Winter Roses Read online

  ‘Tell her yourself,’ Caroline called back. That would be a test. To her puzzlement, Daniel seemed to have rigidly refrained from initiating any direct contact with Felicia since her departure to Belgium over a year ago, although there could be no doubt of the strength of feeling that still existed between them.

  A soldier in one of the nearby invalid chairs, whom she had noticed had been listening with interest, called out: ‘Is that Nurse Felicia Lilley, by any chance. One of the two Lilies of the Field?’

  ‘Yes, she’s one of my sisters,’ Caroline replied.

  Felicia and Aunt Tilly had been awarded a medal last year from King Albert of the Belgians, and she and Daniel knew, though Father and Mother did not, that it was for bravery under fire. They fondly imagined Felicia was operating safely well behind the lines, like most VADs, and it was on the Ypres salient that the Germans had launched an all-out attack at the beginning of the month. Although the ground they won had been quickly regained, she had not heard since from Felicia.

  ‘I know her,’ the soldier announced, looking highly pleased. Daniel stopped and turned to look at him, and Caroline saw his face darken.

  ‘Have you any news of her?’ she asked instantly, though it was a foolish question since he’d clearly been here for some weeks. Daniel was listening for his reply too, and surprisingly the soldier did have news.

  ‘I made enquiries after last week’s fun and games and was told she was heavily involved at the front but unharmed.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Her relief was clearly shared by Daniel for, his back rigid, he limped away with Isabel. Uneasily Caroline turned back to the soldier, one leg and arm both swathed in plaster, and his head bandaged over one eye. He was no Daniel. He wasn’t so tall and what she could see of his face was nondescript. His large mouth had a quirky grin to it which was appealing though, and there was a lot of intelligence stored up behind the one visible grey-blue eye.

  ‘I’d be up with the angels if it wasn’t for your sister and your aunt,’ he explained. ‘They dragged me in from no man’s land in April. The stretcher-bearers don’t have time to assess priorities, but Lissy took one look at me, grabbed one, insisted I was taken straight to the Lilley pad, and stemmed my precious lifeblood which was set on fertilising a foreign field.’

  Lissy? Caroline was flabbergasted. No one, but no one had ever abbreviated Felicia’s name, and here was some soldier out of the blue calling her Lissy.

  He interpreted her silence correctly. ‘She didn’t like me calling her that at first, but she came round to it.’

  ‘You must have a magic way with you.’

  ‘No.’ The grin on the angular bony face disappeared. ‘It’s she has that. Besides, I explained to her why I called her Lissy.’

  ‘And what was the reason?’

  ‘I will tell you when we know each other better, Miss Lilley, not now.’

  ‘You seem very certain of yourself.’ Caroline began to laugh, for there was something about him that was engaging, taking any sting from the rebuff. ‘Do I want to know you better?’

  ‘You’ll be forced to when I marry your sister.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  His turn to laugh. ‘She doesn’t know it yet, but I do. You’ll see.’

  ‘But—’ Caroline broke off, stunned, partly by his audacity, but mostly by the thought of Felicia marrying anyone but Daniel. Still, it wasn’t her place to interfere in Felicia’s life or to dash this wounded soldier’s hopes – convictions might be the more accurate word. Moreover, Felicia might be younger than her, but she had proved beyond doubt that she knew her own mind.

  ‘Do you have a name?’ she asked instead. ‘If we’re to be related, perhaps I should know it.’

  ‘My apologies. Luke Dequessy, Captain in His Majesty’s Artists’ Rifles. I’d bow if I could get out of this chair.’

  ‘I’ll bow to you instead,’ she generously offered, and promptly did so. She decided she liked Luke. ‘Are you French, Captain Dequessy?’ Despite the unusual name, he certainly didn’t look it; his height, hair and a way of enthusiastic jerking in his movements of his free arm and leg reminded her of an appealing marionette.

  ‘Once upon a time. The family originated in the Quercy district in south-west France, but came to England so many years ago we count ourselves true-blue British. My mother’s American though. I hope that doesn’t disbar me from membership of your family.’

  ‘We’re unprejudiced in the Rectory.’ Caroline waved a gracious hand, and shortly afterwards excused herself, seeing empty glasses and Percy, lost in admiration of his own handiwork, only slowly cutting up another apple. With a sinking heart, she noticed one of the empty glasses belonged to Lady Hunney. She looked round quickly for aid from Agnes or Myrtle, the general housemaid, but neither was to be seen. She would have to approach the Gorgon herself; though contrary to mythological lore, this gorgon was best confronted head-on.

  Her ladyship proved amicable, as gorgons go. No wonder, Caroline thought uncharitably, having broken up Reggie’s and my engagement, she considers me no longer a problem to her. So it appeared, for having accepted a second glass of punch, Lady Hunney bestowed one of her sweetest social smiles on her.

  ‘Reginald deeply regrets that owing to an engagement in London he is unable to be present today.’

  ‘Of course.’ Caroline’s lips were stiff. ‘I trust he is well.’

  ‘Tired, Caroline, as are we all, but physically recovered from last autumn’s injury.’

  Why, oh why, whenever she congratulated herself that her heart was recovering, did some kind person decide to prod the wound again? Caroline fumed at her inability to conquer her own defensiveness when faced with her ladyship, and was annoyed to find her steps taking her towards the orchard after she had (somewhat speedily) left the Gorgon. How ridiculous. Did she hope that the magic of two years ago might be recreated there? Did she imagine that, against the odds, Reggie himself might be there? Even if he were, she reasoned, could she blot out what had happened; the differences that had arisen between them, or the sight of Reggie and Isabel together? No, there was no going back in life. Very well, so why didn’t her heart even now quite accept that fact? Perhaps it merely clung to the familiar for fear of the unknown. With this somewhat consoling thought, she determined to forget Reggie – and his mother.

  Despite this good resolution, however, her footsteps still drew her towards the orchard like a magnet; it reminded her of childhood days when with the flickering candle for light in her bedroom she would peer beneath the bed to see whether wicked witches lurked there. This time, at least she was confident the wicked witch was behind, not in front of her.

  Ahab bounded along at her heels, or perhaps snuffled was a better word. Dignified aged English sheepdogs did not bound unless there was some real inducement in the form of bones. He wasn’t worried about witches. Yet if there were no such creatures, she asked herself, as she walked through the wicket gate into the orchard, why was her heart pounding like Mrs Dibble kneading oatmeal bread?

  At once she found the answer. Because there was someone there. Someone in uniform—

  ‘Reggie!’

  Her cry rang out even as, realising her mistake, she halted her headlong rush towards him. The uniform was khaki and looked British but it was not, and the officer was not Reggie. As he turned round, she saw it was the Belgian captain, Yves Rosier, who had obviously just entered through the gate from Pook’s Way. He was about the same height as Reggie, about five foot ten or eleven, but otherwise there was no resemblance. In place of Reggie’s classical handsome looks and light-brown hair, this man, who looked in his early thirties, had a sturdier build, darker hair and an uneven, almost craggy face with that noticeable scar and bitter grey eyes. Smiles, she guessed, did not – or did no longer – come readily to him. How could she possibly have confused the two men?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered, feeling foolish, ‘I thought you were someone else,’ and when he did not reply, she added inanely: ‘You m
issed the arrival of the punchbowl, Captain Rosier.’

  This time he did reply. ‘I apologise again, mademoiselle. I am sure the punch was excellent, but I enjoyed my walk in the Forest.’

  ‘You like forests?’

  ‘They remind me of my homeland.’

  Caroline immediately felt conscience-stricken for her lack of understanding. Everyone knew what appalling suffering the Belgian civilians were enduring with most of their country occupied by an increasingly harsh regime. Acute food shortages were causing riots, and the crackdown was swift and brutal. On the Belgian front, its army was on the River Yser line between the British and the sea, protecting the last corner of its territory from occupation. In the early days of the war, thousands of refugees from Belgium had flooded into Britain and were now established in hostels and enclaves trying to build a new life, even if, as they hoped, it would be a temporary one.

  ‘Is it wise,’ she asked him impulsively, ‘always to remind yourself of home? Wouldn’t it be better to escape for an afternoon?’

  ‘There is no escape,’ he replied after a moment. ‘No escape by playing tennis, no escape in these gardens, no escape by shutting one’s eyes to what lies outside. The temptation is great,’ he added, perhaps to soften his words, ‘but no. Not before the fight is won.’

  ‘You are very sure of yourself.’ Caroline’s sympathy vanished in defensive irritation. ‘I believe that afternoons such as this help: even the worst of battles is better fought with snatches of rest beforehand.’

  ‘I cannot share your view. I came here only to assist my friend, Captain—’

  ‘Is that why you wouldn’t play tennis when we needed you?’ Caroline interrupted, as the thought suddenly occurred to her. ‘Because it’s an escape?’

  He flushed. ‘I am sorry if that offended you.’

  ‘It seemed a small thing to ask.’

  ‘To a refugee even the smallest thing can prove an insurmountable obstacle.’ He stated it as a fact, not as a plea for understanding. Had it been the latter, she would have replied less sharply.

  ‘Refugee? But you are in the army.’

  ‘Yes, but my country is occupied.’

  ‘What are you doing in this country?’ Curiosity made her speak without thinking. ‘You speak excellent English.’ Although his accent was heavy, his grasp of the language was admirable.

  There was another pause. ‘I am in liaison between the Belgian army and British Headquarters.’

  ‘Daniel told me liaison was handled at GHQ in France. Isn’t—?’ Caroline broke off, aware there must be more to this. Did she care? On the whole, not very much. On the other hand, she did care about more punch, and that would provide an excellent excuse to leave. She was prevented from doing so when he came closer, stretching out a hand as if to lay it on her arm. He did not do so, but for a moment it felt as though he had.

  ‘I have offended you, Miss Lilley, through my unsocial behaviour. Also,’ he added, ‘because I am not this Reggie whom you seek.’

  He smiled for the first time, and it changed his whole face. For a moment the bitterness vanished, and his eyes seemed fully focused on her, not on some inner concern of his own.

  ‘It was stupid of me to call out his name.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the past is the past, Captain Rosier, and unlike you I do believe in escape.’

  His eyes gleamed in appreciation of her retort. ‘Tell me of yourself, Mademoiselle Lilley. Daniel has said very little.’

  ‘Quite right too. Reggie,’ she choked slightly, ‘is his brother.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself, not about this Reggie. Daniel mentions you are working in the cause of women helping the war effort here.’

  Did she want to talk to him? Wouldn’t she much rather return to her friends and family? Eventually politeness decided the question. To remain silent any longer would put her in the wrong. ‘That cause is nearly won now that Lloyd George is on our side. If only he were Prime Minister full utilisation of womanpower would happen even more quickly. Meanwhile—’ She went on to describe what she was doing in Ashden, and on the Women’s War Agricultural Committee in East Grinstead. ‘The food shortage is worsening, Captain Rosier, and now farms are strained to their limit. I believe there is only one answer and so did Lord Milner in the war cabinet, when he reported to the government last year. More land. Every scrap of waste or unused land will have to be ploughed up.’

  ‘You’re doing valuable work, Miss Lilley,’ he said, yet it had the effect of making her suddenly conscious she had been talking for a long time about something in which he could have little personal interest. She consoled herself that he had nevertheless been listening attentively.

  ‘Thank you.’ It was her turn to feel awkward.

  ‘However, you could work more directly for the war effort, if you wished to leave Ashden.’

  ‘You mean go to the front like Felicia, and nurse.’ Her opinion of him promptly sank again. ‘That’s not—’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted, ‘you are not like your sister. I have met Miss Felicia, and you are right, that life is not for you. Your heart is too warm and your discipline insufficient for her work.’

  Caroline could not believe her ears; she was outraged at this familiarity. ‘You seem to know a great deal about me, Captain Rosier, from our two brief meetings,’ she replied acidly.

  ‘Three.’

  With mixed feelings, she realised he too had thought in April that that had not been their first meeting. She had convinced herself she had been mistaken, yet here he was, about to tell her that there had been no such mistake.

  ‘Perhaps I should not remind you,’ he continued hesitantly, ‘of that evening when the Zeppelin bombs fell by the Gaiety Theatre. I was on my way to the home for Belgian refugees in Aldwych when the first one fell. I turned back, otherwise probably I should not be here now. You must have been caught in the blast but you were helping the wounded. You needed a pair of hands to assist you that dark night and I offered mine. You did not take any notice of me. Why should you? But I watched your face, Miss Lilley, as I obeyed your commands. You were eager to help, and it did not seem to occur to you what danger you might be in had the Zeppelin returned to drop more bombs, or should the gas mains explode, as indeed one later did. I thought your face familiar when we met briefly in April. Only afterwards did I remember where I had seen it before.’

  ‘The refugee hostel in Aldwych was badly hit,’ Caroline managed to blurt out. He was right. She didn’t want to be reminded yet again of that terrible experience which still brought nightmares in its wake.

  ‘Yes, and many friends of mine died there. War pursues us Belgians from our homeland and seeks us out in every sanctuary – perhaps even in this idyllic place.’ He nodded towards the Rectory. ‘You are fighting a brave defensive battle here, but if you ever wish to join the offensive, I could offer you a job.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Shock was replaced with fury at his presumption. ‘Here in Ashden we do see our work as part of the offensive, Captain Rosier. Perhaps you could see your way now to accepting a glass of punch – before you leave.’

  ‘Thank you. I should like that.’ He did not seem discomposed by her snub, as he walked back with her across the gardens to join the rest of the party. Perhaps he did not recognise it as such, and she began to feel ashamed at her curtness. Nevertheless, she parted from him with relief, as her mother came hurrying up to her.

  ‘Where have you been, Caroline? It’s not like you to leave me in the thick of battle.’ She was half serious, half joking. ‘Their two ladyships have declared war.’

  Caroline laughed, glad of the diversion from her irritating encounter with Captain Rosier. ‘It will deflect Grandmother from annoying us. What started this off?’ She was making a determined attempt to reach the punchbowl, but her mother seemed equally determined to stop her, for she drew her aside from the crowd of people at the table.

  ‘The fact that Lady Hunney, being a generation younger than Grandmoth
er, is always fashionably dressed,’ Elizabeth replied dolefully.

  ‘Grandmother is too.’

  ‘Well dressed. Expensively dressed, but not fashionably.’

  ‘There is no fashion now, except to look like everyone else. Lady Hunney dresses simply, military style, no frills and bows.’

  ‘There is the matter of length, Caroline.’ Her mother’s voice was heavy with meaning.

  ‘Ah.’ Caroline understood immediately. The older the lady, the nearer her skirts remained to the ground. Even her mother had moved her hemline up a few inches. Lady Hunney had raised her skirts to reveal her booted ankles, if not yet her lower calf. Grandmother had so far not budged them an inch.

  ‘Today she realised her mistake. By choosing to remain in full-length skirts, which is a declaration of age, she has removed herself from competition with Lady Hunney for the position of Queen of the Village. She has just commanded the presence of the village dressmaker – not even by name, though she must know it perfectly well. I told her to walk over and make an appointment like everyone else.’

  Caroline was both fascinated and impatient with such trivialities. Fascination won. Mrs Hazel, unassuming as she was, went to no one unless they were unable to leave the house. Lady Hunney patronised a London dressmaker, but Grandmother was in no position to follow suit. Nor was she housebound, fortunately for the Rectory. She sighed, wistfully eyeing glasses of punch all round her. Even Captain Rosier seemed to be enjoying one, deep in conversation with Daniel. Talking about code-breaking and army matters, no doubt, not stuck with skirt lengths and battling matrons. ‘I don’t see what you’re upset about then.’

  ‘You will. Your grandmother has just heard about the flower festival, and her failure over Mrs Hazel has sharpened her claws in that direction.’

  Caroline understood her mother’s concern immediately, and in Ashden terms it was no laughing matter. The home front too had its battles. Lady Hunney had always presented the prizes and helped to judge the festival, which this year was to take place on 29th July. A bid to change that far over-ranked Grandmother’s attempts to break into the tight-knit committees in charge of war relief.