The Storms of War (23 page)

‘Come on now.’ Emmeline put an arm around her. ‘Don’t cry. Michael will come back.’

‘And Tom.’

‘He is only a servant. Granted, one who admired you excessively. But you don’t need to be flattered by the attentions of a servant.’ Celia felt a hot flush that he had admired her. No one had said that before.

‘He is my friend. Mr Janus was a sort of servant, too.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Samuel is an artist!’

‘Oh, Emmeline, everything is going wrong. Mama is in a bad way. You know I wrote to you that Papa was in prison?’

‘I cried for two days. It’s terrible. He has done nothing!’

‘We went to see him and we thought he was going to come home. We didn’t know your address or you could have come. But now they’ve moved him again after that ship went down.’

‘Ah yes, the ship. I stayed inside, just in case. Samuel and his friend – Mr Sparks, you’ll meet him – walked up to the East End. They saw a terrible riot.’

‘Mama isn’t how she used to be, Emmy. She gets upset. On the day Papa didn’t come back, she shot the horses.’ The words came out messy and broken as she repeated them to get them free of the tears.

Emmeline grasped her hand. ‘She did what? She shot the horses? Which ones?’

‘All of them. Moonlight is dead.’

Emmeline sat down and thrust her hand into her mouth to try to stop herself from crying.

‘Mama said that you would never come back, so she shot them.’

‘I cannot believe it.’

Celia knew it was wrong, but a quick impulse shot through her to make Emmeline suffer as she had. ‘Well, you won’t come back, will you? So what is the use of Moonlight?’

Emmeline wept then, noisily, and Celia was flooded with guilt. She put her arms around her. ‘I am sorry, Emmy. I didn’t mean to upset you. It is just that things have been hard at home.’

Emmeline leant her head on Celia, still weeping, and Celia stroked her hair. Eventually her sister sat up and sniffed, wiped her eyes. ‘You are right, Celia, quite right. I can’t come back, not yet, anyway. I would do nothing for their reputation. It’s not like marrying Sir Hugh.’

‘Yes, well, he was not kind.’

‘I had a lucky escape.’

‘Although, Emmeline, Mr Janus? How could you?’

‘You don’t understand, Ceels. Look, Samuel and his friends know the truth, they explained it to me. With the war, the aristocracy like Sir Hugh will lose everything. The artists will be the ones to succeed, people like Samuel. The money is theirs. One day we will be richer than Sir Hugh could dream of. We will have one of those huge houses in Belgravia and travel all over the world.’

‘Artists? Is Mr Janus really an artist?’

‘Do call him Samuel, Celia. And yes, he is an artist.’

Celia gazed at the canvases covered in spots. Rudolf always said of paintings he didn’t like:
a child could do it!
But it was true, a child
could
do these. ‘I suppose those are his paintings. They don’t look like much to me.’

‘Well, maybe you don’t know much about art.’

‘Do people buy them?’

‘Well, some. He teaches art to private students too, that’s how we live.’

‘And what about you? What have you been doing all year?’

‘It’s a lot of work being a wife – well, like a wife. You wouldn’t understand, Celia. I have to look after the house.’ She cocked her head in the flirtatious way she always did. ‘And I have been trying to draw a little too. Not like Samuel, more conventional, that’s what he says. Figures, fruits, that sort of thing.’

Celia felt ashamed. ‘I haven’t been doing anything. I don’t know why I asked. I’ve just been looking after Mama.’

‘That is hard enough. Come now, Celia, you must be tired after all that travelling. You can lie down. And this afternoon, we have a surprise for you.’ She put a hand to her head. ‘So sorry, Celia, I forgot! Are you hungry? Would you like some tea?’

‘Tea, please. I’d very much like some tea. Shall we call for the maid?’

Emmeline threw her head back and gave her laugh, louder than it used to be at home, still pretty. ‘I don’t have a maid, Celia, dear. It’s me.
I
shall make the tea.’

Celia stared. ‘Do you cook your own food?’

Emmeline blushed. ‘Actually, that hasn’t been so successful. Samuel gets us pies from one of the shops, or we go to a café. But I can certainly make some tea.’

‘Really? You can make tea?’

‘Come along,’ Emmeline boasted. ‘I will show you.’ She stood up and walked to the door by the bathroom, pushed it open. Celia followed her. The kitchen was no bigger than a cupboard really, containing a tiny stove and a stone sink. Emmeline shook the kettle on the stove. ‘It is already filled,’ she said triumphantly. She took a match from a box by the side and struck it, lit under the kettle and a flame popped up.

‘How do you know when it’s made?’

Emmeline waved her hand. ‘Oh, you just
know
.’

Celia watched her pour the water into a teapot, then fill two cups and add milk. ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘I don’t have a tray.’

Celia held the saucer, balanced the whole thing on her hand,
standing – she had never drunk standing before. She sipped it. Tea was much better at home, and was there something wrong with the milk? London water definitely tasted odd.

‘It’s very nice, Emmeline.’

Her sister beamed, ushered her through to the parlour.

‘I would like to rest, actually, sister. Where is my room?’

‘I am afraid you don’t have a room. You can sleep here, or in our room for the moment.’

‘I’ll sleep here!’ She would not lie down in the same room as Emmeline and Mr Janus.

‘Whatever you like.’ Emmeline knelt down and deftly pulled out a thin mattress from under the worn sofa. She seized a bundle of linen from a box on the floor. ‘Come on, help me make it up.’

Celia gazed at her, unsure.

‘Time to learn how to make a bed, little sister! You put the sheet out like this and then you tuck in the corners. See?’

Emmeline was shaking her. ‘Come on, Celia, wake up!’ Celia opened her eyes to see her sister propped over her in her blue gown and hat. She tugged at her arm. ‘We will be late!’

Celia struggled to sit up. The light looked like that of the early afternoon. She could not have slept for long. ‘Late to where?’

‘Come on!’ Emmeline pulled her arm again. ‘No, you don’t have time to change. Let’s just get this dress on you, and try and smooth your hair.’ Emmeline was buttoning her back into her gown and pinning up her hair before Celia could even rub the sleep from her eyes. ‘You are faster than Miss Wilton,’ she said.

‘Needs must! Come on!’ She seized the pink flowers from the green bottle and thrust them into Celia’s hands. ‘Hold these!’ She hurried into the next room and returned with a bigger bunch of lilies and round pink flowers with yellow hearts.

‘You look very pretty, Emmeline.’ She did – she had rearranged her hair, and her lips and cheeks looked brighter. The white lilies set off her fine skin.

‘Good. Let us go!’ In a matter of minutes, Celia had her boots
on, and the two of them had barrelled through the door, locked it behind them and hurried down into the street.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Not far. Just a few streets away. Off we go!’ Emmeline caught Celia’s hand and hurried her around corners, past old men in suits, maids, women pushing prams, through a square of similarly dingy Georgian houses and towards a large church on a road busy with traffic. ‘Hold on tight to the flowers.’

‘We are going to church? On a Tuesday?’

‘Oh, Celia, haven’t you guessed yet? In you go!’

The place was dark and there were a few people dotted around the pews. A man was standing at the front near the altar. Celia’s eyes adjusted slowly. ‘Mr Janus?’ she said to Emmeline.

‘Exactly so! Today is my wedding day, dear sister. And you are my bridesmaid, just as we always planned!’

‘What? What are you talking about? Emmeline!’

‘Come on!’ Emmeline hissed. ‘Walk behind me, like a bridesmaid. And smile!’

Celia followed her, and saw the few people in the church turn as Emmeline walked towards them. She caught Mr Janus’s eye and her face flushed red. Emmeline turned around. ‘Come
along
!’ Celia did her best to rearrange her face and walk, smiling, behind her sister to the altar. Mr Janus watched them approach. He was wearing a dapper yellow suit with a carnation in his buttonhole, and was smiling broadly. He had grown fatter and he didn’t have the sickly look of an invalid about his face any more. Celia supposed some people might say he was handsome, in a sharp sort of way. But still.
He was my tutor!

Celia struggled through the next hour, dizzied and confused by watching Emmeline take Mr Janus to be her ‘lawfully wedded husband’. She blushed furiously when they talked about honouring with their bodies, and dropped her head in embarrassment when Mr Janus slid the ring on her sister’s finger.

They signed the register, witnessed by a man in a pale blue striped suit and a tall, stylish woman in purple. Celia stared at her
sister gazing up at Mr Janus, looking entirely in love. Now she understood why a week on Tuesday was so important.

The organ began to play, and Emmeline and Mr Janus walked down the middle of the aisle. Celia stood uncertainly until the minister tapped her on the shoulder. ‘You should follow them, my dear.’ She clutched her flowers and set off. The man in the third pew who had been one of the witnesses jumped up and stuck out his hand. ‘You must be Emmeline’s sister? Pleased to meet you. The name is Rufus Sparks.’

How do you do, Mr Sparks?
she did not say.

‘Don’t they make a lovely couple?’ said Mr Sparks as he walked down the aisle by Celia’s side. ‘Very happy. I like a good wedding. Especially these days.’

‘This is my first wedding.’ She had imagined weddings, many of them. They seemed to be something that the Deerhurst family did to which the de Witts were not invited. Verena read the announcements and accounts in
The Times,
and passed on news of cousins, uncles, second nephews, the gowns, flowers and the problems of filling the cathedral. Emmeline’s wedding was to be the great one, to which they would all be invited, the one to prove Rudolf’s status, the one to win the Deerhursts back.

‘First wedding, first time a bridesmaid? That’s good luck, you know.’

A thin little man with a huge camera around his neck was trotting towards them. ‘Gather on the steps, please!’ he said. Celia was pushed next to Emmeline, who gave her a beatific smile. ‘I had quite a problem getting Mr Agate here,’ she whispered. ‘He said he was ever so busy with taking pictures of soldiers and their families before they set off to fight.’

‘I cannot believe you are married. Now I see why you were so eager for me to come today.’

‘Smile, Celia! Hold your flowers up and
smile.
’ Celia did as she was told. There was a click and a flash and then Mr Agate called out for them to do it again. People were passing behind him, smiling at them: a wedding party, a happy young bride. Celia
smiled back as they were preserved by Mr Agate’s camera, stopped in time on the steps of a church she barely knew.

Mr Agate took ten more shots, telling them all to move that way, a little forward, madam, a little back. Finally he went away and left them standing there. ‘Come along!’ called Mr Janus. ‘Let us celebrate!’ The tall lady in purple seized Emmeline’s arm – and then she was next to Mr Janus.

He looked at her, his face pale. ‘Congratulations, Mr Janus,’ she said.

‘Samuel, please.’

‘I hope – I hope …’ What were you supposed to
say
at weddings?

‘Thank you for coming, Celia.’

‘Congratulations,’ she said again, but it sounded poor and false. She could not help feeling that they had betrayed her. It was wrong that Emmeline was even there. It didn’t matter that she herself wanted to live in Paris – and for Tom to be there too. She was different. Emmeline was supposed to be the lady of the manor. Celia wanted to seize Mr Janus by the arms and say:
Why do people keep changing?
‘I am very pleased for you.’ She said the words and knew they sounded like Mary Seton, a girl who couldn’t act but who always wanted to be in the school play. Everything she said sounded untrue.

She thought Mr Janus would throw the words back at her. But he didn’t; he merely nodded and said: ‘Thank you, Celia,’ as though she had just read him a good essay on Richard III. Then he stepped away from her. ‘We’re going to eat now. Time to celebrate.’

Mr Sparks appeared next to her. ‘Come, Miss de Witt. As the best man, or at least the closest we have to one in this last-minute affair, I should really escort you.’ He offered her his arm. She shook her head but walked alongside him. He told her he was a friend of Mr Janus’s from university, and talked about how they both went to art classes after their history lectures were over. They passed a swarm of men in khaki, who laughed and cheered ‘The bride and groom!’ as they passed.

‘Poor souls,’ Mr Sparks said.

‘Brave souls,’ said Celia. ‘My brother and my best friend are in France.’

‘Brave, of course. The politicians make mistakes and they send men off to kill each other in the mud.’

‘Michael and Tom would not kill anyone. They are just defending their country.’

‘Well.’ He stopped, smiled. ‘I am sure they would not wish to kill, Miss de Witt. But many others there will have to. Just because our politicians want to have more land. It is all about land. Just think, by the end of her reign, the Queen ruled a quarter of the world’s population. All that pink on the globe. And achieved through what? Nothing but constant fighting, the loss of husbands, sons and fathers. God did not put us on the earth to kill.’

Celia fought for an answer. Sarah’s voice was in her head.
Teach the Kaiser a lesson!
She thought of Johann. He didn’t want to kill. But when he was older, he might have to. ‘Maybe if they talked to the Kaiser, he would stop?’

Mr Sparks threw back his head. ‘Unlikely, Miss de Witt. Britain does this over and over again. It pushes countries into an impossible position. Then they have to fight to escape and we come down hard.’