Authors: Alison Stuart
The men, who had served with Charlie, gathered at the entrance to the church, talking in low, reverential voices. Beneath the brass memorial plaque that already bore Charlie’s name, numerous wreaths and flowers had been placed and a soldier stood, head bowed over his reversed weapon. The vicar, his plump cheeks pink with importance bustled about organizing the choir, the organist and the seating arrangements.
Soldiers, officers and the whole of the Holdston tenantry had gathered to pay their last respects to Charles Morrow, packing the church to standing room only. It seemed a long way from the lonely grave in Flanders where they had stood less than two weeks earlier.
Helen tightened her hand on Alice’s and holding her head high, walked down the aisle to the Morrow family pew, which stood empty. For the time being, she was still a Morrow, Charlie’s wife, even if it would be for the last time in her life. As she knelt in prayer, the fingers of her right hand touched her gloved left hand, feeling the presence of her wedding ring beneath the fine kid. She couldn’t bring herself to remove Charlie’s ring. Not yet. Tony slipped into the pew behind her with his mother and Angela.
The church fell silent, Helen turned to watch as Evelyn and Paul entered the Church. For a brief moment, she tried to reconcile her first meeting with Paul Morrow with the tall, straight officer in impeccable uniform. Evelyn, veiled in heavy mourning as she had been on the day they’d buried Charlie, clung to his arm like a drowning woman.
Evelyn inclined her head to acknowledge Helen and sat down beside Alice, grasping the child’s hand, giving it a squeeze. Over Evelyn’s veiled head, Helen glanced at Paul. He inclined his head, acknowledging her with a flicker in his eyes and mouthed a greeting at Alice.
The eulogy, given by the present Commanding Officer of the regiment, gave few clues as to who Charlie was or why he had died. It seemed unlikely the man had known him and the generalizations and platitudes would have fitted the description of any officer who had died in the Great War. When he had finished, Paul rose to his feet. His boots rang on the cold flagstones as he took his place behind the great spread bronze-winged eagle that served as a lectern.
With deliberate care, he set his cap down and took a moment to look around the crowded church.
“You are here today,” he said, “to remember my cousin, Charles Morrow. In your memories he will always hold a place of significance either as a son,” he looked at Evelyn, “or a husband,” his gaze moved to Helen, “or a friend, a comrade or the squire’s son. All of us here were touched in some way by Charlie’s life. But there is one person here among us today whose right to know Charlie was denied her. His daughter, Alice.” He looked directly at the child. “Alice, all you will ever know of the man who was your father are the stories you will be told or the photographs you will see. Your right to know him as his daughter, with that special place in his life, was taken away from you. I wish it was in my power to bring it back for you, but I can’t. All I can give you is an assurance of two things that I want you to remember for the rest of your life. The first is that your father was one of the bravest men I ever met. You have heard Colonel Pearson tell us your father showed exceptional courage in adversity. Courage is a strange thing, Alice. Courage to me means an acknowledgment of fear. Yes, your father showed extraordinary courage on the day he died, but he didn’t do what he did without being afraid. We were all afraid but if it hadn’t been for your father many, many more men would have died.
“The other thing I want you to know is that he loved you. He carried two photographs with him, always, and they were with him when he died, one of your mother and one of you, Alice. Carry those memories of him with you, always and they will be a part of you that will be forever that special relationship between a father and his daughter.”
As he spoke, his eyes did not leave Alice. The child sat up straight in the pew beside Helen, apparently mesmerized by him. Behind her veil, Evelyn’s attempts to stifle her sobs only made them more audible. Helen sat with her hand in her daughter’s, dry eyed and oblivious to the snuffling from the others in the pews behind her.
Paul’s eyes swept the congregation again and with a nod to the bugler, he turned to face the bronze plaque. The congregation rose for the playing of the Last Post by the regimental bugler. Still standing at the lectern, Paul replaced his cap and stood ramrod straight, his face expressionless as he saluted the memorial.
As the last note died away, he returned to his seat beside Evelyn. Helen glanced at him as he ran a hand through his dark, well-cut hair. He took a deep breath, the only outward sign of his own state of mind. Beside him, Evelyn raised a mangled, sodden handkerchief to her veiled face. Paul looked down at her and took her arm, folding it in his. She leaned her head against him.
* * * *
Tea and sandwiches were provided at the house. The Great Hall, familiar to Helen as an echoing void, was filled with chattering voices and constrained laughter. Tony had been drawn away from her and had become the centre of a group of young men, all in uniform, including the odious James Massey, who beyond a few expected platitudes ignored her.
Angela appeared to be charming the regiment’s commanding officer and Evelyn sat straight backed on an oak settle. Alice, dressed in a neat black dress with a spotless white collar and cuffs sat beside her grandmother, holding her hand. Evelyn had removed her hat and veil and as Tony had said, she looked as if the fight had gone from her. If Paul still intended to sell Holdston, Helen doubted Evelyn would object.
“Helen?”
At Paul’s voice she started. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
“I think you’re allowed to be,” he said. “I’m sorry Evelyn put you through this.”
She shook her head. “No need for apologies. It was a wonderful service. Thank you for what you said to Alice. She will carry it with her always.”
He nodded and leaned back against the windowsill beside her.
“You seem so different in uniform,” she said.
Paul looked down at the toe of his polished boot. “I never thought I’d ever wear it again. Now I’ve worn it twice in as many weeks. Strange isn’t it?”
“No, it looks like you belong in it.”
He shuddered. “God forbid.” He looked at her. “And you Helen, I see you have adopted a new uniform too?”
Helen smoothed the skirts of her exquisitely tailored black skirt. “Lady Hartfield insisted. She did not approve of my home-made wardrobe,” she said. “I have been well and truly gentrified.”
“Tony tells me you’re engaged. Congratulations.”
Helen forced a smile and glanced at Tony. “Tony shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not official. I wanted to wait for this to be over but thank you.”
“You should know Tony is incapable of keeping a secret. He’s a good man,” Paul said.
For a moment, their eyes met and the breath stopped in her throat.
The wrong man
, Suzanna had whispered in her ear. Helen searched Paul’s face for a spark, something to convince her that she had chosen to marry the right man for the right reasons. Paul Morrow had too many years of hiding his emotions and if he felt anything, she could not read it in his eyes.
“I’m a sore disappointment to Lady Hartfield. I think she hoped for the daughter of a Duke.”
Paul smiled and dropped his voice. “Let me tell you something about Maude Scarvell. Have you heard of the Smallwood department stores?”
Helen nodded.
“Maude was born Maude Smallwood. Her father started in a corner shop in Manchester and built a chain of very successful stores. Tony’s father married the blushing young debutante for one reason only–money.”
Helen stared at him. “Maude is ...?”
“A shopkeeper’s daughter,” Paul said. “So don’t let her pretensions get to you, Helen. Nobody is ever quite what they seem.”
“And Evelyn?” Helen’s eyes moved to her mother-in-law.
“Oh, Evelyn is the real thing. Youngest daughter of an Earl.”
As Helen watched, the commanding officer of the regiment approach Evelyn. She held out a hand to him and he bowed over it with old-fashioned courtesy.
“Evelyn’s stopped arguing with me about selling Holdston.”
“So, you are still going to sell?”
“When I can find a buyer.”
She smiled. “And the Holdston ghosts?”
“They can torment whoever they like.” He returned her smile. He paused and then added. “Helen, I have something for you. Do you still ride in the mornings? Could you meet me tomorrow?”
“Yes. Where?”
“In the woods behind the church, seven in the morning?”
She nodded.
Paul straightened. “Good. I’ll see you then. I’d better rescue the colonel from Angela.”
As he turned to walk away from her, she said, “Paul...”
He turned back to look at her the question in his eyes. She shook her head. “Is it the diary?”
“That and something else,” he said. “It can wait till tomorrow.”
* * * *
After the last guest had left, Paul stood at the foot of the steps and watched as Evelyn, drawn and pale, climbed the stairs to her room. She had refused his offer of assistance and took the stairs slowly, like a person with all the cares of the world on her back. As he watched Evelyn, he thought of Helen. It had seemed strange to see her walk out of Holdston on Tony’s arm. He felt a sense of loss and grief far greater than he had expected.
Only Angela, who had driven herself across from Wellmore, remained. He shook himself out of his reverie and found her helping Sarah and Annie carry dirty glasses into the kitchen. He caught her arm as she passed him.
“Enough of that, Ange,” Paul said. “I’ve got a fire lit in the library, join me in a drink.”
In the familiar room, Angela sank into one of the wing chairs while Paul removed his Sam Brown belt, undid the buttons of his jacket and poured them both a substantial glass of whiskey.
“Thanks for staying on,” he said. “I could do with some cheerful company.”
“Darling, always happy to oblige,” Angela said. “I suppose you know about Tony and Helen?”
“Yes. Good news. I’m happy for them. How’s your mother taking it?”
“Oh, badly. Poor Helen is in for a rough ride with Ma.”
“Is there nothing your mother doesn’t feel compelled to interfere with? I’m sorry, Ange, but I’ve had enough of your mother. She is a malicious gossip.”
“Of course she is. Poor dear hasn’t much else to amuse her.”
“So she takes delight in destroying other people’s lives?”
Angela frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t tell me your mother wasn’t behind the reason Helen left Holdston?”
“Mother told me it was a row with Evelyn.” Angela sighed. “But it was probably Mother’s fault. She was convinced Helen was after Tony. Turns out she was right.”
“In fairness, the boot was on the other foot, Ange.”
Angela shrugged. “Tony did rather take a shine to her on their first meeting. Anyway, Ma is of the view that no girl is good enough for Tony. Tony jibbed at all her selections and is plainly besotted with Helen so it all became Helen’s fault.” She took a cigarette out of her small, silver cigarette case and lit it. “Enough talk about Helen. Let’s talk about something different.”
“I’m not wonderful company at the moment.”
Angela smiled. “Oh, I’m sure I can tolerate you for a little while.” She inhaled, blowing the smoke into the air. “I hate this room. Don’t know how you can stand working in it.”
“It’s convenient. Are you going to offer me one of your cigarettes?”
Angela glanced at the cigarette in her hand and threw him the cigarette case and her lighter. She took a slow draught of her cigarette. “Actually, Paul, I wanted to apologise.”
“What for?”
“The painting. I should have told you about it.”
He frowned. “The painting? I’d forgotten about that.”
“Oh, had you? You mean I’ve been agonizing for weeks over what to say to you for nothing?” Angela said. “Paul, I’d like to show it. Just a small show in a private gallery, and you won’t be identified.”
“For God’s sake, Angela. You can do what you like with the bloody thing. You don’t need my permission.”
She studied him for a few moments. “Thanks. I thought seeing it had upset you?”
“It did but not for the reason you think, Ange,” he said. “You’re a brilliant artist and it’s a powerful piece of work. Good luck with it.”
Angela frowned. “What do you mean it upset you but not for the reason I think?”
He shook his head. How could he explain the flashes of memory that left him wide-awake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night? The dread feeling that the whispers were closer to the truth than he dared believe.
Angela smiled. “You’re a strange man, Paul Morrow.” She gestured at the table. “What are you working on?”
Paul looked at the jumble of papers on his desk and noticed the corner of the green leather diary poking out from beneath a quote for repairs to one of the farms.
“The things that need to be put in place to sell Holdston,” he said. “It’s not as simple as I thought.”
Angela rose to her feet and wandered over to the bookcase, running her fingers along the spines of the books. “I must say Holdston seems empty without Helen and the child. They seem a bit lost at Wellmore.” She turned back to look at him. “I like them enormously. Had great fun with Alice on our own in London.”