They still called her Miss Julia, but then, she had been married for so short a time. Three years she had been a wife and her man in France, except for a few days together. So few days, you could count them on the fingers of two hands, Cook once told him.
‘Nearly,’ Catchpole nodded. ‘There are things, though, that must survive.’ Like the creamy flowers in the steamy orchid house; milady’s orchids they were called. Once, no one could wear them, save herself. She had carried them in her wedding bouquet and Sir John had said thereafter that no one else but she should have them. ‘There’s yon’ special orchids – her ladyship’s own. But you know all about them, lad. Alus watch them and let me know if those plants ever show signs of distress …’
‘I will, dad.’ Young Catchpole had served his time at Pendenys Place and been glad to see the back of it, truth known. The Pendenys Suttons weren’t real gentry – apart from Mr Edward who’d been born at Rowangarth. That Mrs Clementina paid starvation wages, now, on account of there being so few jobs and too many wanting them, was a known fact. That woman would be an ironmaster’s daughter till the day she died. ‘You can leave it all to me – though be sure there’ll be a lot I shall ask you.’
‘Aar.’ Mollified, he made for the kitchen garden and the seat set against the south-facing wall where he had smoked many a contented pipe. ‘Just one last look around, then it’s yours, lad. You’m working for decent folk, now, and never you forget it.’
Mary Strong looked at her wristwatch, tutting that Will Stubbs was late again. She had been able to buy that watch and many more things besides, from the money she had saved in the war. Good money she had earned in the munitions factory in Leeds. Fifty shillings a week – sometimes more – though every penny of it deserved on account of the peculiar yellow colour they’d all gone, because of the stuff they’d filled the shell cases with. But she was a canary no longer, and back at Rowangarth, taking up her position as parlourmaid again as if that war had never been, though heaven only knew it had!
Gone, now, were Rowangarth’s great days; the luncheon parties and dinners and shooting weekends in the autumn and winter. Just her ladyship left and Miss Julia and that little lad Drew – Sir Andrew – to care for. Tilda, once a kitchenmaid and promoted to housemaid, and Cook and herself; that was all the house staff that was needed, now. And Miss Clitherow, of course; straight-backed as ever, ruling her diminished empire as if Sir John were about to roar up the drive in his latest motor, and Master Robert and Master Giles roaming the fields with young Nathan, from Pendenys. And Miss Julia a tomboy from the minute she’d learned to walk, Cook said.
Mary sniffed and dabbed an escaping tear. Things would never be the same; the war had seen to that – taken all the straight and decent young men and sent back men old before their time and unwilling ever again to speak of France. And they had been the lucky ones …
‘There you are,’ she snapped as her young man appeared from behind the stable block, face red with running. ‘I swear you do it on purpose, Will Stubbs! One night you’ll come here to find me gone!’
‘Sorry, lass. Young lad from the GPO got himself lost round the back of the house – a telegram for Miss Julia. Had to sort him out.’ Telegrams were always delivered to the front door, parcels to the back.
‘A telegram?’ Mary forgot her pique. ‘From France, was it?’
‘Now how would I know? I didn’t ask and if I had, he wouldn’t have told me. So say you’re sorry for being narky and give us a kiss, like a good lass.’
Julia MacMalcolm had learned to dread the small, yellow envelopes since the day, almost, she had fallen in love. They had rarely brought happiness; rather disappointments and death in their terse, cruel words. That day in France they had been laughing with disbelief and weeping tears of pure joy; even dear, straight-laced Sister Carbolic had joined in their unbelieving happiness. The war was over! No more broken young bodies, blinding, killing. Their harsh hospital ward had shone with a million sunbeams, that November day. Over! Soon, she and Andrew would be together and nothing and no one would part them again.
Then the telegram came in its small, yellow envelope. Andrew dead, six days before the Armistice. She didn’t just dread telegrams. She hated them.
‘Probably good news, from France,’ Miss Clitherow had smiled, though her eyes were anxious.
‘Of course.’ It would have been kinder, could her mother have phoned. One day, people said, it would be as easy to telephone from France as it was to ring up the grocer – but until then …
She slit open the envelope. She should have known, she supposed. And hadn’t she expected it?
Aunt Sutton passed peacefully away. Returning immediately. It was signed Sutton.
‘No!’ Julia handed over the telegram. ‘Read it …’
‘I’m sorry. So very sorry. What can I do – say – to help?’
‘Nothing, Miss Clitherow.’ From which Sutton had the telegram come? Which – or both? – was returning immediately, and when? What was she to do?
‘What will happen, Miss Clitherow? Surely they’ll bring her home to Rowangarth?’ Tears spilled from her eyes and she shook her head in bewilderment. ‘And did they get there in time, I wonder.’
‘The telegram was sent a little after noon; see – the time on it …’
‘Then they would be there, with her?’
‘Be sure they would, Miss Julia. Now let me ring for tea for you and then, perhaps, it might be wise to telephone Pendenys.’
‘No. Uncle Edward is in France, remember, and Aunt Clemmy and Elliot are in London. We’ll have to wait – stay by the phone; they’ll ring, once they get to Dover. And no tea, thanks.’ She strode to the dining room, pouring a measure of brandy, drinking it at a gulp, pulling in her breath as it hit her throat.
Rowangarth was plagued. First Pa, then the war and now Aunt Sutton – accidentally, and before her time.
She slammed down the glass, running, stumbling up the stairs to the little room where Drew lay asleep. Drew was all right. She drew in a shuddering breath. What was there to do, now, but wait? Andrew, I need you so …
She closed the door quietly, trying to ignore the ringing of the doorbell. Let Tilda cope with it. She wanted no more bad news, no intrusions into her sudden grief. She wanted to weep, to cry out her sorrow – but in whose arms?
She walked slowly, reluctantly, down the stairs, then ran into the welcoming, waiting arms she had so longed for.
‘Nathan! How I need you!’ Her cousin, thinner than ever, his skin bronzed by the African sun.
‘Tears, Julia? What is it, old love?’
‘Oh, my dear! You just home and to such sadness.’ She hugged the young priest to her, giddy with relief. ‘But you are always around, somehow, when I need you. Come inside, won’t you?’ She pushed the crumpled telegram into his hands, then placed a hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry. Brandy. I needed it …’
‘Always around? But I came because when I got home they told me Pa was in France and Elliot and mother in London. Thought I’d come here, and find out what’s going on.’
‘Read it, Nathan.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He reached out, gathering her to him again. ‘I know how deeply you cared for Aunt. Is that why Pa is in France?’
‘Yes, and mother, too. Injured, the telegram said. They went at once.’
‘All right, love. Let it come.’ He had taken it calmly, but a priest must soon learn to cope with grief. ‘Then tell me, uh?’
‘There’s nothing to tell. Monsieur Bossart sent the telegram; Mother and Uncle Edward would get