The Winter Folly (22 page)

She felt suddenly that it was important to know – not just to unlock whatever it was that was tormenting John, but for her own sake. Was there something about this place that could drive a
young mother to feel she could not go on? Delilah had an unpleasant sense of foreboding as if that could be her fate too. She went to the drawing room and picked up the photograph of John holding
his mother’s hand, Alex unreadable behind the large sunglasses. She ran a finger over the half-hidden face and along the white coat.

‘Why did you do it?’ she murmured, only half aware she was speaking out loud. ‘What made you do it?’

After lunch, when Janey mentioned that they’d run out of milk and she was going to take some out of the freezer, Delilah said, ‘Don’t worry, I need to pop
into the village anyway. I’ll get some at the shop.’

‘All right,’ Janey said. ‘That means we won’t have to wait for it to defrost before we can make some tea. Thanks. You’d better hurry, though. They close at three
thirty.’

She took her car and set off down to the village. She made it in plenty of time to pick up a couple of pints of the local milk, and then turned determinedly towards the church, an ancient
grey-stone building dominated by a square Norman tower and set back from the road behind an old gate and feathery hedges.

Crunching up the gravel path towards the old building, she wondered why she hadn’t come here before. It was beautiful and the silence of the picturesque old graveyard was only broken by
the chirrup of birds or the whirr of grasshoppers. She went to the arched wooden door with its bands of iron aged to a dull rusty patina, lifted the large ring handle and pushed it open. It creaked
heavily beneath her weight and opened to reveal a dimly lit interior. First there was a kind of porch with hymn books stacked on a shelf and a parish noticeboard with posters announcing the church
fête. Beyond that lay the main body of the church and she walked in, savouring the distinctive smell of old cold stone, leather and candlewax. It was cool inside and the lights were off,
creating a murky shade. Shafts of coloured sunlight fell through the stained glass windows and illuminated the many wall decorations. She began to look at the ones nearest: there were dedications
to the men lost in the world wars, a memorial to six boys from a local Scout troop who’d drowned near the Isle of Wight at the turn of the last century, and a gilded board that listed the
vicars of the parish since the first in 1082.

People had come here to be baptised and married for more than a thousand years, she thought, awed. And to be buried. Or remembered, at least.

As soon as she’d seen the first Stirling memorial, she saw one after another, dating back over the previous three centuries: black marble with gold Latin inscriptions, white with elegant
black script, the S written like an F to make the words seem curiously lisp-like at first reading. There were white stone angels praying for the souls of dead Stirlings, a tomb with a crusader
knight and his lady, a weeping goddess letting petals drop from her hands to show her despair at the loss of children. These were expensive funerary tributes, wealth buying a better standard of
grief than the gentlemen and ladies round about who had only small engraved plaques, and the peasants who would have been lucky to have a marked grave at all.

Delilah wandered about, reading the inscriptions and imagining the people who were now long dead and gone. She felt connected to them by her Stirling name despite having only recently become one
of them herself. ‘Hello, can I help you?’

The voice came out of the shadows and made her jump. She turned to see a friendly man in a dog collar walking towards her from the front of the church.

‘Oh! You startled me,’ she said with a gasp and a half-laugh.

‘Sorry. I was in the vestry. I heard you come in and thought I’d see how you’re doing. Would you like some information about the church?’

‘No, thank you – I mean – I’m not a tourist, but you could help me . . .’

The vicar came up and stood beside her. He had a pleasant open face with a grey-streaked beard and tiny, crinkled eyes behind a pair of small round spectacles. ‘Happy to help. Are you a
local then?’

‘Well, yes – and no.’

‘Goodness, I’m getting more intrigued to know exactly what you are.’ He smiled.

‘I’m sorry – my name is Delilah Stirling. I married John Stirling last year. I’m from the fort.’

The vicar raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah, how wonderful to meet you! I hoped our paths would cross at some point. It’s very exciting to have a newcomer at the house and we’d hoped we
could welcome you to the parish.’

She felt suddenly ashamed that she hadn’t thought to introduce herself before. There was no tradition of church-going in her family, nor any sense of obligation to the community, but of
course it was different in these old-fashioned little English villages where everything still revolved around the village hall. ‘I should have come before,’ she said, colouring.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Mr Stirling doesn’t often make an appearance at church but I knew we’d meet in time. Now, are you enjoying having a look at St
Stephen’s? It’s extremely old, as you’ve probably gathered.’

‘Yes, it’s beautiful.’

‘And very connected to the Stirling family as you’ve no doubt noticed.’ He began to point out all the funeral monuments that she’d already examined. She listened for a
while and then, as soon as he paused for breath, said quickly, ‘Yes, but where are they buried?’

‘The Stirlings?’ He gestured up towards the nave. ‘There’s a vault where the members of the main family are buried. The minor members have to be content with the
churchyard, I’m afraid.’

‘Where’s the vault?’

‘It’s below the church with access from behind the vestry. Would you like to go down there?’

‘Yes, please.’

He led her to the front of the church, chatting about the various features they were passing, then between a pair of brass gates and through a red curtain into the vestry where there were old
oak cupboards fastened with padlocks and a rail holding crisp white choir vestments. Set into the wall was a small arched oak door like the one outside, with a ring handle. The vicar opened it,
saying, ‘Follow me. It’s rather twisty and narrow, I’m afraid. I don’t mind that kind of thing myself but I know some do.’

He led the way down a very tight spiral staircase of cold stone. A chill air came up from below and Delilah shivered as she followed him into the darkness. It was only a short descent before the
vicar stepped out onto level ground, reached for a switch and the underground chamber was immediately illuminated with a dull yellow light from one dusty bulb suspended from the ceiling.

Before them was a room half of which was divided by iron bars, and behind the bars were large stone boxes with carved inscriptions.

‘The family tomb!’ the vicar announced cheerfully, waving at it.

Delilah had a strange, shivery sensation and thought:
I’m a Stirling now. Will I end up here in this cold, dark little room, locked away behind bars with the other skeletons?
She
said, ‘Are people still buried in here?’

‘If they want to be. People seem to prefer cremation these days. But we have space for a few more Stirlings if anyone would like to spend eternity in the bosom of their
ancestors.’

Delilah looked around. ‘How do you get the coffins down the spiral staircase?’

‘We don’t. There’s a trapdoor over there that leads to the churchyard. The coffins are lowered in for interment.’

She walked over to the iron bars and peered through to examine the nearest tombs. There were three Viscounts Northmoor crammed in next to each other, one with his wife and four children along
with him, and some other family members, but the inscriptions were awkward to read as most ran around the edge of the tomb and so disappeared out of sight.

‘Looking for anyone in particular?’ the vicar asked, coming up behind her.

‘Yes – I’m looking for the last Lady Northmoor.’

‘Oh, yes, she’s in there. She died young, poor lady. I noticed her in particular when I had a look around.’

‘Oh!’ Delilah was filled with an unexpected sadness that Alex was here after all. She knew that John’s mother had died, but here was the incontrovertible evidence of it.

‘Yes, she’s over on the far right. Her husband’s in there with her now. He wanted to be buried with her. He married again, I think, after his wife died, but I never found out
what happened to that Lady Northmoor. He seemed to like his first one best.’

Delilah frowned. ‘Oh no, that can’t be right. John’s father isn’t dead.’

‘You mean Lord Northmoor up at the house? No, of course not, he’s very much alive, I’m glad to say. Which Lady Northmoor are you talking about? The lady we have here is the
current lord’s mother. She died in 1948, I think.’

‘No, no – I mean the last Lady Northmoor, John’s mother. I think she died in 1974.’

The vicar looked doubtful. ‘I haven’t heard of her, I’m afraid, and 1974 was well before my time. Father Ronald was the vicar here then. He’s very old now. He lives in
Rawlston, about two miles from here, in the home there.’

‘Surely there are records?’

‘Yes, I can check the parish records – they’re usually very thorough. I’d have to dig out the year you mentioned.’

Delilah hesitated, feeling she was on the brink of setting something in motion that might roll out of her control, but she took the step anyway. ‘There’s also a possibility that Lady
Northmoor killed herself.’

He looked surprised. ‘Really? I really hadn’t heard of that. How awful. Then I’m afraid it’s unlikely she was buried in the family vault, or even in the churchyard
itself, come to that. There was still rather a stern attitude towards suicides even just a few decades ago. They couldn’t be buried in hallowed ground.’ He shook his head.
‘I’m glad to say there is a little more compassion for those desperate souls these days.’

‘So she’s definitely not here – or in the churchyard?’

‘I don’t think so but I’ll check the records. And you could always ask Father Ronald what he remembers. I believe he likes visitors and has a good recall of the
past.’

They turned and made their way back towards the staircase.

‘Thank you, Vicar,’ she said. She felt a strange relief that they hadn’t found Alex in the cold darkness of the underground chamber. ‘I really appreciate your
help.’

‘You’re very welcome. I shall look at those records for you when I get the chance.’

They left the dankness of the vault and climbed the spiral staircase to the warm day outside.

1965

Alexandra did not return to the barracks but wrote to Laurence explaining that after what had happened, she could not come back. She said that their marriage had been a mistake
and they would both be happier apart. She hoped he would understand and asked if he would send her things to a hotel in Victoria where she rented a room although she did not stay there. A few days
later, she called at the hotel reception and found that a letter had arrived for her.

The thought of going back to him made her shiver in horror. She could only see his face as she had left, twisted in fury. He’d been out of control and violent. She never could return. What
would life be like for them? No, it was impossible.

The mention of her father made her feel ill. All the time since she’d been with Nicky, she had shut out of her mind the knowledge that her father would be appalled beyond measure at what
she was doing: he would consider it wicked. Alexandra leaving her husband would be something he could not countenance, and she dreaded to think what he would say when he found out. But now she had
experienced this other way to live, not even her father’s love could draw her back, despite knowing how difficult it was to win and how hard to retain. The struggle for his approval seemed so
tough and thankless compared to the easy and natural delight of Nicky’s love for her. All she hoped was to delay for as long as possible the evil day when he would know her for the dissolute
woman she was, and that perhaps he might understand that she couldn’t live a lifetime without knowing real love. It was most likely a futile hope but she clung on to it anyway.

In the meantime, there was the bliss of being with Nicky all the time. She’d been afraid she was asking too much of him to take her on like this – another man’s runaway wife,
who’d arrived almost naked with nothing to offer him but her love. To her joy, that seemed to be enough for Nicky. He’d never shown her anything but absolute devotion and he appeared as
determined as she was that she would never go back to Laurence. He’d made sure she had everything she needed when Laurence refused to send her belongings.

I won’t think about the future or about what Father will say
, she told herself firmly.
I’m with Nicky now and I don’t care what might happen – I’ll
face that when it comes. For now, he loves me and we’re together.

The month passed and Alexandra began to believe that somehow it was going to be all right. She had escaped with no one noticing and they were going to be left alone. Every day
she woke with Nicky in his cosy bedroom and was flooded with happiness and relief that she had escaped her old life into this bright, happy new one, filled with love and laughter. Polly was no
longer at the house. When she’d arrived for work the day after Alexandra had arrived, Nicky had summoned her for a private interview, his face like thunder. Alex had heard raised voices,
Polly’s sobs and shrieks, and then the front door had been slammed and that was the last they had seen of her. Alexandra liked to help Nicky now, when he was in the roof-top studio, learning
the names of lenses and lights and what they did. When he was out on an assignment, she stayed in the mews house cooking or reading, or went out wandering.