Page 77 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

‘We are on our honeymoon,’ Chapel said. ‘April in Paris – what could be more romantic?’ He lifted a hand.

‘I know, it’s May. We started off in April, but it takes time to cross the Atlantic.

The intention was sound. Later, we hope to see a little of Italy.

I had a desire to visit Europe one last time. ’

‘Last time?’ James queried.

Chapel’s face grew serious. ‘War is coming, and it will be bad. If there is anything left afterwards, it will not be fit to visit for a generation.’

‘Do you really think there will be a war?’

‘Don’t you read the papers? Don’t you know what’s going on in Germany?’

Emilie gave him a minatory look. ‘Darling,’ she reproved.

He laid a hand over hers where it rested on his arm. ‘You are English, you were spared the full horrors of the last war. The next one will be even worse.’ Then he made an obvious effort and smiled. ‘Your sister, how is she? Well, I hope.’

‘Yes, she’s well, thank you.’

‘She’s not here with you?’

‘No, she’s back in England. At Morland Place.’

‘Ah, Morland Place!’ James had heard the edge of eagerness in Chapel’s voice, and apparently so had Emilie, because she frowned slightly, and glanced at her husband.

‘She spoke about it so often, I feel as if I know it,’ Chapel went on, and added to his wife in explanation, ‘Morland’s sister was a well-known New York hostess many years ago.

’ Then to James, ‘Send her my regards, will you, when you write?’

‘Of course,’ said James. He drew a breath to begin on his own business, but Chapel seemed to have lost interest in him. ‘It was good to see you again, but we should go,’ he said, beginning to turn away. ‘I am due at the studios later today and I promised Emilie a look at the shops first.’

James was not to be put off that easily. ‘I wonder if I might walk along with you for a few moments. This meeting wasn’t entirely accidental …’

As James explained later to Hélène, he was only partly successful.

It would have been too awkward to bring up the subject of the artwork originals straight away, but he had secured Chapel’s agreement to come to dinner at Hélène’s, and an invitation for himself to visit the studios, so there would be plenty of occasions for introducing it more subtly.

At home after work, as he was changing his trousers to go out with Emil, he thought about Chapel and his new wife, and that little awkwardness when he had asked after Polly.

James had got the impression on a previous meeting that Chapel was carrying a torch for his sister, whom he had obviously known quite well when they both lived in New York.

He wondered whether he should tell Polly about the meeting.

But there was no suggestion the torch was reciprocated – and, besides, it was clear Chapel was not intending to come to Europe again.

It occurred to James then that Chapel had said something odd, and he paused, trousers at half mast, while he tried to prise it out of his memory like a raspberry pip from between the teeth.

Ah, yes, that was it: talking about the coming war, he’d said, ‘You are English, you were spared the full horrors of the last war.’ You are English.

But wasn’t he English? And if not, what was he, and why had his war been worse?

He thought about it for a bit, then shrugged, and finished dressing. Probably just a slip of the tongue.

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?’