Home for Christmas (47 page)

It began snowing, small flakes swiftly growing into big ones.

‘Olivia! Come back. Don’t go any further. I’m warning you, don’t go any further!’ Her voice soared, but there was no response and no sound of a breathless child, oblivious to danger and the wishes of her mother. The child was high spirited and curious, always asking questions, always wanting to explore the unknown.

Smooth cobbles formed the path running down through the trees to the lake. Even the crépe soles of her brown suede boots slipped on the worn surfaces. She had to get to Olivia. Where was she?

The grotto! Even after all these years, the thought of the grotto chilled her to the bone. Olivia would be as attracted to a cave as she was to water.

The entrance to the grotto loomed like a black toothless mouth on the other side of the water. Just as when she had been here before, rushes, their leaves dried from cold, rustled in the wind. She heard the sound of something – possibly a rat – sliding into the water.

The closer she got to the grotto, the faster her heart beat. The shadows of late afternoon were lengthening and if they didn’t get back to the station soon, they would miss the train.

It might have been her imagination, but something moved in the dark chasm of the grotto.

Pan.

There was no Pan of course, but anything could happen in that dank, dark place.

‘Olivia!’

She heard the sound of footsteps. Olivia stepped out of the grotto, her hand in that of a man, a man Lydia instantly recognised.

‘Robert!’

She noticed one of his shoulders was held slightly higher than the other, a direct result of an injury to his leg. There was a more drawn look to his face, but then, she thought, most men who had fought in the war had that look.

‘I parked the car in the drive. I saw the red coat flashing through the trees. I know how children are with water – I followed her …’

He stood there, shaking his head, his eyes filling with tears – speechless. ‘She is mine, isn’t she?’

Lydia nodded. ‘Yes.’

Olivia looked up at him and there was no fear in her face.

‘Are you Santa Claus?’ she asked.

‘Better than that,’ Lydia managed to say. ‘He’s your father.’

Tears poured down Robert’s face. Lydia fell against his chest. His arm wrapped around her, crushing her against him, his cheek resting on her head. Their tears mingled.

‘There’s so much I want to know,’ he said to her.

‘And so much I want to tell you.’

‘Can I have a cuddle too?’ asked Olivia. Her round little cheeks had turned pink with cold, but her eyes were bright with interest.

Her parents reacted automatically, both of them reaching down to bring their child into their hug.

Robert whispered into Lydia’s ear.

‘I can’t believe you managed to escape the firing squad. The circumstances must have been exceptional.’

Lydia tilted her head back and looked up at him.

‘You remember the men on either side were singing carols and lighting candles in the trenches that Christmas?’

‘I did hear of it.’

‘Well, I had something of my own Christmas truce. I had to be examined by a doctor before being shot – odd, but true. One must be healthy to be executed. It’s thanks to Olivia that I’m here. It appears I was expecting twins. I lost one but the other hung on. It happens sometimes.’

‘When I was sent your journal I was told you were most likely dead.’

‘The hospital was shelled. We were lucky to get out alive, but had to run for it. I didn’t have much choice but to go where I was told to go. Forgive me for letting you think I was dead, but I thought you would have settled down yourself. I thought you and Agnes …’

Smiling sadly, he shook his head. ‘We’re too closely related I’m afraid. Sir Avis has a lot to answer for.’

‘I didn’t know that at the time. News was slow incoming, but now …’

Lydia looked up at him, noticing lines where none had been before, the small flick of grey hair above a red mark on his temple. He’d been injured more than once. ‘You survived, Robert. I am so glad! Does your leg hurt?’

He shook his head impatiently. He didn’t want to talk about himself. He wanted to know what had happened, why she was alive when he’d been led to believe she was dead.

‘Tell me what happened, Lydia. For God’s sake, tell me what happened.’

She nodded. ‘Yes. There was a law forbidding the execution of a pregnant woman because the child was innocent. It had a right to be born. Therefore, I was acquitted, though only on the understanding that I would reside in Germany under the supervision of the Krupp medical facility, until the war was over. It was a long war, Robert. Four years I waited. Four long years. I was taken to Essen. That’s where the Krupp factory is. I gave birth to Olivia there. After that, I nursed in the company’s hospital. Once the armistice was declared, I made arrangements to come back here.’

‘My darling.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘You should have written to say you were coming.’

‘I wasn’t sure I would be welcomed. I thought if I wasn’t around, you’d marry Agnes.’

‘That could never be,’ he said, more vehemently than he should have done. ‘There was an impediment …’

His voice trailed away.

Lydia cocked her head to one side. ‘An impediment?’

He looked away. It wasn’t easy to drag family skeletons out of the cupboard. Normally he would have kept the door firmly shut on the lot of it, but this was Lydia he was speaking to, the woman with whom he wished to spend the rest of his life.

‘There was never a Tom Stacey. Did you know that?’

Lydia smiled and shook her head. ‘I am not a fool, Robert. Sir Avis’s fondness for Agnes was far more than a master for his servant – or the daughter of his cook. There was also a likeness. I never mentioned this before, because … well … it didn’t really matter. I don’t care about background. If I like someone, I like them. That is all that counts. But what difference would that have made to you marrying her? Sir Avis was only your uncle …’

She saw him shake his head and saw the look in his eyes. This was what it meant, she thought, to love a man this much. She didn’t need him to speak. The look in his eyes said it all. Sir Avis was more, much more than an uncle and judging by Robert’s expression, he had been his father both figuratively and literally. Such things happen in wealthy families, so she’d heard.

He smiled, his eyes filling with tears. ‘I can barely …’

She touched his lips with her fingers as though attempting to catch the sob she knew was coming.

‘Agnes and her mother are up at the house, with Agnes’s husband. We’re going to have a Christmas like the ones we used to have.’

‘Will it be like a birthday party?’ asked the young child he now knew was his daughter.

Robert smiled down at her and then at her mother, all the time stroking Olivia’s forehead. ‘Oh yes. A birthday party on Christmas Eve and then it’s Christmas Day.’

There was another party on Christmas Day, though not until the evening. First there was the wedding of Robert Ravening and Lydia Miller, their daughter as bridesmaid. The local vicar having been moved by their tale of lovers reunited – and also the fact that the groom was the new lord of the manor – had agreed to marry the couple, unusually on the twenty-fifth December, hardly an unknown occurrence but one arranged at short notice. Thus, the wedding was attended by their friends at the house, plus people from the village and what family they had. Lydia’s father and Kate came up from London. Her father had recovered from the strain of his war years and his grief for the daughter he’d thought he’d lost, but the experience had taken its toll. He was not the man he had been, but his wife had given up her career and stood by him.

The bride’s bouquet consisted of white Christmas roses and variegated ivy.

‘Just like the ivy clings to the wall, so you’ll always cling together,’ Agnes had said to her with a smile. The two friends had cried on seeing each other again. In the short time since Lydia’s return from the dead, they had swapped brief versions of what had happened to them since they’d last met.

‘There’s so much to tell,’ Agnes had said. ‘So much we’ve been through but we’ve plenty of time to catch up now.’

The smell of the evergreens decorating the church permeated the air, and although it was a cold day outside, the warmth of their companionship overcame that.

Lydia had met Agnes’s new husband Darius, had seen the loving looks he exchanged with Agnes, and knew her friend was happy.

It had also emerged that Sir Avis had left Agnes and her mother a small inheritance and a cottage on the estate. That was where Sarah now lived with her own mother, Ellen Proctor.

Having been reunited with the love of her life, Lydia thought her happiness was complete but then her father had wished her a happy birthday on the eve of her wedding – Christmas Eve. He’d tried to explain how he’d felt at the news that she’d been executed.

‘I thought of all those birthdays never celebrated and the fact that you would be having no more birthdays. I was devastated. I so wanted to put the clock back, and now suddenly I’ve been given another chance. Happy birthday, Lydia my dear.’

Lydia felt full up with so many heartfelt emotions. They had all been through so much, and so much had changed. Not just the world at large, but people had changed and that included her father.

The grief he’d once carried as a chip on his shoulder now only existed in his heart, and that, she concluded, could only be a good thing. The world was changing but with Robert at her side, good friends and family in their lives, the future seemed infinitely brighter.

Nurse Lydia Miller is a character of fiction, a figure caught between two opposing factions.

Nurse Edith Cavell was real, shot by the Germans on 12 October 1915. For a time she attended boarding school at 1 Eldon Road, Clevedon, near Bristol. The house is now a bed and breakfast.

Her most famous words on which I based Lydia’s story were:

‘Patriotism is not enough. I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone.’

There are a number of ceremonies planned for 2015 to commemorate her death:
http://www.revdc.net/cavell/page35.html

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781448176465

www.randomhouse.co.uk

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

First published in 2014 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
A Random House Group Company

Copyright © 2014, Lizzie Lane

Lizzie Lane has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780091953379

To buy books by your favourite authors and register for offers visit:
www.randomhouse.co.uk