The Wild Dark Flowers (37 page)

*   *   *

W
hen Nash had first come home the day before, and gone to see his mother with Arthur on that afternoon, he had at first been grey faced; training that month had been a miserable affair for both the brothers. They had heard of the massacres at Gallipoli, Churchill had gone from office, and on the western front the Germans were employing a new terror—the
flammenwerfer
, liquid fire.

Both David and Arthur had been told that their regiment would be sent to Hooge, the bloodiest battleground of those clammy, wretched months. Hooge was a place passed back and forth between the opposing armies, littered with dead, a place of built and blasted and rebuilt trenches. Someone had told him that you walked on bodies, and all the way to Rutherford he had tried to get this picture out of his mind.

Coming to the parkland gates, however, yesterday evening, he did finally manage to let the ghastly imagining go. He had parceled it up in his head, and determinedly left it at the lodge gates, where the land steward and his wife both came out and shook his hand and wished him well. He would not burden Mary with his anxieties; he had hurried on to see her, to feel her arms around him, through the fading light.

The chapel today was a fine sight.

It choked him to think that it had all been done for him and Mary: all the flowers, and the opening of the private chapel under the trees beyond the kitchen garden. He almost had to pinch himself as he stood waiting in front of the little stone altar, with Arthur as his best man by his side.

There was stillness as Mary entered, and then a sort of sigh went round the staff gathered in the rear pews near the door. The girls, of course, were all in tears; he wondered how they cried so easily before ever a word was said; he supposed they must like it. He had told himself not to cry, and he did not. It was not becoming in a soldier all dressed in best kit, with his mirror-shined boots and his hair slicked back and his cap under his arm.

Mary was clear faced, upright. She came in on her father’s arm; the old man had been all gussied up and brushed down, wearing a suit of clothes that Bradfield had given him, with his tie knotted too tight under his collar. He only shambled a little once as he handed Mary over, making an apologetic face to her as he regained his footing. He had turned away, affected, wringing his hands before he found his seat.

She’ll see me through
, David thought, looking at Mary.
Through this and whatever else comes.

“You’ll do for me,” she had told him with a smile, the evening before as they said their good-night in the stone corridor downstairs. “You’ll suit me fine.”

*   *   *

T
here was no rain at all that evening.

The sky cleared and, if the sun wasn’t strong, at least the sky was beautiful, empty of clouds: a limpid pale blue, the color of the satin sash on Mary’s dress. David would not forget that blue. He would see it in moments in the months to come, and in the year after that. He would see it in winter mornings when the frost was thick on mud; he would see it, remember it, right through the spring of 1916. He would see it again in his mind’s eye on the morning of the first day of July, as he stood next to Arthur waiting in the reserve line at dawn, near the place that they called Mouquet Farm, on the Somme.

After the ceremony, David thought that the tithe barn looked very fine, all tricked out in bunting and the long trestle tables covered with white cloths and with the best servants’ china brought in from the house. Although by then he had felt a sort of lovely stupor come over him, unused to the heavy ale and then the champagne of the toasts; he felt himself a very fine man, a rich man, the luckiest man alive.

Lord Cavendish stood at the head of the table and gave a little speech. David couldn’t remember for the life of him what it had been about afterwards: something about holding together, and how that was important. And his lordship had taken Lady Octavia’s arm, and they had walked around and shaken his and Mary’s hands, and wished them well. And David had sat there feeling rather like a sort of stuffed doll, full of pleasure and self-satisfaction and a numbed delight, while Mary’s hand squeezed his arm.

“Mrs. Nash,” he murmured to her.

“Mr. Nash,” she replied, laughing.

*   *   *

O
n the other side of the room, the Cavendish family occupied a top table all to themselves.

As darkness fell and the noise levels rose, Octavia noticed that Mrs. Jocelyn was standing stiffly by the door. The housekeeper was glaring at the band of country musicians as if she had never seen such a sight. And she made a little gesture—almost as if she would like to block her ears, hands raised—when they started on “My Bonny Yorkshire Lass,” violins keening through the melody, and dancers rose to take the floor.

“William,” Octavia said quietly, nudging his arm. “There is Mrs. Jocelyn. Why don’t you ask her to take a turn about the floor? It will be an ideal opportunity to speak to her.”

William gave her a small smile. “If I must,” he said.

He walked over to her; the housekeeper fluttered a kind of half curtsey. He noticed that she had made no effort to wear anything remotely celebratory—she was still dressed in the severe black she wore every day.

“Would you do me the honor of a dance?” he asked her.

To his inner amusement, Mrs. Jocelyn blushed a startling shade of bright red. “It’s you who do
me
the honor,” she whispered. She took his arm; they walked to the rough board floor that had been put in the center of the room.

“I’m not terribly good at jigs of any kind,” he warned her. “Shall we potter about near the edge?”

“As you wish,” she replied.

He held her lightly in his arms, quite away from himself. Her hands in his felt unpleasantly wet with perspiration. “Thank you for all you have done for the happy couple today,” he said.

She pursed her mouth before replying. “I’m sure it’s been a pleasure.”

“But not what we would have expected in the old days,” he commented, seeing the mixed feelings in her face.

“Not at all.”

“The world has changed.”

“If you will excuse me saying so . . .” she began, then stopped. She was staring pointedly at Louisa, who was dancing some feet away with Jack Armitage. Realizing her father’s eyes on her, Louisa smiled hesitantly. It seemed to William that she moved several inches out of the tenderly close grasp in which Jack had held her. The pair of them looked as guilty as if they had been caught lovemaking in public. Jack raised his chin, but his grip on Louisa’s hands did not alter.

“Saying . . . ?” William repeated, confused.

“If I must speak the truth—and I have never done other than that, you may be assured, sir,” Mrs. Jocelyn went on, “I found it much easier years ago. When it was ourselves alone here.”

He thought he had misheard in some way. The song stopped; the dancers applauded. He maneuvered her slightly away from the floor, next to an empty table. She seemed very agitated suddenly. “Ourselves alone?” he said.

“They were happy days. There was more respect. One knew one’s place. I was honored to have run Rutherford with your lordship then.”

He frowned. “And not now?”

“Oh well . . . now . . .” She was looking towards the table where Octavia was sitting. “It’s all upset. I feel that. Turned upside down. There is no godliness. Such things are happening here . . .”

“I don’t understand you, Mrs. Jocelyn.”

“Don’t you?” she asked. She stepped very close to him. “I am of your age, you know. I am not of this younger generation. I mourn this destruction.”

“Do you mean the war?”

“I do not,” she told him.

“Well, what do you mean exactly?”

She put her hand on his arm, and gripped it tightly. They were half hidden by the flower displays and the bunting, cornered, William felt, by the edge of the table and the wall of the barn. “I have been your devoted partner at Rutherford,” she whispered. “I have honored your lordship. I will to my dying breath.”

“Well, that is . . .” William floundered. “Mrs. Jocelyn,” he managed finally, in a firm voice. “Perhaps the task has been too onerous, too tiring for you of late. Her ladyship feels that you have exerted yourself too far. That you are in need of a holiday.”

She stared at him, aghast.

“Perhaps a week or two by the coast,” he continued. “Miss Dodd can manage very well while you’re away. A month, perhaps. You have earned it.”

“You want me to go away?” she said. “And Dodd is to be in charge? For a
month
?” The grip on his arm had not lessened in the least; in fact, it had increased.

“Yes. We shall pay you, of course.”

“And this is her idea.”

He tried to remove her hand. “If you mean her ladyship . . .”

“I don’t call her that,” the housekeeper hissed at him. “In my own mind, never that.”

“Mrs. Jocelyn—”

“She doesn’t deserve you,” she said. To his absolute astonishment, she began stroking the lapel of his dress coat, like a mother preening a child. “Yes, you are perfection,” she was murmuring. “Too fine for her.”

“That’s quite enough,” he said firmly. He caught hold of her wrist. “Take control of yourself.”

“Control?” she echoed, staring at him. “But I have control.”

“No,” he told her. “What you have said to me is not acceptable in any way.”

“It is her,” she repeated; she looked confused, affronted. “I have done nothing. I am God’s servant; I am yours. I obey my betters. But she is not my better. I resent that. Not her. As for the American . . .”

“Enough!”

“You have been all to me,” she told him. “Don’t you understand?”

“I understand you only too well,” he said, truly annoyed now. “And if you continue in this way, and with regard to her ladyship in particular, your services will no longer be required.”

The effects of his words were quite remarkable to behold. Mrs. Jocelyn at first smiled, shaking her head as if he had said something comical. Then, holding his gaze, she saw that he was quite serious. And at that point, every ounce of color drained from her face.

She stepped back from him. She looked from him to the table where Octavia was sitting. “I see,” she whispered.

“I will not have my wife either disturbed or reprimanded by you, or anyone,” he told her. “However many years of service they might have. You understand that, surely.”

“Oh yes,” she breathed. “I understand.”

He turned away. In the same instant, he felt rather than saw Mrs. Jocelyn move past him; in a flash she was striding across the floor, across the boards of the dancing area, over the rushes and sand between the nearest tables. She walked with her head high, her shoulders squared, her back straight, almost in military fashion. The thought flashed into William’s mind that she was more warrior, more avenging angel than woman. Those closest shrank back from her, and then a murmur went around the tables as Mrs. Jocelyn passed.

One man—William recognized him vaguely as one of the tenant farmers—stumbled to his feet. He stepped out in front of Mrs. Jocelyn, smiling. She put a hand to his chest, and pushed him savagely; the man lost his footing, collapsing backwards in a splintering crash of wooden chairs. A small child squealed; her mother snatched her up in her arms.

At Octavia’s table, the reaction was slow. Harry was deep in conversation with Charlotte and Caitlin; the two girls, heads bent, were watching as he arranged pepper and salt pots and cutlery in an evident explanation of formation. It was Caitlin who looked up at the commotion; she looked once, then twice, and then immediately jumped to her feet.

Octavia was sitting sideways to the table, her back to the dance floor. She had just given the woman behind her something; William dimly grasped that it was David Nash’s mother, now clutching several of the large linen flowers from the table. She too glanced in the direction of the crash, and the smile vanished from her face.

It was ten, perhaps twelve seconds. Over so quickly.

Mrs. Jocelyn reached the table. Octavia turned her head in response to a low cry from the housekeeper. William saw the blade only then—a knife taken from the table, probably, where he and the housekeeper had been standing. She stepped forward almost casually, and thrust it in Octavia’s direction.

Caitlin had grabbed Harry’s arm, and, turning his head, he saw what was happening. He tried in vain to get to his feet. Charlotte stood up.

Octavia was half on her feet—she stepped backwards and stumbled to avoid the knife. Charlotte pushed past Harry’s chair and ran to her mother. With the table between them, Mrs. Jocelyn was temporarily halted. Alongside him, Louisa rushed to her father; he heard her abrupt cry, though his whole attention was fixed on Octavia. Mrs. Jocelyn was shouting something—men nearby tried to catch hold of her.

But it was Caitlin, coming around the opposite end of the table, and walking briskly towards the older woman, who reached her; she put both arms around Mrs. Jocelyn’s body from behind. She held the older woman there in what looked absurdly like a lover’s grip, her head bent to Mrs. Jocelyn’s ear.

She talked to her, at the same time gently pulling her away from the table. Mrs. Jocelyn’s arm was still held out at right angles, but, in another moment or two, she suddenly relaxed her grip, and the knife tumbled to the floor. Pinioned by Caitlin, Mrs. Jocelyn stared hard once more at Octavia.

And then, she turned her head away.

She looked at William, her mouth moving, but no word escaping her.

*   *   *

D
avid Nash had booked a room in the village for their wedding night.

He wanted Mary to himself, away from Rutherford, away from the well-wishers, the crowding faces, the nudging elbows, the beery glances, the noise.

They were seen off from the steps of the tithe barn at ten o’clock, to cheers and a rousing chorus of “For they are jolly good fellows . . .” and laughter that decreased to ever-fainter echoes as they made their way, arm in arm, through the dark gardens.

By the front of the house, Mary paused.

“What do you think they would say?” she asked.