Someone Special (17 page)

‘It’s this business about security,’ the Duchess told her. ‘Poor darlings, they’re fascinated by other children and one of these days they’ll be able to mix as everyone else does, but now, in the heart of London, it really won’t do. I trust you, Huntie, to see that it doesn’t occur again.’

The Princesses grieved when Miss Huntley told them that they must be onlookers and not participants in future, but they were very good about it. Elizabeth was almost too good; she sighed and that expressive mouth drooped, but that was the extent of her complaint. Miss Huntley, to ease their disappointment, took them for a ride on top of a London bus, and their delight and fascination with this bird’s eye view of ordinary people made up for the death of their friendship with Trudy and her kite.

‘You can see into people’s gardens; you can see their swings and their washing, and sometimes even into their nurseries and bedrooms,’ Elizabeth said, pressing her nose against the glass. ‘This is the most wonderful thing we’ve ever done, Huntie – I wish we might travel by bus every day!’

But soon it became clear even to Miss Huntley that London could be a dangerous place for two little girls with royal connections. The Irish Republican Army began to put bombs into letter-boxes and to commit a good many other crimes which put a firm stop to their trips outside. In Balmoral or Sandringham they could have more freedom, but not in London, and that was where the little girls spent most of their lives.

‘Never mind,’ Elizabeth sighed when Miss Huntley broke the news to her charges that their outings, in future, would stop at Hamilton Gardens. ‘Uncle David’s bound to have a family one day; then things will be easier – Mama says so!’

*

Hester was in bed after a long and exhausting day at the castle and on the very edge of the sleep which she craved, when she realised that the big pan of beetroot she had been boiling on the range at the castle had not been pulled off the heat. The pan would boil dry, catch fire, the flames would shoot ceiling-high, the castle would ignite, and Mr Geraint would be burned in his bed. It would all be the fault of a silly little Hester Coburn who was so tired at the end of her fourteen-hour working day that she’d forgotten to finish off her cooking.

She sat up. Beside her, Matthew gave a small, choking snore. For a moment Hester contemplated waking him, then she remembered that, hard though she worked, today at least Matthew had worked harder. They were harvesting barley and he had been unable to rest even when he came home because he’d cut his hand badly when bailing and the wound had to be cleaned, disinfected and bound up. And though Matthew never complained, Hester hadn’t liked the look of the inflamed skin around the jagged cut and he admitted that it was aching badly. No, she could not possibly disturb his slumber, it would be a wicked thing to do. So, since she could not contemplate allowing the old man to burn alive in his bed, she had best do something about it.

Hester slid cautiously out of bed. It was a warm night but she put her macintosh round her shoulders, shoved her feet into her old sandals, and flapped quietly out of the lodge. She was relieved to see, when she reached the drive, that the castle looked calm and benign in the moonlight with no trace of smoke floating on the summery air, but having got up and semi-dressed, she had no intention of returning to bed to lie worrying for the rest of the night. She would have to make sure.

It was odd walking quietly up the long drive by moonlight, but rather nice. Romantic, exciting even. The sheep were silvery blobs, the cattle larger, darker ones, and
when she reached the wild garden the scent of the roses and lavender was so sweet and strong that she stopped for a moment just to drink it in. She passed the big courtyard where silence reigned. Whatever geese did at night they did it quietly, Hester told herself, glad that they hadn’t come out honking and hissing at her. As good as watchdogs, Matthew always said – funny old watchdogs which slept when someone crept through the wild garden only feet away from their front door. Still, it was a blessing; it wouldn’t do to wake the old man, particularly if she was up here on a fool’s errand. She was beginning to believe that she must have pulled the pan off the heat; the castle seemed so quiet and peaceful, dreaming in the moonlight.

She reached the small courtyard and slipped in under the arch, padded across the paving stones, put a hand on the back door. The door was old and creaked, she remembered, turning the handle cautiously. It occurred to her that if the old man had remembered to lock up she would be in Queer Street, but he rarely did so, and tonight it was unlocked. Hester threw the door open and hurried into the room and there, just as she had known it would be, was the big, black saucepan full of beetroot, boiling away on top of the range. Breathlessly, she heaved it off the heat and carried it across to the sink. She tipped the blackish red water away, then put the plug in and emptied half a bucket of water over the gleaming spheres of beet.

Phew! The pan wasn’t burnt, the beet were cooked, the situation had been saved. Good thing I remembered, though, Hester said to herself, moving soft-footed around the room, otherwise the story could have had a different ending. She didn’t bother to light the lamp; the moonlight flooding through the window illuminated the room sufficiently for most purposes. She knew the beet would be easiest to skin hot so she dealt with them as soon as they were cool enough to handle, then fetched a deep earthenware bowl out of the cupboard, sliced the beet
and sprinkled them with a little vinegar, not much but enough to keep them moist. She damped down the fire, closed the doors, pulled the hob cover over and glanced round the room again, just to make sure she had left nothing undone. All looked peaceful and normal so she let herself out, shut the door quietly and padded across the yard, under the small arch and out into the wild garden.

She was level with the big arch when someone called her name, very softly, in a husky whisper.

‘Hester? Wait.’

She turned, a hand flying to her heart. The dark figure which emerged from the shadows beneath the big arch could only be Mr Geraint – what on earth was he doing out here in the middle of the night? He came up to her, smiling, his face gentle in the moonlight. He took her hands in his.

‘Not sleepwalking, my little love? Not searching for me?’

It was strange how immediately she knew that the man holding her hands so tenderly was John again, the John who had loved her, but at the same time she acknowledged that he was still Mr Geraint, trying to get round her. She shook her head at him, unable to stop herself from smiling indulgently even though she recognised what he was doing and deplored it.

‘Mr Geraint, I’m not your … your anything. I’m Hester Coburn, who works for you.’

‘I’m not Mr Geraint; didn’t you realise? Sometimes, when I’m free to do as I choose, I’m just John.’

Hester shook her head but did not pull her hands away. ‘No. No one can be two people inside one body, Mr Geraint. It isn’t fair, do you see? You can only be yourself.’

‘And my self loves Hester Coburn and wants to be loved by her. Is that so wrong? My darling, I’ve missed you!’

‘You saw me five hours ago and told me your greens weren’t cooked through,’ Hester said grimly. Or as grimly as she could, with her heart beating hard in her throat and a painful flame of desire stirring in her stomach. ‘And then you turned to Mrs Clifton and asked her if she’d had any hard cabbage, what’s more.’

‘Oh, that! That’s how I have to be when I’m not John. Why, you’re shivering … come up to my room, the fire hasn’t died down yet, I can give it a poke and we’ll soon have a blaze going.’

‘No,’ Hester said, but the denial lacked conviction.

‘I’ll make a hot drink,’ Mr Geraint said. Somehow, he had managed to get his arm around her shoulders and now he was leading her, unresisting, under the big arch and across to the narrow stone stair which led to his room. ‘Why did you say you’d come up to the house? Well, it can’t be important, what’s important is getting you warm and comfortable again.’

‘I came to take a pan of beetroot off the fire,’ Hester said. ‘And now I’m going home again,’ but she did not resist as she was propelled gently but firmly up the stairs and in through the low door. ‘The castle could have burned down, that’s why I came. I dared not leave it until morning.’

He nodded, closing the door behind them and, taking her hand, he led her to the couch. It had been pulled away from the wall and stood on the richly coloured rug in front of the dying fire.

‘Sit down, sweetheart. I’ll just mend the fire – it’s colder now, wouldn’t you say? I always find moonlight cold.’

He stirred the fire with the poker until it glowed red, then he threw a log on and watched, apparently absorbed, as tiny blue and gold flames began to lick and curl about the wood. Hester had not sat down but stood against the couch; now she glanced at the door. If she ran quickly and
quietly across the carpet she could be out of the room and down the stone stair before Mr Geraint had so much as looked over his shoulder. In ten minutes she could be in her own bed, cuddling against Matthew’s broad back. If she went now, tomorrow she could take up her life where she had left off, and Mr Geraint’s polite indifference could be accepted more easily because she had been cool and sensible, had refused to play his games, refused to be drawn back into their long-ago liaison.

Mr Geraint stood very still, staring at the flames, which were licking the log with increased appetite. Hester did not move a muscle. Belatedly, she realised that she did not want to move. She had waited for this moment for more than seven years, now it had come. Her heart was beating fiercely, her mouth was dry and her body was trembling with anticipation. Of course it would be sensible to leave, but when had she ever been sensible? Oh John, John, I love you despite knowing you aren’t for me, and I’ve wanted you so badly – much worse than you’ve wanted me, or you’d have engineered this moment years ago, you wouldn’t have waited until fate threw us together.

He moved at last. As though in a dream he turned to her, smiling; Hester read his expression and went to him, straight into his arms as a child goes to its mother. She rested her head against his chest and sighed deeply; and with the sigh all the waiting and frustration, all the longing and bitterness which his neglect had brought disappeared. She was where she yearned to be; she would enjoy this moment.

His hands caressed her back, then slowly he pulled her tightly against him. Hester felt giddy with delight and anticipation. She had been a feckless young girl with no worries or responsibilities when this had happened so long ago – had that made their lovemaking special? Were her memories of that moment so rich and sweet because he
had been the first man to touch her? She no longer cared, and when he picked her up and laid her on the couch she had no thought of the unwisdom of it, no thought beyond the pleasure to come. He undressed her tenderly, caressed her, murmured love-words, kissed her whenever she tried to speak, told her that her milky skin, painted rose and gold by the firelight, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, told her she tasted of honey and smelled as sweet as a bed of tiny pink rosebuds.

‘Who am I?’ he asked at last against her mouth, their bodies still for a moment. ‘Tell me who I am, little Hester.’

‘You’re John, my John,’ Hester murmured. Her mouth travelled across the base of his throat, over his collar bone, up the line of his jaw, the beard already prickling against the softness of her lips. ‘Oh John, I love you, I love you!’

He ran a hand the length of her quivering body.

‘And do you want me, sweetheart?’

She could not speak but her eyes said what her mouth could not utter. He laughed softly as she turned towards him.

‘Sweet little Hester, my only love! One day we’ll be together for ever, one day you’ll be mine and I’ll be yours, because I can’t live without you. God knows I’ve tried, you belong to Matthew now, but I know we’re meant to be together. Kiss me, my darling child!’

She stole down the stairs and across the yard as dawn was greying the sky. Stars still pricked the dark blue above and a little breeze stirred the branches of the leggy roses in the wild garden. She was consumed with guilt, and fear stalked beside her. Suppose Matthew had woken, missed her warmth? What on earth would she say to explain her absence, not only from her bed but from her house, for half the night?

She reached the lodge at last, and slid in through
the back door. The kitchen was warm, the familiarity of it comforting. She could say she had sat down before the fire and dropped off, but suppose he’d been searching for her and knew she wasn’t around an hour, two hours, ago? She could say …

It was needless. Worn out by the harvesting, Matthew slumbered still. She stood by the bed for a moment, looking down at him. Poor Matthew, he worked so hard, so uncomplainingly, and she had done him a great wrong. She was afraid of what would happen if he found out and ashamed of her behaviour, though she knew she would not undo it, would not wish it had not happened. But getting back into bed, chilled from her walk, would be asking for trouble. She padded softly out of the room again and went into the kitchen, stirred up the fire, made herself a drink. Twenty minutes later she returned. Matthew had turned over, but he slept still. She slipped carefully between the sheets, keeping her feet clear of his sleep-warmed body, and pulled the covers over her head.

Two minutes later she slept.

Nell and Dan were slicing beans. It wasn’t a bad job if you had a sharp knife and at least they were left alone to get on with it. Furthermore, on a nice day they could slice beans outside, in the courtyard, with the sun on their heads and the promise of play when the beans were finished much more real, somehow, than when they were incarcerated indoors. More and more now, Hester was getting Nell to give a hand with small jobs which were within her capabilities, and Nell was wheedling Dan into helping her. After all, it was Dan’s mother who caused a good deal of the extra work and there was no sign that she ever intended to do anything more physical than cutting a few roses for the big vase in the hall, or podding peas on the rare occasions when she found herself in the vicinity of the kitchen and Hester asked her to do something.