The Colours of Love (29 page)

Stiffly Monty said, ‘Esther told me she doesn’t love me any more. I told you, she wants a divorce.’

Theobald looked into the handsome aristocratic face. He would have liked nothing more than to smash his fist into it. The muscles of his stomach tensing, he forced himself to take a breath before he said, ‘She’s having you on, lad. They’re all the same. She’s making you sweat a bit – her pound of flesh, as it were. But, frankly, I don’t care one way or the other. You
make
her love you again, if she’s cooled off, all right? Promise her what she wants and get her purring again, because I want her back here where I can keep an eye on her. Is that clear?’

Monty nodded.

When Theobald shook the arm he held, growling, ‘I
said
, is that clear?’ Monty jerked himself free of his father-in-law, his voice tight as he muttered, ‘Yes, yes, it’s clear. Damn it, it’s clear.’

‘Good.’ Theobald’s voice was more moderate. ‘Go and have your lie-down, lad, but don’t be too long about it. I expect you to at least try and earn some of that salary I pay you.’

The two men stared at each other, their mutual dislike a tangible entity, and when Monty’s gaze dropped and he turned and made for the stairs without another word, Theobald smiled to himself. Monty might have flown his little aeroplanes and had a stab at Jerry, but he had the backbone of a damned jellyfish. But he’d bring Esther’s husband up to scratch, or his name wasn’t Theobald Wynford.

He glanced around the gracious hall and at the gold-framed portraits on the walls. His father had sweated blood to rise in the world and make good the Wynford name, and he’d carried on in the same vein. His whole life had been devoted to it and he didn’t begrudge a moment of it. It was the only thing that mattered. And no one – least of all the little bastard that Harriet had foisted on him – would spoil that achievement for him. He would kill her first; her and her brat. But it wouldn’t come to that.

He wiped the tiny beads of perspiration that had formed on his upper lip with a crisp linen handkerchief, stuffing it in the pocket of his jacket. Again taking a calming breath, he let his senses be soothed by his surroundings. He had survived the war, hadn’t he? Steered his ship through stormy waters and, by his own shrewd ingenuity and dexterity, it was still afloat. That was where he was one up on the so-called ‘upper crust’ like Monty’s parents. Born with silver spoons in their mouths, they had been willing to choke on them before they would try and change with the times. But he wasn’t afraid to do whatever was necessary to safeguard what was his – be it legal or not. And what was the law anyway? Just a set of rules and regulations to ensure that those at the top of the pile kept those at the bottom in their place.

Osborne appeared from the direction of the kitchens, and Theobald barked, ‘Get the car brought round. I’m going into town.’

As the butler scurried off, Theobald walked to the front door and opened it, the warm May air causing him to sniff appreciatively. He had given in to the kudos and social prestige of owning a good motor car years ago, and now he wouldn’t be without his comfortable Bentley. He sniffed again, a sense of well-being causing his chest to expand. No one would take away what he had achieved, he thought again. It simply wasn’t an option.

Chapter Eighteen

It was the week before Christmas. The occupants of Yew Tree Farm had been snowed in for the last ten days or so, something that occurred fairly regularly in Yorkshire during the winter months each year. No one was concerned, and for Esther it had come as a definite blessing. Since VE Day Monty had turned up on the doorstep several times, even though she had made it perfectly clear over and over again that she had no intention of going back to him. The impassable roads meant that for the first time since May she could relax, rather than being on edge that his car would arrive and he’d leap out with more armfuls of flowers and boxes of chocolates.

Not that Priscilla and the others objected to the chocolates. Esther had refused to sample even one, as a matter of principle, but her friends had had no such compunction, munching their way through the heavenly layers in ecstasy, each time Monty had gone.

‘You do know that these chocolates are almost certainly black-market goods?’ Esther had said severely, the first time the other girls had fallen on the confectionery after Monty had refused to take it back with him. She suspected Theobald had had a hand in obtaining them. He’d have no scruples in that regard whatsoever.

‘I don’t care.’ Priscilla had rolled her eyes, her mouth full of praline. ‘I’m sorry, sweetie, but I really don’t. Not that I think you should give in to the rotter. He’s not the man for you, darling, and I wish you would agree to setting Gyp and Badger on him. But, failing that, the chocolates are just . . . ’ She couldn’t find words to express her pleasure.

Smiling in spite of herself, Esther shook her head. ‘You are incorrigible.’

‘I know it, sweetie, I really do, but the way things are going, a girl has to make hay while the sun shines.’ Priscilla grinned at her. ‘That’s my excuse anyway. I mean, who would have thought there’d be rumours about bread and flour being rationed soon? That didn’t happen even in the war.’

Esther nodded. All the papers talked about now was the government’s drive to emphasize how serious the food shortage was. Tens of thousands of servicemen were being demobbed each month and were coming home to a different Britain from the one they remembered. The public, which had been willing to make great sacrifices during the war, was now becoming increasingly impatient at being faced in peacetime with an even more austere diet, but all the signs were that things would get even worse in 1946. Everything was topsy-turvy and up in the air.

Everyone at the farm had watched in amazement when in the summer a Labour landslide in the General Election had booted the Tories and Winston Churchill out of power, and Labour and Clement Attlee’s ‘government for the people’ into Downing Street. There had been wild euphoria for a couple of months, with talk of Social Security and a National Health Service exciting everyone, and nationalization of the coal industry and the Bank of England, but then the grim reality had started to creep in.

Monty had been quick to capitalize on the dire forecasts and general discontent. ‘Life is going to be a hell of a struggle for everyone,’ he’d said earnestly on his last visit to the farm at the end of November. ‘And I don’t want you and Joy to be caught up in that. I want you to come home, and so does Theobald. Back where you belong.’

‘I don’t belong there, though, Monty. We both know that. I never did.’ Esther had stared him straight in the eye. ‘I loved Harriet as a mother, but in actual fact I wasn’t related to her or Theobald. My parents are American, and my mother’s name was Ruth Flaggerty.’

Monty had ignored that. ‘Think of Joy,’ he had said persuasively, his voice soft. ‘Of the advantages she’ll have, as my daughter and Theobald’s granddaughter.’

Esther had stopped him short there. It had been the wrong tack to take. Her voice icy, she’d said, ‘There’s no way on earth I would ever allow Theobald to make any claim on Joy, even if he really wanted to, which I don’t believe for a moment he does. I don’t know why he is so suddenly as agreeable about the pair of us as you say he is, but I’ve no doubt at all it will be because it suits him for some reason.’

She could tell from the expression on Monty’s face that she had hit the nail on the head, whatever he said to the contrary. It had made her think, and the more she had thought, the more uneasy she had felt.

She had discussed the matter with both Rose and Priscilla, and much as she loved Rose, she knew she wouldn’t talk to her about Monty again. Rose had been starry-eyed at Monty turning up at the farm, declaring that Esther’s place was at his side. ‘He’s explained that he was injured, before he could make amends,’ Rose had said reproachfully, ‘and when all’s said and done, he
is
your husband, Miss Esther. You belong in his world – you’re a lady. And I wouldn’t worry about the master. Mr Monty will deal with him.’

Esther had wanted to say that Theobald was not Rose’s master, nor was she convinced that Monty would ‘deal with him’. In fact she had the distinct impression Theobald was calling the tune. But she hadn’t. She had looked into Rose’s lined, devoted face and had known that her old nanny only wanted the best for her, and the best – in Rose’s opinion – was a life of ease and comfort in the upper stratum of society.

Priscilla, on the other hand, had mirrored Esther’s own suspicions and reservations. ‘Darling, I’ve never met your once-supposed father, nor have I any wish to, but from all you have told me, he’s up to something when he says he wants you back in the fold. A leopard doesn’t change its spots. And I can’t help feeling that if Joy wasn’t the utterly breathtaking creature she is, Monty wouldn’t be so keen to claim her as his own. I’m a great believer in the notion that when the chips are down, it’s one’s first response that counts. And neither your Monty nor Theobald rose to the occasion.’

‘He’s not
my
Monty,’ she had answered sharply.

Priscilla had raised her eyebrows. ‘In a nutshell, darling. In a nutshell.’

Esther bit hard on her bottom lip. She had been lying in bed for what seemed like hours now, and it must be past one o’clock in the morning, but sleep had never seemed so far away. Her mind was a maelstrom of ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ and mostly they centred around Caleb. Which was ridiculous, perfectly ridiculous, because the tone of his letters told her he thought of her as a friend, and nothing more. But in meeting him, she had encountered the sort of man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Someone who didn’t judge her according to her genealogy; who didn’t give two hoots about her pedigree. And Monty cared very much about such niceties. He had two years ago, and he still did, whatever he said to the contrary.

She turned carefully in her bed, not wanting to wake Priscilla on one side of her, or Joy – curled up like a tiny animal and fast asleep in her cot – on the other side. She gazed at her daughter in the dim light, the love she felt for this vulnerable, fragile piece of herself causing her breath to constrict in her chest. She would work her fingers to the bone to provide for her, and no matter what happened in the future she would never ask Monty for help.

Decision made, for good or ill, she told herself. She felt a great sense of peace flowing through her veins and a quietening of her spirit, and with them came courage.

Rose had talked about her belonging in Monty’s world, but nothing could be further from the truth. She didn’t belong there, but neither did she fit into Caleb’s world. She was betwixt and between, as Rose was apt to say; she didn’t belong anywhere. But that didn’t matter. She had Joy. That was all that was important, and they could create their own special world, just the two of them.

For a moment she experienced a sense of exhilaration in which fear and apprehension about the future were swept away. She would be strong for her precious child and she wouldn’t let anyone hurt her, and one day she would tell Joy about her grandparents and the great love they had for each other. A love that had caused them to defy cruel convention and man-made tradition and propriety; she would teach Joy to be proud of her mixed heritage. What had the war been about, if not fighting to establish that each child, each person on earth, was formed in the image of their Creator and was unique and special, be they Jew or Gentile, able-bodied or disabled, black or white? And she and Joy had survived the war. She hugged herself tightly, shivering slightly under the coarse blankets.

She had been so young when the war had begun, full of enthusiasm and certainty and the energy of youth. She had married and borne her child, but it hadn’t been the war that had stolen the simple ordinary joy that a young couple feel together on the birth of their firstborn. Monty had forced the agony of separation, along with Theobald and Clarissa playing their part.

She was a different person now from that romantic, girlish creature who had imagined that Monty was her knight in shining armour. So much so that she barely recognized the ghost of the old Esther, with her privileged upbringing, lovely clothes and somewhat empty head.

She smiled ruefully. But she was strong now. She didn’t need Monty or Theobald’s wealth; she would manage on her own, without the support of any man. She didn’t allow her mind to dwell on what ‘any man’ meant, and neither would she in the future, she promised herself firmly. That road would merely lead to heartache and disappointment, and she had already had enough of those to last a lifetime.

With the silent pep talk over, she snuggled further under the covers, determinedly shut her eyes and was asleep within minutes.

Esther’s resolution was turned on its head within the week. A sudden thaw had freed the locked-in north’s roads and country lanes, but in so doing turned them into thick rivers of mud and boggy quagmires. It made ordinary life on the farm just that little bit more difficult, and Esther and the other girls admitted privately to each other that they were glad this would be their last winter as Land Girls. A couple of Farmer Holden’s old farm labourers had returned unscathed from the war, one of whom had twin sons of sixteen who wanted to work on the land, and over the last two or three days it had been agreed that the four of them would start work in the New Year. Esther and the others would stay on for a brief transitional period, but would then resume their normal lives – whatever that meant these days, as Vera commented soberly.

Mrs Holden had quietly repeated her offer to Rose and Esther that they could stay on at the farm if they wished, but something had clarified in Esther’s mind over the last days. She had taken Rose aside, and the two of them had had a long talk when the other girls were in bed. Esther had begun by saying how much she loved Rose, would always love her and appreciate the unstinting support Rose had been since Joy was born. ‘But,’ Esther had said gently, holding her old nanny’s hands in hers, ‘I can’t stay at the farm, Rose. It’s not right for me and Joy. But’ – she’d paused, trying to find the right words to say so that Rose wouldn’t be hurt – ‘I do think it’s right for you. You love it here with Mrs Holden, and she is fond of you. The two of you are more like sisters than anything else, and she’s come to rely on you as though you were family. Now you know that’s true, don’t you?’