A Winter's Child (50 page)

He was not yet her lover again. She had simply made it clear to him that when he wanted her she would come to him gladly and at once. She had said ‘I am here'and it had been a promise. She would keep it for as long as their being together retained its significance. And she had not the least idea how long that might be. She was, quite simply, filled, sometimes to a point which overpowered her, by generosity, a rich overflow of warmth which kept on rising and spilling over. He could not give himself. She understood that. Therefore, what prevented her, except mealy-mouthed pride and timorous convention, from giving enough for two? One gave what one could, after all. One gave what one wanted to give. For the first time since her return from France she felt herself stretched to her limits, functioning at top speed, maximum capacity, making the best use of herself that she knew how. And she was glad that she had no woman friend left who was close enough to confide in and who would be more than likely to call her a fool, as Benedict himself had done.

She had spent the morning at Upper Heaton, doing her duty, accompanying her mother to church, receiving afterwards from the congregation of full-bosomed matrons the details of Nola's ‘sad accident' which they had heard, in confidence of course, from someone who had heard it from Miriam.

‘The sea air will do her good.'

She had smiled her agreement, smiled and agreed again when Edward, on the walk home, had lectured her on the need for a purpose in life and the general aimlessness of her own.

‘One could hardly wish to see you waiting at table at the Crown for the rest of your life, my dear, in the company of one who – well – to whom waiting at table must come far more naturally.'

‘Oh – quite.' She made her voice very sweet, for Dorothy's sake and because Edward no longer mattered to her one way or the other.

‘And since – let us face it my dear – re-marriage in these times with such a surplus of ladies, many of whom have both position and money, seems hardly a possibility, one feels bound to stress, Claire, that time is not on your side.'

But she had a far more intimate acquaintance than Edward with the vagaries of Time, the cruel tricks it played, the promises never kept, its treacherous habit of simply running out.

‘Do you know,' she said now, smiling at Benedict, ‘how much Edward Lyall worships you?'

‘A man of good taste then, wouldn't you say.'

‘No. Because it's all for the wrong reasons.'

‘Ah-yes-?'

‘It's because you're rich and powerful and so terribly impressive.'

‘And you don't worship me for that?'

She smiled at him again, thinking about Time. ‘I don't know. Shall we go up to Thornwick after dinner and see? If you want me, that is?'

‘Of course I want you.'

He had no need to touch her. They sat, their chairs well apart, and smiled at each other, acknowledging what had become a simple fact.

‘Should you really offer yourself so freely, Claire?'

‘I suppose not. I ought to be mean and coy and make you run after me – which I expect you would.'

‘I expect so.'

‘So why pretend to run in the first place? Isn't it just a waste of time?'

‘Is there so much need for hurry?'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘There is. Always. When you're lucky enough to find something you want – and it is luck, because you can go on for ages and ages without managing to want anything – then you take it. You jump at it. Now. Today. The world may be over tomorrow.'

‘My dear – I doubt that.'

‘Don't ever doubt it. It ends for somebody every day.'

He smiled, quite gently. ‘Yes, Claire. I know. The philosophy of the returned soldier. Then we'll go up to Thornwick, shall we, after dinner – if we can get away early enough?'

No difficulties were put in their way, both Eunice and Polly being concerned only with their separate determination to monopolize the telephone, Eunice in an attempt to locate her eldest son, Polly to keep the line clear for Roy Kington who had promised to call her. While Miriam, who might have put in a bid of her own for Claire's time, seemed wholly distracted by Eunice's constant departures from the dinner-table – ‘I've just thought of something. He's friendly with the Cartwright boys. I'll give them a ring' – bringing a wail of protest from Polly – ‘Mother – she'll gossip for ages and it's not
her
telephone. Tell her, mother!' – followed, when Miriam failed to oblige, by a sullen ‘The little beast is probably down at the police station – or in the river'.

‘How dare you talk about Justin like that,' shrieked Eunice – from the hall, the telephone still-in her-hand.

‘Because it's true.' Polly could shriek even louder. ‘And you think so yourself. Why else are you making such a fuss?'

‘Girls – girls,' murmured Miriam, glancing hopefully at Benedict who appeared to have noticed nothing amiss.

‘Downright rudeness,' said Eunice, coming back to the table flushing scarlet, ‘that's what it is. And I don't see why I should put up with it, mother, from a girl her age.'

‘Mother!'
This time Polly, hearing what she thought might be a bell, had dashed into the hall, ‘Mother-now see what the silly bitch has done. She's left the telephone off the hook, that's all-'

‘How dare you call me that,' gasped Eunice, jumping to her feet.

‘You did it on purpose so he couldn't get through,' hissed Polly. ‘You wanted to spoil
my
fun because you never get any of your own.'

‘Ladies – please,' said Toby nervously.

‘I think,' sighed Miriam, ‘that I will take my coffee upstairs.'

The dessert over, she tiptoed off to bed, looking fragile, leaving Polly and Eunice glowering at each other as they circled the telephone, Polly willing it to ring, Eunice waiting her chance to seize it and put through another call, Toby keeping his distance, apparently engrossed in yesterday's copy of The Times.

‘Shall I take you home?' said Benedict.

‘Oh – yes please,' said Claire.

No one watched them go. Not even Miriam's bedroom curtains twitched as they drove away. The night was fine, star-lit, so clear that one could see for miles, had one desired to do so, from the brow of Thornwick Hill. The farmhouse, in the springtime, had a different fragrance, crocus scents, open window scents instead of the woodsmoke and beeswax and hyacinths of the winter. And standing before the great stone hearth she put her arms around him before she had even taken off her coat, her cheek pressed against his, and held him for a long, uncomplicated, friendly moment.

‘Let's not think too deeply about it yet, Benedict. I know we'll have to start talking about right and wrong and how long it can last. But not now. Let's just
live
it now. Then we've
got
it. And it can't be taken away. Let's just be happy about it – put into it as much as we can.'

He smiled, his arms tightening around her, ‘I know. Before the bombs start to fall.'

Her body had missed him. He had been very far from celibate yet her welcome enchanted his senses, precipitating them both very quickly into pleasure, after which she kept her arms around him, holding him fast.

Having made up her mind to live for the moment, to snatch it and savour it and be grateful –
very
grateful – for as much as it gave her, she was happy and told him so.

‘And have you
madly
fallen in love with me again?'

‘Oh, yes.' She snuggled against him, giddy with love and pleasure, able to say anything, to be as outrageous as she chose. ‘Tell me about your first girl, Benedict.'

‘Claire-for Heaven's sake.' But he was smiling.

‘Why not?'

‘Because gentlemen don't tell about such things.'

‘Oh, that doesn't matter. It must have been so long ago. And it hardly seems fair, since ladies are entitled to tell as much as they like. How old were you?'

‘Sixteen, I think.'

‘Shameful. Don't let me hear you say another word about Eunice's Justin. And she?'

‘About twice that age.'

‘My word – how thrilling.'

‘Yes, she was. A schoolmistress of independent manners and advanced views. Eccentric, I suppose. Unpredictable. Very beautiful.'

‘If you are trying to make me jealous then – yes, you are doing it very well.'

‘I am simply answering your question.'

‘What did you do next?'

‘I travelled a little, for the firm, and one makes acquaintances on the road. And then I had a long flirtation with Elvira Redfearn and almost got engaged to her.'

‘I'm not too keen to hear about that.'

‘Why not?' His dark eyes were frankly teasing her. ‘There's nothing in it to distress you. And it was
you
after all who started me talking. In the end my father decided against it.'

‘Benedict!' She sat up straight in her astonishment. ‘I can't imagine you allowing anyone – not even your father – to decide a thing like that.'

‘You didn't know me when I was twenty-five.'

Looking down at him, his head still leaning against the pillows, she brushed a finger-tip against his lean, slightly hollow cheek, his long mouth, the arch of his brows which she had once thought supercilious, the Roman curve of his nose.

‘No I didn't know you then. I wish I had. How were you?' He caught her hand and held it a moment, the texture of their conversation becoming denser, rather deeper than either of them had wanted.

‘I was short of cash. That's what I remember mainly about being twenty-five. A deliberate policy on my father's part, of course. A traditional policy, as a matter of fact, in this area. How else can any self-respecting millmaster work his son as hard as millmasters hereabouts have always tended to do, unless he keeps him short of ready money? A young man with a pound or two in his pocket might not be so ready to get up at half past five every morning. And he might not do just as he's told in other ways either.'

‘You mean he might not let his father choose him a wife?'

‘Yes. I'm afraid that's just what I mean. It may not be the right moment to talk about it. And it's certainly not the right place – but – since we've approached it so closely –?'

‘All right. I don't mind.'

‘When I was twenty-five it was decided that I needed a wife. When one attains a certain position in life it is just as well to be married. One looks askance at bachelors, particularly in small provincial towns. They arouse too much speculation. My arrangement with my father was that on my wedding day I would become a director of the Mills – in effect to receive official recognition for the job I had been doing for years. I was also to be paid a reasonable salary. And Elvira Redfeam had a certain amount of capital. So had Nola. My father decided that the Crozier warehouses and construction companies and their reputation in the wool trade far outweighed the Redfearn chain of hardware stores. I was in no position to disagree.'

‘You didn't mind?'

‘I had known Elvira for a long time. Nola was a very recent acquaintance and because of that I may have found her the more attractive of the two. To be honest, she rather reminded me of the schoolmistress I just told you about – or rather as I thought my schoolmistress might have been as a girl. Unusual. No one's idea of pretty.
Unco-ordinated.
But then, in my schoolmistress's case, when she'd pieced herself together, “unco-ordinated” had turned out to be “original”, “exciting”. Well – in
our
case, Nola's and mine, it didn't. But, having said all that, I feel obliged to confess that what really mattered to me at the time was the authority I'd be acquiring in the business, and the money. If my father had withdrawn his offer then I would certainly have withdrawn mine.'

She released his hand and brushed the tips of her fingers once again across his face.

‘I'm twenty-five now, Benedict – or very nearly.'

‘I know. I'm forty. So this really is ridiculous –'

‘Yes. Quite ridiculous. Because I
am
jealous.'

‘Of what – for God's sake?'

‘Original, unusual women. All of them. Because I'm not.'

‘Claire,' he said, his voice only just neutral, ‘I have never met anyone even remotely like you – never.'

She slid down on top of him and kissed him for a long time, her hands on either side of his head, the length of her body curving against his in a gentle, supple, loving line, until his arms came around her, imprisoning her with such unrelenting strength that she was finally obliged to cry out ‘Darling – you're hurting me.' And even then he did not let her go.

‘Of course I'm hurting you. I'm bound to hurt you, aren't I, one way or another. How can I avoid it now? You should have disliked me when I gave you the opportunity. You should have seen the sense to it – as I did.'

‘Yes – flirting with abominable Lois, and those insulting flowers the next morning.'

‘I've done more than flirt with Lois, you know.'

‘You're boasting again.'

‘No. I'm making it plain to you that I tried – for your sake, not mine – to convince you that I wasn't a man you could possibly care for.
Your
sake. Because what have I to lose? Nothing. And everything to gain. I want you with me, Claire. I know how to keep you. I have only to exploit your sweetness and your generosity and I think you'd stay with me for a very long time. Permanently, in fact – and in the blue chintz room too if it seemed most convenient, as it probably would. Make no mistake about it, Claire. That's what I want. The first time I realized it I drove off and left you in the snow. I wasn't abandoning you that night. I was saving you, from yourself-not from me. But you wouldn't be saved would you? You did the generous thing – the original thing. And I couldn't resist. I lost the will to resist – until the next morning when I made the best use I could of Lois and Edwina. I hurt you deliberately and I didn't find it easy. I probably won't find it any easier when I
have
to do it again.'