Heart of War (2 page)

Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to love together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and health …?

Naomi Rowland, standing beside her father, John, nodded her head in approval as Johnny Merritt's voice rang out firm and clear – ‘I will.' She had not seen much of him, but she liked what she had; and perhaps he was the right man for Stella, if anyone was. That girl needed a strong hand, and though Johnny was very polite – more polite than Englishmen of his class would have been – she sensed a firmness underneath. The trouble was, or might be, that Stella was flighty. She put the thought away firmly. It would work out well. She smoothed down her khaki barathea tunic and, glancing round, caught the eye of her cousin Virginia Rowland, also dressed in khaki, but in the uniform of the Women's Legion, while Naomi's was that of
the Women's Volunteer Motor Drivers. There was much khaki and navy blue in the church, come to see the squire's only daughter wed to the young American. And Uncle Christopher had been so right to forbid long trains, scores of bridesmaids, expensive gowns, and all that tosh – always insulting to women, as though they were heifers to be decked out for the bull – dangerous tosh in times like these. She wished her friend from Girton, Rachel Cowan, had come. A year ago, she would always have found time to be with Naomi, whatever the difficulties. They were growing apart, that was the truth … sad; but it couldn't be helped.

Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance
… ?

Betty Merritt listened carefully as the rector, old Mr Kirby, intoned the words. He looked strange in a surplice. The last time she had seen him, just after she and her father had arrived from New York, he'd been sitting low on a fat cob, galloping across a ploughed field, his lined old face purple in the cold, mouth open as he swore at the horse, eyes bolting with excitement, the Master's horn shrilling behind the hill …
‘Obey him'
… Stella would have no difficulty in keeping that part of the oath, she thought. She liked to be told what to do. Whether she would obey Johnny's unspoken but obvious wishes, keep to his standards, Betty could not say. She did not know Stella well enough yet to make that judgment about her. She looked across at Ginger Keble-Palmer's long profile: a nice, shy man; and, though he did not know it yet, she intended that he should be more than that to her. She had learned already that he was a good aircraft designer, and worked for Richard Rowland and her brother at the Hedlington Aircraft Company. He did not know anything important about her; specifically, he did not know that at Smith she had taken solid geometry, algebra, plane and spherical trigonometry, analytic geometry and calculus, both integral and differential. He was going to learn, soon. And her father was going to be reminded.

She heard the tramp of marching men from outside the church, even through the doors closed against the February cold. She heard the clink of steel on steel. She heard, pervading the candled twilight, the buzz of an aeroplane
circling somwhere overhead, a searching, intrusive wasp.

Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?

Richard Rowland watched approvingly as his brother-in-law, Christopher Cate, took a step forward, his daughter's hand in his, and, leaving her at Johnny's side, stepped back. Christopher looked sadder than the occasion warranted. His only daughter being married to a rich and personable young American was hardly cause for tears … but Christopher had never been one to laugh lightly; and now he was probably thinking of Margaret, his wife, and wishing she was at his side … but Margaret had hidden herself in the back streets of Dublin, or in some cottage in the bogs, a gun always by her; and Sinn Fein, not her husband or children, was her only care now. Perhaps she did not even know that Stella was being married, though the announcement had been made in the Dublin papers as well as the
Times, Telegraph
and
Morning Post
. Turning his head, he caught sight of Willum Gorse, beaming in simple pleasure … but then Willum
was
simple. He was glad to see that Willum's half-brother Bert Gorse hadn't got a half-day off to attend. That swine had been agitating the men in the J.M.C. again – but now he'd got him. The conscription bill had been passed, making all unmarried men under forty liable to military service. Bert was thirty-five or thirty-six; and he was unmarried; and he, Richard Rowland, would make it his business to see that the responsible authorities were made aware of those two facts. He glanced at his wife, Susan, beside him. Tomorrow the chauffeur was going to drive her up to the orphanage in Camberwell to pick up the two children she was going to adopt … that
they
were going to adopt, he should say; but he found it hard to associate himself with the business. In seventeen years of marriage they had not produced any children of their own, and then, late last year, she had suddenly announced that as he had his factories for ‘children,' she intended to adopt not one but two real ones. He should have gone with her on her two previous trips, to visit orphanages, and talk to governors – and children – but he had had no time. The affairs of the J.M.C. and the H.A.C. – both of which he managed, and both of which were ultimately owned by Johnny Merritt's
father's bank in New York – kept him more than busy. He should have made time. The children were going to be his, too, whether he liked it or not.

He could hardly hear what old Kirby was saying, for now the distinctive sound of guns on the move was filling the church – the jingle and clink of the harness, the rumble of the gun and limber wheels on the gravelled road. A horse neighed, then someone shouted a series of unintelligible orders, and the hoofbeats quickened to a gallop, the rumbling and clanking grew louder, faster.

I John take thee Stella to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish …

Florinda Gorse listened idly. She had heard the words many times, for all her life she had been in demand as a bridesmaid at the village people's weddings. Not of the gentry, of course … especially not now that everyone knew she was living with the old Marquess of Jarrow, as his mistress. But if Jarrow wasn't having her on, and if the booze didn't kill him first, she'd soon hear those words spoken about her … probably not in a church, though. The Marquess wasn't much of a churchgoer, and she imagined that their marriage would be in a registry office, if it came off at all. She wouldn't mind. There was a nice man inside that shrivelled and soden little shell, somewhere … or had been; but the brandy and whisky had long ago all but drowned him … Miss Stella had won a fine man, she could tell. Keeping the man and the marriage would be up to her; and Florinda doubted her strength of will. Oh, she had the good intentions, and the training, all right … but they weren't much use when your husband had become boring, or neglectful, and another nice man was looking deep into your eyes, or when the bottle in the cupboard seemed to be offering help … excitement. That was what Miss Stella wanted most, that was the danger. She looked nice in her light brown wool dress. She would have looked better still in her V.A.D. uniform, but she'd left them a fortnight ago, in readiness for her marriage. So what did she think she was going to do all day, with the husband at the Aircraft Company till all hours? She'd have done well to stay in the
V.A.D. A woman needed something to keep her hands, and mind, busy these times … until she had a baby, of course.

I, Stella take thee, John, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse …

Laurence Cate, home for the weekend from Charterhouse on special exeat for the wedding of his sister, wondered why his Aunt Alice was called Dormouse by her brothers, his Uncles Richard, John, Quentin, and Tom … by her sister, his mother, too. Perhaps she – Aunt Alice – had been very quiet and shy when she was a little girl. She wasn't now. She'd been asking him whether he'd seen any rare birds since Christmas … she was nice to talk to … always seemed to be interested in what you were doing, or wanted to do … Mummy wasn't, often. He thought she loved him, but wasn't sure. She loved Ireland more; or Ireland mattered more, or something. He imagined his mother hiding in a bog – Ireland was full of bogs – listening to strange Irish birds singing … and the war went on, and on, and on, and now here they were, all round the church, rifles popping off blanks, and an aeroplane snarling round and round above, and he'd turned seventeen last November. He shivered and closed his eyes and tried to close his ears, but could not.

… for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth
.

Fiona Rowland, the bride's aunt by marriage, hardly heard the long-familiar words, or the warlike sounds of the soldiers outside. Did Archie Campbell, her lover, secretly fear her so much, then, that he could vanish without a word, knowing that she was at last leaving her husband and children and coming to him … leaving her to find out from the landlady that he had gone, the studio locked up? It had been like a blow in the face – first the fact of the locked door, then the shame of the humble inquiries, the disdainful old harridan – ‘No, Mr Campbell left no address'; but of course the woman knew, really, for she must be forwarding letters, receiving the rent. In one sense Fiona knew where Archie had gone: he had joined up – she was certain of that. But in
what regiment, or corps? Why no word, and six weeks passed? The slow appreciation of what stood behind his actions was even worse than what the immediate impact had been: that he would rather face death in the trenches than accept her love, and have her live with him, with or without marriage … She had been on the point of demanding from Quentin that he divorce her; she had told her son and daughter, Guy and Virginia, what she was going to do; and then … she had come back from London, her heart a cold stone …
till death us do part
… She had prayed for death to cut the bonds that held her to Quentin; but Fate had laughed in her face. Quentin was somewhere in France, still alive; and he had been at the front since August 1914 – nearly a year and a half!

She thought, this is ridiculous: here is young Stella embarking on a new life while all I can seem to do is mope and moan. The first thing to do was find Archie. As he was a Campbell, he would have wanted to join the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders: Campbells were often not welcome in other regiments, whose clan sympathies had decidedly been with the Macdonalds in the affair at Glencoe. The Argylls' depot was in Stirling Castle. She'd ring the adjutant this very night, and find out. And if he jibbed at giving her what she wanted to know, she'd remind him that she was a McLeod of Skye … but what if Archie had enlisted under an assumed name? She groaned involuntarily, but it was loud enough to make her daughter Virginia, lumpy with puppy fat in her Woman's Legion uniform, look round at her – accusingly?

With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost
.

‘Amen,' Probyn Gorse said loudly. Now ‘twas done, and Miss Stella wed. About time, too. Next, squire ought to think of himself. A man needed a woman, for one thing and another, all his life. His Mrs was as good as dead. Probyn didn't know what the law said about it, but as far as a man was concerned, who wanted and needed a woman, as squire did in that big Manor House, she was dead. Perhaps she really was. A good thing, too, as long as it was done in the
open, and they found the body, and could say, ‘This was Margaret Cate'; then squire could marry another woman.

He jumped, and swore under his breath. Good God A'mighty, they were firing off those danged guns right outside the churchyard, cracking the tombstones, jerking the dead out of their coffins. Miss Stella was looking round, her face alive, staring back, fidgeting …
bang!
…
bang!
…
bang!
– the 18-pounders barked.

Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.

Rose Rowland felt the tears fill her eyes. Stella was the first of her grandchildren to be married, as she had always expected. Girls married younger than boys, in their class, and though Naomi was older, Rose had never thought she would marry before Stella. Naomi wasn't pretty and round-figured, like Stella. Naomi was tall and proud and brave; her heart and her future lay where few women had gone before … and few had wanted to, till these insane, sad days. She cried soundlessly, because she knew she would not see any great-grandchild. Her husband's hand was on hers, patting in comfort; but Harry could not assuage her grief, though she loved him and he her.

Forasmuch as John de Lisle Merritt and Stella Cate have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost
.

And ‘Amen,' the congregation intoned, heaving a long collective sigh, that could be felt in the bowels as well as heard in the ear.

They waited then, while the bridal party followed the rector to the vestry for the signing of the marriage register. Up in the organ loft Miss Morton sonorously embarked on her favourite composition, Bach's
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor
. The guns banged, the west window, which was of stained glass, shook and shivered, men shouted, horses' hooves clattered, motor lorry engines roared, the aeroplane
buzzed and whined. At last they came out of the vestry, Miss Morton slipped from Bach to Mendelssohn, and they started slowly down the aisle, the big bouquet of lilies in the crook of Stella's left arm, her right in her husband's. She's walking fast, Probyn thought, she's almost dragging him along … faster, faster … she doesn't want to miss what's going on outside. They passed and Probyn waited till a dozen or so of the gentry had gone by, following, then slipped in among them and out of the church.