The Bannister Girls (37 page)

But for tonight … they glowed against Angel's fair skin and were the object of much admiration among the evening's guests. Not the least admired was Jacques' betrothed, and Angel wondered how she could ever have been nervous of meeting these charming people.

If only her own parents and sisters could have been here too, she thought wistfully. She had written to Clemence and Fred, unable to leave him out this time, and told them all that had happened. She had also sent an ecstatic letter to Ellen, an equally ecstatic one to Margot Lacey, and a slightly less hysterical one to her sister Louise.

Jacques had written formally to her father, asking for his daughter's hand in marriage in due course, and separately to Clemence, a letter which would surely charm the birds from the trees, Angel thought privately and inelegantly.

The Comte de Ville had sent a letter to Angel's parents too, assuring them of the propriety of their daughter staying at the chateau, acquainting them of his son's position and prospects. And undoubtedly dazzling them with the secure future envisaged for their daughter, Angel chuckled to Jacques, when the Comte had told them of his intention.

There had been no time for replies, but the engagement party went ahead, assuming it was all a
fait accompli
. And tomorrow, the idyll was to end, Angel thought, as the guests
drank a toast to the young couple in the oldest and costliest de Ville wine. Tomorrow, they were to return to the war.

But there was still tonight…

Angel and Jacques said good night lovingly at her bedroom door. Once inside, she slipped out of the green satin gown, holding its rich fabric against her cheek for a moment before hanging it in the wardrobe, and wondering when she would wear such a garment again. She unfastened the lovely gems from her neck and slid the ring from her finger, placing them reverently in the long case.

She was very tired, but too excited for sleep. A quick bath might help, and afterwards she dried herself with a big fluffy towel in her bedroom. She had turned out the lights and flung open the curtains to let the moonlight flood the room with light, wanting to savour this last night at the chateau with the ghostly shapes of the town below and the hills all around.

She was aware of a small sound. She turned sharply, to see her door handle turn. Her heart beat erratically, knowing it would be Jacques. Wrapped in the towel, she stood very still as he came inside the room, wearing only a dressing robe. He came nearer, and without saying a word, gently removed the towel from her shoulders. She shivered slightly, and he unfastened the belt of his robe and enveloped them both inside it. His voice was a warm, desperate caress against her cheek.

‘How can I see you without constantly wanting to touch you? Your very presence is sweet torment to me, Angel. The sound of your voice, the scent of your hair, the longings I've suppressed all these months –'

‘Hush, my love,' she whispered back. ‘I'm here now, and we're together.'

He lifted her bodily and lay her on the opened bed. The robe slid away from his body, and she could see the silvery patterns of the scars all down one side of him. His hands too,
had that strange sheen of new skin, but none of it changed the Jacques she loved. Nor had the sensitivity of those fingers been diminished as they stroked her breasts, swiftly followed by his lips, reviving the exquisite memories of the love they shared.

She felt the growing proof of Jacques' love, and her spirit soared to meet it. Now, the last barrier between them would be removed, and in his own eyes, he would be restored as a man. Angel relaxed as the sweet sensations overwhelmed her, then suddenly she was rudely brought back to reality, hearing Jacques' bitter laugh as he flung himself away from her.

‘So much for wishing,' he said harshly. ‘If your presence can't make a man of me, then God knows there's little hope left.'

‘Jacques, please – it's all right. Let's take a little more time – please –'

He moved off the bed, throwing on the dressing robe and tying it tightly, as if to deny the existence of his manhood.

‘We have no time for dalliance,
chérie
.' The word was no longer an endearment but a form of sarcasm. ‘We have a war waiting for us, so go to sleep and be ready to leave after breakfast in the morning. I'm sorry I troubled you.'

She was stunned when he had gone. In so short a time, his confidence had been shattered. But he hadn't given it a chance! She wept into her pillow. He had been convinced of his impotence before he even came to her room, and she realised anew what a tenuous hold a man had on his masculine ability. She raged at the only thing she could, relieving her of the anguish she felt. It was all the fault of the bloody, bloody war…

At breastfast, Angel could hardly believe Jacques was the same person who had blundered out of her room in the darkness. He was very much in control now. Since informing his unit of his survival, a new uniform had been sent to him,
and he looked as dashing and exciting as on the night they had first met, and her heart turned over with love for him.

But she was wiser now, knowing that Jacques must make the next move, and that she dare not taunt him with her sexuality in a way that had become delightfully uninhibited on that last wonderful leave at the small hotel in England.

Today was a sad day for the Comte, as well as a proud one. He had sent his son to war once, and been thankful to see him come home alive, and now he was sending him off again. And this time with a future daughter-in-law in the passenger seat of the car. They were to drive back to Brighton Belle, so that Jacques would have his own transport, and providing he could obtain some petrol, they might manage to meet a few times.

The Comte hugged them both, telling them to take the luck of the house with them, and looking forward to the day when they would return. Neither tried to guess when that might be. In many newspaper reports, the fortunes of war had moved to the sea, but for those involved in continual land and air battles, such speculation gave grim comfort.

‘Will you come inside the Abbey, Jacques? The nuns will be so relieved to see you well again,' Angel said, when at last they neared the hospital.

They had been travelling for two days, staying overnight at an inn, where the proprietor gave them separate rooms, to both their secret relief. Angel wept inside that she should feel so, but there was too much tension between them now to risk another humiliation for Jacques.

‘Just for a short while,' he agreed. ‘I owe them my life, and there are no words adequate enough to thank them for that.'

He didn't tell her that he had more than words to give the nuns. His father had made a generous gift of money to the Abbey of St Helene, and Jacques intended handing it over to the Mother Superior discreetly and without fuss.

So instead, Angel merely heard the nuns scold him for his
desertion but with teasing in their eyes and thankfulness that this handsome young man should have recovered so well. And in all too short a time, they were saying good-bye once more, and it was hard to hold back the tears as they clung together, promising to write, and to meet whenever they could…

And then he was gone, and within minutes she was already lonely without him.

Sir Fred Bannister kept telling himself that this was just an ordinary day. If he said it often enough, perhaps he could believe it. He refused to look at the clock in his office every five minutes, or to leave the factory early. They had a rush of orders to get out, he was a conscientious employer, and for the moment his private life must wait.

Despite the fact that America had now entered the war amid sighs of relief, and were now true allies, there was still an unceasing demand for replacement uniforms and blankets to be sent to the Front, and that told its own story…

But Fred was as thankful as any of his millworkers when at last the whistle sounded, and he could feel satisfied that there was no one at Bannister Textiles who could say the boss left early whenever it suited him. He drove quickly away from the red brick buildings, and headed south into the country.

The garden of Beckside Cottage was a riot of hot summer colours. Harriet had always loved her garden, Fred thought, as he finally drove the car neatly around the back of the sturdy little Yorkshire cottage, away from prying eyes. It was a long while since the shock of seeing Angel on the doorstep, but he still felt like some guilty schoolboy every time he parked the car, and it was a feeling he didn't enjoy.

He opened the kitchen door, sniffing appreciatively as he went inside, expecting the usual smells of good cooking to greet him. There were none, and Fred stopped abruptly,
sudden fear in his gut. The kitchen was sparklingly tidy. Harriet's cottage was always clean, but never with the irritating fussiness of a spinster's domain. He always thought of it as welcoming and homely. Today, everything seemed different. There was no sign of preparation for the evening meal, no vegetables peeled, nothing simmering on the hob to get his taste buds working.

‘Harriet!' He suddenly found his voice, bellowing her name and taking the twisting stairs two at a time. Dear God, don't let anything be wrong, he prayed, knowing in his heart that something must be bloody wrong for Harriet to be missing at the time she knew he'd be coming home.

She was lying face down on the bed. The bed they shared. The bed on which they romped in glorious abandon. Her body was curled up like a foetus. Crumpled somehow. Defeated. The thoughts screamed through his head in little staccato bursts.

‘Christ, Harriet, what's wrong?' His voice was hoarse now, his face red from the run up the stairs and the panic in his heart. He couldn't live without her. Nothing else mattered. And she looked so still … his senses reeled.

She moved languorously, stretching her arms inch by inch, and the relief was so overwhelming he stumbled towards the bed to kneel down beside her. She had merely been sleeping, and he had thought … he had thought…

But why the hell shouldn't he have been scared? Harriet never slept in the day. Never went upstairs to bed, unless he turned up unexpectedly, and then it was for a different reason, and neither of them thought about sleeping…

He took her roughly in his arms, holding her close to him, breathing in her scent to reassure himself that she wasn't dead. Dear God, it was what he had been thinking, and the imagined sharpness of grief was still in his head. He couldn't get rid of it as he rocked her to him.

‘Freddie, you're stifling me!' Harriet started to laugh,
pushing against his chest. ‘What ails you, for goodness' sake?'

He stared at her, at the finer lines of her cheeks that had been so full and rosy, and couldn't rid himself of the fear either. But he knew better than to show it.

‘What ails
me
, woman? Do you know what time it is? Are we going without dinner tonight?'

She looked at the clock, her mouth dropping open as she saw the time.

‘I must have dropped off to sleep! After I'd been to town today, I felt so tired, and thought I'd just lie down for a minute or two, but the hours must have skipped by. And you must be starving, Freddie! I'll get something cooking right away –'

He held onto her arms as she made to scramble off the bed. He could see the traces of tears on her face, and the anxiety in her eyes. She couldn't hide it from him the way he hid it from her.

‘Did you think I'd forgotten that it was today you were to see the specialist? What was the verdict?' He was harsh with worry, trying to bore into her mind with his own, wishing now that she'd agreed to let him take her. Even though they both knew it would have been asking for trouble.

Tittle-tattle would have started, and Harriet wouldn't allow it. Not for herself, but for him. For his good name at the factory and his reputation. As if he cared a damn … even as he thought it, he knew to his shame that he did care.

‘I have to go for tests. They want me in hospital, Freddie. Only for a few days, just to be sure –'

‘Sure of what?' Even as he said it, he guessed. He'd been poring over medical books in recent weeks, frightening himself half to death over all the possibilities it could be, and even more afraid to suggest anything to Harriet. It might be just a bad cold, or a lingering bout of influenza…

‘It's most likely consumption,' she said quietly. As if to underline her words, the dry little cough began irritating her
again. She turned away from him quickly, trying not to make it obvious that she was trying to avoid breathing into his face. He folded her in his arms.

‘But they don't know for sure?' He grasped on to any straw. ‘Most likely' didn't mean ‘definitely'…

‘No, they don't know for sure, and I'm not going to spend my time worrying over summat as isn't certain!' Harriet said defiantly. ‘So I'll thank you not to make things worse by looking at me like a gloomy spaniel, Freddie!'

He smiled reluctantly, trying to match her flippancy.

‘So that's how I look to you, is it? It's hardly the image of a romantic lover!'

Harriet suddenly looked pink, leaning forward to kiss him lightly on the lips.

‘Oh, my love, I can think of nothing more romantic than my man with a spaniel's eyes. But if that's your stomach I hear rumbling, I'm going to insist that we stop talking of illness and miserable things we can't change, and let me get us some food.'

He caught at her wrist. ‘Harriet, you know I'd give you the earth if I could –'

‘I know it. But even you can't give me back my health, so no more sad faces, Freddie. What do you fancy for dinner?'

‘You,' he said simply. ‘But I'll settle for taking you out to a restaurant instead. Let's go a little crazy tonight, Harriet. We'll drive up to York and find ourselves a secluded place where nobody knows us. What do you say?'

‘'Tis the best idea yet, Freddie. That's if we can find a restaurant with any food.'