He was there, just where she had left him, looking as though he had been rooted to the same spot for the whole time she had been away. His eyes were warm and blue as the lovely skies above the Dove Valley and his lips curled and his mouth split into the deep grin which endeared him to everyone who knew him.
‘Meggie,’ he called, ‘oh Jesus, Meggie!’
He lifted his arms to her and even before the engine stopped his hands were beneath her arms, lifting her down to stand before him.
‘Dear God, Meggie, if you knew how I’ve missed you.’ She was not quite sure how it happened, and really, neither was he. The days had been empty, long and dreary without her in them, and though he had been busy, they had been as blank as an empty page and now she was here, smiling at him with such joy and … and … something else shining in her eyes, he was positive, as pleased to see him as he was to have her home.
How tired she was! She realised it now that Tom’s strong arms were about her and she leaned gratefully against his body. Long of bone, hard of muscle and achingly familiar it was. Loved, yes, for was he not Tom who had never in all these years let her down, always there to smile and listen and hold her hand; he had never been anything but sweet, gentle, good and when she lifted her face to him it seemed only natural for his lips to rest on hers, and when she found she liked the warm wholesome taste of them, the soft hesitancy of her first kiss, she responded and his moved on hers and became more insistent, parting her lips and their mouths clung, and their arms, and when he raised his head there was glory in his eyes and they stared in wonderment at one another.
‘I’ll not let you go without me again, Meggie,’ he said huskily and remembering her strange sadness in the emptiness of the Derbyshire Peaks she was glad, glad, raising her lips again eagerly to his.
She did not want to go without him, ever again!
TOM WAS LIKE
a boy at Christmas, his presents around him beneath the tree, some opened and wondered over, others still to be unwrapped and cherished, the joy of anticipation almost more than he could bear but his patience was eternal and he would wait until she was ready, he said ardently. Yes, he agreed with her, they had a lot to see to with the new place an’ all and there was time enough for a wedding in the spring and naturally she wanted to enjoy her new status as ‘fiancée’ for a while. He would get her a ring, glowing with his own ability to purchase one, as soon as they could get into Northwich together, he promised her.
They chaffed him in the snug when they heard the news since he could not keep it to himself, could he, he asked her, and wished him and his betrothed well and he was made up with it. His clear eyes blazed with the blue joy of a field of cornflowers and he swore his face ached with the sheer and endless enchantment of smiling.
He kissed her softly, carefully, whenever they were alone, scarcely able to believe his good fortune, and held her awkwardly for he had no experience with women, against the long, hard length of his restrained body, marvelling on the discovery that after all these years they were to be, not only friends, but husband and wife. He had not yet the courage to say the word ‘lovers’ for even if she had intimated that she was willing, Tom would not have countenanced it until she had a gold band on her finger. He held her hand and stroked her arm and put a gentle finger to the curve of her cheek. He damped down his masculine longings with hard work, and by God there was enough of that as they prepared to make the move from Great Merrydown to Ashbourne for they were to be off within the month.
They called it ‘The Hilltop Hotel’ for obvious reasons. ‘Hilltops’ for short. It was a great upheaval of boxes and cases all piled on to a motor waggon which was to take them the fifty miles or so to Hulton Cross, which was just outside Ashbourne, in one incredible day. It would be a circuitous route going through Holmes
Chapel
, Biddulph and up and up into the high peaks of Fenny Bentley and on to Hulton Cross. Tom was anxious, his distrust of anything which could not be coaxed, soothed, and generally eased round perilous bends and up steep hills – as one would a strong and reliable horse pulling a cart – emerging in a tendency to kick the vehicle’s tyres and shake his head gloomily.
‘What if the thing breaks down on the bloody bit of road by Axe Edge? You know, there’s a hell of a drop there and this old rattletrap doesn’t look as though it could get from here to Merrydown let alone to Hulton. And those boxes don’t look too safe. I’d best get a bit more rope and tie them on more securely. There’s the good china in there, Meg, and you’d not be wanting to see it smashed to smithereens. That chap’s not got a happorth of sense when it comes to fixing those packing cases so that they balance properly. He might be able to drive the damned waggon but how he can hire himself out as a carter, I don’t know!’
Tom’s normal state of good-natured, good-tempered harmony with those about him, his cheerful acceptance of Meg’s, in his opinion, quite mad determination to give up a successfully growing business for the uncertainty of another, was seriously tested that day. He had been reluctant to leave Silverdale and the security he had found there, the satisfying work he had done and the camaraderie of those with whom he had lived. But the gamble they had taken had paid off handsomely. His savings, and Meg’s, with the loan which had been provided by the bank had not been thrown heedlessly away as he had feared but had come back to them a hundredfold. They had turned their investment into a handsome profit, built up a venture of which any man might be proud and he had felt himself to be worthwhile, important and his natural pleasure in their achievement had been enormous. He knew his own limitations but if hard work and honesty were the ingredients needed to make a success, he knew he was endowed with both in abundance.
Now Meg was different. It was not that she lacked honesty or a compulsion for hard work but she was afraid of nothing! She was blessed with the certainty that what they were about to do was entirely right. She had no doubts, no misgivings, having, it seemed, complete faith not only in herself but in
him
! It gave him the courage to step out with her bravely, though he did wish she would curb what to him seemed a quite frightening inclination to make up her mind in the blink of an eye. She appeared to see
an
opportunity even before he was aware they were looking for one, and had taken advantage of it, twisting it to her liking and wringing every drop of profit from it there was to be had.
Edie Marshall was to go with them since, as she said, what would she do with herself without Miss Hughes, soon to be Mrs Fraser, to work for. She could not get on with the wife of the chap who was to manage ‘Hawthornes’ for Miss Hughes, though
he
had begged her to stay, saying she would be an enormous help to him in the running of the inn. And so she would but she was used to Miss Hughes’ ways and could not learn new ones at her time of life. He was a nice enough fellow and would do well for Miss Hughes, and besides, Miss Hughes said she would be keeping an eye on the place. Well, she would since it belonged to her and Mr Tom now, lock, stock and barrel and she was not one to let a concern of
hers
get run down. She’d be over in that little motor car of hers to see Annie, she said, and the friends she had made in the village and if Edie liked she could come with her on her day off. Well, that had clinched it as far as Edie was concerned and she was looking forward to her new position as ‘housekeeper’ at the lovely old house, soon to be a hotel, in Derbyshire.
They had been there just a week when Martin arrived. He came out of the October sunshine, stepping between deep, dappled shadows and brightly moving shafts of light to stand just inside the hedge on the newly-scythed lawn and when Meg saw him her heart swooped in a great arch of joy, then, as he walked slowly towards her his face told her he had brought a vast and devastating sadness with him and she shivered. She was wearing a white dress. It was of muslin, light and pretty and simple, floating about her feet on the brick path. Her hair was pulled back carelessly, held by a narrow white ribbon to fall in a curly knot to the middle of her back but strands of it had escaped, as he remembered it had always done, drifting in soft curls about her white neck and ears.
There was a wooden seat against the house and a massed bank of rhododendrons, pink and purple and blood red, the broad leaves green and glossy. They grew behind her, towering above her head in magnificently dying profusion and the whole area around her was bathed in the clear light of the pale midday sun.
‘Martin?’ Her voice was wary, questioning.
He continued to walk slowly across the rough-cropped grass, his feet making no sound. He did not smile and yet his eyes held a compassionate warmth which told her that whatever it was he
was
to sadden her with, he was ready, as he had always been, to offer her comfort.
She had been digging with a small trowel as he approached, planting some green thing beneath the rhododendron bushes, plunging the gardening tool energetically into the black soil, pressing in the plant with strong fingers, heedless of the stains on her completely unsuitable gown. A thick rim of dirt had collected beneath her finger nails. She rubbed her hands against the soft fabric of her dress, leaving two black marks, then looked down and pulled a face and Martin knew she was putting off the moment when he would tell her why he was here.
‘Not quite the outfit in which to garden, Meggie.’ His voice was gentle and filled with some deep emotion.
‘No, I didn’t mean to start but there were some cuttings … Tom was busy …’ She put a trembling hand to her mouth, ‘The day was so lovely … warm … so warm you can hardly believe it is October already …’
Her glance drifted from his to encompass the sunshine falling about the fading beauty of the overgrown flower borders, to the softly moving shadows which the leaves placed across the wide expanse of lawn. The fragrant smell of autumn was everywhere, moving with the timid breeze over great wild swathes of pink ageratum, the lovely deep cream of skimmia and the fresh blue of lobelia. There was mallow, and daphne bushes of yellow and pink and white, and the magnificent gold of a stand of wallflowers, all growing as they had done for months, in complete and glorious abandon, untouched and unseen until now. There was a fire somewhere and the unique smell of burning woodsmoke, symbolic of the ending of summer, rose above the house and up into the pale softness of the sky. Trees stood about, fading but ageless, their leaves beginning to loosen and drift to the ground. Oak and elder and rowan and elm, guarding the boundaries of the property on three sides, the fourth opening out to the splendour of the Valley of Dovedale. He felt light-headed with the enchantment of it and had a moment to consider that this must indeed be the perfect place in which to linger on one’s travels and that Meg had chosen well, but he must speak and he could not soften the words, only tell her decently as she deserved.
But of course, she knew, for why else would he be clothed from head to toe in black.
‘Meggie.’ He put out his hand to her, ready for when she needed it.
‘It’s … it’s Cook, isn’t it?’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘Yes.’
‘When …?’
‘Last night.’
‘You were with her?’
‘Oh yes. I would have come for you, darling, but there was no time.’ The endearment seemed not at all out of place. ‘I was going to send the boy, the one who races for me, he is a good lad and reliable on the roads but … she went before …’ His voice broke and he could not go on and without a word they stepped into one another’s arms. He bent his head to rest his cheek against her hair and she pressed her face into the curve of his neck beneath his chin and their bodies strained to be close in their grief for the great lady, for she had been that to them, who had given three children her love and her caring heart and brought them from the dispassionate neutrality of the orphanage to the first home they had known.
‘She spoke of you and Tom.’ His voice was muffled in the soft mass of her hair and she could feel the sound of it move through the bone and flesh of her and somehow it seemed to soothe her savage pain. It was not the words he spoke but the vibrancy of his voice and the soft, reassuring impression of his breath against her skin and she could feel the relaxed way in which her body settled against his. Her arms held him more tightly to her and his were strong and supporting and though she had begun to weep now, a soft and quiet grieving, she had a great, comforting sense of knowing that she would not fall, could never fall now, with Martin to hold her.
‘What did she say?’
‘She was proud … I think she was as proud as if we had been her own …’
‘We were.’
‘Yes … and these last years … what you gave her …’
‘Not me, Martin … all of us …’
‘Sweetheart, it was you who had the courage to speak up against Harris …’
‘Don’t! Not now.’
‘She … she said …’
‘What?’ Her tears had wet the collar of his shirt and he could feel the warmth of them against his skin.
‘She said she wanted to see you settled. It worried her …’
‘Me?’
She could hear the emotion in his voice and when he lifted his head she looked up at him wonderingly, her eyes brimming still with tears, and there it was, in his, and he allowed her to see it at last.
‘Martin …’ His name sighed in her throat and through the sadness that was between them came softly stealing the unbelievable and breathless awareness of something so overwhelming, so precious, so
right
she was afraid to take it out and study it for fear it might slip through her fingers and be gone again.