Authors: Lucinda Riley
Greta lay back on her pillows and thought how lovely it would be if she didn’t ever have to return to the loneliness of the small, cold cottage. Here, she felt cocooned. She wondered why
Owen wasn’t married. He was educated, intelligent and, even if the years were passing, he was still an attractive man. She found herself imagining what it would be like to be his wife; the
mistress of this house and the Marchmont estate, safe and secure for the rest of her life. But of course it was a dream. She was a penniless woman bearing an illegitimate child and soon she’d
have to face reality again.
The following afternoon, after Owen had read some
David Copperfield
to her, Greta stretched and sighed heavily.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s just – well, you’ve been so kind, but I really can’t impose upon you much longer. The snow is thawing, my ankle’s feeling better and I ought to go back
to Lark Cottage.’
‘Nonsense! I’m enjoying your company. The house has been more or less deserted since our last officer left a few months back. And that cottage of my nephew’s is damp, cold and
in my view, completely unsuitable until you’ve fully recovered. How on earth will you get up the stairs to bed at night?’
‘I’m sure I can manage.’
‘I insist you stay at least another week until you’re back on your feet, so to speak. After all, it was my fault this happened in the first place. The least I can do is extend my
hospitality until you’re properly better.’
‘If you’re sure, Owen,’ Greta replied, trying to hide her euphoria that her stay had been prolonged.
‘Absolutely. It’s a delight having you here.’ Owen gave her a warm smile and stood up. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to rest.’ He walked towards the door, then
stopped and turned back. ‘And, if you’re feeling strong enough, perhaps you would afford me the pleasure of joining me downstairs for dinner tonight?’
‘I . . . yes, I’d love to. Thank you, Owen.’
‘Until eight, then.’
Later that afternoon, Greta enjoyed the luxury of a deep, hot bath. Then she sat at the dressing table in the bedroom and did what she could to style her hair. Devoid of make-up, and with her
cheeks flushed from her bath, she looked particularly young.
She arrived in the drawing room twenty minutes later, wearing a freshly laundered blouse and bouclé wool skirt and leaning on a crutch that Owen had found for her.
‘Good evening, Greta.’ He stood up to take her arm and helped her to an armchair. ‘May I say how well you’re looking tonight.’
‘Thank you. I told you I was getting better. I feel a bit of a fraud staying in bed all day.’
‘May I get you a drink?’
‘No, thank you. I think alcohol would go straight to my head at present.’
‘Maybe a little wine with dinner, then.’
‘Yes.’ The room felt chilly and Greta held out her hands towards the fire.
‘Are you cold, my dear? I had Mary light the fire earlier, but I don’t often use this room. I find the library much more practical when I’m alone.’
‘No, I’m fine, really.’
‘Cigarette?’ Owen offered Greta a silver case.
‘Thank you.’ She took one and he lit it for her.
‘So, tell me a little about yourself.’
‘There isn’t much to tell.’ She took a nervous puff of her cigarette.
‘Laura-Jane says you worked with David at a theatre in London. Are you an actress?’
‘I . . . yes, I am.’
‘Never had much time for the theatre myself. More of an outdoor sort of fellow, really. But tell me, what plays have you appeared in?’
‘Well, I wasn’t so much an actress. More a . . . dancer, really.’
‘Musical comedy, eh? I do like that Noël Coward chap. Some of his songs are very jolly. So you were in London during the war?’
‘Yes,’ Greta lied.
‘Must have been dreadful when the doodlebugs were landing.’
‘Yes. But everyone pulled together. I suppose you have to when you’re all shoved on the platform at Piccadilly Circus underground station for the night.’ Greta smoothly
repeated Doris’s description of how it had been.
‘The great British spirit. It’s what got us through and won us the war, you know. Now, shall we go in to dinner?’
Owen helped Greta into the dining room, which – like the other rooms she’d encountered so far – was beautifully furnished, with flickering sconces adorning the walls and a
long, highly polished table. There were two places set at one end. He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.
‘This house is so beautiful, but very big. Don’t you find it lonely living here by yourself?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, especially since I’d got used to it being full of patients and nurses. And in winter the place is damned draughty, too. Costs a fortune to heat but I’m not fond of the
cold. I lived out in Kenya before the war. Climate there suited me a lot better, but not necessarily the lifestyle.’
‘Will you go back?’ ventured Greta.
‘No, I decided to get shot of the farm when I left. And besides, I’d left Marchmont in Laura-Jane’s hands for long enough and I felt I should do my duty.’
They both looked up as Mary entered the room. ‘Ah, the soup. And Mary, would you pour the wine?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Owen waited until Mary had served them and left before saying, ‘I don’t wish to pry, but what exactly is a pretty young thing like you doing leaving London for the wilds of
Monmouthshire?’
‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ Greta replied evasively, reaching for her glass.
‘No rush. We have all evening.’
‘Well,’ said Greta, realising she wasn’t going to get away without an explanation. ‘I’d had enough of London and needed a change. David offered me his cottage and I
decided to take it to give me some time to think.’
‘I see.’ Owen watched Greta drink her soup, knowing full well she was lying. ‘Tell me if I’m being indiscreet, but was there a young man involved?’
Greta put down her spoon with a clatter, deciding it was pointless to deny it. ‘Yes.’
‘Ah, well. His loss is my gain. Fellow must have been blind.’
Greta stared into her soup bowl, her eyes swimming with tears. She exhaled slowly. ‘And there’s another reason.’
Owen said nothing, just waited for her to speak.
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ll understand if you want me to leave.’ Greta reached into her sleeve for her handkerchief and wiped her nose.
‘There, there, my dear. Please don’t upset yourself. I think what you’ve told me is all the more reason why you need to be taken care of at the moment.’
She stared at him in complete surprise. ‘You’re not shocked?’
‘Greta, I may live in the middle of nowhere, but I have seen a little of life. It’s very sad, but these things happen. Especially during wartime.’
‘He was an American officer,’ Greta whispered, as if that somehow made it better.
‘He knows about the baby?’
‘No. And he never will. He . . . he asked me to marry him. I agreed, but then, well, he went back to America without even saying goodbye.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t know what I’d have done if it hadn’t been for David.’
‘Are you two—?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Greta replied firmly. ‘We’re just good friends. David’s been very kind.’
‘So, what are your plans for the future?’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea. To be honest, since I moved here, I’ve been trying not to think about it.’
‘What about your family?’ Owen asked, as Mary returned carrying a silver salver of roast beef, which she set on the sideboard before clearing away the soup bowls.
‘I don’t have one. My parents died in the Blitz.’ Greta dipped her eyes in case he read the lie in them.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But you’re obviously well educated. Your knowledge of literature, for example, is extensive.’
‘Yes, I’ve always loved books. I was lucky. Before my parents died, I went to a private girls’ school.’ This, at least, was the truth.
‘So now you really are alone in the world, aren’t you, my dear?’ Owen hesitantly reached out a hand and covered Greta’s with it. ‘Well, don’t worry, I promise
to do my best to look after you.’
As the evening progressed and the conversation moved away from the past Greta began to relax. After dinner, they went back into the drawing room and she sat by the fire stroking Morgan, the
black Labrador, who lay stretched out beside the hearth. Owen drank a whisky and talked of his life out in the bush in Kenya. He told her he’d owned a large farm near Nyeri in the Central
Highlands and had loved the wild landscape and the local people.
‘But I rather tired of the high jinks of my ex-pat neighbours out there. Although “Happy Valley”, as it was known, was in the middle of nowhere, they certainly found ways to
entertain themselves, if you understand my meaning.’ Owen raised an eyebrow. ‘I was easy meat for certain female vultures, being a single man. I was glad to come back here to some sort
of moral normality.’
‘You’ve never married?’
‘Well, there was someone, a long time ago. We were engaged, but—’ Owen sighed. ‘Anyway, it’s true to say I’ve never felt the urge to ask anyone since.
Besides, who’d want a grumpy old man like me?’
I would
. The thought leapt into Greta’s head but she squashed it down immediately. The wine and the heat from the fire were making her sleepy, and she yawned.
‘Bed for you, young lady. You look exhausted. I’ll call for Mary to help you up to your room,’ he said, ringing the bell.
‘I am, I’m sorry. It’s been some time since I was up this late.’
‘Don’t apologise, and thank you for being such charming company. I do hope you haven’t been bored.’
‘No. Not at all.’ Greta stood up as Mary came into the room.
‘Then would you find it acceptable to dine with me again tomorrow?’
‘Of course I would. Thank you, Owen. Goodnight.’
‘Greta?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just remember that you’re not alone any longer.’
‘Thank you.’
Walking slowly up the stairs with Mary, and then, as the maid chattered away whilst helping her into bed, Greta tried to make sense of the evening. She had been convinced that the minute she
told Owen she was expecting a baby he would change his attitude towards her. Yet as she settled down under the blankets and Mary left the room, she realised that in his own brusque way, he had been
flirting with her. But surely he couldn’t possibly be interested in her now he knew the truth?
Over the next week, as the New Year came and went, Greta dined with Owen every night. Now her ankle was better, instead of reading to her in the afternoons he took her for short walks across the
land that formed the Marchmont estate. She began to see that, in his old-fashioned way, he was courting her. She couldn’t understand it. After all, the squire of Marchmont could hardly marry
a woman bearing another man’s child. Could he . . . ?
Yet – despite her heartfelt protestations that she must return to Lark Cottage – when she had been living at the big house for almost a month, Greta knew for certain that Owen
didn’t want her to leave.
One evening after supper they were sitting in the drawing room together after dinner discussing
David Copperfield.
Owen closed the book and silence fell. His
expression suddenly became serious.
‘Greta. I have something I want to ask you.’
‘I see. It’s not something dreadful, is it?’
‘No . . . at least, I hope not. Well’ – he cleared his throat – ‘the thing is, Greta my dear, I have become remarkably fond of you in the short time you’ve
been here. You’ve brought an energy and a zest back to me I thought had long passed. In short, I dread you leaving. So . . . the question I have to ask is: would you do me the honour of
marrying me?’
Greta stared at him, open-mouthed with shock.
‘Of course I’ll understand completely if you couldn’t countenance being the wife of a man so much older than yourself. But it seems to me you need things that I can give you. A
father for your child, and a safe, secure environment for both you and the baby to flourish in.’
She managed to find her voice. ‘I . . . you mean you’re prepared to bring up the baby I’m going to have as your own?’
‘Of course. There’s no need for anyone to know it isn’t mine, is there?’
‘But what about LJ and David? They know the truth.’
‘Don’t worry about them.’ Owen used his hand to metaphorically flick the problem away. ‘So, what do you say, my dear Greta?’
She remained silent.
‘You’re asking yourself why I’d want to do this, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am, Owen.’
‘Would it be too simplistic if I told you your presence here has made me realise how lonely I’ve been? That I feel an affection for you I hadn’t previously thought possible?
Marchmont needs youth . . . life, or it will wither away with me. I believe, in turn, we can give each other what we lack in our respective lives.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I don’t expect you to make up your mind now,’ he said hastily. ‘Take some time to think about it. Go back to Lark Cottage, if you wish.’
‘Yes. No . . . I—’ Greta rubbed her forehead. ‘Would you excuse me, Owen? I’m feeling dreadfully tired.’
‘Of course.’
They stood up. Owen reached for her hand and kissed it softly. ‘Think long and hard, dear girl. Whatever your decision, it’s been a pleasure having you here. Goodnight.’
Greta lay in bed, turning Owen’s proposal over and over in her mind. If she accepted, her baby would have a father and both of them would escape the stigma that haunted illegitimate
children and their mothers. She’d be the mistress of a beautiful house and never have to worry where the next meal was coming from ever again.
The one thing she wouldn’t have was a man she loved. Although Owen was kind, thoughtful and attractive in his own way, if she were brutal about it, Greta didn’t relish the thought of
sharing a bed with him.
But if she said no, it was back to the cottage to face having her baby alone. And beyond that, who knew? What chance would there be of finding the real love she craved in the years ahead? Let
alone providing for herself and the baby?
A picture of Max drifted into her mind. She shook her head quickly to clear it. He was never coming back and she had to forge a life for herself and her child.