Whereas, she had run away . . .
Upstairs in bed, she listened to an owl hoot – the only creature still up and awake as the long, dead hours of the night passed. Loneliness fell on her like a dark cloak as she returned downstairs and to her writing bureau. She took a key from one of the drawers to unlock the small pigeonhole, and put her hand in the secret compartment. She retrieved a journal and opened it, her fingers reaching into the silken pocket on the inside of the back cover. And drew out the letter her father – Edward – had sent to her via Sir Ernest Cassel.
Live your life in the freedom of anonymity as I would have wished to have had the chance to live mine. And, above all, be true to yourself . . .
She gazed for a while at the signature. ‘Edward . . .’
‘Teddy,’ she said suddenly.
And then Flora MacNichol laughed for the first time in as long as she could remember.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course.’
35
Baby Teddy moved in with Flora two days later and they both did their best – and at times, their worst – to get used to each other. Flora’s approach was to view him as an orphaned lamb who needed warmth, love and, most of all, milk. Yet she was baffled how she could clear any form of animal dung without a care, but felt a wave of nausea pass over her while changing his full napkin.
Teddy was by no means a contented baby; like a puppy that had lost its mother, she would lay him down in his makeshift cradle – a drawer filled with blankets placed close to the range – after his last bottle of milk. Then she would prepare for bed, creeping up the stairs, sliding between the sheets, and closing her eyes in relief. But only a few minutes later, the wailing would begin.
She’d try to ignore it, after instructions from Beatrix that babies needed ‘training like animals’, but Teddy did not seem inclined to play by the rules. As the decibels rose, reverberating around the thick stone walls of the farmhouse, Flora knew it was a war of attrition, and Teddy always won.
The only time he seemed at peace was when he was nestled next to her in bed. And finally, even though she knew she was making a rod for her own back, but so physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted she’d stopped caring, she let him sleep next to her at night.
After that, some modicum of peace descended on the cottage. Even so, the farm suffered from lack of attention, culminating in her employing a youth from the village to do the basic work she no longer had time for. And despite her carefully contrived routine being disrupted beyond repair, the fact that another beating heart lay in her arms every night helped her own frozen heart begin to thaw.
With the summer sun out, she began to take Teddy for walks, fashioning a sling from a length of cotton that she wrapped around both of them – the rough paths and rocky terrain being unsuitable for a perambulator. She ignored the curious glances of the villagers – she could imagine the local gossip and chuckled at what they must think. And as the days passed, she began to feel the sense of peace and fulfilment she had thought would elude her forever. That was, until one hot day in July when she had a visitor.
Having just put Teddy down for his afternoon nap, she busied herself in the garden, the carefully planted borders so neglected over the past month they were crying as loudly for her attention as Teddy did. As she went about unwinding the bindweed from the lupins, sweating in the strong afternoon sun, she thought how nature, left even for a short time to its own devices, would immediately regain control.
‘Hello, Flora.’
Her hands – filled with earth and weed – froze where they were.
‘My name is Archie Vaughan. Do you remember me?’
I really must be suffering the effects of the sun, she thought. Did she remember him? The man who had haunted her for the past nine years? It was the most absurd question her lonely mind had ever conjured up.
‘May I please come in?’
She turned round to end this ridiculous hallucination, but as she gazed at the figure standing patiently behind the gate, then shook her head and blinked a number of times, the image refused to disappear.
‘Ridiculous!’ she shouted out loud.
‘What is “ridiculous”?’ the hallucination answered.
‘You are,’ she said as she picked herself up and marched towards the gate, having read enough books to know that when one was dehydrated, the imagined oasis disappeared as one approached it.
‘Am I?’
She was now staring over the gate, close enough to smell the familiar scent of him and even the lightest wisp of breath on her cheek. ‘Please go away!’ she ordered in desperation.
‘Flora, please . . . it’s me, Archie. Don’t you remember?’
Then the mirage reached out a hand and a finger touched her cheek, bringing with it sensations that could not possibly be a dream.
His touch seemed to drain every last drop of blood from her veins, and she staggered, reaching for the gate to steady herself as her head spun.
‘Good God, Flora . . .’
And suddenly, the ground was reaching up to her, and she collapsed on the path.
‘Forgive me,’ she heard vaguely as she felt a cool breeze wafting across her face. ‘I should have sent a telegram and warned you I was coming. But I was afraid that you would make sure you were out.’
The soft voice made her open her eyes, and she saw what looked like a beige calico fan passing back and forth in front of them. As her eyes focused, she realised it was her sun hat and beyond that was a face: thinner than she remembered, almost gaunt with a lightning streak of grey hair growing from his temple. His eyes no longer shone clear, but were those of a haunted man.
‘Can you stand? I need to get you out of the sun.’
‘Yes.’ Leaning heavily upon him, he helped her up inside the house. She pointed him in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Surely you need to lie down?’
‘Goodness, no!’ she said, feeling as fey and silly as any heroine in a penny romance. ‘Can you bring me water from the pitcher in the pantry?’
He did so, and she gulped it back thirstily, his grave eyes never leaving her. She had a sudden vision of what he must see: a woman whose face was sprinkled with lines, fashioned from grief, loneliness and the harsh weather of the Lakes. Her hair was unkempt as usual, spilling from its knot, and her body enclosed in a filthy, roughly sewn smock. Cotton breeches covered with grass stains and wooden clogs completed the ensemble. In short, she looked a fright.
‘You look so beautiful,’ Archie murmured. ‘The years have served you well.’
She gave a snort of laughter, thinking that perhaps the strong sun had blinded his vision. Thankfully, her faculties were returning and gathering reluctantly like an exhausted army to her command.