The Winter Folly (30 page)

The next day, they travelled to a nearby town and paid a short visit to a white-clad Indian man, an attorney at law, who took a sheaf of rupees and in return had them sign some official-looking
documents, then gave them a signed and stamped certificate. They were married.

She held Nicky’s hand, more moved than she had been the day before, silently and deeply thankful that they were united at last.

‘So, my darling,’ Nicky said, staring at their certificate as they returned to the beach in a bicycle rickshaw, sheltered from the sun by a tatty plastic canopy. ‘Now
you’re officially a Stirling.’ He kissed her. ‘Not that we needed some piece of paper to tell us that.’

That night, Alexandra made sure that she slipped the marriage certificate carefully into the safest place in their possessions, along with their money and passports.

Two weeks later, with the help of two village women who, despite having no English, provided support and comfort through a long and painful night, Alexandra gave birth to a
healthy son. The rapture and delight she and Nicky felt in the baby was all encompassing. Even their travelling seemed to lose its excitement in the thrill of his existence. The outside world
shrank and disappeared as they became absorbed in the baby, awake or asleep or at the breast, in his blue eyes, soft skin and tiny fingers and toes. Alexandra, overwhelmed with love, wanted to
settle with her little chick and concentrate entirely on him. Within a few weeks, Nicky suggested that they went home, and Alexandra eagerly agreed. She had been dreaming of forests and rain and
the particular green of Dorset, and longed to be there with her baby. Little John needed to be home, in the place he truly belonged.

They packed their things and Alexandra wrapped John to her chest in the papoose style she had learned from the local women, and he nestled there all the way back to England. The journey took
weeks as they rattled back on trains and in buses, leaving India behind and travelling through Pakistan and Iran. It was a more anxious thing to travel now they had the baby to consider, and
Alexandra fretted over the heat and the sand and the state of the buses. But as long as she could look down and see his face pressed to her heart, and she could feel his small fingers curled around
her large one, or was able to put him to the breast when he cried, she could bear it.

When they left Turkey and sailed around the coast of Greece to Italy where they boarded a train northwards, she felt suddenly wistful for the freedom of their lives abroad, and the colour and
warmth of India. But that was over now. As they were back in Europe, Alexandra unwound the soft cotton papoose and began to carry John in a blanket instead. In Paris, they discarded their
travelling clothes and bought new ones. Nicky put a suit back on, and she bought skirts and blouses and summer dresses with belts and buttons, quite unlike the flowing robes she’d grown
accustomed to. By the time they arrived at Portsmouth, they looked like a proper English family again, with the baby in a blue romper and a white cotton hat. Only the depth of their tans showed
that they had been living a different kind of life altogether, but even those were already beginning to fade.

Back at Fort Stirling, the past, with its awkwardness, seemed to be erased. With the new generation of Stirlings in the house, any unusual arrangements prior to the wedding
were forgotten. It was understood that irregularities had been made right, and soon a stream of visitors were making their way to the house to call on the new viscountess and coo over the baby, who
was turning into the most handsome child ever seen – at least, in Alexandra’s eyes. Nicky, too, was a devoted father and now that he was head of the family, he seemed to be able to
relinquish his old party crowd and his dreams of a photography career to concentrate on running the estate and taking part in the life of the county.

Alexandra was soon absorbed in the new demands that were made on her: besides caring for John whenever she could – the nanny that Nicky had insisted on was very territorial and clearly
resented Alexandra’s presence in the nursery except at given times – she was called upon to do all manner of civic duties, from opening fêtes and judging winners at the garden
shows, to handing out prizes at local schools and visiting hospitals. No one had much cared who she was before, but now she was Lady Northmoor of Fort Stirling, she seemed to embody some kind of
authority. When she admired a Victoria sponge at the Women’s Institute, it immediately became something better than it had been. If she considered pansies prettier than snowdrops, or crochet
superior to needlepoint, then everyone agreed that was absolutely the case. Perhaps, she thought, she ought to draw confidence from all of this, but instead she felt a kind of mild panic that she
was inadvertently leading everyone in the wrong direction, like a reluctant Pied Piper.

What mattered more was that she seemed to be accepted by the extended family as well. The various aunts, uncles and cousins arriving to inspect the new arrival and welcome Alexandra into the
family treated her with friendly kindness, and she apparently passed whatever tests were being set her.

Nicky’s cousin, George Stirling, lived only a few miles away and yet John was already toddling around by the time he paid his visit. He had been the fat boy she remembered from their
childhood games, so Alex had looked forward to seeing him again, but his visit was marked by a puzzling awkwardness and a distinct lack of friendliness. He had grown into a stout man and looked
older than his years, with reddened cheeks that hinted at a blood pressure higher than was good for him. He’d smiled and been outwardly polite, hoping she might come and meet his
fiancée soon, and that they would all become friends, but his stony gaze had quite chilled Alexandra. He had shown no interest in John at all.

‘Don’t bother about old George,’ Nicky had said airily when his cousin had left. ‘He’s never had much charm and what there was got kicked out of him at school. Poor
kid was bullied to bits. No doubt his nose is a bit out of joint now John is here, as George was the heir apparent, but he’ll get used to the idea. He’s got Home Farm to himself, after
all.’

She hoped that when she met the fiancée, things would improve.

The following month, Alexandra sat for her portrait and when it hung in the hall of Fort Stirling, alongside those of other viscountesses going back hundreds of years, she began to believe that
everything was going to be all right.

While Alexandra had been in India, the memory of her father had faded to a shadow and she had done her best to forget him. Now his presence began to loom large in her mind and
the knowledge that he was a few miles away in the Old Grange, implacably opposed to her new life, haunted her. She had found happiness now, at last, and she wanted him to share in it, and to be
glad for her. A fortnight after their return, she wrote to her father telling him about John, enclosing a clipping of his birth announcement from
The Times
and a photograph of the baby,
and asking if she might bring his grandson to see him. A few days later she received a terse note in response.

She read it over and over, curiously calm, as though her father had destroyed her ability to weep over him. Did this scrap of paper mark the final chapter in her relationship with him? It must.
He was adamant that there would be no forgiveness, and she had never known him change his mind about anything.

‘Forget him,’ said Nicky, furious and scornful when she showed him the note. ‘Let the old fellow rot in his own bitterness. Can’t you see what he’s like? He’s
a tyrant. Look what he did to your mother. He’ll hound you the same way if you let him! You’re better off keeping away. And if he dies a lonely death, he’ll only have himself to
blame.’

Alexandra knew it was not that easy. She held John close to her, hugging him as tightly as she could without hurting him. She showed nothing outwardly, but inside a fear was growing that she had
somehow stained him with something of her own wrongdoing. But there didn’t seem any way to put it right.

Present day

The doll was hidden under a pile of jumpers in Delilah’s chest of drawers, where there was no danger of John seeing it. When she went out for a morning walk with Mungo,
Ben came loping over to tell her that he’d spoken to his older sister the previous evening and asked her about it. She couldn’t remember ever having a doll like that.

‘It’s one of those things, I suppose,’ Delilah said, half an eye on Mungo, who was sniffing around the flower beds. ‘There are probably lots of mysteries in the house,
when you think about how many people have lived there over the years.’

‘You’re right. By the way, I asked my sis about that folly too.’

Delilah said quickly, ‘Yes? What did she say?’

‘She said people definitely jumped off it – and at least one woman, she thinks, but she doesn’t remember it being our aunt. But like I said, the family just didn’t talk
about her, and once we went away to school, we didn’t hear any gossip.’ He looked at her keenly. ‘Why don’t you ask John?’

She flushed and looked away. ‘I . . . I should, I know. But it’s such a sensitive subject for him, as you can understand. I don’t want to ask something like that if I’ve
got it wrong.’

Ben nodded. ‘I know. He’s not easy, is he?’

She gazed at the gravel path, not wanting to be drawn into disloyalty, even if Ben was right. He seemed to sense her discomfort because he said quickly, ‘And that’s not surprising,
considering what the poor bloke has been through.’

A thought occurred to her and she said, ‘Ben – do you and John get along? I’ve almost never seen you together.’

‘Of course,’ he said sturdily, though she caught the slight hint of awkwardness below. ‘I suppose there’s an age difference between us that doesn’t help’
– he caught himself, obviously remembering that it was the same difference as between John and Delilah – ‘but . . . well, I guess we’re just very different.’

They certainly were, Delilah thought, as she walked with Mungo out of the gardens and into the woods. Sometimes it seemed to her that they had polarised the house between them: John had become
its gloom and darkness and despair, while Ben had taken on the beauty and light and growth it was capable of. Was it any wonder she was being drawn towards that sunny, life-enhancing side of things
and away from the misery?

A terrible thought crossed her mind before she could stop it. Perhaps it was John’s fault that there was no baby, not hers. And there was Ben, conjuring up new life all the time with his
gardener’s skill, making the earth fertile and the plants bloom and multiply . . .

She had the sudden vision of Ben taking her to bed, planting a child in her, his vigorous seed taking root . . . then she caught herself with horrified guilt.

I mustn’t think that way
, she told herself, appalled at what her imagination could create for her. And yet, the tiny glimpse in her mind’s eye of his strong brown body on
hers had been thrilling, and made her a little dizzy.

No. It’s impossible.
She shook her head hard as if to dislodge the treacherous image. Mungo had run off ahead and as she emerged from the wood and out into the clearing she could
see him up by the folly, nosing around among the overgrowth and the fallen masonry.

The air was full of the buzzing of insects and the two-note coo of a pigeon floated into the still afternoon. Delilah looked over at the broken tower, sticking up craggily against the blue sky.
It brought a bitter taste to her mouth. The last time she had been here, she hadn’t guessed what significance it held. Now she knew why it caused such horror in John, and she was aghast that
she’d even suggested they renovate it as a place for honeymooners. What a horrible, crass idea! Now she couldn’t bring herself to go near it. She was glad it was boarded up and wished,
like John, it could be pulled down altogether, its grim skeleton shattered by a bulldozer and shovelled away.

‘Mungo!’ she called, and turned back for home.

John refused to come out and see the gymkhana. He said he would spend the day at the coach house with his father until all the pony club brats, as he called them, had gone home
with their ghastly rosettes and even ghastlier mummies.

‘Dad hasn’t been well lately. I don’t want him upset by all the noise and traffic. I’ll keep him calm,’ he said.

Delilah at once felt guilty: it hadn’t occurred to her that the day might be disruptive for John’s father. ‘There shouldn’t be much noise from that distance and
Ben’s arranged the parking well away from the house. I haven’t seen your father for ages. Can I come and say hello to him?’

‘No,’ snapped John. When he saw the hurt expression on her face, he said, ‘I told you – he’s not well. If he doesn’t recognise you, you’ll only make the
situation worse.’

She gazed at him, stricken, and whispered, ‘Are you going to shut me out forever?’

But he was already stalking away and didn’t hear her.

During the afternoon, Delilah went up to the field to see what was going on and was soon chatting to some of the locals, watching the competition and visiting the tea tent to
see what was on offer – thinking privately that she would make much better teas herself if she ever got the chance. She was about to head back to the house when the pony club president, Mr
Harris, introduced himself, shaking her hand vigorously.

‘Mrs Stirling, thank you so much for allowing us to use the paddock. It’s been a marvellous venue and a splendid time has been had by all.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ she replied. ‘It’s been fun. I’ve loved watching the children on their ponies.’

‘We wondered if you might do us the honour of awarding our silver cup to the best all-rounder. It’s just about to be announced.’