Saddle the Wind (47 page)

And installed in her little room in Mr Marsh’s house in Bath, she watched the time passing by, and the war dragging on. In the past the reported progress of the war had not really touched her. Now, though, knowing
that Gentry was out there, she avidly followed the accounts in the newspapers. Of Gentry himself she learned what news she could in the letters that came from Marianne, who wrote to him regularly and received letters in reply. It appeared, judging by the news that Marianne passed on, that Gentry was making light of his experiences. Further, it was clear to Blanche that Marianne herself, living in Messina with Gentry’s father, found it difficult to resign herself to Gentry’s absence; her letters to Blanche were full of expressions of her love for him, and of how much she missed him. Blanche, in writing back to her friend, had to stifle any such expressions.

The Marsh household in Bath was by no means a luxurious one, and Blanche soon gained the impression that there was not a great deal of money to spare once all the expenses had been met. George Marsh had inherited the business, Marsh & Son, from his late father. And Blanche suspected that the business could very likely do a great deal better than it did. Marsh was an unadventurous man, however, unwilling to take any chances, and consequently – so it seemed to Blanche – opportunities were passing him by. But it was no concern of hers, she told herself, and for all the lack of luxury in the house she was as happy as she could expect to be under the circumstances.

She asked for very little. During the days she taught Clara, and in the evenings she often spent time conversing with Mr Marsh or his mother. At other times she was alone. Not that she had any wish to be otherwise – not with things as they were. The three people who meant most to her had gone out of her life. Gentry was on the other side of the world, fighting on some South African plain. Marianne was in Sicily, living in some villa in Messina. And Ernest? God knew where Ernest was.

Apart from her continuing concern at the lack of any word of Ernest, all Blanche seemed able to do was think of Gentry’s safety and his return. Beyond that she seemed not fully to exist. And it was madness, she said to herself; for she could wait forever for Gentry to return, but when he did leave South Africa he would be returning not to her but to Marianne.

It was 1901, the first year of the twentieth century, and January brought in that first year – what should have been a year of hope and promise – with England still at war, and no sign of the war ending. On the 22nd of the month the Queen died, to be succeeded by her son, Edward VII.

Amid the respective sorrow and excitement generated by the death of one monarch and the advent of a new one the distressing reports continued to pour in from South Africa where the British troops were dying in their hundreds, the majority falling victim not to the actions of the guerrillas – who certainly claimed their share – but to disease, which had become endemic in most of the camps. Where the guerrillas were concerned, they were at last having things a little less their own way; for to combat the success of their actions Lord Kitchener was building chains of blockhouses and was denuding the country of its farms. Without bases at which to muster, the guerrillas were proving to be less effective.

In Messina, in Edward Harrow’s villa on the fashionable Via Gabriele, Marianne waited impatiently for the war to come to an end. And she had soon found that being domiciled in Sicily was a distinct disadvantage where news of the war was concerned. The Italians, not being involved in it, gave relatively little space to it in the newspapers compared to the coverage it received in
the British press. As a result, Marianne often found herself frustrated at the lack of news – though there was only one piece of news she wanted to hear, and that was that the war was over. And while she waited for such tidings she looked forward impatiently to Gentry’s letters, and with the receipt of each one breathed a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief at the knowledge that, at least at the time he had written, he was still safe.

And the days and the weeks and the months passed. And like Blanche in Bath, Marianne felt herself to be in some state of limbo. If everything had gone according to plan she would be married now to Gentry and would be living with him here in the city. But instead everything had changed; everything had gone wrong; her father had died and Gentry had gone off to fight.

Apart from worrying about Gentry’s safety, she also knew some other vague unease that touched her when she was least prepared. It had something to do with the tone of his letters. She had hoped for warmer words from him, more evidence of his love for her, in which she so needed to believe, and to which belief she so fervently clung. But then, she would ask herself, how could she expect him to write of passionate love when he was in such a desperate situation?

So, going from day to day, from week to week, and from month to month, she eked out the days of her existence, in a city in which she did not belong – where could she belong without Gentry? – and waited for the time to pass.

In Bath Blanche continued with her life as governess in the Marsh household. And she was happy there – or as happy as her circumstances would allow – and as the months passed she grew increasingly fond of Mr Marsh and his mother, and they of her – which fondness also
took in Jacko, who soon had the run of the house. Blanche had developed, too, a warm relationship with Clara, a bright little girl who responded gratifyingly to the affection and care bestowed on her.

In the meantime she and Marianne continued to correspond regularly, but the periods between those times when Marianne was able to pass on news of Gentry seemed to Blanche to be never-ending, and as the days and the weeks stretched on the ever-present fear of his danger often made life seem unbearable. But then at last she would receive another letter from Marianne, and once more she would breathe easily – for a little while – then to begin to worrying again until she received further word.

As it did for many of those who waited through the anxious times of the war, the coronation of the new King that August seemed to Blanche as if it might as well be taking place in another country. How could she become involved in any celebration when Gentry was so far away and in such a perilous situation, and when she had no idea at all of where Ernest might be?

That autumn, however, one of her most heartfelt prayers was answered. Early in October she received a letter from the Transvaal. And at once, on glimpsing the handwriting, she saw that it had come from Ernest.

He had addressed it to her at Hallowford House, and Mrs Callow had sent it on to Bath.

After apologizing for not writing since leaving her in Colford he wrote that after spending a considerable time in Bradford – which experience he did not elaborate upon – he had decided to volunteer to join the fight against the Boers. Following his decision he had subsequently joined the Royal Wiltshire Fusiliers and had recently arrived in the Transvaal. He did not dwell on any of the miseries and discomforts which, Blanche was
certain, he must be enduring, but devoted most of the letter to other, less distressing matters. Much of his letter concerned Blanche herself; and he was anxious to know how she had fared since he had left her. His last inquiry was of Jacko.

As winter approached Marianne wondered what to do as regards assuming control of her inheritance, for she would be twenty-one in December. She and Gentry would never live in Hallowford; Gentry had made that clear; his business interests were those of his father in Messina – in property, and in the soap factory. There was no future in wool in England’s West Country, Gentry had said, and he was not prepared to give up Sicily for the damp climate of England. Marianne’s intention, therefore, on reaching her majority, was simply to sell all her interests in England. But she would do nothing about it until Gentry returned. When he did, they would marry and he would assume control of the matter.

In the meantime, while fretting over what she should do, she received from her uncle, Harold Savill, a letter asking if she intended to return to Hallowford to assume her inheritance on the occasion of her birthday. After this inquiry his letter continued:

… Though, I must add, I hardly think that December would be a particularly good time to travel from Sicily to England. Also, if you intend to sell your property as you have intimated, I feel you would do well to wait until the spring; the dead of winter is never a propitious time for buying and selling in the property or industrial market – and particularly in the West Country right now where the comparative scarcity of certain
resources, such as coal, has to an extent already devalued the wool manufacturing industry. Not that you need be concerned about the success of the Savill mills, however, for our progress is good. It is just that the general climate does not make the present time the most advantageous for buying and selling in such a market.

He ended his letter with advice to wait until the spring or summer and then review the state of the market before disposing of her assets.

Marianne was relieved to get his letter and was glad to take up his suggestion. She was regularly receiving her allowance from him, and she was glad now to avoid the necessity of having to take action without Gentry being beside her. Early in December she wrote back to her uncle asking him if he would agree to continue for the time being in his present role. She added:

As you suggest, I shall return to Hallowford in the spring or early summer. Whether or not I come alone will depend upon this dreadful war that just seems to drag on and on. I pray that it will be over soon, in which case I shall soon be married, and I shall of course travel with my husband. In the meantime I feel I cannot ask Mr Edward Harrow for help or advice as I am afraid he is not strong and I do not wish to burden him with my responsibilities. As for him travelling with me, I’m afraid that such a prospect is out of the question. The journey to England on the occasion of Papa’s death exhausted him enormously and I could not dream of asking him to undertake the same rigorous journey again. However, as I say, I shall be there at some time in the spring or early summer, at
which time, I am sure, you will be very pleased to be relieved at last of your responsibilities.

Thinking then of her promise to Blanche – which had never been far from her mind – she went on to inform him that she had determined upon making a settlement on Blanche, which would help to relieve Blanche’s situation in her present limited circumstances. To this end, she added, she would be grateful if he would send her, Marianne, an account of her realizable assets so that during the coming weeks she could determine the extent of the settlement she should make.

Harold replied saying that he would draw up an account of her assets, and that in the meantime he would see that Blanche was provided for.

One December day soon after her twenty-first birthday Blanche and Clara prepared to set off to walk together to the centre of the city. The excursion was to be something of a Christmas treat for Clara, for they were going to see the brightly illuminated store-window displays with all the luxury of their Christmas goods – after which they were to take tea together in one of the tearooms. That done they would meet Clara’s father at his shop, following which the three of them would return home.

The December day was mild and the sky was clear. On reaching the crowded town centre Blanche and Clara began to make their way from store to store, gazing into the brightly lighted windows, Clara frequently exclaiming in delight at the goods on display.

When they had looked around the shops for some time they made their way to a tearoom. On entering they found the interior crowded and Clara gave a little groan of disappointment. ‘Oh, there’s no room for us, Miss Farrar.’

‘Be patient, dear,’ Blanche said consolingly. ‘There’ll be a table in a minute or two.’

As her eyes moved over the occupied tables the sweep of her gaze came to a stop and she found herself looking into the eyes of a man who sat alone at the other side of the room. Hastily she looked away again. Standing there, however, she was aware, through her peripheral vision, of the man’s eyes still upon her. And then he was rising, moving across the floor in her direction, coming to her side, stopping there.

‘Excuse me …’

At his words, delivered with a slight accent, she turned to him. Expensively dressed, he looked to be in his late thirties. He was tall, with thick, dark hair; good-looking in a rather heavyset way. As she looked at him Blanche suddenly realized why she had noticed him: there was something familiar about him.

‘Excuse me if I’m bothering you,’ he said, ‘but we’ve met before.’ He smiled at her. ‘You don’t recall?’

A moment more and then recollection came to her. She smiled and nodded.

‘Yes, of course. You’re – you’re a friend of Mr Harrow’s. We met in London.’

He nodded. ‘Alfredo Pastore.’ His smile grew wider. ‘It’s Miss – Miss Farrar, isn’t it? Miss Blanche Farrar …’

‘Yes, it is.’ With Alfredo Pastore’s dark eyes smiling warmly into her own, Blanche put her hand on Clara’s shoulder. ‘And this is my friend, Miss Clara Marsh. Clara, this is Signor Pastore.’

Pastore bent slightly and briefly took Clara’s hand. ‘How do you do, Miss Marsh.’

As Clara smiled shyly in return the man said, glancing around:

‘It’s quite crowded in here. Will you come and join me at my table?’ As Blanche hesitated he added quickly:
‘Oh, don’t refuse – for Clara’s sake at least. I’m sure she’d like to sit down.’

Smiling, Blanche agreed, and Pastore turned to lead the way. Taking Clara’s hand Blanche followed him as he threaded his way across the room. When they reached his table he took their coats and hung them up, and then asked what he could order for them. Consulted first, Clara, notwithstanding the season, said she would have a vanilla ice. Blanche ordered a tea-cake and some tea. When Pastore had attracted the attention of the waitress and had given the order he turned back to Blanche, smiling at her across the table. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘tell me what you’re doing in Bath.’