The Midnight Rose (51 page)

Ironically, he was the one to mention it. “I remember now how it’s supposed to be,” he said wistfully. “I love you, Anni, so much you will never know.”

“And I love you, Donald.”

We slept then, and I knew that we both felt at peace for the first time since I’d left for India. Whatever pact with the devil we’d made to be here together and however morally wrong it was, nothing at that moment could have been more right.

Much later, as I fed you downstairs in the kitchen, Donald showed me how he had stocked the cupboards with food. “And I have one last surprise for you. Come on, let’s go outside.”

With a shawl wrapped tightly around you to keep out the bitter chill, we followed Donald outside. There was a stable next to the barn in the square courtyard and Donald opened the door and lit the lantern that hung on a nail.

“Here, girl, meet your new mistress.”

Donald fondled the nose of the mare. Her skin shone like polished mahogany, and she had a white star on her forehead.

“I haven’t named her yet, I thought you should do that, as she’s going to be yours.”

I stroked the mare’s soft nose and you, alert to a new plaything, reached out with your small hands to touch the horse too.

“She’s beautiful, Donald, thank you. I’ll call her Sheba, as she looks like a queen.”

“Perfect. She’s hardly the stallion you used to enjoy riding, but gentle enough for Moh to learn on when he’s older. There’s also a trap in the barn, so you can harness her up and ride into the village when you need to.”

“It seems you’ve thought of everything,” I said as we hurried back inside and I put the kettle on the range to boil some water for a pot of tea. “But you know the locals will notice I’m here immediately, especially if I’m to ride into the village in a pony and trap.”

“Yes, Anni, of course they’ll recognize you. No doubt many of them will be very glad to see you. And remember, it would only seem natural, given your long association with our family, that we should offer you a home after the sad death of your husband,” he comforted her.

“What about Violet?” I asked. “What if she hears of me from the servants and suspects something?”

“I can promise you, the one thing I’m not worried about is Violet. She’s currently the toast of the social scene, regarded as the most beautiful woman in London, if not England. You’ve never met a woman more secure or confident in her allure and position. I doubt she’d consider for a second that her husband would be carrying on with an Indian widow who lives on the moors.”

Donald noticed my sudden tension at his words.

“Sorry, darling.” He patted my hand. “And as far as her relationship with our servants is concerned, they may as well be invisible for all the interest she takes in them and their personal lives. They simply perform a function and beyond that, she isn’t involved. There’s always plenty for them to do. She takes a bath twice a day. And the sheets on her bed are changed for fresh ones every single morning.”

“Like a queen,” I whispered, remembering how the Maharani had similar ways. But then again, everything in India was victim to the heat and the dust.

“Yes, and in America, Violet
is
royalty, brought up with the best of everything. I believe she thinks that we English, me included, are rather grubby.” Donald smiled. “What I’m trying to say is that it’s Violet who’s at the center of Violet’s world. I doubt she’ll take any notice at all when I casually tell her of your arrival.”

“You’ll tell her?”

“Of course. But she’s currently wrapped up in arranging a big Christmas dance here. She’s inviting all her smart friends from London. I’m sure she won’t give you another thought once I have told her.”

“I hope you’re right, Donald.” I shuddered involuntarily. “None of this is her fault. We mustn’t hurt her.”

“I know,” he said in agreement, glancing at his watch. “And, sadly, dinner is in an hour and she’ll be expecting me back from London. I’ll come to check on you both tomorrow morning. Will you be all right here alone? It really is most awfully cozy. I wish with all my heart I could stay, but I can’t.”

“We’ll be fine,” I said, watching you grab the table leg and make a fruitless attempt to pull yourself upright.

“Moh will be talking soon, won’t you, little chap?” Donald bent down and planted a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Right, I’d better be off,” he said as he buttoned up his coat and headed toward the door. “The good news is that I can drive across the moors from here to join the main road and then enter through the front gates of the estate.
Alternatively, I can simply saddle up Glory and ride directly from the house across the moors in fifteen minutes. You’ll become sick of the sight of me, I’m sure.”

“I doubt that,” I said as I planted a kiss on his lips. “Thank you, Donald. I feel safe, for the first time in many, many months.”

He blew me a kiss in return, mouthed good-bye and was gone.

After I’d put you down in your cot to sleep, I wandered about my new home looking with delight at each nook and cranny that Donald had so lovingly fashioned for me. I lit the fire in the cozy sitting room and studied the books which stood on shelves to either side of the fireplace. Donald had chosen some of my favorite novels, and they were stories I knew I would read and reread over the evenings to come.

•  •  •

Over those first long winter months, when the moors became a desert of snow in which I was trapped and Donald struggled to make his way across them on Glory to bring food, milk and love, I read ferociously. Yet even though my life was solitary, I found myself experiencing a growing sense of inner peace. Perhaps the snow gave me a false sense of security; it cut me off from Astbury Hall and its unseen occupants, and I lived in a void, with only you and Donald for company.

In retrospect, I think those few months were exactly what I needed to heal my damaged soul; there had been times in that dreadful first year of your life when I’d almost lost hope. When I could no longer see, feel, hear or even
believe
in those things that had always guided me. When I’d wished for death more than I’d wanted life, and I’d truly understood for the first time what it was to be alone. Even though now days might pass without my seeing Donald, I knew for certain that I was loved.

I do remember Christmas being a difficult time. Donald was busy with the festivities at the hall, where many of Violet’s American relatives were arriving to celebrate with her, so I saw very little of him. On Christmas Eve, he appeared briefly with a hamper containing a turkey large enough to feed a family of twelve, and presents for both of us. On Christmas morning, I opened the gift for me which sat under our fir tree. It was a creamy string of pearls, with a loving message concealed inside the box. I put them on that Christmas morning of 1920, and they remain around my neck to this day.

•  •  •

As the snow began to thaw in early March, my life at the cottage by the brook began to change. Donald told me that Violet’s mother was sick and she was returning to New York to stay with her.

“Hasn’t she asked you to go with her?” I said as we sat in front of the fire in the sitting room, watching you attempt your first tottering steps.

“Of course,” said Donald, “but I pointed out that if I am to run Astbury as a business like Daddy Drumner wishes me to, spring is a particularly bad time for me to leave the country because of the lambing season. And Violet didn’t seem to mind when I said I must stay here.”

That spring, when Violet had left for America, was a singularly perfect time. Donald would arrange with Selina to pretend that he was staying with her in London. During those few days, he would drive over to us on the moors and hide his car at the back of the cottage, and we’d live together just like a normal family.

As the moors came to life around us, we three reveled in our tranquil, isolated world. The only sadness was that you could never be allowed to call your father “Papa,” and that Donald and I had to take great care not to make any fatal slip of the tongue in front of you. Inevitably, you found your own phrase for the man who became such a big part of your life.

“Mr. Don, come!” you’d demand as you lifted your small arms to your father for a hug. Donald had begun to take you on the back of the pony, trotting you around the yard as you squealed in pleasure.

He often brought us small presents of sherbets for you, and cuttings from colorful blooms taken from the garden at Astbury to put in my own.

“Here,” he said one day, as he climbed down from Glory’s gleaming back and handed me a tiny plant covered in thorns, “I’ve brought you a rosebush. The Astbury gardener was replanting the beds and told me this one was a very unusual and exotic specimen called the Midnight Rose. I immediately thought of you.” He smiled as he kissed me. “Shall we go and plant it? Maybe in the front garden?” he asked.

After those terrible months doubting whether Donald loved me, I knew now with all my heart that he did. As I listened to him raging—against the poverty in which so many in England still lived, the
unfairness of the fact that so much should be owned by so few, and how he couldn’t change the world but could make a start by renovating some of his own workers’ cottages on the estate—a new respect for him grew within me.

“David Lloyd George is doing his damnedest, but the fear of change among politicians who are mostly gathered from the upper classes make reforms difficult to push through,” Donald sighed as we sat together in the garden one evening.

“My father always said that to push a rock an inch in a lifetime was the same as throwing a hundred pebbles into the sea every day. Big change comes slowly, but it will come, Donald,” I assured him. “You’re unusual now, but many people will start to see the world like you.”

“My mother always saw me as odd, because I was friendly with one of the groomsmen’s children when I was younger. I remember insisting he should come to eat with us at the hall because he always seemed hungry. I used to steal food from the kitchen to give to him,” he smiled. “I could never abide the class system and still can’t.”

“I was wondering,” I said, changing the subject, “whether I might come over to the hall before your wife returns from America. I want to see if any of the medicinal herbs I planted in the kitchen garden are still alive. I’d like to take cuttings and start my own herb garden here.”

“Of course! Remember, Anni, the only secret is what
we
share, not your presence here at Astbury. There’s absolutely no need for you to hide away now that spring is here. In fact, it would seem more natural if you didn’t.” He reached across and stroked my cheek gently. “As long as I remember never to reach for you in front of others.” He smiled, looking up at the kitchen clock. “Right, time for me to get back there myself.” He sighed. “Lambing starts at any moment.”

I
drove us in the pony and trap up to the hall a few days later and found that many of the herbs I’d planted in the sheltered corner of the kitchen garden had flourished. On my knees and trying to prevent you from tearing them from the ground with your eager hands, I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“Well, look who it is!”

“Mrs. Thomas!” I smiled up at her as she came toward me with her basket, ready to collect the vegetables she’d need for dinner that night.

“I’d heard you were back here, Miss Anni. Tilly said she saw you in the village only last week, but I told her she was seeing things.”

“I’ve been here since the winter, but the snow was deep on the moors and I haven’t been well,” I explained.

“I’d heard that too, and that your husband died. I’m sorry, my love. It must have been tough on you with a little one. But he’s a fine young fellow,” said Mrs. Thomas, fixing her gaze on you. You turned around, stared at Mrs. Thomas, then waved at her sociably.

“Oooh, he’s got blue eyes,” commented the cook. “Bless my soul, I never knew Indians could have blue eyes!”

“His father had blue eyes; some Indians do,” I replied, concealing my sudden wave of panic.

“Well, I wouldn’t be knowing, would I? Anyway, he seems a lovely little chap and you’re not to be a stranger here anymore. Once you’ve finished outside, come into the kitchen and introduce your boy to the rest of the servants. They’ll be very glad to see you, my love.”

“That’s most kind of you, Mrs. Thomas. I’ll be up shortly.”

As she turned away, I looked down at you in trepidation and realized that your beautiful blue eyes were an instant betrayal of the secret your father and I kept.

In the kitchen, the servants clustered around both of us. After so many months of isolation, I felt gratified by their genuine warmth and friendliness. You were fed cake and chocolate until I had to refuse for fear you might be sick. I sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea
as the servants plied me with questions. I answered them all as best I could, even inventing the name “Jaival Prasad” for my imaginary dead husband.

“Well, I should think you might know already how things have changed up here at the hall,” said Mrs. Thomas, raising her eyebrows. “Lord Donald married an American girl last year, and we’ve all had to learn Lady Violet’s new ways.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” said Tilly under her breath.

“Well, we’d all admit there have been some advantages that have come with the new lady of the house,” said Mrs. Thomas. “I got a new range”—she indicated it proudly—“and a whole heap of new cooking pots. She said the old ones were unhygienic, and I said that no one had died yet at my table. But I’ll admit to being glad of my fine, shiny ones now.”

“Do you like Lady Violet?” I asked, unable to resist.

“She’s nice enough, I’d reckon,” said Mrs. Thomas, “for all the notice she takes of us down here. She didn’t know the first thing about English food and what would be served in a house such as this, so I had to put her straight. Now she leaves it to me. What goes inside her body is not her particular interest. It’s more what goes on
top
of it!” All the servants giggled at this.

“I never met a woman so vain,” said Tilly. “Although, I was talking to a lady’s maid who came down here and she said all the Yankees are the same. Lady Astbury had a whole wall of wardrobes built and they’re already overflowing with clothes.”