watched her seat herself self-consciously. ‘I want to paint you as a gypsy, watching the pot over the fire.’

‘I’m not one of those.’

‘I know, but we could pretend.’ He smiled. ‘Life is like that, isn’t it? Half the time we are pretending, sometimes we even deceive ourselves. We pretend to be someone we are not, we pretend to like people we hate because it is polite to do so, we flatter people because we do not want to hurt their feelings or because we want something from them …’

‘Is that what you are doing now?’

‘No, it is not,’ he said sharply. Then more softly, ‘No, my dear. I am being honest with you. I will always be straight with you.’

‘Why?’ she demanded, disconcerting him.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose because I know you are honest and straightforward yourself, a child of nature, at home in the woods …’

‘No, I am not. They give me the shivers.’

‘Why? There is nothing to be afraid of, no lions or wolves, just little animals like badgers and squirrels and
mice, and birds. When I was little, I used to run away from my tutor and hide here. I considered the wild creatures were my friends.’

‘Were you a lonely child?’ She was interested enough to relax.

‘I suppose I was. I didn’t fit, you see.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Perhaps one day I will tell you.’ His mood had been slightly sombre, but now he brightened. ‘Let’s make a start, shall we? Do you think you could slip your blouse off one shoulder?’ He reached forward to do it for her and she started back. He smiled. ‘Only a little bit, nothing improper, and there is no one to see you but me and I am an artist. I am allowed a little licence.’

She took a deep breath and slipped the blouse down a little way. ‘Is that enough?’

‘Yes, I think so. Now let down your hair …’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that. I’d never get it up again.’

‘But whoever heard of a gypsy with a head full of pins? Go on, take it down. It is such lovely hair. I want to run my fingers through it. I want to paint it, rippling like silk over your bare shoulder. Please.’ He reached up and drew out a hairpin and when she made no protest, pulled out another and then another until her hair was free. It was the colour of dark honey, much longer and thicker than he had imagined it would be; it fell around her face and shoulders like a curtain and he picked up a handful and buried his face in it. She was sat unmoving, unable to do anything. All her dreams were coming true. He must love her. She did not doubt she loved him.

He brushed the hair away from her face and kissed her. And then he paused to lean back and look at her and saw
the tears glistening on her lashes and the love in her eyes and he could not do it. Smiling, he touched her cheek with his finger. ‘Now, I have you in the right mood, my dear, I will begin.’ And to her consternation he got up, went to his saddlebag and produced a sketch pad and crayons. ‘Sit quite still.’

She did not need to be told; she had been turned to stone. She had been ready to give herself to him and he had rejected her. Was that all she was to him, a model for his painting? Why, in heaven’s name did she think she was anything else? He did not speak and neither did she, not for a very long time. She could hear the birds twittering in the trees, the scratching sound his crayons made, the croak of a frog and the scampering of a small animal across the floor of the cottage behind her, even her own ragged breathing, but they were sounds from far off, all but obliterated by the crying inside her. He had been right about pretending and self-deception and she was a silly fool.

He looked up at last and smiled; it was as if nothing had happened. ‘Are you getting stiff?’

‘Yes, a bit.’

‘Stand up and walk about. I think I’ve done enough for the moment. I can work on it at home.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘No. It is not fit to be seen yet. When it is finished, you shall be the first to see it.’ He put his materials back in the saddlebag and came back to her, leading his horse. She had replaced her blouse and was busy searching the ground for her hairpins. ‘I can’t put it up without them,’ she said.

‘Then leave it down.’

‘Pa will flay me when he sees it.’ She found one or two, wound her hair in a thick coil and endeavoured to secure it
behind her head. Then she put her shawl up to cover it. ‘If I can get indoors without anyone seeing me, I can see to it.’

‘I’ll walk you as far as the gate.’

They set off along the path which was more clearly defined than the one she had used to find the place and she realised she had probably taken the wrong one. It seemed strange to her that in a small village where she knew every turn in the road, every building, there could be somewhere like this, a wood, and not a particularly large one, in which it would be easy to become hopelessly lost.

‘Can you come again next Sunday?’ he asked. ‘We’ll meet here and work some more on the picture.’

‘If you like.’

‘I do like.’

She could see the wall through the trees, the wall that divided her make-believe life from her real life. ‘You needn’t come any further. I can find my own way from here.’

‘Very well.’ He reached out and kissed her very gently. ‘Goodbye for now, my gentle Lucy.’

She ran from him, struggled a few moments with the door and then next moment was on the lane and hurrying towards the station and home where she hurried up to her room to pin her hair up properly.

Frank Lambert propped his fishing rod against the wall of the Nayton Arms and went inside. The bar parlour was crowded with working men, enjoying an hour or two of leisure, while their womenfolk cooked the Sunday dinner. For some, whose employment warranted a good wage, there might be a roast, for others a mutton stew or perhaps a poached rabbit. No one in the bar parlour of the Nayton Arms that Sunday was talking about their dinner; they were all discussing what the war might mean and some
of the younger men were talking of joining up and seeing something of the world.

Frank was not interested in anything like that. He would go on as he always had, looking after the signal box and doing a bit of fishing and shooting. Most of the time he went alone, being of a solitary disposition, but his widowed mother, who had given birth to him when she thought her time for child bearing had long passed, was getting old and complained frequently that she was not long for this world and if he didn’t want to end up alone for the rest of his life he ought to do something about finding a wife. ‘And one who’s capable of looking after me when I can’t get about anymore,’ she had added. ‘You don’t want to see me in the workhouse, do you?’

He had thought about it long and hard and had come to the conclusion he could do no better than Lucy Storey. She was robust and healthy and wasn’t afraid of hard work. She made his loins churn whenever she was near and he was convinced she would, given a little persuasion, come to think the same way about him. Her only fault, that he could see, was a certain independence, a flash of spirit and a light in her eye which attracted other members of the male sex beside himself, men like that bastard, Jack de Lacey. But as long as she remained faithful, he might even be proud to own a wife that other men coveted. They would soon learn he was not to be trifled with and so would she.

He found Bert sitting at a table in a corner, almost hidden from the crowd in the main part of the room, where he was enjoying a tankard of ale and the company of Molly Parsons. When Bert was with that buxom lady, he was usually affable and he could hardly deny Frank a pleasure he so patently enjoyed himself. Besides, Frank had once
done him a huge favour and he could always call it in, but not in front of Molly.

‘Hallo Frank, what brings you here? Nothing wrong is there?’

‘No, naught wrong at all,’ Frank said, wondering what Bert would say if he told him that he had seen Lucy and Jack de Lacey going arm in arm into Nayton wood for a second time in a week. But that titbit of information could keep until it served a useful purpose. ‘I was goin’ fishin’.’

‘Good luck to you, then. Want a tankard of ale afore you go?’

‘I’ll get it,’ he said quickly and then to Molly, ‘What are you drinkin’ Mrs Parsons?’

‘I’ll have a gin and orange, Frank. And you can call me Molly.’

As she was no older than he was, married and widowed all in one year, he could see no reason why he should not, though Bert looked none too pleased. ‘Right you are, Molly, a gin it shall be. And another beer for you, Bert?’

‘So, if there’s nothing wrong, what can I do for you Frank?’ Bert asked, when the drinks had been fetched and Frank had seated himself opposite them.

‘I’ve been thinkin’ it’s time I took a wife.’

Bert chuckled. ‘So wha’s put that notion into yar head?’

‘Me ma. She says it’s about time I took the plunge. She i’n’t gettin’ any younger and so I thought …’ He paused and grinned. ‘I was thinkin’ of your Lucy.’

‘My Lucy! Well, I’m blessed. What does she say about it?’

‘I hen’t asked her yet.’

‘What are yer waiting for?’

‘I wanted to ask you if you’d put the word in. I’ve a
good job and when Ma don’t need me no more, I can move on, make me way, find an assistant stationmaster’s job …’

‘You don’t have to tell me that, bor, tell Lucy.’ Bert slapped the younger man on the shoulder. ‘But do you think you can handle her? She’s not exactly biddable. And she do have some fancy ways her mother taught her.’