Authors: Margaret Dickinson
Edgar was silent for a long time and Florrie couldn’t read his expression. It was stern – angry almost – but then it always was.
‘I’m sorry I deceived you, Father, but I thought that if I told you he was James’s son, you – you wouldn’t have let him stay.’
Edgar allowed himself a wry smile. ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t.’ He paused, whilst Florrie’s heart plummeted, but then he added slowly, ‘Not then.’
There was another long silence. Florrie said nothing, biting her lip to stop herself pleading with him. It wouldn’t do any good. Even Augusta would not be able to sway him if . . .
He looked up, regarding her steadily. ‘I’m glad you’ve told me, Florence, even though it’s sixteen years late. But—’ He paused, glanced away and fiddled with
a pen lying on his desk. ‘I can – understand,’ the word, not one that Edgar Maltby used very often, came haltingly, ‘why you didn’t tell me at first.’
‘So, may we stay?’
Slowly, he nodded. ‘Yes.’
He gave no explanation, made no comment about having become fond of the boy. That would have been totally out of character and Florrie didn’t expect it. But the fact that he hadn’t
lost his temper and thrown them out onto the street told her all she needed to know.
She rose, went to stand beside his chair and bent to kiss his cheek. ‘Thank you, Father.’ Then she hurried from the room without looking back at him.
If she had, she’d have seen him staring after her, a pensive expression in his eyes. And she’d have been shocked if she’d heard the softly spoken words to the empty room.
‘I must see my solicitor. Change my will. It seems, after all, I have an heir from the male line. Someone who truly bears the name of Maltby.’
The illegitimate bit, Edgar decided, he would ignore.
‘Of course, we should be at Bixley for New Year, but under the circumstances, we’re having it here,’ Augusta told them. ‘We’ve such a lot to
celebrate.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Florrie murmured and meant it, for this year her answer to Gervase’s question would be different. She hugged the secret to herself, revelling in the
anticipated pleasure it would bring everyone. Even poor Iso, who’d had so much tragedy to bear, would be delighted. They’d always felt like sisters and now they really would be. Well,
the next best thing: sisters-in-law.
Gervase, Isobel and Charlie arrived in Gervase’s latest motor car, coming to a shuddering halt outside the front door. Florrie ran out, her arms open wide. ‘My dears, how wonderful
to see you – and looking so well.’ She kissed them all and ushered them inside, chattering nervously. But neither Isobel nor Gervase seemed to notice; they took her gaiety for the heady
relief that Jacques did not, after all, have tuberculosis.
Isobel linked her arm through Florrie’s. ‘My dear, we’re all so glad to hear the wonderful news. I’ve written to Lady Lee and she sends you both her love.’
‘How kind of her,’ Florrie said. ‘Now, come along in. Grandmother is holding court in the drawing room.’
‘And your mother?’ Gervase enquired gently.
‘Much better,’ Florrie said. ‘She was so busy organizing meals and such when we were nursing Jacques here. It gave her something to focus on other than herself. And Gran says
she’s been all right whilst we’ve been away. Worried, of course, but she didn’t take to her bed.’
Gervase touched her arm. ‘I’m glad.’
There was an extra merriment to the evening and it was not only amongst the two families. Word of Jacques’s return to health had spread amongst the estate workers and,
taking it for granted that he was Edgar Maltby’s heir who’d one day be their young master, they rejoiced.
‘Illegitimate he might be,’ they whispered, ‘but there’s no one else, now is there?’
Whilst refreshments for the household staff and estate workers were in the barn, the family dined together and then gathered in the hall. As the grandfather clock struck midnight, they raised
their glasses. And this year the toast of ‘Good health’ had an extra meaning. They trooped back into the drawing room to watch the customary fireworks in the field beyond the lawn from
the long windows, for the night was cold, a biting east wind whipping in from the sea.
Florrie stood beside Gervase, glancing up at him every now and then. Excitement churned in her stomach. She could hardly wait until he drew her aside, took her hands in his, looked into her
bright eyes and posed the question that he always asked on New Year’s Eve.
With a jolt, she realized that the moment had passed. Already it was the 1st January 1933 and he hadn’t asked her. He’d never left it so late before. He’d always made sure that
he proposed before midnight, just in case she said yes and the toast could be ‘the happy couple’.
But this year – of all years – he hadn’t asked her!
They were preparing to go. Isobel had called for her wrap. Gervase slipped his arms into the warm coat Bowler held ready for him, then pulled on his driving gloves, wrapped the
long scarf around his neck and perched his cap on his head. And still he said nothing.
‘Gervase?’ Florrie put her hand on his arm. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and questioning. ‘Haven’t you – forgotten something?’ she whispered.
He smiled down at her, his eyes twinkling. He glanced at his hands. ‘Gloves?’ He clapped his hand to his head. ‘Cap? Coat? Scarf? No, all in place. I don’t think so, my
dear.’
‘You know very well what I mean,’ she snapped, her agitation, held in check all evening, now bubbling up. She pulled him to the side of the hall, away from the others bidding each
other ‘Goodnight’ and ‘Happy New Year’. ‘Do you really mean to tell me that this year, of all years, you’re not going to ask me?’
He began to laugh. ‘My darling girl, every year for twenty years – well, apart from a couple of years I missed during the war – I’ve asked you to marry me, and every year
it’s been the same answer. Now why—?’ Suddenly, he stopped and looked down at her, his laughter subsiding as he realized what she’d just said. Softly, he asked, ‘What
– what d’you mean by “this year of all years”?’
She put her head on one side and the delighted chuckle began deep inside her and gurgled up, until she was clutching at him to stop herself collapsing with laughter. ‘Because,’ she
spluttered, ‘because this year it was going to be different.’ She wiped away the tears of laughter at the astounded look on his face. Aware now that the sound of her mirth had caught
the attention of the rest, she took his hand in hers and dropped to one knee.
‘Gervase Richards, will you marry me?’ Her voice echoed round the vast hall, surprising and delighting them all. They were all holding their breath. She could feel it.
But there was no joy in Gervase’s face. His eyes clouded and his mouth tightened. ‘Don’t tease me, Florrie,’ he said softly, so that no one but her could hear him.
‘Not about that.’
She rose and stepped close to him, her gaze holding his. ‘I’m not teasing you. I mean it.’ She laughed nervously, suddenly unsure. ‘The very year I mean to say
“yes”, you don’t ask me. So – I’m asking you.’
‘But – but why? Why – now?’
Dimly, she heard Augusta say, ‘I think we’d all better go back into the drawing room for a little while. Come along, my dears. Let’s leave them to sort it out. Bowler, bring
some cocoa will you? We could be some time.’
There was a murmuring, a door closed and they were alone.
‘What’s changed, Florrie?’ he persisted. Now there was no one else to overhear them, he added, ‘Was it – was it when you went abroad? Did – did you see
Jacques’s father?’
Tears started in her eyes and she shook her head. Huskily, she said, ‘No – no, I’ll never see Jacques’s father again. He – he is dead, Gervase. Like I told you, but
– but there are other things—’
Now he drew her to him and kissed her gently, silencing her mouth. ‘Nothing matters now – if you really mean it. Do you, Florrie? Will you
really
marry me?’
She looked up into his dear, kind face and wondered why on earth it had taken her so long to realize that she loved him. Loved him wholeheartedly in every way there was.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘But first, there’s something I must tell you . . .’
She was not afraid, for she knew that even when she explained everything – even about Ernst – Gervase would still love her as he always had.
A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I met the author and poet, Gervase Phinn, at a Hull and East Yorkshire Literary Luncheon. Seated at the same table, we chatted about what we were working on. He suggested I
should call this book
Lust in the Trenches
! Now, that doesn’t quite fit my profile as an author of regional sagas, but I promised I would call one of the characters after him. So his
name is the inspiration for Gervase Richards in this novel. Gervase Phinn is, of course, the author of wonderful books, including
The Other Side of the Dale, Over Hill and Dale, The Heart of
the Dales,
and others, based on his work as a teacher and school inspector in Yorkshire. He is also a fantastic speaker. If you ever get a chance to go to one of his events, you will ache with
laughter and be quite unable to resist buying his latest book – signed, of course!
Readers often ask me where I find the inspiration for my stories and if I’m ever ‘off duty’. The answer is ‘Anywhere and everywhere’ and, no, I’m never off
duty. In 2004 I went abroad for the first time to Davos in Switzerland. Finding that it was once a centre for the treatment of tuberculosis, I made a beeline for the local library, where there were
bound copies of old local newspapers in German, French and English! I took notes and, as the idea for a novel grew, I returned to Davos in 2007 to do more research. That year I visited the
magnificent Schatzalp Hotel, which was once a sanatorium. Joining a conducted tour round the luxurious building, I learned that much has remained the same as when it was built in 1900. I am very
grateful to the Schatzalp for allowing me to use the name. The characters and story are, of course, entirely fictitious.
My grateful thanks to Timothy Nelson and Liselotte Dürr of the Dokumentationsbibliothek Davos for their help, advice and information.
A great many sources have been used for research, most notably:
The Suffragette Movement
by E. Sylvia Pankhurst (Longman, Green, 1932),
A V.A.D. in France
by Olive Dent (Grant
Richards, 1917),
The Roses of No Man’s Land
by Lyn Macdonald (Penguin Books, 1993),
Shot at Dawn
by Julian Putkowski and Julian Sykes (Leo Cooper, 1998),
The Great War
Magazine,
which has been published bi-monthly by Great Northern Publishing, Scarborough, since 2001, and
The Magic Mountain
by Thomas Mann, Everyman Edition (Alfred A. Knopf,
2005).
Special thanks to my great-niece, Nicola Hill, for translating passages from
Davos – Profil eines Phänomens
– Ernst Halter (HG.) (Offizin, 1994) and to my brother,
David Dickinson, who not only read the draft typescript but also helped enormously with my research in Switzerland.
Last, but never least, my love and thanks to my family and friends who read and comment on the typescript, to my agent, Darley Anderson, and his wonderful ‘angels’ and to Imogen
Taylor, Trisha Jackson and Liz Cowen and everyone at Macmillan.
Two families. Divided by war. United by love.
There are some things which even
the closest friendship cannot survive . . .
Neighbours Edie Kelsey and Lil Horton have been friends for over twenty years, sharing the joys and sorrows of their tough lives as the wives of fishermen in Grimsby. So it
came as no surprise that their children were close and that Edie’s son, Frank, and Lil’s daughter, Irene, fell in love and married at a young age.
But the declaration of war in 1939 changes everything. Frank goes off to fight and Irene and baby Tommy, along with Edie’s youngest son, are sent to the countryside for safety. With
Edie’s husband Archie fishing the dangerous waters in the North Sea and daughter Beth doing ‘important war work’, Edie’s family is torn apart.
Friendship sustains Edie and Lil, but when tragedy strikes – and then Beth disappears – their relationship is tested to the limit. But it is Irene’s return, during the VE day
celebrations, that sends shock waves through the family and threatens to destroy Edie and Lil’s friendship forever.
Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape. Her ambition to
be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by a number of further titles including
Plough the Furrow, Sow the Seed
and
Reap the Harvest,
which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy. Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county but in
Tangled Threads
and
Twisted
Strands,
the stories include not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham.
Jenny’s War
and
The Clippie Girls
were both
top-twenty bestsellers and
Fairfield Hall
and
Welcome Home
both went into the
Sunday Times
bestseller list.
A
LSO BY
M
ARGARET
D
ICKINSON
Plough the Furrow
Sow the Seed
Reap the Harvest
The Miller’s Daughter
Chaff upon the Wind
The Fisher Lass
The Tulip Girl
The River Folk
Tangled Threads
Twisted Strands
Red Sky in the Morning
Without Sin
Pauper’s Gold
Wish Me Luck
Sing As We Go
Sons and Daughters
Forgive and Forget
Jenny’s War
The Clippie Girls
Fairfield Hall