The Storms of War (35 page)

‘Oh, Verena dear. Not so long.’ And then she felt churlish, because Heinrich was Rudolf’s dearest friend – practically a brother really. He had a new wife to support and hadn’t found a proper line of work. She did feel sorry for him, really! But when Rudolf came in late, night after night, smelling of drink (and sometimes, she worried, smoke), it was hard to feel the gracious sympathy she knew was the preserve of a true lady. And Heinrich sometimes sent her rather odd looks, extraordinary, even.

‘What a lovely-looking lady you are,’ he had said, brushing against her that morning.

But complaining to your husband that his cousin was too complimentary – what sort of behaviour was that? Lady Deerhurst – who Verena often imagined in her head – would have been very firm:
That sort of behaviour belongs in the schoolroom, dear,
she would have said.

Well, Mama,
replied Verena,
it’s not just me.

It wasn’t. She had seen Heinrich following Sarah around with his eyes. And even – worse – Maria. Sarah was a plain girl, with popping eyes and a pug nose. No one could seriously be in love with her – apart from the children, who climbed all over her in flushes of adoration. Maria Cotton, their upper housemaid, was beautiful. Lady Deerhurst would never have employed her, but when she had come for her interview, Verena had felt ashamed of her instinctive reaction – that such a pretty girl would be trouble – and determined to give her a chance based on her abilities.
Oh, just stop talking, Mama,
she had said to her mother in her head.

Maria was a good maid, quick, obedient, respectful. But she was so painfully attractive, which was always more upsetting when one knew one was only a year away from getting so
large
again – and
all the rest of the indignities that went with it. Even Rudolf, who was the most tactful soul alive and as devoted to one woman as the Prince Consort had ever been, had mentioned three or four times what a fine-looking girl Maria was.

I do not imagine things!
said Lady Deerhurst.
Neither do you.

Should I consult my husband on the matter?
Verena wondered. On the one hand, he had told her she should always feel she could confide in him. On the other, this was surely something she could address herself. And he loved his cousin so, he would hate to hear any aspersion. Even worse, what if talking of men and housemaids put an idea into his head? Rudolf was an innocent, that had been almost immediately clear to her. She had to preserve that state.

Mama?
she tried again.
Should I tell Rudolf?

But Lady Deerhurst, normally so garrulous, was silent.

In the end, Verena decided not to say anything. Instead she engaged in a quite excruciating interview with Maria while the girl was dusting the mantelpiece.

She walked into the room and shut the door. ‘Maria, I wondered if we might speak.’

‘Of course, madam,’ said the girl, turning around smartly. Her face was so docile that Verena was covered in shame at what she had thought.

‘I just wondered if you … were happy here?’

‘Of course, madam.’ Her answer rang with surprise.

‘Oh good.’ Verena sat down to support her back – aching
already
? ‘I am glad. Yes. Very glad. It is … well … if you ever felt that you were not, you should say.’ She stumbled on her words. The girl was staring at her. This was not going as she had expected.
Mama!
she cried in her head.
Could you help me?
Again Lady Deerhurst was silent.

‘Well, if you were not happy here. If there was anything you might wish to … talk about. Yes. I hope you might … tell me.’ The girl stared at her. An awful blush spread over her face.

‘I am very content here, madam.’ She bowed her head. When she looked up, her eyes were dark beads. ‘Has anyone said I am not?’

‘No, no.’

‘I am most content.’ She tossed her head. ‘Of course I won’t be here for ever.’

Verena nodded, dumbly.

‘I have learned a lot here about how to run a household. It will come in useful for the future.’

Verena heaved herself to her feet – the girl did not offer her a hand, she noticed. ‘Thank you, Maria,’ she said. ‘You may continue.’

Maria nodded, perfectly obedient. And yet, as Verena watched her turn back to the dusting, she had the curious sensation that positions had been reversed in the oddest fashion. The girl was the one telling her to go away; it was her house and Verena was the maid.

Verena felt dizzy, clutched the arm of the chair.

Oh, what nonsense,
rang Lady Deerhurst in her mind.
You need to lie down, Verena. The child in you is making you imagine things.
She had never been so grateful for the appearance of her mother in her life.

And Lady Deerhurst had been quite right – as usual. The summer had rolled on. At the end of August she came down to breakfast and Heinrich was telling Rudolf that he simply had to leave that day. Urgent business, he said.

‘We will be so sorry to see you go,’ she said, holding his hand. She did not say, however,
Please visit again soon.
Maria was more sullen in the days afterwards, but she took it as simply the effect of the sun. And perhaps, she thought, she had not been the most
pleasant
mistress.
You must set an example of behaviour to your servants,
said Lady Deerhurst.
They are like children. They follow you.

Verena realised she had been sitting on the marble seat in the hall of Stoneythorpe for nearly an hour. Her legs were cramped under her in the cold. She stood up to stretch them. That was when she saw the letter by the front door. It was from France. Not in Michael’s handwriting. She leapt forward, full of joy. They were telling her he was finally coming home.

Stoneythorpe, December 1916

Four years ago, the whole village would have come to Michael’s funeral. Now, apart from the vicar, the church held just them and the servants. Arthur had written to say that travel was impossible. Celia thought she hardly knew what he looked like any more. She thought of him in terms of the photograph in Rudolf’s study – the dark hair, thin face, too long nose, the mouth she knew was handsome but too narrow – for there was no other way to remember him.

Emmeline and Mr Janus, Verena and Celia stood in a row in the chill church. The greenery up for Christmas was a mockery, Celia thought. Last night had been the first time Emmeline and her mother had met since that dreadful schism – and this morning had been the first time that anyone had seen Lady Deerhurst, thin and pale, hobbling in with her maids, since long before the war. She was accompanied by their cousins – Verena’s sister said she was too unwell – Matthew and Louisa, looking respectably sad and neatly dressed. Sarah, their old nanny, had arrived in a car paid for by Verena. Last night, Celia had come by train from London with Emmeline and Mr Janus. Verena had surprised them all by grasping Mr Janus and weeping on his shoulder. ‘At least I still have three of my children,’ she was saying. ‘Some would tell me I should feel grateful.’

Celia looked around and a big tear rolled down her face. Michael would have expected more. When she was younger and feeling as if she had been unfairly treated at school or by Verena, she would luxuriate in imaginings of her own early death and funeral. The pews of a grand church in London would be full of weeping, all
sorts of people she had never met. Every girl from Winterbourne would be standing there looking miserable. The church would not be nearly empty, as this one was. She felt Emmeline clutch her hand. The vicar began talking of peace and charity. Verena was still standing rod straight. Celia felt more tears falling from her eyes and did not try to stop them. She supposed that her father had been told, but how could you know? She imagined him sitting alone in his cell, receiving an official letter from somewhere.
Your son is dead.
He wept alone, maybe wrote a letter, even though no one would ever see it.

The bearded man had come to them while they were waiting outside for Lady Deerhurst to arrive. He held out his mittened hand to Verena as his breath pooled in the cold air. ‘Professor Punter.’ He looked, Celia thought, as everyone would think a professor should look: dirty grey hair falling past his ears, pale skin and an old navy jacket over baggy trousers. He gestured to the young man beside him. ‘This is Dr Green, lecturer in classics. He cannot fight due to his lungs.’

‘Thank you for coming, Professor. Dr Green. We are very grateful.’

‘I was very fond of Mr de Witt. An excellent student. We had hopes for further study for him.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I go to more and more funerals these days.’

Emmeline pushed Celia forward. ‘My sister is interested in study, Professor. She likes literature.’

Celia blushed furiously. Professor Punter gave her a distant smile. ‘Well, miss, young ladies might soon be the only ones left remaining to study.’

Celia could not talk to him. Nothing seemed real, nothing was right. She felt as if she could see every tiny particle in the air and they made a mass around her. She could not push through it. She was not properly there, properly alive. Professor Punter was an invention. In a minute, Michael would walk around the corner, throw back his head and laugh.

The Professor shook his head. ‘Mr de Witt was an excellent
student. I was not surprised to learn he had died such a brave death.’

Verena looked up. ‘Oh really, Professor? We have little detail. My daughter has written to the War Office but we’ve had no reply. All we know is that he died in the course of his duties.’ Dr Green was looking at the floor. Celia supposed he was embarrassed because he couldn’t fight.

‘One of my students told me that he died saving a friend of his, a young man in the same division. In the heat of battle he stopped to help him, drag him back to safety, and that’s when he was shot.’

Celia could feel her mother stiffen. ‘Which young man?’

Professor Punter was still talking, looking into space. ‘Such a brave act, is it not? I knew I could rely on my boys. I believe they are told not to stop for fallen comrades. And yet Michael was determined to do so. The Ancient Greeks would be proud. It makes me think of the words of Seneca.’

As he talked about Seneca, Celia could feel her mother growing jumpy beside her, not wanting to interrupt him out of politeness but worrying that Lady Deerhurst was about to arrive.

‘Professor, do you know the name of the young man he saved?’ she said, in the midst of a monologue about
Plutarch’s Lives.

He broke off and looked at them vaguely, as if they were his students. ‘Why yes. I believe his name was Tom Cotton. A friend of the family, is that not correct?’

Verena’s face was pure fury. Celia said, ‘Mama—’ to stop her from speaking. But then Lady Deerhurst arrived and they all curtseyed and bowed to her, progressed into the church.

The day after the commandant had given her the news, Warterton took her to the station. ‘Tell me you’ll come back, Witt,’ she said. ‘Please.’

‘I will try,’ said Celia. She couldn’t see past returning home and the funeral, couldn’t imagine the world moving after that. ‘I don’t know.’

She travelled back from France with another girl, Bligh, who was being sent home for pneumonia. She coughed all the way, so
much that Celia sometimes thought there must be no sound left in her. On the boat over, a few soldiers tried to engage them in conversation, not put off by Bligh’s terrible coughing, but Celia ignored them. She came into Charing Cross and went straight to Emmeline’s. It was six o’clock. Emmeline put her arms out and held her close.

And now here they all were in the church, watching as the vicar ploughed through the words. Celia had turned her head, looking for Matthew and Louisa. Instead, she saw Tom. Her blood froze. She could not speak. He was wearing uniform, his arm in a splint. He was taller, she thought, thinner, his face was browner – but it was
him.
She tried desperately to catch his attention, but he did not look. She smiled. He ignored her. Emmeline had noticed her shuffle around and saw, drew in a sharp breath. Then Verena turned to see what was happening and Celia saw her face blanch. Verena poked Emmeline in the ribs. ‘Look forward!’ she hissed at Celia. Celia did so, staring at the vicar, listening to his words. After a fit amount of time had passed, she turned again. Tom was not there.

Panic spread through her. She clutched her sides. Surely he had just walked out to take a little air and would be back. But when she looked again, he was still not there. She put her hand to her heart and felt it grow cold. She could not bear it. She pushed past Mr Janus, on the end of the pew, and hurtled down the side aisle and out of the door. There was no sign of him outside. ‘Tom!’ she shouted. ‘Tom.’ The village green in front of her gave back her call, mocking. She waited for a few minutes. It was the singing of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’ from inside that pulled her back. So few people were singing. The thin, broken sounds filled her heart with pain.

After the service, they went to watch Michael’s gravestone being erected. They buried a few of the belongings that had been sent back – a belt, a buckle, one of his letters – but of course no body. The vicar had said it was irregular but allowed it on account of Michael’s great sacrifice for his country. Celia tried not to think
of the corpses she had seen in France, the tattered remains of men. Her mother had been spared that, at least.

At the graveside, she craned and craned, turned around repeatedly to see, hoping that Tom might be there, but he did not come.

Lady Deerhurst, Matthew, Louisa, Professor Punter and Dr Green came back to the house for a dismal tea with the vicar. The Professor talked loudly about Seneca and then the rituals of Sparta, how they suffered for bravery. Lady Deerhurst stared at the room, its new shabbiness, and said it was much changed. Celia was grateful for Cousin Matthew, thin and bespectacled, who talked about his interest in painting and admired the portraits of Arthur and Michael on the walls. At fifteen, he was already taller than her. Louisa sat and gazed around the room, clutching Lady Deerhurst’s hand. She had very pretty dark eyes, Celia noticed, and the upright posture she herself had never managed. She supposed Lady Deerhurst would be planning a marriage for her to someone terribly grand. After a proper amount of time had elapsed, they all made their excuses. Lady Deerhurst clambered up into her carriage, waving gracefully.

After the others had gone, they sat in the sitting room, surrounded by the cakes Mrs Rolls had made. Her heart had not been in it and the seedcake had been sour. ‘How could you have engaged in such an exhibition?’ Verena was furious. ‘How could you, Celia?’

‘She was just trying to get some air,’ broke in Emmeline. ‘That’s all, Mama.’

‘Emmeline, you know that is not true. She ran out of the service in front of everyone.’ They were speaking as if Emmeline had never gone away. Celia supposed Verena was saving her words for Emmeline until later. Michael’s death had taken everything and turned it around.

‘There weren’t that many people to be in front of, Mama.’

‘Don’t say that,’ said Emmeline.

Celia hung her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mama. I just wanted to ask him about what happened.’

‘We all know what happened, Celia. There is nothing more to
know. Your brother died saving … that man.
He
should have been the one to die.’

Tom had written. A letter had come after the one from Michael’s CO – he had said that Michael had died bravely in an enemy attack, but gave no details. ‘My whole world is lost,’ he wrote.

‘He didn’t even have the honesty to tell us!’ said Verena.

‘Maybe he couldn’t,’ said Mr Janus. ‘They don’t let men write that much in their letters. And it seems like he was the only one to survive.’ They had expected letters from other men in his company, but nothing had come.

Emmeline dropped her head into her hands and wept. Celia put her arms around her and her head against her shoulder. She could think of nothing to say.

That evening, when Emmeline and Verena were safely in their rooms, Celia left her room and hurried down the stairs. Thompson was at the bottom, still clearing up after the tea.

‘Where are you going, miss?’

‘I need some air.’

He held out his hand. His eyes were reddened and sore-looking. ‘Don’t go out, miss.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll call Jennie, we could talk. She had a letter from Smithson last week. He’s in Mesopotamia now, says days aren’t too bad if the water cart turns up on time.’ He was talking fast at her. She didn’t want to hear it, not about the men who were still alive when Michael was dead. Marks was with the Hampshires and she felt sick with herself that she hated him for being alive.

‘Just wait one moment, miss.’

‘You can’t stop me.’ She pushed past him towards the door and ran out around the side of the house. It was dark, but she followed the route she knew towards the side street of low houses. One of the lights was on in the Cotton house. She knocked on the door. No one came. She knocked again. The door opened a crack. Mary’s face appeared.

‘Oh, not you.’

‘Tom is here.’

‘No, he isn’t. Please. Go away.’

‘He must be. I’ve just seen him.’

Mary opened the door a little. ‘What are you talking about? He’s not here.’

‘I saw him.’

‘I don’t believe you. Go away.’ She started to close the door. ‘Your brother dragged him off to war. Now he’s in hospital somewhere, we don’t know where. All thanks to your family.’

‘My brother died saving him!’

‘I’m sorry for your loss. But Tom’s not here.’ Mary closed the door as she was speaking. Celia knocked again but there was no answer.

She walked back home. Tom had come to the funeral but not seen his family. She might think she had imagined him – or it had been someone else – but Verena and Emmeline had seen him too. Then she remembered. Michael was gone, dead in a cold trench in France, and they would never see him again. She walked back, overcome with desolation.