The Gates of Rutherford (34 page)

She turned and continued along the gallery. There was no sound from her father's room, and, of course, all the others were empty. It was more a mausoleum than a house, she considered. A shrine, anyway. Every now and again she would go into Harry's bedroom and walk slowly around it, looking at his boyhood models of ships, and his silly comic books. In his wardrobe hung a suit of school clothes that her mother had never been able to bring herself to throw away. And there was his Oxford gown, a testimony to a few short months at university. Louisa smiled to herself. Anyone less like a scholar than Harry was hard to imagine. He had been trying to fit the shape made for him, of course. But sooner or later he would have broken free, whether the war had come along or not.

She left Harry's room and opened the door to the narrow stairs that led up to the third floor. Once here, the house was more alive. Especially since Mary and her two sons had been brought here. They had been allocated a side-nursery that dated back to the times when the house needed both a nurse and a governess. Louisa went in there now, tiptoeing in case she should disturb the occupants.

Mary was asleep, but it was evident by the shawl draped on the nursing chair that she had been up at least once during the night. Louisa smiled, and crept to the cots underneath the large fireplace picture of Queen Victoria. The twins each lay in their cribs looking like angels, all tousled dark hair and both the very image of Mary. They looked so sweet that it was hard to believe that they constantly screamed and bellowed. “What voices! What pairs of lungs!” Sessy's nurse had exclaimed the last time that Louisa had spoken to her.
And, with a hint of reproof, “Miss Cecilia might not sleep as well with that going on next door.”

Louisa had dismissed the comment. She knew that Sessy was wildly intrigued by the new arrivals. And besides, she herself had had such fun fixing up the room to suit Mary. She had gone straight out and bought the curtains and carpets herself; the vivid red rug, the fireguard, the bowls and little tea service, the changing cabinet, the linens and towels. In fact, she had bought up half the children's shop in Richmond. She knew that it had caused a stir downstairs—that she had bought things more suited to a real child of the family. But she didn't care. Her father didn't either. “Do whatever you must,” was his mantra these days. And so she had done just that.

She left the room as quietly as she could and went in to the larger nursery. To her delight, Sessy was awake, standing up in her cot and testing its wooden barrier by gently shaking it, even inspecting the latches that led down the sides. Louisa picked her up. “You're a minx,” she told her. “Come with me.” She left a note for the still-sleeping nurse and snatched up a set of clothes; in her own room, she dressed the child in her rompers and woolen coat and little leather shoes.

“Beff-fast,” Sessy demanded, suddenly seeming to wake up.

“In a minute,” Louisa told her. “There's a surprise waiting downstairs.”

Sessy gazed at her in rapt attention, turning up the face that looked so much like Harry's: fair-skinned, even featured, but with a pout of stubbornness to the mouth that so easily and so often turned into a smile.

Down through the great house they went, out through the French doors of the dining room, and along the path to the walled garden. The sun was just touching the top of the walls, rimming them in gold; down in the raised beds the plants were a mass of dark green, heavy with dew. They went out through the gate and got to the
stable yard. All was quiet, even here. Louisa stood a moment, breathing in the fresh morning air. She closed her eyes and imagined Jack walking towards her.
Come home
, she thought.
Please come home.

Sessy began to struggle in her arms. Opening her eyes, she let the little girl down and gripped her hand tightly. “Don't run off,” she said. “You must come with me. Come and look.”

They went across the yard to the stable closest to William's hunter. Louisa could hear the stallion stirring slightly inside, but she ignored him. It was the next door that was so important. Softly, she opened the upper part, and then hitched Sessy up again onto her hip. “Look,” she whispered. “It's for you. Just yours.”

Two years before, Louisa had sent Jack out on a mission to find a little pony for Sessy to ride. Her niece had only been seventeen months old then, and Jack had not been in favor. “She's only a bairn,” he had pointed out. But Louisa had insisted, and he had gone to look for a pony over at Mrs. Hallett's livery yard. But the horses had been all gone, requisitioned that very day. And there had been nothing left for Sessy at all.

Since Jack had left, he had written to her about the fate of other horses caught up in the war. He had hinted at their suffering, but he did not dwell on it. It was up to Louisa to read between the lines, and she did so acutely, hearing his distress in every written and unwritten word. And she decided that if there was ever to be a future for Rutherford and for men like Jack, there had to be something rekindled, something to look forward to, to nurture. A sort of beginning, at least. And so she had hit upon her own plan. She had found a horse for Sessy that would never be taken away.

Inside the stable stall was a miniature version of the horse that Jack loved most. Granted, it was hardly the size of the Shire—how could it be?—but it was very reminiscent of Wenceslas all the same. The coloring was exact—a grey, with white hooves and a placid, intelligent
eye, and a fine head, for all its minute stature. It was a miniature Shetland, and on the racks in the tack room hung an equally small set of bridle and reins, and a most charming miniature saddle.

“Small,” Sessy observed, seemingly not impressed.

“Yes, darling, he's very small,” Louisa agreed. “But he's exactly the right size for you. See? He's looking at you. Shall we feed him? Shall we see if you might be friends?”

Sessy struggled to get down; Louisa opened the door. The horse stamped once or twice. “Don't crowd him, don't frighten him,” Louisa warned. But she need not have bothered. The Shetland dipped its head, and Sessy immediately hung from its neck, kissing it wildly. “Small!” she crooned.

“What shall we call him?”

“Baby!”

“No, not Baby. That's quite insulting. He's fully grown, you know.”

“Poppet.”

“Rather a girl's name.”

“Tom Thumb.”

Louisa smiled. “Perfect,” she agreed. “I knew you should come up with something. Tom Thumb it shall be.”

There, Jack
, she thought.
Not quite Wenceslas. Just a very minor addition in more ways than one. But I hope you like him, all the same.

•   •   •

I
t was some fifteen minutes later that she saw Jack's father come out into the yard.

He was walking very slowly and was in his shirtsleeves. She glanced over at him, and then looked again. Josiah was an archetypal Yorkshireman. He said very little, and he usually moved determinedly, head down; slow to speak, slow to anger. Hardened outwardly,
softhearted within, he hated to be questioned. But he stood now as if lost. He had come to a halt and was looking at the ground.

“Josiah,” she called. There was no reply. “Mr. Armitage.”

He heard her then; looked up, but did not move. She pulled Sessy away from the Shetland, and closed the door despite the child's protests. They hurried across the yard.

“Mr. Armitage,” she repeated. “Is everything all right?”

“I don't rightly know,” he said, “I can't guess it.”

This in itself was a surprise. Josiah knew everything. It was not some kind of arrogant act at all; he had a wealth of experience in what he did. He didn't pretend to know the world outside Rutherford, but he didn't need to. And so what he had acquired was faultless, exact. He was master of his small world. But the face that he turned up to her this morning was that of a lost boy.

“Can I help?” she asked. “What's the matter?”

“That I don't rightly know, miss.” And he ran a hand through his hair distractedly. “It's the letter.”

The letter.
Suddenly, an icy cold blast ran through her. A cold tide of dread. “A letter . . . from France?” she asked. “Is it Jack?”

It seemed to Louisa as if a century passed while Josiah Armitage searched in first one pocket and then another. At last, he withdrew a familiar-looking pale-fawn-colored envelope. He handed it to her. But, to her overwhelming relief, it was not the terrible and formal announcement from the war office that she had expected. Inside the envelope was a folded and flimsy page. Her eyes ran down the script to the signature. “It's an army chaplain,” she murmured. “About Jack.”

“He can't come back,” Josiah suddenly exclaimed. “Not like that.”

“I'm sorry . . . like what?”

“What he says there. Fatigue.”

“I don't know what that means, Josiah.”

“It means he's a bad'un, warped in th'eed.” The old man knuckled his eyes, actually resting his fists on his face. Louisa had never seen him express an emotion, much less cry.

“It can't mean that. Only that he must be exhausted.”

“I know what that yon means,” Josiah retorted savagely, dropping his hands. “Addled, like the rest! Come back weak in the knees, falling over hiss'en. Like Kessington were. Him that we had to send back to his mother.”

“Oh no,” she breathed. “It can't mean that at all.”

“They don't send them back fer less. They'd have to be fallin' down, useless like. Else they don't send 'em back.”

Louisa tried to read the letter. But the words swam in front of her eyes. Eventually, she looked back up at Josiah. Seeing the grief there, she gently put her hand on his arm. “May I take it to show Father?” she asked. “Would you mind awfully? Perhaps there's something that Father can do. You know . . . to find out a little more. To help in some way.”

The man held her gaze for a second, evidently struggling with the idea that his shame should be revealed. Then he muttered, “He'll know sooner or later, I suppose.” And with that, he turned away.

He looked back at his cottage, and then absently at the yard. And then he began to walk towards the fields, dragging his feet as if he had aged fifty years.

T
he afternoon light came through the curtains, highlighting the bed.

Octavia was not asleep, but she lay with her head propped against the soft deep pillows, cradling John's body in her arms. He began to stir, and finally opened his eyes. For just a moment she saw an unusual expression—a mixture of resignation and grief—in his face. And then he smiled.

“Have I been asleep for long?”

“Six hours.”

He frowned, wriggling to a sitting position. “I'm sorry, love.”

“It doesn't matter,” she told him. He looked away, although he held her hand. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Not so much. Tell me what has been going on here with you.”

“Not before I ring for something to eat. Or tea, at least.”

It was a full half hour before he finished the tray of food that was
brought to them, though he picked at it more than eating it wholeheartedly, sitting at the small table and gazing out into the street.

“I can see in your face that it was terrible in France,” she said.

He didn't answer.

She got up, wrapped her dressing gown around her, and took the chair opposite him. “I have news,” she said. “I have had a letter from Harry. And Louisa rang this afternoon. I do wish that Harry had come with you. I've something so pleasant to tell him. Something he would want to hear.”

“Harry,” he echoed.

“Yes, the letter came from a place called Poperinghe.” Smiling, she took the letter from the pocket of the gown. “It's postmarked three days ago.”

“That's right,” he said. “We were in Poperinghe then.”

“He says that he has been ordered to go to the Belgian border,” she told him quietly. “I was so hoping that he would come home with you. That was what you led me to believe.”

John pushed away the plate and the tray. “That's what he told me himself. It was only when we got close to Le Havre thirty-six hours ago that he said he would come back to England later.”

“How much later?”

“Darling, I don't know.” He frowned. “He said nothing to me at Poperinghe at all. The implication was that he was returning with me.”

“But how can they keep him there?” Octavia asked, her voice rising. “He is not well. Your letter a week ago said as much.”

“I don't know,” he replied. “But when a man is ordered . . . disobedience is a court martial.”

“They have no right at all to order him!” Octavia exclaimed. She put the letter into her lap, exasperated. “Oh, it's not your fault, John,
I know. Of course it isn't.” She sighed. “But I wrote back at once. Because Hetty de Ray has worked her usual wonders. You remember Hetty—yes, you do,” she exclaimed, seeing his doubtful expression. “Large woman, loud voice, husband in Whitehall?”

“Ah yes. How could I forget the redoubtable Hetty.”

“Indeed. She has had word of Caitlin de Souza. Harry was so insistent that I try to find her. And Hetty's husband has a friend—oh gosh, I can hear her now over Harry—‘A man who knows a man who knows a man, darling!'” Octavia gave a broad smile. “She's in Harrogate, of all places. I could have screamed when I got back here and found Hetty's telegram. I would have been only a few miles from Caitlin when I was at Rutherford.”

“Thank God. Harry will be very happy indeed. Why Harrogate? That's a heck of a way from London.”

“Recuperation. A country house turned over to nursing staff who've been injured.”

“Injured? How?”

“There's no details. Hetty's abilities only run so far. When Harry's back we can go up there together. And I wrote to tell him. At Poperinghe. Of course I knew that the letter might miss him, but it was such good news that I sent it anyway. I've been imagining telling him for days now.” She gave a great labored sigh. “I do so wish he had come back with you. How did he seem?”

It was the question that John had been dreading. “Just the same old Harry.”

“Happy? That is, as happy as one can be?”

“Yes, darling. Comfortable in himself. Resigned, perhaps.”

“Oh well,” she sighed. “That is something, I suppose.” She considered. “Resigned to what?”

“Oh, you know. The war. The frustration of it all.”

“Just that?”

“Yes, just that.”

“He says that it's a reconnaissance matter. Is it a new area for the troops?”

“I think so.”

She lifted her head. “Let me tell you something more joyful. Mary Nash has had twin boys, at the house. At Rutherford.”

“Good heavens!”

“Isn't it extraordinary? Louisa has put them in the next room to Sessy's nursery. They are making the devil of a noise, apparently.”

John smiled. “David will be so pleased.”

“William phoned me to say that David has been wounded. He'll be home to see his sons. Isn't that wonderful? The news is quite flying to and fro. Thank God for the efficiency of army mail.” She sat back, wrapping the gown tightly around her. “Mary has told Mrs. Carlisle that he said he was near the sea. Do you think it's near to Harry? How many battles can there be on the coast?”

“It's a special operation, I think,” John murmured absently. “At a place called Nieuwpoort.”

“An operation? A true battle, you mean? An advance of some kind? You don't mean that Harry is involved in the same thing?”

“No, I don't mean that,” John said hurriedly, although he could almost hear the lie in his own voice. He knew that Harry had been drawn to Nieuwpoort. He had been unable to resist the siren call. There might have been an order, or there might not have been an order.
Damn the boy
, he thought involuntarily. He looked at Octavia. “There are a great many events in all sorts of places, darling. Harry doesn't have to be even at the front line. He is an advisor.”

She didn't answer. She looked hard in his face, seemed on the verge of questioning him further, and then let it go.

“Tell me what you've been doing,” he prompted.

“I went up to Rutherford to see William,” she replied. “I went to
the mills, and saw Ferrow, and we have come up with a scheme to make a workshop for finished goods. Fancy goods, small things. For war wounded to work in. It's coming on apace. I've asked Louisa if she will supervise when I'm not there.”

“And will she?”

“I hope so. She's . . . well, she has an issue. One that I don't quite know how to deal with. But never mind that.”

“Is William well?”

“He seems so. I arranged for a new housekeeper. She came over from the Kents. William has taken a liking to her, at least.”

“That's good. And Louisa . . .”

“Yes.” She furrowed her brow, put a hand to her head momentarily, and the smiled. “Both my girls have been . . . I don't know the word for it. Secretive. Odd.”

“In what way?”

“Darling, this is astonishing, I grant you. But I hope just a temporary thing. Charlotte has left Michael.”

“You don't say.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You're not surprised? Shocked?”

“I was never completely convinced. You know that.”

“You don't suggest that I forced her into something?”

He smiled a little. “Did I say that?” he asked. “Ever? Or is that something you've said to yourself?”

She opened her mouth to speak, then thought about it. “Did I force her? No,” she murmured. “But I was glad about it. He seemed such a nice sort of person.”

“Where has she gone to?”

“Not very far. She's living with a friend. Christine. The artist.”

“The one who came to your art fair at Rutherford?”

“Yes, the one who was going to paint Charlotte and Michael's portrait.”

“And has she?”

“Not that I know of.”

He leaned across, and took hold of her hand. “This is awful,” he said. “Would you like me to go and see Michael?”

“What good will it do? She is absolutely determined that she will not go back to him. I'm at a loss. I've written to William and told him, and he hasn't replied. I daresay he feels just the same.”

They sat looking at one another. In his own mind, John was thinking of Christine. He remembered her look, the directness of her gaze. “They have the same spirit,” he murmured. “Christine and Charlotte.”

“The same outlandishness,” Octavia agreed. “It can't be countenanced in a married woman, John. It really can't. Not if they want to live any kind of decent life, an untroubled life, in the future.”

He was still holding her hand. “I wonder what constitutes a decent life these days,” he murmured. “Life of any kind should be sacrosanct to us now.”

“That doesn't mean we sacrifice our standards, our ideals.”

He glanced up at her. “And what is your ideal, Octavia?”

“That everyone should be happy.”

“And how is that to be achieved?”

“By having . . .” She stopped. “By having freedom.”

“To choose?”

She frowned. “But not by throwing good things away.”

“Society's good things?”

“You mean us.”

“You chose love over society.”

“But Charlotte isn't running to find love or companionship. She's running away from it. Or a promise she made for it, at least.” She hung her head. “I want Charlotte to be happy above anything else.”

“And does she seem happy now?”

“Very much.”

“With Christine.”

“Yes.” She began clearing the tray a little absentmindedly. Then she paused. “Happier than I've seen her in a very long time.”

“Happier than her wedding day?”

“Well, one is always very nervous then.”

“And have you seen Christine?”

“They came here together while I was away, apparently.” And she smiled. “Now that I know you're safely back, I shall go over to Christine's studio, and talk to them both. Perhaps Christine might encourage Michael and Charlotte to speak to one another.”

“Octavia,” he said quietly.

She smiled brightly at him, leaned forward, took his hand, and gazed into his face. “What is it?”

“Perhaps Christine's friendship is more important to Charlotte than her marriage.”

She didn't take his point. “But that's absurd!” she said. “Oh, I don't mean that it isn't very nice to have a friend, but one's husband . . .”

“She doesn't want this husband. And actually, darling, we're not in a position to lecture her about the sanctity and rightness of marriage.”

“No, all right,” she conceded. “But she was very close to Michael. She admired him.”

“Octavia,” he murmured. “Did you admire William? Do you still?”

“I respect him, yes. I admire the work he has done for his country.”

“Like Michael.”

“Yes.”

“And why did you leave William?”

“But, John. You know the answer to that.”

“Tell me.”

She stared at him, puzzled. “Because I loved you.”

“And that overrides anything else, doesn't it?” he said gently. “Convention. Institutions. What other people say. It overrides the respect or admiration that one might have for a husband, doesn't it? Perhaps it shouldn't. But I'm afraid that it does.”

“Yes.”

“Because one must be with this person. Because there is no conceivable choice but to be with them. Because they make you so happy.”

“Yes . . .”

“Radiantly happy, darling.”

“But . . .” She was still continuing to stare at him. And then suddenly, the truth dawned on her face, and she caught the inference entirely. “Oh, but you can't mean . . . !”

“Do you remember their talking together at the art fair? You told me that they couldn't be prised apart all the time that Christine was there. That Charlotte talked about her incessantly after she had gone. You told me yourself that Charlotte seemed besotted with this woman. Your words, darling.
Besotted.
”