The Echo of Twilight Page 13

  Meanwhile, that still and sleepy peace continued to envelop the glen, and routines went on. Clocks were wound, fires laid, and as Mrs. Lister stood watch over steaming pans as though her life depended on it, and filled enough jars with jam to feed an army, Ottoline studied troop movements and battles, and continued with her letters to friends in government. I’m not sure what she wrote, though I’d sometimes hear her quietly reading her words out loud before she folded the pages and placed them inside an envelope.

  For my own part, I tried to hold on to Mr. Watts’s view that the fighting would cease, be over by the end of the year. I tried to convince myself that Ralph would not be needed after all; that Billy would return, along with Hugo; that the country would somehow untangle itself from the horrible mess, and that Kitty would be proved right: The newspapers had got it all wrong. And I took comfort from the landscape, for its brightening colors seemed to reflect that hope.

  Each evening, my lover waited for me by the trees next to the bridge, and hand in hand we walked back to the dusty cottage. I no longer cared who saw us, or what anyone thought . . . and who was there to see? Ottoline, Mrs. Lister and Mr. Watts hardly ever left the house, preferring to keep a vigil there among the fading headlines and within earshot of the doorbell or any telegram. A couple of local girls had been employed to replace the five who had returned south in the preceding weeks, and they were quite different; friendlier, less gossipy and judgmental, I thought. Altogether nicer.

  However, from time to time I got the impression that Mr. Watts thought I was perhaps being a little neglectful of my duties. He made a number of comments about Ottoline’s previous maid, how devoted she had been to Her Ladyship before she left to get married, what a fine upstanding woman she had been—that sort of thing. Then one day, a Sunday—my day off—he said, “Off again, are we?” as I passed by the kitchen door.

  I made no reply, but as I paused by the back door to pick up the wicker basket I’d earlier packed with rolls, cheese, cold chicken and ham, he stepped out from the kitchen and came toward me.

  “Off for a picnic, I see.”

  “Yes, going down the valley.”

  “With Mr. Stedman—again?”

  “Yes, with Mr. Stedman again.”

  Mr. Watts didn’t say anything. He turned and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Ralph laughed when I told him. “The old bugger knows.”

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely.” Then, after a moment or two: “I wonder . . . I wonder . . .”

  “Mm, wonder what?”

  “If old Watts isn’t just a little in love with you himself,” he said, sounding almost excited by the notion.

  “No! Don’t say that. He’s old enough to be my father!”

  It was an unseasonably warm day, and we walked for miles down the valley, following the course of the river until we at last found the spot, another “Eden” Ralph wished me to see. I sat among harebells and watched him dive naked from a rock, disappearing into the river’s dark pool, before emerging noisily, euphorically, beneath its clear waterfall.

  “You should come in. It’s perfect,” he called over.

  “I’ve told you already, I can’t swim.”

  “But, sweetheart, I won’t let you drown.”

  Ralph knew about Kitty, about my childhood, the places I’d worked and people I’d known. He knew about Stanley. But I had yet to tell him the truth about my mother’s end; that she had not died in childbirth—as he and most others presumed. I had yet to explain why stepping into a river—any river—was anathema to me. And I would tell him, but not that day, I decided.

  Later, after we had eaten our picnic, we lay side by side on the grassy bank. Soothed by the sound of the water, staring up at the cloudless sky, I said, “Here, now, on a day like this, it’s impossible to comprehend or even to imagine any war, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But let’s not speak about it.”

  He sat up, took hold of my hand and slid the gold band he wore on his pinkie onto my wedding finger. “With my body I thee worship.”

  I raised my hand to the sky, stared up at the ring.

  “It was my mother’s,” he said. “I want you to have it.”

  “So are we married now?” I asked, turning to him and smiling.

  “We can pretend, can’t we? And when this war’s over, we’ll have a honeymoon. I’ll take you away . . . Where would you like to go?”

  “Biarritz.”

  “Biarritz?” he repeated, sounding vaguely amused as he lay back down next to me on the grass.

  “Yes, to that hotel.”

  He turned onto his side, propped his head in his hand. “And which hotel is that, my darling?”

  “The one you were at when Ottoline wrote to you about me.”

  “Ah, the Hotel du Palais.”

  I nodded. “Yes, that one. Don’t they have a glamorous cocktail bar there?”

  “Indeed they do, and with dancing,” he said, lifting my hand and pressing my fingers to his lips. “But what is it about you and Biarritz?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d never heard of the place before Ottoline mentioned it. And then, when I met you and you said you’d been there . . . I could sort of picture it. See us there.”

  He laughed. “There are places far more beautiful than Biarritz, though I suppose we could call in there, en route.”

  “En route? En route where?”

  “Anywhere, everywhere.”

  After a minute or two, I said, “You’re not going to go, are you?”

  “Go where?”

  “You know where . . .”

  “I thought we agreed not to speak about it?”

  “You brought it up.”

  “I was talking about after . . . when it’s over.”

  “Well, it’s going to be over very soon, so there’s no point in you going. You won’t be needed.”

  “And this is according to whom?”

  “Everyone.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Mr. Watts.”

  “Ah, Mr. Watts, a man incubated in domestic service. Well, of course he would know. Yes, he would certainly know what’s happening in France and how and when it’ll end. I imagine Kitchener consults him regularly for his opinion.”

  I didn’t like his tone, his sarcasm or his cynicism. I’d never heard him speak like that before, and though I was no great admirer of Mr. Watts, I didn’t like Ralph sneering at his being “in domestic service.” I said, “Don’t be like that. He’s optimistic . . . and I need that. We all need that, Ralph.”

  He didn’t say any more, and we dressed and packed away the remnants of our picnic in silence.

  He walked ahead of me all the way back to Delnasay, occasionally stopping to look up at the sky or the hillside, but offering little in the way of conversation and replying monosyllabically to me. And as I watched him—his long legs striding the narrow path through the heather, his golden hair catching the sun, hanging in soft curls over his shirt collar—I had a hideous feeling in the pit of my stomach. For he seemed to be already marching away from me.

  But as we neared the road, the driveway back to the house, he put down the basket, turned and reached out for me. “Come here.” He held my face in his hands, stared into my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  I lowered my head to his chest, wrapped my arms around him, relieved. “Will I see you later?”

  “No, I think not. Not tonight. I’m going to paint . . . and I need to if I’m ever going to get those bloody canvases finished.”

  I knew this was important. Ralph had come to Scotland to paint, and with the intention of completing no fewer than six decent pictures to sell at a gallery in London. It was how he made money, survived. He’d recently received a check from the gallery for some of his paintings of Spain. If he could sell another half dozen pictures dur
ing the coming winter, he’d have enough money to rent a small studio in London, money with which to buy more canvases, paint more pictures. That’s how it worked.

  I watched him as he walked away—taking small steps backward. Watched him as he blew me a kiss, turned and disappeared into the trees. Then I picked up the basket and headed up the sun-dappled driveway, my heart filled with love, and his ring on my finger.

  It was the afternoon of the following day, and I was hanging Ottoline’s stockings on the line in the small yard when Mr. Watts walked up to me. “Mr. Stedman asked me to give you this,” he said, handing me an envelope.

  My stomach lurched; the earth tilted. And I knew. “When?”

  “He was very explicit on his instructions and asked me not to pass it on to you until after luncheon.”

  “When?”

  “Early this morning.”

  It was almost three o’clock.

  I put the letter inside my pocket and tried to continue with my task, but my hands were shaking and that gushing noise was back inside my head. Mr. Watts stood crunching the grit with his polished shoes, staring up and around, not speaking. Then, finally, he turned and walked back to the house. I dropped the pegs and stockings, and pulled the envelope from my pocket.

  My Darling,

  I’m a coward already by electing to write these words rather than look you in the eye and say them. But you see, I know that if I looked into your eyes, I’d never leave. And though I loathe & detest war, every war, I particularly detest this war for taking me away from you. These past few weeks have undoubtedly been my happiest & best. One blissful month in Scotland with you was worth waiting for—worth all the lonely months & years, and I will feed on it. I will nourish myself with those sweet memories and grow fat on my remembrances of Us.

  And oh, my darling, please don’t be sad, because it kills me, kills me even now to think of you shedding tears, and I am truly not worth them. It struck me yesterday at the end of our picnic how selfish I have been. Selfish because I cannot offer you anything, and all the more selfish because I know how much you deserve to be loved and cherished.

  So please don’t wait for me. Don’t waste your days & months waiting for a man who can’t give you what you want & should have. If I have meant anything to you, do this for me: Marry, have children, be happy! This is what I want for you, Pearl. Have that house, paint your bedroom gold and never ever change.

  Take care of yourself, and take care of Ottoline. Remember, she’s not like you and me. And walk forward, my darling girl, walk forward and walk tall.

  Always,

  RSS

  Another page; a few lines.

  Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,

  Thou’s met me in an evil hour;

  For I maun crush amang the stoure

  Thy slender stem:

  To spare thee now is past my pow’r,

  Thou bonie gem.

  Calmly, I folded the pages, pushed them back into the envelope and put the envelope inside my pocket. Calmly, I turned and walked through the gardens in the direction of the river. Calmly, I followed the path.

  There was birdsong, the sun was high and it was Monday—the start of a new week. But Ralph had gone; my love was done and over. And his words and that Always—like the full stop at the end of a long and beautiful sentence—had to be enough. And so, calmly, I sat down on the spiky ground beneath the trees, lay back and wept.

  Eventually, when no more tears would come, I opened my eyes and looked up at the blue that pricked here and there through a canopy of fading green. I could feel the wetness on my temples, in my hair; the comforting warmth of the earth beneath me. But already I was changed; already it seemed as though a hundred years might have passed between the previous day and that moment.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A veil had fallen. Colors faded and sounds were muted. Never again would life be as vivid. Never again would I love in the same way or give myself so completely. My best had been, was already in the past. Ahead of me were years of something less than I had known. Ahead of me were compromise, acceptance and a small and infinitely private place I would be able to return to in quiet moments alone. But I knew its flame, like a beacon once burning and bright, would slowly diminish and cool, that my memories of Ralph—like those of Kitty—would eventually fade.

  And so I tried to take comfort in the fact that I had known love, and been worthy, and that this abandonment was different. Because, I reasoned, if he could have, if circumstances had been otherwise . . .

  And then would come darkness once again, and without any death, I’d slip into grief.

  And yet, that inextinguishable flicker of an optimist’s heart inevitably reignited, rose up and whispered, Maybe. Maybe. And that possibility was enough. Enough for me to hope, enough for me to challenge the Universe, to plead and bargain with it, offering up heart, mind and soul, anything and everything, to keep one man safe and alive, and somehow bring him back to me.

  And thus the days of September fell away, each one removing me further from what I’d believed to be a beginning but had in fact been an end. The senseless sun blazed as brightly as ever, hours melted and time moved on, offering space. And almost unhearing, almost unseeing, almost but not quite numb, I drifted with it. I continued perfunctorily with my duties, as abstracted as Ottoline, each of us quiet and lost in her thoughts. She made no mention of any return south, and it seemed to me as though we might very well stay there forever; that perhaps each of us couldn’t bear to leave that place, to part with it or them. And sometimes, in the echo of twilight, I heard Ralph say my name: Pearl . . .

  Reality came in black and white, and I studied it—the News—with a newfound, albeit quiet, appetite for detail. I read that more women were needed—to work in factories, train as nurses, drive ambulances. I knew I could be more useful; knew I should be more useful. But how could I leave Ottoline after her kindness to me? I couldn’t. Not then. I was aware, vaguely at first, but then clearly, of that fragility I’d first sensed the day I arrived to work for her. My lady needed me.

  Then, one afternoon, as I was lying on my bed, wearing Ralph’s ring and thinking of him, again—because I wanted to remember every single second of our time together, because I didn’t want time to erase his features from my memory, or for the war to blot Us out—Mrs. Lister came to my room. She said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but being as Mr. Watts has had to go to Grantown . . .”

  “What is it, Mrs. Lister?” I said, removing the ring, resenting the intrusion, reluctantly sitting up.

  “Well, I’m not sure, but it’s a bit funny if you ask me . . . Perhaps you need to come and see for yourself?”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. I wondered if one of her cakes had sunk. She said, “She’s in the drawing room.”

  I could hear the music before I reached the top of the stairs.

  I swept down the staircase, across the hallway, opened the door and saw for myself.

  With rouge smeared across her cheeks and wearing enough jewelry to sink a ship, Ottoline danced about the floor with an invisible partner, half laughing and mouthing words. It took a moment or two for her to notice me, and when she did, she adopted the demeanor of a child caught in some naughty act.

  I said, “The music’s a little loud, my lady. Shall I turn it down?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Take it off . . . Take it off, Pearl.”

  I walked over to the gramophone and turned down the volume so that it became soft and quiet, a background noise.

  Ottoline stared down at the carpet. She said, “I was just thinking . . . thinking and imagining . . . Billy loves dancing.”

  Her words were slurred, I saw the glass on the table and I knew then that I had been neglectful, and that in my absence something had happened—a shift, a tilt. A small and unnoticed downward spiral born of too much time alone. I walke
d over and took hold of Ottoline’s hand. “Would you like to continue dancing?” I asked. She looked back at me and nodded. And so we danced. We waltzed about the room with me as the man and she the lady, and though I knew it was—as Mr. Watts would say—irregular, it didn’t matter. How could it? How could anything now?

  Later, I carried two large cans of hot water up the back staircase and filled the old tin bath. I poured in some scented oil, helped Ottoline undress and then helped her into the bath. I knelt down next to it and cleaned the rouge from her face with a flannel. And as she sat in the scented water, her hands wrapped around her knees, she raised her eyes to me and said, “Am I going mad, Pearl?”

  I shook my head. “No, my lady. We’re all going mad.”

  She began to cry. “I don’t want to go back to Northumberland. And I can’t go back there now. You know why, you understand, don’t you?”

  And I was about to shake my head, I was about to say, No, I don’t understand, when she went on. “I’ve not been regular for a few years, but it’s been almost three months, I think . . . which would be right.”

  I had been with Ottoline only for a short time, was still unsure of her exact age, and had not given any thought to her menstrual cycle. Or, if I had, had supposed her to be going through what I’d heard referred to as the change, that time when a woman’s ability to conceive a baby diminishes and the bleeding stops.

  “Hector will know. He’ll know it’s not his. He’ll know it’s Felix Cowper’s,” she said, lowering her head to her knees. “Oh God, what a mess. What am I going to do?”

  I reached out, took hold of her wet hands. “Don’t worry. We’ll think of something. We will. We have to.”