The Storms of War (15 page)

‘Because you don’t have enough to do. Think of your brother preparing to go to France.’

She hung her head. ‘No.’ She looked up, reached for the vase he was dusting. ‘You won’t go to war, will you?’

He shrugged. ‘We’ll see. Wouldn’t mind a bit of French food.’

‘Please don’t.’

He smiled and ruffled her hair. ‘Just for you, Miss Celia, I won’t.’ She waved at him as he walked away, not entirely sure she believed him.

Still feeling lethargic, she plodded up the stairs. She had not been to the schoolroom since Verena had sent them all out. She had thought Jennie might come in to clear it, but it was just as they had left it. Emmeline’s gold cloak was still on the pile of books. Celia’s copy of the play was lying on one of the desks. She
sat down and began leafing through it.
Then I must be thy lady: but I know/When thou hast stolen away from fairy land.

Emmeline as Titania, Mr Janus as Oberon. She put the picture of Emmeline balancing on the roof from her mind and picked up the golden cape. She draped it over her fingers and wandered over to the desk in front of her. Behind it were the pieces of paper. Celia picked one of them up and glanced idly at it. One line of alphabet, one line of other letters. She took a pencil, sat down on the floor with it and traced between the letters with her fingers. A. B. C. And then, almost without knowing it, she was working out Emmeline’s message. The pencil moved forward.
Yes. I WILL COME …
She looked again.
MEET AT TEN. Until then!

Celia threw down the paper. She hurtled out of the room, dashed up the corridor and threw herself at Emmeline’s door, flinging it open. The room was empty. The bed looked odd and lumpy. She threw off the covers and saw two pillows, laid out like a person. She spun around, brought her hand to Emmeline’s dressing table and her jewellery box. All the rings and pendants were gone, the gold bracelet that Rudolf had given her for her eighteenth birthday.

She dashed from the room and threw herself at the banisters. ‘Mama!’ she screamed. ‘Mama!’

Stoneythorpe, December 1914

‘The factory has been attacked again overnight,’ said Rudolf at breakfast. ‘Lewis tells me he thinks it is not safe to be there. He is very concerned.’ The telephone had rung that morning. ‘In other cities, German shops are being set upon.’

‘Terrible,’ said Verena, as she always did ever since the first attack on the factory in October, just after Emmeline left. That was just daubing, like on their house. Now it was more: windows broken, doors smashed. Last month, the shop in Mayfair had been vandalised by an overnight gang, who stole all the knives. ‘So much violence. Is there much damage?’

One day they’d break in, Celia thought, take everything.

‘Not too serious. Our guards caught it. But we cannot afford to lose productivity. Certainly not at the moment, when we are on the brink of the government contract.’ He nodded. ‘I shall not take tea this morning, dear. I shall be too occupied in my study.’

It was early December. Emmeline sent letters, without an address, to Rudolf and Verena, saying that she was well and that they should not try to find her. Rudolf had written to all the addresses they had for Mr Janus and to the school he had taught at before leaving to be a tutor, but none of them knew where he was.

He had even hired a private detective. A little man in a dark suit had come to the house and looked through Emmeline’s drawers. He had left with a picture of her, saying that his guess was one of the big cities – Birmingham, Southampton or maybe even London. ‘What did I do to deserve these terrible things?’ said Verena. ‘What did I do to my children?’ Celia had confessed
her part in the letters, and Verena had been so angry that she had nearly hit her.

Rudolf had said to Verena, ‘It’s not so important that we find her. What matters is that we make him marry her.’ They said these things in front of Celia now. Occasionally Verena declared that Celia must be able to guess where her sister was, since she and Emmeline had spent so much time together. But Celia shook her head and said no. She was telling the truth. It was a great wide world of places, and Emmeline could be anywhere.

Michael had sent three more letters, none of them much longer than the first. She gazed at his words about soldiering and she could not hear his voice. She had written him ten letters, full of questions, and he had not answered any of them, or sent her more than friendly words in the letters addressed to all of them.

‘I wonder if I should change the name of the shops for the moment.’ The de Witt shops were in London (Hampstead, Kensington and Mayfair), Birmingham and Liverpool. ‘To something like Smith Meats.’

Verena clattered her teacup down crossly. ‘Husband, I cannot conceive of anything more foolish. To throw away the de Witt name overnight? We would lose every one of our customers. And remember, the royal family have kept
their
name.’

‘This is about the mob, not the man who knows what is what.’

‘It’s too late,’ said Celia. ‘They’ve just changed the law. Germans can’t change their names now.’ She’d read about it in the newspapers at the beginning of the month. Too many spies were escaping detection, said
The Times.

Verena shook her head. ‘First we can’t travel and now we can’t change our name. I would have thought the government would have something better to do.’

‘Anyway, there hasn’t been much of a war,’ broke in Celia. ‘It is not like the Germans have
done
anything.’

Verena leaned across the table and clasped Rudolf’s wrist in her hand. ‘We need you. You must stay here to protect your factories. You must stay to protect us! What if Emmeline decides to come home? She would expect you to be here.’

Rudolf shrugged. ‘Sometimes I think that Britain and Germany have always been at war. Little boys threw stones at me when I was a child.’

Verena picked up her knife. ‘All children throw stones.’

‘Just you left,’ said Smithson. Celia had been spending more time than ever down below with the servants. Upstairs was too sad and slow, Verena sitting in the parlour as the clock ticked round, Rudolf buried in his study. At least in the kitchen they were busy.

‘We have standards,’ Smithson would tell her as he moved pieces of furniture or supervised Jennie dusting. ‘We can’t let them slip.’
Even if the master and mistress are
were his unspoken words. Mr Vine and Mrs Bell still hadn’t returned. Miss Wilton left soon after Emmeline, pleading that her married sister needed her help after her husband had signed up. Verena was trying to replace them, but the agencies told her that they had hardly anyone on their books. She declared that she would do her and Celia’s hair, that actually they didn’t
need
a maid.

The ones remaining kept up their routine at Stoneythorpe, airing rooms that no one went in, dusting ornaments no one saw, laying fires that were not lit, setting the table for dinners that never occurred because Rudolf said he had changed his mind and did not wish to eat. Mrs Rolls baked bread and roasted meat that languished by the hearth. She stopped Celia from throwing it away. ‘Who would want to eat stale bread?’ Celia demanded as the cook packed it into cloth bags and gave them to Smithson to take into town.

‘Plenty wouldn’t think that stale at all,’ Mrs Rolls said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Plenty would think it
fresh.’

Mrs Rolls was always trying to think up new ideas for recipes, in the hope of tempting Rudolf and Verena to the table. She whipped up cakes, preserved fruits, covered apples with meringue, and baked fish soufflés. Celia felt sorry for her, told her that she shouldn’t waste her time.

‘It is a pleasure for me, miss. Yes, they might not eat it today, but one day they will. Anyways, if the word I hear is right, I might
find myself baking without sugar or flour in a month or two. The quality of the stuff is nothing to write home about, but I might as well enjoy myself while I can.’

‘If we run out of food, there are always birds to eat,’ said Jennie. ‘Those girls must be getting all those white feathers from somewhere.’

‘They should say what they feel, if you ask me,’ said Ellie. ‘Why should some men be at home when the others aren’t? Mr Smithson?’

Smithson shook his head.

‘Hush, girl!’ said Mrs Rolls. ‘Don’t say such a thing! We couldn’t run Stoneythorpe without John! We can’t send all the men.’

‘We can send some of them.’ Ellie slid a look at Celia. ‘Young Tom from the stables has gone.’

Celia nodded, fighting to control her face. ‘Mr Marks talks of signing up too.’

‘Well, good riddance, we don’t need
his
sort around,’ said Mrs Rolls. ‘But John is a different matter. What a naughty girl you are, Ellie.’

Ellie shrugged. ‘Just saying things how I see them, Mrs Rolls. There’s a lot thinks the same as me, I bet.’

‘Not in my kitchen they don’t. Get along with you to those pans and don’t say another word. Time for you to go upstairs, Miss Celia, if you don’t mind, thank you. The girls have got work to do.’

At dinner that evening, Rudolf mentioned that he had paid Marks double not to sign up.

‘I don’t see why,’ said Verena, flatly. ‘We don’t need those horses any more. What are we going to do with them? Moonlight, to start with.’

‘Mama! You said you wouldn’t! We have to keep the horses for when they all come back.’ When she was younger, Emmeline had loved riding more than any of them. Michael had teased her that the only reason she was marrying Sir Hugh was because of his extensive stables.

Verena was playing with her knife, something she never would
have done only a year ago. Her hair drooped around her face. ‘They are an expense. Lady Redroad says we should donate them all to the war effort.’

‘But you promised you wouldn’t!’

Verena laid down her knife. ‘They are without use, like everything else in this house.’

‘My dear.’ Rudolf raised his arm. ‘Do not say that.’

Verena shook him off. ‘It is true! What use am I as a mother if three of them are gone and God knows when they will return?’

‘My dear,’ Rudolf soothed. ‘I will write to Arthur again. I will ask him to come back.’

‘It will do no good.’ Verena pointed at Celia. ‘And she – she wants to go too. I can tell.’

‘I do not, Mama!’ Celia protested. Guilt wrapped around her heart, for she knew she was lying. There was a world outside Stoneythorpe and she could feel it reaching in to claim her.

‘See,’ said Rudolf. ‘Celia is happy here. She will not leave us. Not my Celia.’ He looked at her fondly across the table and the guilt clenched even tighter.

‘I will not keep them,’ continued Verena. ‘If they do not want to live with me, they cannot expect me to keep their things, look after their horses. And I will not.’

‘My dear, you must not upset yourself.’

‘I do not upset myself. They upset me!’ She put her head on the table and began weeping. Rudolf put his arm around her. Celia stood and crept out of the room. Neither of them saw her go.

Smithson left three days later to join the Hampshires. Rudolf forbade Celia from accompanying the other servants to the station to see him off. She sat on the chill front steps and watched them leave in the carriage, their arms full of bags and baskets of food for him from Mrs Rolls, Jennie smart in her hat, holding her handkerchief to her eyes. They waved at Celia as they left, and Smithson raised his hand, and it was a moment she thought would be like a photograph, conserved and stuck in her mind, frozen in brown and cream, something she would never forget. She waved
and waved until she could not see the wheels of the carriage, or even hear them, but still she was waving. She did not want to stop.

She stood there on the drive. A piece of stone had fallen out of place and she nudged it back with her foot. She meant to go back to the house and start tidying her books, as Verena had told her. But her feet were carrying her forward and she followed them. Before she knew it, she was out on the road. The cold winter sun beat down on her bare head. She pulled her cloak around herself against the freezing wind. The road curved and she followed, walking on with it, further and further towards the village. She turned off towards the cobbled road and the low houses with white fronts. The Cotton home.

Other houses were open to the road, the women leaning out of the doors, children swarming over the steps. The Cottons’ house was closed. When Celia was younger, she often imagined houses with personalities, thought of them as happy or sad, drew them so with the door as the mouth. The Cottons’ home had once looked like all the rest, she thought, but now it was shuttered up and downcast, unfriendly. It was as if it wished to turn its back entirely on everyone. And then she chastised herself for childishness, finding faces in things that did not have faces at all. They were at war – Michael and Tom were fighting, and Smithson was on his way. Everybody had to be an adult now.

She needed a position to spy from, of that she was sure. Slightly up a hill was a wall, part of which looked like it had been the surround for a well that had fallen down. She hurried up to it and crouched behind it. She waited. People milled around her, women mainly. A small boy peered at her and hissed, ‘What are you doing there?’

‘I’m looking for my pet mouse,’ she whispered back. She shook her head when he offered help, and he wandered off.

Finally she had her moment. The door of the Cotton house opened and Mrs Cotton came out. Celia felt a stab of remorse when she saw her. Tom’s mother’s pretty face was crushed and sad. Her dark hair fell unarranged around her face. She dragged her feet as she headed towards the village green.

Still, Celia reminded herself, she could not feel sad for her. She had to act. She jumped out from behind the wall and hurried down to the house. She knocked twice and then walked in. The hall was as dark as it had been before.

‘Ma?’ came a voice. ‘Is that you?’ Celia felt sure it was Mary.

‘It’s me,’ she called back. ‘Where are you?’

‘Who are you?’

But Celia had already located the whereabouts of the voice. She hurried up the stairs and along the corridor to a white-painted door. ‘Miss Cotton?’ She pushed open the door.

Mary’s red hair was untied and frizzy around her shoulders. She was buttoning a pinafore on to Missy. The room was painfully cold without a fire.

‘I came to see you,’ burst out Celia before the girl had a chance to speak.

‘You shouldn’t be here, miss. Ma would forbid it.’

‘Who’s this, Mary?’ whispered the child.

Mary pulled the pinafore tight at the top. ‘You remember, Missy. You went to her party. She’s the lady who came before to tell us Tom had gone.’

‘Why’s she here?’

‘I’d ask her the same.’ Mary slotted through the top button and bent to pick up the comb for the child’s hair. Celia studied her, but she couldn’t see much of Tom in Mary’s flat face and small features. The little girl had the same sort of look too: big cheeks, tiny features. Neither of them had Tom’s large eyes and mouth.

Celia took a breath. ‘I wanted to know if you had heard from Tom. If you had received any letters.’

Mary shrugged. ‘Of course he writes. We have had five, I think. No, six.’ She cast a sly look. ‘Does your brother not write to you, miss?’

‘He does. His letters are short. He says they are well, the people are friendly, the food not too bad.’

Mary took a brush and began smoothing out the child’s hair. ‘He writes, miss. What else can you expect?’

Celia sat down on the bed, even though no one had offered. ‘I
just can’t see it, do you understand? I just can’t see where he is. I can’t imagine it. He says there is not too much mud and he has got a little sunburn. He doesn’t tell me about the other men or what they eat or do or anything.’

Mary was plaiting now, smoothing one skein of hair over another. ‘Tom doesn’t tell us much either. His letters sound pretty alike.’

Celia did not speak immediately. She took a breath. The words waited in front of her, shining in the air. She could not say them. And then she did. ‘Might I see them?’ She could not help adding more words. ‘I would like to see them.’

Mary paused. ‘I don’t know where they are.’