‘Mr Summers, if you have come to take Alice home, which I believe is your intent, I have already done so. The gig was there so I took her and—’
‘Got a mouthful from her father for your trouble.’
Harry Summers, if he was put to the torture, would never admit what prompted him to harness the trap and fetch Alice from Beechworth House. It had nothing to do with Alice, fond as he was of her since Charlie and Alice were madly in love and Charlie was, after all, his brother. But for reasons that vexed him he felt a compulsion to go to
her
house and drive Alice back home. Now, as
she
stood before him he felt the calm wrap round him as he gave in to his feelings and admitted that although it was only this very day that he had met this tall, rather haughty woman who was looking at him with such scorn, she was the only woman for him. He was not to know from her expression that inside she was all aflutter and her heart was beating so rapidly she was afraid he would see it move beneath the fine poplin of her blouse.
‘He was not very pleasant,’ she admitted, ‘and well . . .’ She reached out and absent-mindedly picked up a Dresden figurine, turning it over and over in her sudden distress. ‘I was sorry to leave her but there was nothing I could do. He ordered me off his land and shut the door. You don’t think he
beats
her, do you? I couldn’t bear it if I thought . . .’
‘No, oh no, Rose.’ He crossed the carpet and took the figurine from her, replacing it on the table, took her hands and looked earnestly into her deeply distressed, golden eyes. ‘He’s a bully, riding roughshod over everything and everybody who does not do his bidding but he is very proud of her. In his own crooked way he loves her. He is over-protective with her. But not only is she very pretty she will be a wealthy young woman. Many young men have courted her, young as she is, but he sent them all packing. But she fell in love with Charlie and he with her. I believe they met again as adults at a tennis party given by the Fosters . . . d’you know them? . . . no, well, Charlie doesn’t give a damn for her money. He wanted a career in the army and has done since he was a little lad. He’s longing to see “action” as all of them are so he and Alice must wait. God knows what the outcome will be.’
Her hands did not pull away from his and she looked into his face which was on a level with hers. He was a tall man but her brow almost touched his lips and for a magical moment he was tempted to kiss it and she held her breath hoping he would but, remembering himself, he took a hasty step back . . . and waited. He didn’t know what for and neither did she.
‘And what of you, Mr Summers?’ she managed to ask breathlessly.
‘Me? I am somewhat constrained by the health of my father, Miss Beechworth. You may have heard, for the whole county knows everyone’s business. And that is why Arthur Weatherly considers my family to be beyond the pale. He thinks my father a wastrel who committed the cardinal sin of chucking his money down the drain. Gambling, I suppose. A crime in his eyes and he wants our family to have nothing to do with his. That is the gossip, Miss Beechworth.’
She was indignant. ‘I do not engage in gossip, Mr Summers.’
‘So you have not heard that my father had a stroke?’ He smiled ironically.
‘Well, yes, but . . .’
‘I apologise, I did not mean to infer you were like the rest of them, those who prattle among themselves on how long he will last. They say he deserves it owing to the fast life he led which resulted in him losing everything he had except the house and the land.’ His voice was bitter now. ‘But he was always a good father to Charlie and myself and I cannot abandon him. I too want to fight in this bloody war – I’m sorry, that is what it will be – but I cannot leave him to die alone. I am doing my best to hold it all together, the farms, the tenants on those farms, the land itself, but when he goes and I go off to fight who will look after it all for me and, of course, for Charlie? It is his home as well as mine and although I will inherit the title and all that goes with it I have a duty . . . Dear God, I’m sorry, I’ve no right to bore you with my problems.’
‘I am not bored, Mr Summers. And if there is anything I can do to help you I hope you will ask. Just ask. I’m not concerned with the meaningless trifles that seem so important to females who exist in what is called “polite society”. I long to do something
real
. I am becoming increasingly interested in the women’s rights movement and have been to one or two of their meetings. But so far I have done nothing and I’m ashamed of myself. Tell me, do you think that it might be—’
‘Miss Beechworth, dear Miss Beechworth.’ He began to laugh and for a moment she was offended then she joined him. ‘Here we are talking of such serious subjects when there are other matters . . .’
‘What matters, may I ask? Your father is dying, you seem to be telling me, and I suppose you will then be
Sir
Harry Summers and we will all have to curtsey to you but please . . .’
‘Please what, Miss Beechworth?’ he murmured tenderly.
‘Can you not call me Rose and may I call you Harry?’
She watched as he climbed into the little trap, looking somewhat awkward, since it was a ladies’ vehicle and he had trouble fitting his long legs in. He turned at the gate and looked at her, his face quite expressionless but nevertheless she knew that something important to them both had happened this day.
Dolly was behind her, her wise eyes searching her face for an answer to an unasked question.
‘Well, what the devil was that all about and don’t give me no flannel for I’ve eyes in me head and brains too.’
‘I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Dolly Davenport.’ Rose tossed her head, her froth of curls flaming round her head like a living flame. There was a deep light in her golden eyes as though a candle had been lit in her head and her cheeks, which were usually a rich creamy colour, had a flush in them.
‘Oh yes, you do, my lass. But if you want to keep it to yourself that’s up to you. Harry Summers is a fine-looking man and—’
‘Oh, go to the devil,’ Rose exclaimed and flounced up the stairs, taking refuge in her bedroom. It was simply furnished but every piece of furniture was of the best quality. The colour scheme was mostly white with a touch of apple green and rose pink in the curtains and carpet. The large double bed was covered with a white embroidered quilt, the work of her own mother and very precious to her. The big bowed window had seats round it scattered with cushions, and with the door securely fastened in order to keep Dolly out she sank down on to them, her back against the side of the bay, her feet tucked under her. She looked down the long gravel drive to where Tom, Nessie’s husband, was dead-heading the roses in the border. She thought she might pick some later and take them to her mother and father who lay in the same grave in Holy Trinity Churchyard, then, her eyes unfocused, her head on her knees, she wondered how far Harry – she was determined to call him Harry now – had got.
A knock on the door brought her from her reverie.
‘What?’ she snapped irritably, reluctant to let go of her thoughts.
‘Miss Davenport ses dinner’s on’t table, Miss Rose.’
With a sigh she stood up and moved back into the world she had got up to that morning.
J
ust before Christmas Sir George Summers breathed his last and his elder son, now Sir Harry Summers, though he had been fond of his father, was relieved. He had done his duty but now he was free to join his brother on the battlefields of France. The doctor had gone an hour since and Harry lay back in the deep leather armchair in his study, his long legs stretched out to the fire that blazed in the hearth. There was one thing they had in abundance on the Summer Place estate and that was firewood. A golden retriever in a basket lay beside him suckling two puppies, four having not survived. Of the two, one was a pure gold, the other a mixture of brown, gold and grey and Harry was of the opinion that one of Dan Herbert’s collie dogs had climbed the wall when Bess was on heat. Still, they were, as most puppies are, very appealing as they now left their mother and did their best to climb out of the basket. They should by rights be free to roam a little now, for they were seven weeks old but Bess was his dog and fretted if she was not near him so, to the disapproval of Mrs Philips, his cook, and Mary the housemaid, the only servants he had left, he kept her basket beside him.
‘Them dogs should be in the stable, Mr Harry,’ Mrs Philips had said with a sniff. ‘It’s not right for them to be in the house. It only makes more work for Mary and I don’t care for the smell in here, really I don’t. Your mother, God rest her, would not have allowed it, I can tell you.’
‘Yes, I believe you have, Mrs Philips, several times, but since Charlie went I have been—’
‘Ah, yes, I’m speaking out of turn. You must miss Mr – or should I say Captain Summers and . . .’ Her voice changed instantly to one of sympathy. ‘And then with Sir George so poorly . . .’
She had left quietly and the next day, today, in fact, his father had gone.
He did not hear the front doorbell ringing but Bess did, lifting her head to look at him. A discreet knock at the study door brought him from his reverie and Mary appeared, her face still showing signs of recent weeping for, despite his wild ways, Sir George had been liked by all his servants.
‘There’s a lady to see you, sir. Shall I show her in?’
‘Sweet Jesus, can I not get a bit of peace even on the day my father dies? Who the hell is it?’
‘Miss Rose Beechworth, sir. Come to pay her respects.’ Mary’s eyes welled with tears but before he could remove the mask of astonishment from his face there she was, dressed almost as she had been when last he saw her except over her shirt she wore a belted woollen cardigan in a rich mix of emerald and navy with a scarf of the same colours tied about her neck. Her hair stood up around her head, reminding him of a bright, tawny chrysanthemum bloom and her cheeks were flushed to peach since it was a frosty day.
He stood up, alarmed at the way his heart jumped in his chest. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said to the maid who withdrew discreetly.
‘Miss Beechworth . . .’ he stammered.
‘Rose, please. I thought we had settled that. I came to say how sorry I was to hear about your father.’ She walked slowly towards him while the dog growled softly in defence of her puppies, for she did not know this stranger.
‘But how did you know? He only died an hour ago.’ Their eyes were locked in something that had nothing to do with what they were saying.
‘I met the doctor, who is also my doctor, while I was exercising Foxy, and he told me. I presumed you would be alone so I came to . . . to . . .’
Her voice petered out and she simply stood there. The silence thundered on, then was broken by the puppies both yapping at once and another growl from Bess.
‘Be quiet, Bess. This lady will not harm you or your offspring.’ He put his hand down and clicked his fingers and at once the bitch heaved herself out of her basket and stood up to lick his hand. ‘This is
Rose
who is a friend. A good friend,’ he added softly.
‘I hope you are not . . . that you don’t mind . . . I have not seen you since August when your brother . . . and Alice hasn’t called. I’m sorry about that. I think she and I might have been friends.’
‘She would have been glad of your friendship but I have heard she is kept close to home since that day.’
‘He is a brute.’
‘Yes.’ He shrugged his shoulders then turned abruptly to ring the bell. ‘Here am I, the perfect host who should be offering you some refreshment.’
‘You must still be in shock after the death of your father. I know I was when mine died. But the old cliché about time is true, you know.’
His hand stroked the dog’s silky head while the pups whimpered for attention, then with a sudden movement Rose moved to kneel at the basket. She picked up the squirming puppies who licked and nipped at every bit of her face and neck they could reach in an enchantment of delight.
‘I’ve never had a dog,’ she murmured indistinctly.
‘Then have one of these. Have both if you would care to. They are weaned. Mrs Philips and Mary would be your friends for life if you took them away.’
‘What about their mother? Will she not fret?’
‘Strangely enough dogs lose interest when their pups leave them. They are not like human mothers, you know.’
Rose began to smile and so did he though he had no idea what had amused her. ‘Dolly will have a fit.’
‘I suppose she would but if you’d rather not . . .’
‘Oh no, I would love them. I wonder if Alice would . . .’
His face was a mixture of amusement and dismay. ‘You have never met Arthur Weatherly except for . . . No, he would show you the door if you turned up alone, never mind with a puppy for his daughter. I’m sorry, Rose, but the possibility of a friendship between you and Alice is very remote. Now then, will you drink a cup of hot chocolate with me? You can get to know Bess and the puppies. What will you call them?’
‘Ginger and Spice.’ Her voice was firm.
‘But what made you . . .? Ah, their colouring. Very apt. The multicoloured one is Spice, of course.’
‘Of course.’
They sat for an hour while the pups wandered about the room, making little puddles wherever they fancied but Harry did not seem to care. The subject of the progress of the war came up, the war that was already killing thousands of their young men. Already Harry had lost his groom who had joined up and had been overheard doing his best to persuade Enoch who was a hedger and ditcher and at least forty, to come with him to France just as though it were a holiday that Enoch would enjoy. These were country boys and Harry wondered how long they would last in what he called ‘the grown-up world’ of being a fighting man. Most of them had worked the land since they were thirteen. They had known nothing else so how would they cope in that frightening world across the Channel? He said so to Rose.
‘The First Battle of Ypres and at Mons cost us almost the whole of the British Expeditionary Force and the government is asking for hundreds of thousands of volunteers to replace them. You’ve seen the posters. The Germans are trying to get to the sea to cut us off but so far, thank God, they have not succeeded. It’s quite clear it will not all be over by Christmas, in fact it seems to be stalemate.’