The Wild Dark Flowers (21 page)

He stroked the hand that lay in his. “For some men,” he said. “Not all.”

“Ah, I know that,” she said.

They remained there for much longer; he wouldn’t be able to remember, looking back, for how long. It was enough to be next to her; he wanted nothing else. He asked nothing of her, thinking that it was shelter that she needed—not just this place and its anonymity—but kindness and time. He had all the time in the world just now. That might change; but he wanted to give her this afternoon, peaceful, gentle, quiet as the rain.

At last, towards the end of the afternoon, the rain stopped and they heard the buzzing of bees in the gorse. Jack wondered idly how far the bees flew, and if it was as far, to them, as men traveled. All the miles to London, where Louisa’s parents waited for Harry. All the miles to France. Unraveling miles. So many miles, so many journeys. All the earth was moving, India and Canada and New Zealand, coming from all over. Horses and men across the seas. That made his heart ache, a thing he would not admit, even to her.

“We can’t stay anymore,” he said grudgingly at last. “Father will wonder where I am.”

But they did stay, touching only in the entwined hands.

“I’ve something to tell thee,” he said, finally.

She turned and looked at him. “What is it?”

“I’m thinking of enlisting.”

She didn’t object, or speak: she stayed looking at him with almost no expression. “You’ve a reserved occupation here. There’s so few left,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “And I don’t like this war. Not that I don’t say to drive the Germans back—they’ve no need to come through another country, they’ve no right—but there’s nothing but grief. No man wants to be a part of grief.” He knew he wasn’t explaining himself properly. “Places get stained with it. We do, even here. There’s lies in the paper. There’s no victory in standing on a million dead men.”

Her gaze didn’t leave his face. “You think there’ll be so many?”

“And more,” he said. “And what for? What’s it for?”

She had begun to frown a little. “You’re a pacifist,” she said. “Pacifists are spat upon. They put them in prison, even. It’s a dirty phrase, Jack, a conscientious objector. I don’t want that for you.”

“I don’t doubt there’s a label for me.”

“Then why on earth would you enlist?”

“The things you read in the papers, how they need men.”

“And so you would go to support a war you don’t believe in?”

“No,” he told her. “Go to support the men like me that’s out there. Those got roped into this and are trying to find a way out.”

“By killing others.”

He thought about it for some time. “You’d not think the best of me, then, for signing up?”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t think less of you, Jack.” She squeezed his hand tighter. “Some might say you are braver than most, for doing what you hate to do.”

He looked past her to the still-wet remains of the garden. “I want to get into a veterinary corps. There are veterinary hospitals. I want to do that.”

“Ah,” she murmured quietly. “Now I understand.”

“I would like to speak to his lordship, if he’d hear me. I thought he might know how to go about it. Make sure that it was with horses. I could be some use, then.”

She extricated her hand, and touched his arm so that he looked back at her. “It’s not like here, on the farms. It’s nothing like that.”

“I know it.”

“You could do a lot. I know you could,” she said. “There would be no one better than you to care for animals. But there wouldn’t be time to do what you and your father have done here. Sit through the night nursing them. Letting them take things steady if they’re ill. Watching them, taking time. There would be none of that at all, Jack. No time, no peace.”

“I know.”

“And you could bear it? To see an animal suffer?”

“If they go through it, so could I.”

She looked at him for a long time, then said quietly, “I don’t want you to go, Jack.” She eventually leaned back into his body, reaching for his arm and drawing it about her. He felt her shiver. “It’ll break your heart.”

“Aye,” he replied softly. He pressed his lips to her hair, and closed his eyes. “I’ve no doubt of that.”

*   *   *

W
illiam Cavendish sat in his study at Grosvenor Square, holding a thin piece of paper in his hand.

It had been delivered that morning, just after Octavia and Charlotte had gone out. The regular post had come and gone; it was now after midday, and he had been in the hallway trying to obtain a connection to Folkestone from the telephone company. It was a complicated business; he had put in his request, and been asked to wait, and thereafter told that the company would ring him back when they had found the person to whom he wished to speak.

“Good heavens,” he had muttered irritatedly. He had only wanted to make contact with the shipping company to make sure of the hospital ship’s time of arrival. Then, however, he had realized that this was probably highly classified information. As he had turned away from the telephone, a courier had come to the door.

“What is it?” William had inquired of the servant, thinking that it may well be a telegram from Harry.

It was handed to him: a very thin yellow envelope with a Liverpool postmark and the insignia of the Cunard Line. It was addressed to Octavia, and he had paused, confused; then, frowning, he had torn it open.

He looked at it now for the twentieth time.

“Confirmation of transmission to Mr. J. Gould . . .”

Sent late yesterday, to the
Lusitania
. He labored to understand it. The
Lusitania
? Was it on a voyage to England, to Liverpool? Was it coming here this week? Evidently that was the case. Not only that, but Gould was aboard the ship, and Octavia had sent some kind of message to him, and asked that confirmation be sent to her. She was, it appeared, very anxious to know that her telegram to Gould had reached him. He dropped the paper on his desk, fisting his hands on his knees, and then looked at the clock.

It was now a quarter to one. Luncheon was about to be served. Octavia would be home at any moment. He tried to search for a reasonable explanation of Gould coming back to England, and of Octavia contacting him, and he found none. He could feel the blood beating behind his eyes; his head ached. He sat in his chair, seeing nothing, thinking nothing further, until he heard the doorbell ring and the door to the street being opened. Out in the hall came the familiar lilt of Charlotte’s voice. And Florence de Ray’s. And Octavia’s.

He got up and went to the hall door. Octavia was standing there, calmly removing her hat and looking at her reflection in the hall mirror. She saw him through the glass, and smiled and turned.

“Whatever is it?” she asked at once, seeing his expression. “Is it Harry?”

“No,” he said. “Not Harry.”

She walked towards him. “Are you leaving for Folkestone after luncheon?”

“Yes,” he told her. “I’m catching the train.”

Charlotte came between them, talking, laughing. He barely heard her, though he inclined his head as if he were listening. All the while he watched Octavia ascend the stairs, saw the curve of her back, the lightness of her step. He looked at his daughter and touched her arm. “Will you tell me all about it over luncheon?” he asked. “I must speak to your mother before then.”

*   *   *

H
e opened the door to her room without knocking, and saw Amelie, hairbrush in hand, waiting for Octavia to sit down. Both women glanced at him in surprise: he rarely ventured into the room, let alone without announcing it with a knock.

“I must speak to you,” he said.

Octavia motioned for Amelie to leave, and stood up slowly. A half smile on her face died as he walked towards her. “Something is wrong,” she said.

He handed her the note from the Cunard Line.

She read it, and spent what seemed to him an inordinately long amount of time quite motionless with it in her hands; then she put it on the dressing table and turned to him. “This is the first time that I have contacted him,” she said.

There it was again, the beat behind the eyes. It was painful this time; he put his hand momentarily to his temple. “You expect me to believe that.”

“Certainly I expect you to believe what I say,” she told him, a steely note in her voice. “He has written to me, and I have not replied. Or only this once.”

“Written to you? When?”

She had the grace to blush. “Once or twice.”

“That is not the truth.” He felt confident enough to say it; Octavia could not lie. It was not in her nature. She betrayed it now by dropping her gaze. “You have been in communication with him.”

She looked up again. “It would take two to communicate, and that has not been the case,” she said. “But I admit there have been more letters.”

“To what purpose?” he demanded. “Saying what?”

She paused for some seconds. “That is a private matter, I think.”

The faint reddish haze in his vision seemed to bloom like a flower in the corner of his sight: an unfolding peony of red to the left-hand side. He blinked to try and clear his vision, but he failed to control his temper. “A private matter!” he exclaimed. “There are no private matters between husband and wife.”

The faintest suggestion of a smile, rapidly replaced with a look of astonishment. “There have certainly been between us,” she said calmly.

“That is all over,” he retorted. “If you are referring to Helene de Montfort, and I suppose you are. I can’t think what else you might mean.”

She studied him; he felt like some sort of laboratory specimen under her gaze. He saw that there was no warmth in her. Respect, perhaps. A steadiness certainly, even loyalty. But no warmth. Not the kind that he wanted from her. He advanced on her rapidly and stood just a few inches from her, momentarily overwhelmed by the perfect sweetness of her look. His resolve wavered for a second; surely a woman who looked like that—who had always looked like that, with such openness and charm—could not chase after another man? It would be utterly beneath her.

“Tell me you are not going to meet him,” he said.

“I can’t tell you that,” she replied. “I have not decided what to do.”

“You haven’t—haven’t
decided
?” he thundered. “What is there to decide? What decision has to be made? You won’t see John Gould, here or in Rutherford or anywhere else.”

She was unmoved by him, it seemed. She sat down slowly in the bedroom chair with the mirror behind her. He was distracted by the sight of her in that glass, the nape of her neck underneath her curled hair; the rope of pearls; the soft lace collar of the day dress. She looked so neat and fragile; she was his to own and protect. And yet she was writing to another man. His blood was boiling.

“Show me the letters,” he said.

She gasped in surprise. “I certainly will not, William.”

“Show me the letters!”

She sat immobile. He gazed about himself to left and right. “Where are they? Where have you put them?”

“William, please . . . there is nothing in them. . . . That is, there is nothing to which I’ve replied. . . .”

He stormed over to her bedside table. It was a lightweight little thing in the French style; as he wrenched at it, it began to topple. He steadied it and pulled open the top drawer. There was nothing there but a handkerchief. He wheeled around. “Where are they?”

“William, please. I have kept my promise to you. I have stayed with you, with the children. I am here still. This is so unnecessary.”

Some kind of devil took hold of him then. He almost ran over to her, grabbed hold of her arm, and pulled her to her feet. “Unnecessary?” he said. She was pulling against his grip. “I agree with you,” he told her. “It is unnecessary for a wife to write to any man and keep it private. It is unnecessary for her to keep herself apart. To treat her husband with disdain.”

“I do not disdain you,” she protested. She seemed frightened now. With her free hand she tried to prize his fingers away. “William . . .”

“It is unnecessary for a wife to resist her husband,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree with that? Wouldn’t you? Is that not correct? Am I owed a duty, am I not owed affection?”

They were wedged against the dressing table; as if from a great distance he heard Amelie knocking on the connecting door and her voice. “Ma’am . . . ma’am?”

“Go away, damn you!” he shouted.

He looked back at his wife. “Haven’t I treated you with absolute honesty and generosity in these last few months?” he said to her. Fury was blocking his sight with curious circles and squares; they danced across Octavia’s face. For a moment or two, she was stained with their peculiar color. He shut his eyes, and took her by both arms now, pulled her to him, inhaling her scent. Her skin was like silk. The dress rustled against him. He opened his eyes. “I have loved you,” he whispered. “All our marriage, though you have chosen not to believe me. I have loved you since last year, though many men would have thrown you into the street. I have loved you. . . . ”

Tears were beginning to fill her eyes. All he could think of was that she had not said the same words back to him. He let go of her arm and touched her face. “Do you not care for me at all?” he asked.

“William, for the sake of the children . . .”

“Not for the children,” he said. “For myself. Between us. Not for loyalty. But as you loved me once.”

Quietly, she began to cry.

He stepped back and stared at her. “Is it lost?” he asked. “Lost entirely and forever? Is there nothing I can do to bring it back?”

She had looked away from him. “I am with you,” she said. “I shan’t leave you.”

“But that is not what I want,” he told her. “Simply to stay. I want to make it what it once was.”

“I can’t go back twenty years, William. I was very young. You taught me that the kind of love I offered then was . . .” She seemed to search for the word. “Gauche. Inappropriate.”

“That is not true.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “It is certainly true,” she said. “But I don’t hold it against you, William. I was only a girl, and you had, as you often told me, your place in society to maintain. . . .”