Escape by Moonlight (3 page)

‘Amy, darling, let me look at you.’ She held her at arm’s length. ‘Why, how grown up you look. Don’t you think so, Jack?’ At forty-four she was still beautiful, her figure only slightly thicker than it had been twenty-odd years before. Her lustrous hair, with no hint of grey in it, was wound in a heavy coil at the back of her neck.

‘Oh, yes.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘Quite the lady.’

Annelise put her arm about Amy’s shoulders and together they went indoors, followed by Annie, leaving Jack to drive the gig round the house to the stables. ‘Did you have a good journey?’

‘Yes, but the trains are as smutty as ever and I feel filthy. I’ll have a bath and change before I do anything.’

‘Of course. Papa is out riding with Edmund but they know what time the train was due in, so they will be back soon. Peters will take your portmanteau up. What have you done about your trunk?’

‘Mr Storey is sending it up from the station on the carrier’s cart.’

‘Good. I’ll have it taken up to your room as soon as it arrives.’

The hall was big and cool and smelt of polish and roses
because a huge bowl of them stood on the table beside a silver tray. Amy breathed deeply, looking round at the portraits of earlier de Laceys that lined the walls and marched up the stairs to the top, where a gallery went round the upper level and where, as a child, she had peered through to look at the guests whenever her parents had company. ‘Oh, it is so good to be home.’

She ran lightly up to her room and an hour later, bathed and dressed in a gown of blue silk, went downstairs again to be greeted in the small parlour by her father and her eleven-year-old brother, Edmund, still dressed in their riding clothes. She hugged Edmund, who bore it stoically, and went forward to be kissed by her father. He was a tall, well-built man who, at fifty-six, was still a handsome man. ‘Well, Amy?’ he said. ‘Home for good, this time.’

‘Yes, Papa.’ She had meant what she said when she told Jack she wanted to earn her living, but she was not going to spoil her homecoming by saying anything too soon. She would bring up the subject in her own time. ‘I am just going to explore everywhere before dinner, see what’s new.’

‘Oh, nothing is new. Everything is just as it was when you first went away, but off you go. You’ll find Patch in his stable.’

Her father knew, as everyone else in the family knew, that her first port of call when she had been away was the stable to visit her horse and the first opportunity after that, she would be off riding him. But not today; it was already late and she must not keep dinner waiting

They dined
en
famille
at seven o’clock. Everything operated like clockwork, as it had always done, and the conversation was lively. Amy recounted tales of her finishing school and her holiday and reiterated her pleasure at being
home. She heard about Edmund’s adventures at Gresham’s, the boarding school he attended, and her parents’ worries about the prospect of war.

‘I’ve sent Lizzie a wire and told her to come home,’ her father said. ‘I don’t suppose anything will happen immediately, but I would rather she was safely back here.’

‘She hasn’t got herself engaged yet, then?’ Amy asked. ‘I gather Max went out to spend some leave with her.’

‘If she has, she’s keeping it pretty quiet,’ Jack said.

‘There’s plenty of time to think about things like that,’ their mother put in. ‘He’s a soldier, who knows what will happen if there’s a war …’

‘Oh, don’t,’ Amy said. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about. I saw hundreds and hundreds of children on Liverpool Street station when I came through. They were all labelled like parcels with gas masks in cardboard boxes hanging round their necks. Many of them were crying. And their mothers weren’t allowed past the barriers and they were crying too. It brought home to me what going to war will mean.’

‘Yes, I know.’ her mother said. ‘Mrs Hutchins came to see me today. She has been appointed welfare officer for the evacuees coming to this area. She asked me to give one or two of them a home.’

‘You never said yes?’ Jack queried in surprise.

‘Of course I did. Poor things, dragged from their homes to live in strange places with strange people, you can’t help feeling sorry for them. We’ve got plenty of room, the whole of the nursery suite. I’ve given instructions to Mrs Baxter to have the rooms made ready. They’ll be here tomorrow.’

‘I do hope they’re house-trained,’ Jack said.

Edmund stifled a giggle. He was allowed to have his meals with the rest of the family on sufferance and was
expected to be seen and not heard. But it might be fun to have a pal or two he could boss around, at least until it was time to return to Gresham’s. It was a great pity he would have to go back to school. It didn’t seem fair when all the fun would be here at Nayton. The prospect of war didn’t frighten him.

‘I wonder how long it’ll be before we start losing some of the staff,’ Charles said, when they retired to the drawing room, leaving the servants to clear the table of the dinner things. The room was decorated in a delicate light green and cream, with a thick Brussels carpet whose rose pattern was echoed in the curtains at the long windows. It was furnished with two or three mahogany tables, a large glass-fronted cabinet containing a collection of porcelain figurines, two green-covered sofas, several armchairs and a grand piano. There were vases of flowers in the hearth, an ormolu clock on the marble mantel, flanked by two bronze sculptures of horses, a couple of busts and several papier mâché boxes with oriental designs on them, above which hung a heavy gilded mirror. The walls were covered in pictures, some very valuable, one or two painted by Jack who had discovered a talent for art at school. It was an elegant room, but it had a comfortable lived-in feel about it.

‘I suppose some of the men will go,’ Annelise said. ‘But I don’t know about the women.’

‘Women did war work in the last war,’ Amy said. ‘They did all sorts of jobs normally done by men, driving buses and ambulances, working in factories, nursing. I want to do something like that.’

‘Good heavens, child, why?’ her father exclaimed. ‘You do not need to …’

‘I may not need to, but I want to. I want to be useful. I was never born to be an ornament.’

Charles smiled. ‘And a very pretty ornament you are too.’

‘You won’t put me off by paying me compliments,’ she said.

‘You are too young, not yet nineteen.’

‘Men died at nineteen in the last war and no doubt they will again.’

‘You are not a man, Amy.’

Jack could see an argument developing and he did not want his sister calling on him for support; it might lead to questions about what he intended to do with his own life and he was not prepared to answer them, simply because he had no answers. His mother had had two miscarriages between Amy and Edmund, both boys, and by the time Edmund had come along Jack was thirteen and had become used to being considered Lord de Lacey’s heir. It was his only ambition; he needed to be recognised as a gentleman, not the grandson of a French farmer. The fact that his mother had married an English nobleman did not mitigate his shameful origins and his feeling of inferiority. It was irrational, he knew. His mother adored him and Lord de Lacey treated him as if he were truly his son, except in the matter of the inheritance. He could hardly expect anything else, but it made him feel like a rudderless ship, tossed by every wave that came along. He excused himself and left them to it.

Stopping only to put on walking shoes and a hat, he left the house and set off through the wood which surrounded the estate. It had been planted by an earlier de Lacey to give the house some privacy and protect it from the prevailing north-east wind coming straight down from the Arctic. It
was a mix of oak, ash and elm and a whole copse of sweet chestnuts, not to mention the ubiquitous elder. Its heavy scent filled his nostrils and reminded him of his childhood. He had always liked the woods, the darkness of them even when the sun was shining; their dank, peaty smell; the strange rustling sounds made by small animals and the chirrup of an occasional bird. It was here he used to hide from his tutor when he first arrived in Nayton, here he would talk to himself, a lonely little boy whose mother had suddenly found a new love.

Emerging onto a lane on the far side, he saw Bert Storey walking towards him, his dog at his heels. He was on his way to the Nayton Arms for his usual evening drink.

‘Good evening, Mr Storey. Lovely evening, isn’t it?’

‘It’ll rain come morning,’ was the only response he got and that without a smile.

He was a miserable so-and-so, Jack decided, not like Lucy, who always seemed cheerful, no matter what. But that didn’t mean Amy was right to envy her. Nothing could be worse than poverty and having to work all the hours there were to scrape a living. He was glad he was saved the necessity. And he could give Lucy a little pleasure if he chose. Making up his mind he strode off to the station.

Lucy was just opening the gates after a coal train had passed through when she saw Jack, walking towards her, his hat set at a jaunty angle, one hand in his pocket, the other twitching a stick he had cut for himself in the woods. Instead of turning to go back to the house, she waited for him to come to her. ‘Good evening, Mr de Lacey.’

‘Good evening, Lucy. Still on duty?’

‘I have to look after the gates.’

‘Day and night?’

‘So long as there are trains. Of course there aren’t so many between midnight and four in the morning when the milk train goes through.’

He wondered if her father ever considered opening and closing the gates himself, but then he supposed he would consider that beneath him. ‘Surely you do not stay awake all night?’

‘No, we leave the gates closed to road traffic and go to bed. If anyone comes along, they can open them, but usually one of us gets up to check they have been shut again. You must have done it yourself hundreds of times.’

‘So I have.’ He paused, thinking of her looking from her bedroom window in her nightdress to make sure he had fastened the gates properly. Next time he would look up and catch a glimpse of her. ‘How long before the next train comes through?’

She laughed. ‘Mr de Lacey, you know the timetable as well as I do. It’s the ten-thirty to Norwich.’

‘So you have over an hour before you are needed again.’

‘I can always find something to keep me busy.’

‘I am sure you can, but that’s not what I meant. I am at a loose end. Take a stroll with me and you can tell me all about yourself.’

‘You know all about me.’

‘A feeble excuse if ever I heard one.’ He paused to scrutinise her face. It was a lovely face, he realised and, in spite of her blushes, a serene kind of face. There was softness there and sweetness and he knew without being told that she was not given to selfish tantrums as so many of the young ladies of his acquaintance were. ‘Don’t you want to walk with me?’

‘It’s not fitting.’

‘That’s not an answer. I asked you what you wanted.’

‘Pa—’

‘Your father has gone to the Nayton Arms, I saw him not ten minutes ago. He won’t be back until they throw him out at closing time.’

‘H-how do you know that?’ She was taken aback that her father’s habits were known to the gentry. She knew he drank too much, probably to cheer himself up, but it made him even more morose and sometimes violent if she was so unwise as to provoke him.

‘It is not a secret.’ He wondered whether she knew that drinking in the Nayton Arms was not Bert Storey’s only leisure activity and that there was a certain little widow whose company he enjoyed before he wended his way homeward. ‘Come now, a gentle stroll. The woods are lovely at this time of the evening. I could show you a badger set.’

‘You could?’ Her eyes lit up.

‘Yes. And if we are very, very quiet we might see them come out.’

It didn’t sound as if he had any ulterior motive and to be in his company even for an hour was a treat not to be missed. She might find out if her idol was all she dreamt he was or if he had feet of clay. She was half afraid to say yes, in case she was disappointed, but on the other hand, if it should lead to her dreams coming true … No, that was foolish. He would not marry her when he could have the pick of any number of young ladies. But why was he bothering with her? To have his wicked way with her? She was not at all sure what that meant.

‘Well?’ he queried, looking into her eyes and seeing her
doubts mirrored there. ‘I am not going to eat you.’ He smiled, looking her up and down; she was slim but she curved in all the right places and he felt his loins stir at the sight. ‘Though I am quite sure you would taste delicious. It is only a few steps to see a badger set. Do you think I would harm a hair of your lovely head?’

‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch a shawl.’ She sprinted up the slope of the platform and disappeared into the house, emerging several minutes later in a fresh cotton dress and a pink shawl.

She fell into step beside him as they walked up the lane a little way, past a handful of cottages and a farmyard and through a gate in the wall of the estate. Now they were under the great vault of the trees, full of shadows brought about by the last of the sun playing through the branches. ‘I’ve never been in here before,’ she said, almost whispering in awe.

‘You mean you have never trespassed to find chestnuts to roast for Christmas? I thought all the village children did that.’

‘I never dared. Pa would have flayed me alive.’

‘He is very strict, is he?’

‘You could say so.’

‘And you are not one to take risks?’

‘I think I may be taking one right now.’

He gave a low chuckle. ‘With me or with him?’

She looked sharply at him. ‘You may laugh, but you have no notion …’ She stopped; she could not tell him what her life was really like, he would not understand. 

‘Are you very unhappy?’

‘I am not unhappy at all.’

‘I am glad to hear it. I should hate to think that I made anyone as lovely as you sad.’

‘Oh no, you would never do that.’

‘How do you know? I am sometimes not a very nice person. I am lazy and inconsiderate and I take my pleasures where I can.’

‘I do not believe that. You are putting yourself down. I know you to be a gentleman.’

He sighed. Was she really as innocent as she sounded? If she was, her nature belied her looks for she was sensuous and alluring and he was finding it very difficult to hold himself in check. But he would have to, because he was not a complete cad. ‘Thank you for those kind words, Miss Storey.’

‘Now who is being formal? This afternoon, you called me Lucy.’

‘That was before I realised you were a true lady. But if you wish me to call you by your given name, you must use mine.’

‘Jack,’ she mused.

‘Actually, it’s Jacques.’ He pronounced it the French way. ‘But Jack will do very well. Jack of all trades, master of none, that’s me.’

‘I don’t believe that. I am sure you are very clever. You have a loving family and a grand home and more money than you know what to do with. That goes a long way to being master of whatever you want.’

‘True,’ he said, then pointed. ‘Look, there’s the badger set. You can see the hole under that root and all the scuff marks around it. Let’s sit here very quietly and perhaps
they will come out.’ He took off his jacket and spread it on the ground, then dropped down to sit on it, taking her hand and pulling her down beside him. He did not release her hand, but neither did he speak.

At first she shook with nerves, wondering what he would do, but when it became apparent he did not intend to do anything but watch for the nocturnal animals, she relaxed. They sat without moving, concentrating on the entrance to the set as darkness closed in around them. It was peaceful and she was not afraid while he was there holding her hand, but in the back of her mind there was a niggle of conscience which told her she should not be here with him, should not be entertaining unattainable dreams when she ought to be at home, mending her father’s socks and listening for the bell. She jumped up in alarm. ‘The gates. I forgot the train.’ And she was off, crashing through the undergrowth back to the lane and the station.

He sighed and rose to follow. If the badgers were anywhere near they would not put in an appearance now and his main quarry had gone. And in a strange way, he was not sorry. He would see her again and it would be something to look forward to. He would lure her back with more badgers.

He caught her up as she emerged onto the lane. The light on the top of the gates showed clearly that they had already been shut for the train. ‘Pa!’ she said, so out of breath she could hardly speak. ‘He’s back early. Don’t come any further, he mustn’t see you.’

‘I could explain.’

‘No. No. You would only make it worse. Go, please.’

‘Oh, very well.’

She didn’t wait to see if he went, but ran back to the
station and through the pedestrian gate just as the train rattled through without stopping. She stepped back, feeling the rush of warm air on her face as it passed, trying to think of an excuse for not being at her post. The silence after it had gone was broken by the clatter of boots on the steps of the signal box as Frank Lambert came down to see to the gates.

Frank was in his thirties and had been working at Nayton Halt even longer than Pa. He was dark-haired and swarthy, his hands ingrained with the oil he used when operating the row of levers in the box. He was rough and uneducated and unmarried, which did not surprise her; he had no idea how to treat a lady. Not like Jack de Lacey who managed to make even her feel special. Frank lived with his widowed mother and worked long hours in his lonely signal box. What he did up there when there were no trains coming, she had no idea.

‘Oh, it was you did the gates,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I thought Pa was back.’

‘It was as well for you he i’n’t,’ he said, pushing his uniform cap to the back of his head. ‘He’d hev skinned you alive. Negligence that’s what it was. If I hadn’t realised the gates hadn’t been opened for the train, there would have been a very nasty accident and lives could have been lost. Yar Pa would ha’ bin dismissed, like as not sent to jail for manslaughter and you’d be out on yar ear …’ He paused to look at her. She was flushed and breathless and dressed very grandly for a weekday evening, but she was afraid, he could see it in her eyes and it excited him. ‘What did you think you were playing at?’

What he had said was palpably true; there could have been a very nasty incident and it would have been entirely
her fault. She should never have allowed soft words and flattery to lead her astray. Her remorse was genuine, but she was not ready to admit it to this man. ‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Oh, indeed it is when you neglect your work. And if your Pa had come home and found you gone, what was I to say?’

‘But he didn’t. And what you don’t know, can’t hurt you.’

‘I can see a lot from my box, you know.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She was very glad he could not possibly have seen through the trees.

‘I reckon you do. What I am wondering is if I shouldn’t tell your pa when he comes back.’

She gasped. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Oh, then you’ll not mind if I mention I saw you walking nice and cosy into Nayton woods with the young gentleman from the big house. A bit above yarself, i’n’t you? Men of his kind want only one thing from mawthers like you.’

‘That’s a nasty thing to say!’

‘But true. You stop and think about it. And if it hen’t happened already, then I’d be doin’ you a favour tellin’ your pa and puttin’ a stop to it.’

‘Don’t you dare!’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Because Pa will beat me.’

‘And you’d deserve it.’

‘I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t say anything, please Frank.’

‘Verra well. But you owe me.’

‘I know and I’m beholden to you. I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea, shall I?’

‘Is that all my silence is worth, a cup o’ tea?’

‘What do you want then? I’ve got nothing.’ Which was perfectly true; her father, though he received payment for her work, gave her no wages, deeming such a thing unnecessary when she was fed and housed and clothed by him, though most of her clothes were altered garments of her mother’s. She had often wondered why her mother had not taken any of them with her, but Pa had said it was because he had bought them for her and that meant they belonged to him, not her.

‘Your company now and again wouldn’t go amiss,’ he said.

‘My company? What for?’

‘Oh, come on gel, you i’n’t that green. You know what I mean. Walk out with me.’

‘When do I have time to go out walking?’

‘If you can give y’self so freely to others, you can spare some for me what’s known you since you were a sprog.’

‘I’ll have to think about it.’ She did not want an argument now; she was still full of the euphoria of meeting Jack de Lacey and he was spoiling it with his nasty innuendos. It would be easy to fob him off later, by telling him her father could not spare her.

‘Just you do that.’ He gave her another long, hard look and went back to his box, leaving her to see to the gates and light the lamps along each platform, which should have been done as soon as dusk fell, and then she went back to the house. She would stay up for half an hour to catch up on the mending she had meant to do earlier and then go to bed. She did not want to be up when her father came home, knowing her heightened colour and guilty conscience would almost certainly tell him she had been
up to something. Besides, she wanted to lay in bed and go over every word Jack had said to her and try to relive the pressure of his hand holding hers. She did not give Frank Lambert another thought.

Jack walked slowly back to the house, his mind on the problem of getting Lucy out for longer than a snatched half-hour. She had looked dainty and fresh and so uncluttered he wanted to paint her, to try and capture that look on canvas. Would she sit for her portrait? Should he ask her father and put the stamp of respectability on it? But even as the thought crossed his mind he knew Bert Storey would never agree. He would see it as an insult to his daughter, a way of buying her, and no doubt he would imply that the young gentleman’s motives were far from honourable. This led Jack to the vexed question of just how honourable he was, but he shrugged off answering it. Instead he told himself it was his artistic senses which had been aroused. She was a perfect subject with her bright eyes and that gentle expression. Serenity it was. He must capture that.

He drew railway engines all the time, both for work and pleasure, and he had painted his brother and sisters and his mother, even old Jones, the head gardener, hoeing the flower beds, and there were any number of attempts at painting horses, but Lucy would be his masterpiece. He bounded up the steps to the front door, and handed his hat to the footman on duty. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘I believe Lord and Lady de Lacey and Miss de Lacey are in the drawing room, Mr de Lacey,’ the man said. ‘Master Edmund has already retired.’

He put his head round the door of the drawing room, called goodnight and shut it again before anyone could ask
him where he had been, then sprinted up to his room. It was an untidy room because he did not like the servants disturbing his things and the large table under the window was scattered with papers and books. He flicked the switch of the desk lamp, sat down and cleared a space by sweeping everything onto the floor, then he pulled out his sketch pad and flicked the pages over until he came to a blank sheet and began drawing.

He had not been working more than a few minutes when he screwed it up, threw it away and began again. He made several attempts before he realised he could not do it. The face was there all right, recognisably Lucy Storey, but the expression was wooden. The slightly quizzical look of amusement in the eyes, the quiet set of the mouth, the proud neck, all of which he held in his mind’s eye, would not transfer themselves to paper. Angry with himself for being so taken up with her, he left the last effort lying there and went to bed.

She was a nobody, he told himself angrily, and he would do better to think of ways of finding himself a wife who would enhance his reputation. He did not need money, his allowance was more than adequate for his needs and he was paid a salary for the little work he did at the office. What he wanted was the status of a wife from the ranks of the aristocracy, a wife on equal social terms with his half-sisters, someone to make people forget the stock from which he had sprung. The trouble was that prospective parents-in-law were all too aware what his mother had been. He had never been very sure about his real father. He shook himself. He always felt guilty when his thoughts ran along those lines because he adored his mother and he could never tell her how dissatisfied he felt.

A servant brought him tea and shaving water at eight o’clock next morning and he dressed and went down to breakfast, determined to put Lucy Storey out of his mind.

Bernard Hodgkins had been instructed by his mother to look after his siblings and not let anyone separate them and on that Saturday afternoon, the second day of September 1939, he stood in the church hall at Nayton ready to defy the world. Twelve years old he was, and big for his age, and he was not going to be bulldozed into parting with Raymond or Cissie nor, if he could help it, his cousin Martin.

It had been a strange sort of day up to now. The week before, their mother had been dashing about trying to put together the clothes and toiletries that the evacuation people seemed to think were necessary. It had meant pawning their dad’s overcoat and the counterpane off Mum’s bed. Everything was second-hand but it was clean and mended and put into cardboard suitcases, also second-hand. At eight o’clock they had each been handed a case, a packet of sandwiches and their gas masks and taken to the school where, along with the rest of their schoolmates, they had a label pinned onto them and were herded onto buses and then a train. It was then Cissie had started to cry and she had been crying off and on ever since; her face was all swollen, her nose snotty and her eyes red.

All round him were other children from the same school, some were crying, some simply bewildered, some playing up, running up and down shouting and generally showing off. One by one they were inspected and carried off until Bernard began to wonder if they were going to
be left behind. That was all right, he told himself, because then they could go back home.

The lady who had been there to greet them all and who had told them her name was Mrs Hutchins came towards the little group accompanied by a tubby woman in a black hat with a silk rose on the front and another lady who was dressed like a film star. She smiled at Bernard. ‘What is your name, young man?’ She even sounded like a film star, with a lilting accent that entranced him.

‘I’m Bernie Hodgkins, missus. This here’s my sister, Cissie, she’s five and she’s going to start school next term. That’s my brother, Ray. He’s ten.’ He pointed at them one by one. ‘And Martin’s our cousin. He lives next door and he’s ten, same as Ray. I’m twelve. Ma said we weren’t to be split up. I’m to look after the others.’