Shadows in the Moonlight

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

I change into my riding habit and head out to the stables with Robert. I’m on the point of leaving the house when Cordelia detains me in the hall. ‘May I have a word?’ she says. She looks worried. Her beautiful face is pale, her blue eyes fearful. I tell Robert to go and ask Mr Grantly to saddle the horses and then follow Cordelia into the drawing room. She closes the door but remains standing there, facing me. ‘Miss Swift, I understand Mr Pengower took Master Robert to the chapel this morning.’

‘Yes, that is correct,’ I reply, surprised. ‘I assumed you knew.’

‘I did not. Did he mention anything about taking him up to the mine?’

‘No, not that I recall.’

Her shoulders relax. ‘Good.’ She moves away, wringing her hands, and casts her gaze out of the window, at the lake. The sun is reflected on it in a dazzling blaze of fire. ‘I am having a terrible time, Miss Swift.’ She takes a breath and turns to face me again. ‘Mr Pengower and I have such different values, sometimes I wonder how we manage to be together at all.’ She shakes her head and gives a mirthless chuckle. ‘Mr Bray came by this morning, and they had a terrible row. Mr Bray is worried that the miners are going to kick up again.’ Her voice goes quiet, and I have to lean in to hear her words. ‘You see, just over a year ago there was an accident, a terrible accident, and seven men were killed. Among them was a young boy. He was only fifteen and he was small, like a child. It was dreadful. Dreadful. They blamed my husband, of course, and they had due cause, for he will not put a penny into it that he does not deem absolutely necessary. The more money he makes, the harder he tries to hold on to it. Those families are terribly poor. But Mr Pengower does not see them as men, but workers, and will happily squeeze every last drop out of them without a thought for their safety and comfort. Without a thought for their families.’ She inhales deeply and I can tell from the way she braces her shoulders that she’s about to divulge something shocking. ‘What my husband doesn’t know, Miss Swift, is that I went into town to see the boy’s mother. The little mite wasn’t yet buried, and they were keeping vigil over his body. I’ll never forget the sight of him.’ She turns her face once again to the window and lets out a sob, pressing her hand to her mouth to smother it. ‘God forgive me.’

‘What did she say, the boy’s mother, when she saw you?’ I ask.

‘She said …’ Cordelia’s lips are now white and trembling. ‘She said … Oh God, I can barely utter those words. She said, “I curse Ivan Pengower and his bloodline, that they and their house may be dogged by unhappiness. That tragedy will follow them like a shadow and not release them, so they know what it is to suffer loss.”’ A shiny tear trickles down her face. She looks at me with desperate eyes and two red stains blossom on her cheeks. ‘She cursed us, Miss Swift.’

‘They are only words, Mrs Pengower. They will do no harm if you do not believe them.’

She frowns, not understanding that words have no power if they’re not accepted as truth. They are just dead sounds; it’s her belief that gives them life. ‘I feel responsible for that family now. The accident was nothing to do with me, but, nonetheless, I feel guilty and want to help them. There is nothing in the world that is more dreadful than the loss of a child; I cannot imagine the pain that poor woman has to endure.’ Cordelia puts a hand on her breast, and I can’t help but notice the terrible irony. ‘Perhaps I am oversensitive, but there is a small hope in my heart that if I can somehow alleviate that woman’s suffering, the suffering of her community, then the curse will not hold. That it will not happen. That we won’t suffer loss.’ She turns and looks at me steadily. ‘Now you see why I am worried about Ivan taking Master Robert up to the mine. I am afraid for his safety.’

I want to tell her that it is not Robert’s but Felix’s safety that she needs to be concerned about.

‘Master Robert will be safe with his father,’ I reassure her, but she shakes her head.

‘He is not safe with his father. Those men are angry. There is no telling what they will do. Only this morning Mr Bray was trying to convince my husband to give them more pay, to decrease their working hours and to ensure the safety of the mine. Dear Mr Bray, he tries so hard. But my husband will not listen. He does not want to hear it. Once, he was grateful for Mr Bray’s advice and they were as close as brothers, but since the accident last year Mr Pengower and he have been at loggerheads. My husband won’t admit his guilt and digs his heels in. He cannot admit that the accident was his fault. Every time he looks at Mr Bray, he sees condemnation. Every time Mr Bray reports on the morale of the men or the danger in the tunnels, Mr Pengower feels resentment, rather than a duty of care to those who work for him. It is terrible. But what can I do? I am a tiny voice in a storm. Mr Pengower will not listen to me. Now he wants to show Master Robert his inheritance. He says he needs to know that when he dies, his son will continue in his footsteps. It is absurd, the boy is but a child. He understands nothing.’

‘What can I do to help?’

She comes to me and takes my hands. ‘You have already helped, by listening.’ She manages a wan smile and steadily holds my gaze. ‘Thank you for that, and for looking after my boy. But you can tell me if he takes him to the mine. I suspect he will do it without my consent, even though he knows how much I am against it.’ Then, in a small voice, she adds, ‘And thank you for being a friend to me, Miss Swift. I cannot tell you how much I am in dire need of one.’

I find Robert waiting for me in the stable yard. He’s already mounted. Beside him is Cavill. He’s waiting for me too. When he sees me, he smiles and lifts his hat in salutation. I smile back, thrilled that he’s decided to join us again. Grateful to be close to him once more. Mr Grantly leads my horse to the mounting block, and I settle myself into the saddle and arrange my skirts so that they fall prettily over my legs. I’m getting the hang of this now. We set off up the track and through the woods. Beams of sunshine fall through the canopy of leaves and every now and then the sun itself dazzles in between the branches. Birdsong fills the air, which is alive with midges. Their tiny wings catch the light and glint like fireflies. The wood is so beautiful, like a temple with trees for pillars. The waxy petals of the pink and red rhododendrons have opened, and bees and butterflies settle upon the purple, cone-shaped buddleia flowers. Cow parsley grows among foxgloves, ferns and red campion, and the smell is woody and sensual. My horse walks beside Cavill’s while Robert rides ahead; he’s keen to get to the beach. Cavill tells me that tomorrow we shall picnic there for his mother’s birthday. ‘It is tradition,’ he tells me. ‘Every year since I was a boy, we have enjoyed a picnic on the beach for her birthday. I do not recall a single one of those days where it rained.’

‘Your mother is surely blessed,’ I say.

‘She is, indeed. I believe tomorrow will be a special day for us all.’ He looks at me and there’s an intimacy in the way he holds my eyes. I feel myself opening like one of those rhododendron flowers. It’s an intoxicating feeling to be so admired, and a novel one I don’t think I’ll ever get used to.

‘I look forward to it,’ I reply. But the truth is that I do not. I will be one day closer to losing him. One day closer to losing Felix. One day closer to returning to my world. And I don’t want to go.

The sea comes into view, a glittering blue line meeting the sky on the distant horizon. There’s something stirring about that sight. A sense of infinity, of the bigger picture, of God. It reminds me of where I come from and where I’m going, not from an earthly perspective, but from a spiritual one. The beauty of it touches me in that deep and silent place at my very core and moves me. I don’t know why it makes me sad. Why beauty makes me sad. Perhaps it’s because our human lives are transient and that one day all of us will have to say good-bye.

We make our way down a sandy path in single file towards a sheltered cove. I can smell the sea in the breeze that caresses my face like the softest silk. It roars as the waves crash against the rocks at the far end. The giant body of water swells and subsides, is forever moving, corroding the land, slowly expanding, and I’m filled with excitement at the sense of drama it evokes. Robert, too, is excited and asks if he can roll up his trousers and put his feet in the surf.

We tether the horses to a rock and Robert takes off his boots and runs down the sand. Cavill and I set off at a gentle pace. ‘Hermione,’ he says softly, brushing my hand with his as we walk side by side along the beach.

I glance at him and return his smile. I can feel the light dancing in my eyes. ‘Cavill,’ I say, and the word feels delicious on my lips.

‘I have a confession to make,’ he begins.

‘Oh, how bad is it?’ I ask.

‘It is bad,’ he replies, but I can tell from the humorous lines around his eyes and mouth that he’s playing with me.

I laugh. ‘Then what is it?’

He stops walking and settles his eyes upon me, a serious expression on his face. ‘I am falling in love with you,’ he says solemnly.

I catch my breath. That is, indeed, quite a confession. ‘Oh, Cavill …’

‘I think I fell in love with you the first time I laid eyes on you at the bottom of the stairs.’

‘When I thought you were the master of the house,’ I remind him.

‘I’m glad that I am not the master of the house, for then I could not marry you.’ He glances at Robert, who’s playing in the water, kicking it with his feet, giggling as the waves charge at him, one after the other.

‘Marry me?’ I repeat, astonished. We haven’t even kissed yet. Really, he barely knows me.

‘Say you will.’

I’m aware that in these times people marry quickly, often scarcely knowing each other at all. Indeed, most marriages are arranged. So for Cavill, this is normal. For me, however, this sudden proposal is incredibly fast, and, of course, impossible to accept, for I shall soon be gone. I want to yield. But I think of the real Hermione Swift and the mess I’m creating for her once I’ve slipped back. When she wakes up, she’ll remember nothing of this. I can’t commit her to something she might not want, even though I want nothing more than to throw myself into his arms.

‘You scarcely know me, Cavill,’ I protest.

He gazes at me raptly, as if he’s probing beyond into the deep part of me. The deepest part of me. ‘For what do I need time when what I feel for you is timeless?’ he asks.

That word ‘timeless’ reaches the craving in my soul and I feel, suddenly, that longed-for connection satisfied at last. I feel the stinging of tears behind my eyes because I know that I will never feel such a connection in my own life. That it is the kind of thing that happens but once and I’m full of sadness that it is happening now, for I cannot keep it.

His brow creases with a frown. ‘Do you not feel it too, Hermione? A bond, a knowing that renders history and biography trivial? Anyone can see that you are beautiful. That you are intelligent and charming. That you are well educated. If they are observant, they can also see that you are original and spirited and, dare I say it, mischievous. But they won’t feel what I feel. They do not understand you like I do, with the heart.’

‘Do they not?’ I ask.

His eyes soften and he looks on me with tenderness. ‘I think you want adventure like I do, Hermione. I think you want more than what this world has to offer you. I think that, beneath the veneer, there is something original in you that is yet to be expressed – you just need to be given the opportunity to be yourself.’

I’m astonished. ‘You see all that in me?’ I say. And I wonder, is it possible that he sees Pixie beneath the veneer?

‘I want to be the man to allow you to express it. I want you to be the woman to allow me to express the original and creative in me . You see, I feel I am the best of men when I am with you. I feel uplifted. Inspired. With your love I can achieve anything, be anyone, do anything, whatever my imagination can conjure up. I am an eagle, and you are the wind rising beneath me and elevating me. I want to be the wind that elevates you .’

‘That’s a lovely image,’ I say, touched. No one has ever spoken to me like this before. No one has ever looked at me like this before, with such sincerity and affection.

‘When I come back from the Argentine, I will marry you, Hermione,’ he continues, gazing at me with fierce intention, and I believe him. I believe every word, despite the fact that it can never happen. ‘I will come home a rich man and we will start our life together. We’ll soar high together like two magnificent birds.’

‘You have known me but six days, Cavill,’ I say, even though I feel I have known him six years. ‘You might discover that I am not the woman you think I am.’

‘I know my heart.’ He frowns, apprehensive suddenly, and looks at me searchingly. ‘Do you know yours ?’

‘I need time,’ I tell him. ‘You must give me that.’

He smiles again, a little sadly. ‘Very well. If that is what you want. I’ll give you anything. The whole world.’ He glances again at Robert, who is now facing out to sea. Cavill takes my hand. He turns it over and caresses with his thumb the place where the skin is exposed between my glove and sleeve. Then he presses his lips there. They are warm and soft. For a moment I feel as if I might swoon. ‘Dear Hermione of my heart,’ he whispers.

‘Oh, Cavill …’ I look into his eyes and sink further into the dream. I search frantically for an argument to support my desire, and then I seize upon one. Does it matter if I allow this romance to flower? After all, Hermione will never know Cavill. He leaves for South America and never comes back. If I indulge myself, no one but me will remember it.

He lets go of my hand then and I’m aware of Robert, now staring at us with a bewildered look on his face. I hold my wrist against my breast, and we continue to walk, this time towards the child.

‘When are you planning on leaving for South America?’ I ask. It dawns on me then that the swiftness of his pursuit of me must be due to a lack of time on his part.

‘I depart for Portsmouth this Friday,’ he says, and the joy is suddenly sucked out of the air. I feel despondent, as if the world around me has lost its lustre. The sun retreats behind a cloud and the beach falls into shade. ‘Don’t look sad, my darling. The sooner I leave, the sooner I will come back and the sooner we will marry.’

I’m shaken out of my stupor as I realise how futile those words are. We can never marry. He thinks he’s going to Argentina, but he will never reach it. He can’t know that, and I can’t tell him. There’s much that I can’t tell him. Oh, if only I could warn him of what is to come, but that’s not the way it works. I cannot warn him of his own misfortune, any more than I can warn him of Felix’s. I can do nothing but watch as the drama plays itself out. But I can try, as best I can, to help that poor soul who is stuck in her pain, to let it go. That’s what I’m here for. I mustn’t forget. I must not fail. Cordelia Pengower is relying on me, and she doesn’t even know it.

I am not here to rescue Cavill.

Robert calls to us, and we watch him jump and splash and play. He wants our attention and although we wish we were alone, we do our duty and clap and laugh and give praise. The wind picks up and ruffles my skirt, in fact it nearly robs me of my hat. The clouds thicken and move ever more swiftly across the sky. The sea darkens, the air grows heavy and sticky. We decide to make our way back. Cavill looks at his pocket watch. It’s nearly four. I can’t believe we’ve been on the beach for that long. I forgot myself. How easy it is in Cavill’s presence to forget myself and what I’m here to do.

We ride back to St Sidwell Manor. Cavill is full of cheer because he believes I will marry him. After all, I haven’t said that I won’t. I’ve just asked for him to give me time. He encourages Robert to lead the way so that we can talk, but I’m pensive and taciturn. He looks at me inquisitively, but I cannot explain what I feel. What’s in my heart. All I can do is reach out and give him my hand.

That evening, it is just the four of us at dinner. Mr Pengower is in a surprisingly good mood. In spite of the argument he had this morning with Mr Bray, he’s full of bonhomie. He drinks his whisky and tells anecdotes that both his wife and Cavill have obviously heard before. But they indulge him with laughter and encourage him to tell more, because it’s a rare boon to see him so cheerful. He’s certainly charismatic when he allows himself to shine. When he’s cross, his mood affects the whole house and pulls the energy down so that you feel as if you’re languishing in shadow. Now he’s happy, we’re all infected by a sense of optimism and joy. I watch Cordelia. She appears to have shed her anxiety and is looking at her husband with a serene expression on her lovely face. However, I now know her serenity to be a mask, concealing a seething resentment beneath. She has a public face and a private face, and the two are very different. Perhaps tonight she will leave the house by the secret passage. Maybe the anticipation of a moment’s solitude on the bench is the reason for her tranquillity.

The anticipation of that is a reason, too, for my heightened alertness.

After dinner, Mr Pengower is seeking entertainment. We move into the drawing room and he settles his eyes on me like an eagle on a mouse and asks whether I might recite a poem. ‘Yes, Miss Swift, a verse or two of Tennyson or Browning.’ No one is suggesting I play the piano.

‘Perhaps I can read one of your favourites,’ I suggest hopefully. I really don’t know any poems, at least, not off by heart. I’m also aware of the real Hermione Swift, who is very likely well educated in the reciting of verse.

‘The children enjoy Edward Lear,’ says Cordelia. ‘That wonderfully fanciful poem about a pussy-cat sailing to sea in a pea-green boat.’

‘And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon, the moon, they danced by the light of the moon,’ Cavill recites with a chuckle. ‘Surely, you know that one, Miss Swift?’

I’ve never heard of Edward Lear. ‘Of course,’ I reply, laughing lightly as if I, too, find his poems hilarious. I lift my chin and look directly at Cavill. ‘Would you like to hear The King’s Breakfast ?’ I ask. There is nothing for it. I must distract them at once from finding out how ignorant I am. I had to learn A A Milne’s classic at school and recite it in front of the class. I entertained my classmates then, by putting on all the voices – I hope I can entertain the Pengowers now in the same way. If I’m going to do it, I might as well do it properly.

Cavill frowns. ‘ The King’s Breakfast ? I have not heard of that one.’

‘Who wrote it?’ asks Mr Pengower.

‘I did,’ I lie. In my time it’s a famous poem that everyone knows.

‘Oh, how lovely,’ Cordelia exclaims happily. ‘I should so like to hear a poem that you have written, Miss Swift.’

‘How very accomplished you are,’ says Cavill. He has an amused look on his face as if he’s expecting another bizarre performance and is impatient to hear it.

I take a breath.

‘Stand up, Miss Swift, so we can all see you,’ Mr Pengower interrupts. ‘If this poem is composed by you, then we would like to see you perform it appropriately.’ He laughs, no doubt thinking back to my rendition on the piano as his brother is doing. ‘I did not take you for a poet.’

Reluctantly, I stand on the rug in front of the fireplace and arrange my skirts. I hope I don’t forget any lines. It’s been a long time. I sweep my eyes over the expectant faces and silently tell myself to be brave. I take another deep breath and then deliver the poem. Rather than the bewildered expressions I received for my piano playing, I’m surprised to find my audience laughing with merriment. Encouraged by their enjoyment I ham it up even more. I put on the posh, high-pitched voice of the Queen, the low, whining voice of the King and the cockney accent of the Dairymaid. By the time I finish with the King’s plaintive final line, Cavill is wiping a tear from beneath his eye, Cordelia is pressing a hand to her belly and even Mr Pengower is chuckling.

‘A triumph, Miss Swift. A triumph,’ cries Mr Pengower in delight. ‘You are quite the poet, after all.’

‘And the entertainer,’ adds Cavill. ‘Why listen to Tennyson or Browning when we can listen to Swift?’

‘You would do well on the stage,’ says Cordelia, fanning her face that’s flushed from laughing.

‘Thank you.’ I feel mildly guilty for having stolen A A Milne’s work. ‘I am glad you enjoyed it. Just a little poem I wrote for children.’

‘You must write poems for ours,’ Cordelia suggests. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, to have our very own poet in the house?’

It’s not yet dark when Cordelia retires to her room. It’s only nine thirty, too early to take up my vigil in the library. I tell her that I’m going to stroll around the garden. It’s a lovely evening and I need to keep myself occupied. The pink light of dusk is gradually subsiding, and a purple twilight is creeping up over the lawn. I know that Cavill would like to walk with me, and I wish that he would, but his brother wants to smoke a cigar and he doesn’t want to do it alone. He’s had one too many glasses of whisky and is a little unsteady on his feet. I can feel Cavill’s eyes upon me as I leave the room. I know that he wishes he could follow me. ‘Well, my dear Cavill, what do you think about …’ Their voices grow faint as I walk through the hall.

I wrap a shawl around my shoulders and leave by the back door. I set out over the grass. I can feel the moisture in the air and the dew settling on the ground at my feet. The scents of the garden rise to fill the night with a sweet perfume and I inhale it greedily. Love renders everything more beautiful and tonight the beauty reaches every corner of my being. I walk past the stable and once again see that lone light in the upstairs window. I wonder whether John Snathe is climbing the drainpipe into Gwen’s bedroom and what the consequence of that might be. But I’m intoxicated with a desire of my own and I don’t waste time thinking about Gwen Blight. I think only of Cavill and hope that he might follow me into the garden after all.

One by one the stars shine above me as the sky deepens to a rich blue. An owl hoots in the woods and its mate hoots back. There are rustlings and scratchings of nocturnal animals prowling about in the undergrowth. I have always loved the night. It’s secretive, soft, mysterious and alluring. The moon sets the garden into eerie relief, accentuating the shadows, bringing the trees and shrubs into a watery silver light, and it’s magical. I want to dance, to spread out my arms like wings and to twirl round and round in my own secret ball. I want to lie on my back on the grass and gaze up at the heavens and see only the velvet darkness and the pinpricks that twinkle and shine from stars that have perhaps already died. I want to think about Cavill and, with the power of my mind, draw him to me. Here in this garden. Now.

I sense then the presence of someone behind me. I turn to see Cavill’s familiar silhouette walking towards me across the lawn. He puts out his arms and I run into them. And I think not about the little time we have. I press my face to his shoulder and close my eyes and feel the vibration of the beating heart beneath. That’s all that matters. The now.

‘You are wonderful,’ he says. ‘There is no one in the world like you.’ He looks at me through the darkness and I feel as if he’s looking straight through me, right into my innermost being – to me, Pixie, beneath the exterior that belongs to someone else. He rests his hand against my cheek. His thumb gently traces my chin. And then he bends down and places his lips upon mine. He parts them gently and kisses me.

Hermione Swift floats across my mind followed by the shadow of guilt, which I am quick to dismiss. Cavill leaves for South America on Friday and will never return. Hermione will awake and know nothing of what she has done. No one will know but me. I can indulge in this beautiful fantasy confident that it is all mine.

I think no more of Hermione Swift, or Cordelia Pengower, or even Felix. In this moment it’s only me and Cavill and the dream is real. At least for now.

I yield at last. My body sinks against his and I close my eyes and kiss him back.

But our time together is limited. Symons will shortly lock the door and I have a job to do that requires my fullest attention. Regretfully, we separate. We walk back to the house side by side but without touching. It is agony to have to be so discreet. All I want is to feel his hand in mine. To feel his touch. We enter the house and cross the hall, feigning formality in our manners and speech so as not to give ourselves away in the likely event that we are being watched. We part on the landing. We cannot even say goodnight with a kiss. I hear Symons’ key in the lock and then the hall is plunged into darkness.

I wait in my room until midnight, replaying the kiss over and over in my mind. I trace my lips with the tips of my fingers, barely believing that it really happened. Barely believing that I allowed it to happen. But now it has, I want more.

At the sound of the clock chiming midnight, I steal down to the library as before and take up my position behind the curtain. The moon is high in the sky, presiding over the heavens with her dispassionate gaze. She shines her eerie light on the garden and I wonder what she sees out there in the night. Will Cordelia sneak out into the vegetable garden and take up her solitary communion on the bench beneath the stars? Will she find peace away from the growing tensions in the house? Or will they find her there in the shape of dark thoughts and fears that cannot be ignored? Will God give her the strength she craves?

My heart is fretful, my senses alert. I’m certain that she’ll come.

The clock chimes one o’clock and then a faint glow lights up the doorway. I hold my breath. Through the crack in the curtain I see Cordelia. She glides in swiftly and goes straight to the bookcase. She puts her hand on one of the shelves, at the height of her shoulder, and pulls something there. At once, the concealed door springs open. With a deftness that comes from practice, she eases it wider and slips through the gap. She descends a couple of steps, turns and closes the door behind her.

I give her a few minutes and then light my lamp and go to the bookcase to see if I can open it myself. Holding the lamp high I run my fingers over the wooden rib of the shelf. There’s nothing there for me to pull. At least, I can’t find it. Frustrated, I push and pull everything within my reach.

Then I notice letters engraved onto the surface of those ribs. I hold the light closer. To my amazement there is a quote from the bible carved into the wood. Suffer the little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me. They are the same words as the ones written in gold on the wall of the chapel. But this sentence has an additional phrase that the one in the chapel doesn’t have. Forbid them not. Why would it be different?

I put my fingers there and feel a little ridge running along the surface beneath the spines of the books. It’s subtle but unmistakeable. I clasp the shelf and pull. It’s a secret lever. With a soft click the door pops out.