Yet that was still not all and if he were honest, he would admit it. Miss Julia would be bringing the north country with her and Tom Dwerryhouse was a son of the north and no matter how well suited he was with the way his life had turned out nor how contented Alice was with her new little bairn and her own hearth, one thing could never be denied. Northern roots did not easily transplant into southern soil. He was surprised Mr Hillier had seen fit to do it, him being a northerner, an’ all. But maybe it was all right for the likes of someone who owned another house in Westmorland and who could take off whenever the fancy took him. Windrush Hall, on the edges of the New Forest, was where it was convenient for Ralph Hillier to live, being close to a port and near enough to London where most of his business deals took place. But whenever his early years tugged on the thread of memory, he need only order his motor to be driven round to the front entrance and he could be away and back to his roots.
It was different for Tom Dwerryhouse who could never return to Rowangarth. For one thing, most folk thereabouts thought him dead, killed in the last year of the war; and to go back there would be to carry hate inside him for a man he might meet at any time. Elliot Sutton lived only a cock-stride from Rowangarth and for Alice’s sake – and for young Sir Andrew’s, too – it were best the two of them should never meet.
A signal fell with a clatter. A porter pushing a trolley and the stationmaster with top hat and green furled flag appeared on the platform. The train, no more than a noiseless speck down the track, would arrive on time. Julia was coming, and bringing their past with her.
She got down from a third-class compartment, lifting a gloved hand to bring the porter hurrying from the far end of the train and the first-class carriage that usually put a sixpenny tip his way.
She had not changed. Everything about her proclaimed her status; her understated air of command, her well-labelled leather suitcases, the way she held her head, even. She was still a Sutton. Not even what she had endured in the war could wipe out her breeding. She saw him, and smiled, and he walked towards her, removing his cap.
‘Tom!’ She held out her hand, her voice low with emotion. ‘It is so good to see you. How long is it?’
‘More’n five years, Miss Julia, and it’s right grand to see you, an’ all.’
They walked unspeaking beside the porter, waiting as he lifted her luggage into the cart.
‘Step up carefully, Miss Julia.’ Tom offered his hand, settling her comfortably, laying a rug over her knees. Then he jerked the reins, calling, ‘Hup!’ and clicking his tongue.
They were well out of the station environs before he said, ‘I want to say I’m sorry about what happened to the doctor, Miss Julia. And I’d like to thank you for being so decent about giving me a reference. It got me the job, though I’d have understood if you’d have wanted no truck with a deserter, after all you’d been through.’
‘Alice gave you the reference, Tom …’
‘Aye, but written in your hand, Miss, and it was you signed Alice’s name to it. I’m grateful.’
‘Then don’t be. Any man who had the guts to desert that war has my understanding. And Tom, there’s one thing I’d like to say to you. You must not call me Miss Julia. Not only am I Mrs MacMalcolm, now, but I am also a guest in your house. Alice calls me Julia – I would like you to do it, as well.’
‘But it wouldn’t be right! I used to work for her ladyship and you are still her daughter.’
‘Those days are long gone and besides, Alice is my friend. I still look on her as my sister and it would please me if you would treat me as she treats me.’
‘It’ll be a mite strange …’
‘Alice found it strange, too, but it didn’t take her long.’
‘I can but try,’ he smiled, touched and embarrassed both at the same time. ‘Though how you can show such kindness to someone who ran away –’
‘But I understood and my mother understood, too. Alice told us how it was. It was a terrible thing to have to shoot a man – a boy – in cold blood. That you threw down your rifle afterwards and risked the death sentence for what amounted to an act of mutiny, was a brave thing to do.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘I was beside myself with disgust; all twelve in that firing party were. One man stood there shaking as if he was going to throw a fit and another was sick. I just stormed up to that officer and told him I wouldn’t do a thing like that again, and they were all of them in such a state that I got away with it. But I wasn’t acting the hero. It’s this temper of mine …’
‘I can understand. I’ve got one, too. My mother calls it my Whitecliffe temper,’ she laughed. ‘Act first then think afterwards. You and me both, Tom.’
‘Aye. I was thinking on the way here about Rowangarth and that no matter how much I miss the old days, it’s as well I’m here. If Alice and me lived there, then I’d always be on the lookout for him.’ His eyes sought hers, asking understanding.
‘Elliot Sutton, you mean?’ Her gaze met and held his. ‘So you know?’
‘I know. Alice told me. It bothered her, you see. Told me it all.’
‘I see. And do you agree, now, that we did what we had to do? Giles needed a son and had just been told he would never father one – his injuries, you see – and Alice was demented with worry about your death and the pregnancy she didn’t want – a child she could never accept, or bring herself to love.’
‘And her ladyship …?’
‘She believes what Giles told her; that Drew is Giles’s son, conceived in a single act of compassion. She accepts it. She even thinks that Drew was meant to be.’
‘I’ve come to accept it, too.’ Tom slowed down the pony at the crossroads, turning to the right. ‘Almost there. And I’m grateful to Sir Giles. He was a decent man, and a brave one, too. Geordie and me would go out into No Man’s Land at night with the stretcher bearers, picking up the wounded. We’d hide ourselves and keep watch; try to give them some protection if they were seen by the German gunners. It took a brave man to be a stretcher bearer, like Sir Giles was. Brave fools, we called them – and the orderlies and doctors who went under the barbed wire with them.’ He slid his eyes to where she sat and saw her sudden sadness. ‘I’m sorry, Miss. We must try not to look back …’
‘Oh, but you are so wrong, Tom! We must always look back. We must remember, so it won’t happen again to Drew and Daisy. But we must always remind ourselves that the pain of remembering will grow less – or so I’m always being told.’ She lifted her head, and smiled. ‘I’m so looking forward to being with you both. I’ve missed Alice so. And as for seeing my god-daughter – oh, this will be such a wonderful holiday for me!’
Alice stood at the gate, waiting impatiently for the sound of the pony and cart. Beside her, in her shiny black perambulator, her baby girl slept.
The house was clean and shining; a joint of beef roasted in the fire oven. Vegetables stood ready for cooking; an apple pie cooled on the slate slab in the pantry.
Flowers from the garden were newly arranged in her best vases; Julia’s bedroom was as perfect as ever it could be. She hoped Julia would not find it inconvenient, there not being a bathroom at Keeper’s Cottage, but no one hereabouts had one. Water, except at Windrush, came out of wells or pumps or rain butts.
And why was Daisy asleep? Why couldn’t she be awake to fix Julia with brilliant blue eyes? She didn’t smile, yet, but she recognized voices and turned towards familiar sounds. She knew the minute Tom gave his warbling whistle. Tom loved her so much …
Impatiently, she walked to the turn in the lane, standing still, listening; walking back to the gate, again, sure the wheel