Page 110 of The Gathering Storm

He sent Polly a postcard at the weekend, and he did mention the meeting with Chapel. He was not a natural correspondent, and it was something to say. He always struggled for content, even with only a postcard to fill.

Polly was troubled about the increasing number of aeroplanes passing back and forth overhead. There were now two new RAF airfields, one to the north of York at Linton, and another at Church Fenton, which was not far from Morland Place, just to the south, outside Sherburn–in-Elmet. She knew now that Yorkshire was in a strategic position with regard to northern Europe, and especially Germany, and evidently, whatever ordinary people thought about the possibility of another war, the RAF was in no doubt it was coming. And ever since the council had purchased land from her to build a housing estate (she still avoided riding that way, hating the sight of all those raw new houses where she should have had crops growing), she was aware that compulsory purchase could be exercised in case of works for the public good. As she rode about the estate, she couldn’t help noticing flat fields that would convert easily to airstrips; and if the government decreed it, there would be nothing she could do about it.

An airfield had to come with buildings – offices, hangars, workshops, accommodation for the airmen – and roads, for the supply of food and ammunition and other heavy goods and the to-ing and fro-ing of personnel. Proper roads, not beaten tracks. Was her whole estate to be covered with concrete and tarmac? And what of the animals? Driven into panic by the roaring machines overhead, the cows would go off milk and the hens off lay, and the horses and sheep would bolt and get hung up on fences and break their legs. And that was even without contemplating that, if there was a war, the air bases would become targets for enemy bombers. Morland Place had stood for five hundred years. Would it still be there in another five hundred? Or fifty, or five?

It was at times like these that she needed James most, someone to talk to who would put her fears into proportion – probably, knowing James, laugh her out of them. He had been sending her postcards, which was an improvement on his usual absence of communication, but from the tone of them, it looked as though he was settled in Paris. She could only hope for one of his mercurial changes of mind.

She came in one day from inspecting the pigs at Moon’s Rush and saw a postcard lying on the silver tray on the hall table, the picture of the Eiffel Tower telling her it was from James. It was always the Eiffel Tower. Couldn’t he at least put some thought into it and send her a different landmark? There must be some, or people wouldn’t keep going there. She stripped off her gloves and dropped them onto the table, and stopped to read it where she stood.

There wasn’t much room on a postcard once you’d written the address. He’d done his best, starting at the very top, but the franking ink had covered the first two lines, so she was no better off. Then a name made her eye jump to the end of the tight screed. Met Eric Chapel, on honeymoon, married a film star. Apparently he’s doing film sets here. Sends his regards to you.

She stared at the words, frozen to the spot. He’s married? Married a film star. He had got over her – enough, at least, to give his heart and his body to another woman. Well, that was easier for men than for women. And when they had last parted, they had both known it was for ever. He could not come to Morland Place; she could not leave it. He was a handsome, virile man in the prime of life. It would be unreasonable to expect him never to touch a woman again. But his heart? She thought she could bear it if she could know he still loved her. She had to bear it either way, but it would hurt less.

She stared at the elaborate marble fireplace of the Great Hall, but what she saw was a dusty track, baked hard by summer, a dry-stone wall, a young girl on a horse, a young man with his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hair bleached white by the sun, his eyes as blue as the unblemished sky. He was the great love of her life, but he was gone. She would never see him again. This message had been a little breeze come out of the past to ruffle her hair briefly and die away, a message from the gods that it was all, all over and she must accept it.

There was a place in her heart where he would live for ever, unchanged, untouched by time, as much as if he had really died back then. Perhaps it would have been better for her if he had. She could have moved on, and perhaps have come to love someone else, instead of living in this limbo. Because she realised that even in her marriage to Ren, there had been a dishonesty – a little piece of her she withheld from him. Had he known? But Ren had always been sufficient unto himself. He let her in only to those parts of his life that did not touch the core of him. He had been dishonest too, as she was only now coming to realise.

And that had been her life, a series of near misses. Where did it leave her now? She was approaching forty, a wealthy woman, with a growing child, and a house full of dependants. What did the future hold for her? She wanted love – oh, she wanted it so badly! – but where could it be found for someone in her position?

A polite cough alerted her to the presence of Barlow, who had glided out from the kitchen passage and had been, now she became aware of it, waiting for her attention for some time. She looked up and met his eyes.

‘Mr Ordsall called, madam, and requested an interview with you. I believe he wants to discuss the wedding arrangements.’

‘The wedding?’ she said blankly. But he was already married. He had married a film star. Barlow waited, his eyes steady, and she slid back down to earth. Jeremy’s wedding. They had been engaged for two years and now had saved enough to take the next step. ‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll give him a ring later.’

‘Shall I have a luncheon tray sent in to you, madam?’

‘No, I’m not hungry,’ she said, and walked away, blindly, just to get away from watching eyes and questioning minds. Barlow would have read the postcard, of course he would. She was under no illusion about the interest servants had in the lives of those they served. They would never open a letter, naturally, but a postcard was fair game. He would be wondering what there was written on it that made her look like a Greek mask of tragedy. She walked towards the steward’s room, and changed direction at the last moment to go into the chapel. No-one would follow her there.

It was cold, smelling of furniture wax and damp, and a faint, ghostly odour of snuffed candles. It was dark, too, with only the glow of the sanctuary lamp, and what little light the stained-glass windows admitted. Outside it had clouded over, threatening rain. She sat in her favourite place, at the end of a bench, against the wall where long ago someone had carved the outline of a bear in the stone. When she sat here, she sometimes wondered who had done it and why, wondered how many other Morlands, in ages gone past, had run their fingers, as she did, over the outline.

In the stillness she felt the weight of the house around her, the watchfulness of her ancestors, whose bones lay in the crypt under her feet. She had run away, half across the globe, and found Erich. She could have stayed with him. They could have gone anywhere in the world; but the house had called her back. She had glimpsed a bright garden; but Duty was the stern sentinel that stood at the door and said, ‘You may not pass.’ Now she would never leave.

In the crepuscular gloom, she heard the message, breathed out of the ancient stones of the old, brooding house that owned her. You have so much. You must not ask for more. Be grateful. Take care of what you have. Do your duty. And then a codicil, even more sobering. Your concerns are very small and selfish, when war may be coming.

Morlands had fallen in the last war, family and employees and tenants, their bodies left in foreign fields, their names inscribed on the Monument. She had a little surge of gratitude that Alec was too young to fight. But there were so many others in her extended family who would be called to go. She wanted to pray, but she had no words. It would be dishonest, when her mind was so full of her own troubles.

Lennie came back from a trip to New York to find Rose fizzing with excitement. ‘I’ve got something to tell you!’ she cried.

The first photography of Robin Hood had been going well enough for him to feel comfortable about leaving her for a few weeks. She had had a couple of scenes with Lord Bedford, and he had asked her whether it was awkward, working with Dean Cornwell again. ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing between us now – Deanie’s just a friend. It’s a bit like having a brother opposite me.’

‘And how is it, working with Dick Randolph?’

The smile disappeared. ‘Oh, he’s all right, I suppose. He’s no trouble.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, just at first he was kind of flirty. Ugh!’ She made a face.

Lennie was amused – and relieved. ‘He’s quite a heartthrob in the cinema,’ he pointed out. ‘Women swoon over him, they say.’

‘But he’s so old! It’d be like kissing your father.’

‘He’s not that much older than me.’

‘Well, he looks it.’

‘Or Van.’