The Bannister Girls (43 page)

There was a New Year's Eve dance in the village hall near Meadowcroft. Fred said dryly that the Bannisters lent a bit of class to the proceedings, at which Ellen called him a terrible snob. They both laughed, knowing that the biggest snob was Clemence, who took the remark perfectly seriously, and agreed with it.

It was the usual boisterous affair, with much larking about by young men in uniforms, fresh-faced farmers and flushed village girls, all eager to have some fun and collect a few kisses when the church clock struck midnight and announced the arrival of 1918.

Charlotte Prole had gone home for the holidays. Ellen watched the other girls prancing up and down in time to the music without partners, only half-heartedly wondering whether to join them. Clemence would definitely disapprove, and for once, Ellen had to agree with her. It looked ungainly, and somehow sad. Women without partners…

‘Dancing alone is hardly the same thing, is it?' She heard Peter Chard's voice, and it was as though he had read her thoughts. She had watched his slow progress around the room, pausing to chat to everyone he knew. Ellen was quite ready to snub him, saying coolly that it was better than to risk having one's toes stepped on by a blundering farmer.

And then he looked straight into her eyes and held out his arms, and there was nothing in the world that could have
stopped her moving into them. They didn't speak, and if Ellen knew she was allowing the occasion to fill her with magic, there was nothing she could do to stop it.

They heard the chimes of midnight. Cheers and laughter filled the village hall as it was plunged into darkness. Still held in Peter's arms, Ellen felt the sudden roughness of his skin against her cheek, then the warmth of his mouth on hers.

Just as quickly, it was over. Couples broke apart in the sudden intrusion of light, turning to other people, hugging and kissing and wishing them a happy new year. And when Ellen looked for Peter again, he had gone.

With every mile that Angel and Jacques travelled back to St Helene, depression crept over her, like the soft snowy flakes blanketing the ground. The three-day idyll was over, the memories locked away in her heart.

And Jacques wanted them to be married as soon as possible, without the pomp and ceremony on which both families would undoubtedly insist after the war. The joy of it made her answer an instinctive yes, but practically it wasn't so easy.

Angel wasn't of age until the end of February. Until then, she needed her father's permission to marry. They intended keeping the marriage a secret until it was a
fait accompli
. There would be so much fuss, otherwise. Angel could imagine Clemence, planning and organising, forgetting that there was a war on, and that such lavish occasions were out of place…

Undeniably, Angel felt a pang of regret too, for herself, and the lovely day she would willingly forgo; for her mother, who would be so disappointed…

But the thought of being Jacques' wife, together or apart, was the sweetest, most desirable thing in her mind from that moment on. It softened the moment of parting, just a little … it gave them something to hope for.

There was a letter for Angel from Margot when she got back to the Abbey.

‘The most
Wonderful
thing has happened, darling. I'm getting married to the dearest, most charming man on earth, and I'm
Absolutely
the luckiest girl.'

Margot's superlatives had returned, Angel grinned, marvelling at the coincidence, and yet not really, for they had frequently done things together, knowingly or not.

‘The wedding's on February the third, and Angel,
Darling
, you simply must be there.
Please
say that you will. I'm sure the nuns will let you go – incidentally, what a lark, working with nuns. Is it too peculiar? All those soldiers' salty remarks!

‘
Write back Immediately
. You can stay with us the night before. We're back in London now, and life must go on, despite all. By the way, my fiancé's name is Basil.
Ghastly
, isn't it? I call him Baz. You'll
adore
him – well, not too much, I hope! I trust you and J are still flourishing.

‘Your devoted Margot.'

Angel felt weak, reading it. It was vintage Margot. And she dearly wanted to be there. She read the letter again, her heartbeat quickening. While she was in England, she could pop down to Meadowcroft and get hold of her birth certificate.

With that in her possession, her date of birth would be undisputed. Once she was officially of age, she could marry without written permission. God bless Margot, she thought.

She wanted to phone Jacques right away, but decided to put it all in a letter, since it would take too much precious time explaining.

She was filled with sudden confidence. It was all going to work out beautifully, and she wrote back to Margot as soon as she had begged five days' leave at the beginning of February, promising to work every spare minute to be sure she got them.

She dare not tell anyone about her own plans. Super-stitiously, Angel felt that even to tell her best friend might break the run of luck she was sure was going their way. And Jacques' response was all that she had hoped for.

‘I'll be counting the days until you are my wife, my dear one, even though you will never be closer to me than you are already. But knowing that I have my wife waiting for me, will make the dark days a little easier to bear, and for that I bless you with all my heart.'

It was a letter to make her throat thicken, and the tears to fall, until the ink was smudged and she had difficulty in reading it. But the essence of it remained with her through the impatient days until she was back in England again, and Margot was greeting her in London with excited cries, and drawing her into the Lacey home. And it was all like being in the midst of an old familiar tableau.

The house, so elegant and comfortable; Mrs Lacey, excited over her daughter's wedding; bravely determined not to let young Edward's death overshadow Margot's day; and Margot herself, as bubbly as a schoolgirl again as the tall young naval officer arrived to be introduced to Margot's dearest friend. And Angel saw from the glances they exchanged, that Margot was no longer the spoilt child she had often seemed, but a woman in love.

For Angel, there were other, special memories. The last time she had been inside this house was almost three years ago. After leaving it, she had been caught in a shower of rain, and in leaping for a taxi-cab, a man's hand had closed over hers on the door handle, and she had looked into the face of the man who was to be her destiny.

‘No ghosts, old thing,' Margot said quietly, not understanding the look, and Angel realised she had been staring unseeingly at the flames in the fire.

‘Of course not!'

‘Good. We must be happy, for Mother's sake. She's lost
Eddie, but now she'll have Baz, and she couldn't be happier at my choice of husband.'

She linked arms with the naval officer as she spoke, and Angel could almost feel the love between them, strong as an electric current. Baz had done a considerable time at sea, but now he had a home posting at Portsmouth, and probably wouldn't be sent on active duty again. Lucky, lucky Margot…

The wedding day was bright, the small service performed with dignity at the local church. There were less than thirty guests, since they had felt it wrong to have too big a show, remembering Eddie. Angel was mightily relieved that Margot was rid of the strange obsession over her brother's death. If she had nothing else to thank Baz for, she thanked him silently for that.

After a small reception at an hotel, the couple went off for a few days' honeymoon at a secret destination. Mrs Lacey's sister had moved in with her, so as soon as Angel decently could, she got away and took the train west. The family knew she was coming, and Ellen met her at Temple Meads station, amid hugs and kisses and a few tears.

‘You look different,' Angel said, as they sped off in a taxi, and Angel had given her a quick resumé of Margot's day. ‘And I don't just mean the fetching Land Army outfit!'

Ellen gave a grimace.

‘Do I? Perhaps it's the strain of wondering if my secret intended intends anything towards me or not!'

‘For a girl who speaks her mind, that's the most obscure sentence you've ever made! Say it in plain English, darling.'

‘I don't know if Peter is interested or not. Is that plain enough for you? And short of asking him outright, which would make Mother disown me, I find it bloody frustrating to twiddle my thumbs and play the little milkmaid!'

Angel laughed, hoping the taxi driver wasn't shocked by such language from a well-brought-up young lady!

‘I can't quite see you in that role, Ellen.'

‘Can't you? You should see me mucking out the pigs and clucking at the hens by name, like a blasted idiot!'

‘It's all good practice for being a farmer's wife,' Angel said lightly, trying to jolly her out of her gloomy mood.

As soon as they arrived at Meadowcroft, Clemence wanted to know every detail of Margot's wedding, sighing with pleasure at the thought of the lovely white dress and veil. She eyed her two younger daughters with some sorrow.

‘I suppose one of you will give your father and me as happy a day when it suits you?' Clearly, she dismissed any idea of Ellen getting married and turned to her youngest. ‘Angel, we shall depend on you. I'm sure Comte de Ville will expect something splendid for his son. I wonder if we shall all have to go to France? I should hope not. A bride's family always chooses the location –'

‘I really don't think you need worry too much about that yet, Mother,' Angel's voice was unnaturally high. ‘There's still a war to be won, and Jacques and I are both involved in it.'

‘So there is, and there are still plenty of couples who refuse to let the Kaiser dictate their personal lives for them!'

Ellen saw that there was going to be an early clash between them, and intervened quickly.

‘It's a shame you missed Dad, Angel. He was here last week, but he had to get back to Yorkshire on urgent business.'

‘I'll bet,' Angel couldn't help muttering.

‘
What
did you say?' Clemence stared at her daughter. ‘What an extraordinary remark to make about your father, Angel!'

Angel felt the heat in her cheeks. The words had slipped out, and now she had to try to justify them without making her mother suspicious. It wasn't the sort of flippant comment that Clemence would appreciate.

‘I just meant that it's a shame Daddy's always away these days, that's all. I know Bannister Textiles does important work for the war effort, but it's hardly the same as Jacques flying over enemy lines, is it? Or the soldiers fighting and dying in horrible mud in the trenches. Or even nursing, like Ellen and Margot and I did. I mean, making cloth and turning it into uniforms and blankets just seems so – so
ordinary
!'

She floundered on, seeing Clemence look more outraged by the minute.

‘How dare you speak so scathingly about your father's business, Miss! I'm ashamed of you. Your precious soldiers wouldn't have uniforms to wear, nor blankets for their beds, if it wasn't for home industries such as Bannister Textiles. You've obviously got above yourself, since becoming engaged to the son of a count, and I'd remind you that it's your father who'll be paying the bill for your wedding, distasteful though such talk is to me, and his despised industry that will make a society affair of it. And now you'll excuse me. I feel one of my headaches coming on, and I shall lie down until dinner time.'

She swept stiffly out of the room, a lady to her fingertips, and Angel collapsed onto one of the sofas with Ellen open-mouthed beside her.

‘Good Lord, what brought all that on?' Ellen said. ‘That was a spectacular homecoming, darling!'

‘I don't
know
. I didn't mean her to hear. It's all too silly.' But it had shaken Angel, especially her mother's hints about Angel's society wedding, realising that the truth was all going to be such a disappointment to Clemence…

‘Why did you say it? Don't you think Dad's got urgent business in Yorkshire? There's no other kind of business going on, is there?' Her voice pooh-poohed the very idea.

Angel shrugged, immediately on her guard.

‘Hardly! I told you. It just slipped out. It didn't mean anything. Mother always takes things so literally, Ellen. You
know that!' The need to defend herself made her irritable.

It annoyed her even more that she was in effect defending her father now, an accessory after the fact … and it was something she had never wanted to be. She jumped up, prowling about the room with arms folded across her chest, more upset that she let Ellen know.

But she knew one thing. As soon as she and Jacques were married, they must let both families know. It would be cruel to let Clemence go on planning a big occasion in her mind, when none of it was going to happen. Angel felt sorry for her mother, but this marriage was too important to her and Jacques to change their minds now.

‘Don't let it worry you, love,' Ellen said sympathetically. ‘Mother gets over things quickly. She'll simply put it out of her mind and pretend it never happened. Anyway, we've got something to show you. It only arrived yesterday, and you're expected to go all sloppy over it.'

She reached into a sideboard drawer and brought out a large envelope containing several photographs. A smiling Louise and Dougal on one, an enormous close-up of a tiny baby on another, the three of them together in a stiff awkward pose, as if they were about to drop the infant Christopher at any minute.

Angel didn't need prompting to go all sloppy. The photos brought a lump to her throat. Louise looked fulfilled and happy, and so different from when she was married to Stanley. As for the baby, round-faced, with a tiny mouth and clear blue eyes…