Chapter 3 #2
“I’m getting married,” said Lucy again, more slowly this time, and with the sort of caution that suggested she was still getting used to the notion herself.
“But, Lucy, that’s wonderful news,” said Saffy, all in a rush. “And who is the lucky fellow? Where did you meet him?”
“Actually—” Lucy flushed. “We met here, at Milderhurst.”
“Oh?”
“It’s Harry Rogers. I’m marrying Harry Rogers. He’s asked me and I’ve said yes.”
Harry Rogers. The name was familiar, vaguely; Saffy felt sure she should know the gentleman, but she couldn’t find a face to match the name.
But how embarrassing! Saffy could feel her cheeks reddening and she covered her dilemma by planting a broad smile on her face, hoped it was sufficient to convince Lucy of her delight.
“We’d known one another for years, of course, what with him visiting so regularly at the castle, but we only started walking out together a couple of months ago. It was right after the grandfather clock began playing up, back in spring.”
Harry Rogers. But not, surely, the hirsute little clock man?
Why, he was neither handsome nor gallant nor, from what Saffy had observed, remotely witty.
He was a common man, interested only in chatting with Percy about the state of the castle and the inside workings of clocks.
Obliging enough, as far as Saffy could tell, and Percy had always spoken kindly of him (until Saffy chided that he’d be sweet on her if she weren’t careful); nonetheless, he wasn’t at all the right man for Lucy with her pretty face and easy laugh.
“But how did this happen?” The question had risen and bubbled out before Saffy could even think to stem it.
Lucy didn’t appear to take offense, answering directly, almost too quickly, Saffy thought; as if she herself needed to hear the words spoken in order to understand how such a thing could have occurred.
“He’d been up to see about the clock and I was leaving early on account of Mother being poorly, and it just so happened that we bumped into one another on our way out of the door.
He offered me a lift home and I took it.
We struck up a friendship and then, when Mother passed away …
Well, he was very kind. Quite a gentleman. ”
There fell then a pall of silence in which the scenario played out variously in each of their minds.
Saffy, though surprised, was also curious.
It was the writer in her, she supposed: wondering at the type of conversation the two might have had in Mr. Rogers’s little motorcar, how, exactly, one thoughtful lift home had blossomed into a love affair. “And you’re happy?”
“Oh yes.” Lucy smiled. “Yes, I’m happy.”
“Well.” Saffy forced strength into her own smile. “Then I’m enormously happy for you. And you must bring him up for tea. A little celebration!”
“Oh no.” Lucy shook her head. “No. It’s kind of you, Miss Saffy, but I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Why ever not?” said Saffy, though as she said it she knew perfectly well why not, and suffered a wave of embarrassment for not having found a smarter way to extend the invitation. Lucy was far too proper to entertain the notion of dining with her employers. With Percy, especially.
“We’d rather not make a fuss,” she said. “We’re neither of us young. There won’t be a long engagement; there’s no point in waiting, what with the war.”
“But surely at his age Harry won’t be going—?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. He’ll be doing his bit though, with Mr. Potts’s mob. He was in the first war, you know; at Passchendaele. Alongside my brother—alongside Michael.”
There was a new expression on Lucy’s face then—a type of pride, Saffy realized, a tentative pleasure shot through with mild self-consciousness.
It was the novelty, of course, the recent change in circumstance.
Lucy was still becoming used to this new persona, that of a woman soon to be married, a woman who was part of a couple, who had a male counterpart through whom she might be clothed in reflected glory.
Saffy warmed a little vicariously; she couldn’t think of anyone she knew who deserved happiness as much as Lucy.
“Well, of course, that all makes very good sense,” she said.
“And you must certainly take a few days for yourself either side of the wedding. Perhaps I could—”
“Actually …” Lucy pressed her lips together and concentrated on the patch of space above Saffy’s left shoulder. “That’s the thing I really must talk to you about.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Lucy smiled, but not easily and not happily, then the smile fell away leaving only a slight sigh in its place.
“It’s rather awkward you see, but Harry would prefer …
that is, he thinks that once we’re married it would be best if I stay at home, look after his house, and do my bit for the war effort.
” Perhaps Lucy felt as keenly as Saffy that further explanation was required for she went on to say, quickly, “And in case we should be blessed with children.”
And then Saffy understood; it was as if a great veil had been lifted.
Everything that had been blurred came into focus: Lucy wasn’t in love with Harry Rogers any more than Saffy was, she merely yearned for a baby.
It was a wonder Saffy hadn’t figured it out straightaway; it was so plain now that she knew.
It was, in fact, the only explanation. Harry had offered her that one last chance; what woman in Lucy’s position wouldn’t make the same decision?
Saffy fingered her locket, ran a thumb over the snib, and felt a surge of kinship with Lucy, a flush of sisterly affection and understanding so strong that she was overcome with a sudden desire to tell Lucy everything, to explain that she, Saffy, knew exactly how she felt.
She opened her mouth to do just that, but found no words had come.
She smiled slightly, blinked and was astonished to feel a wave of warm tears threatening to spill.
Lucy, meanwhile, had turned away, was searching her pockets for something, and Saffy, recovering her composure as best she could, glanced surreptitiously towards the window, watching as a single black bird sailed an invisible current of warm air.
She blinked again and everything took on a misty veneer. But how ridiculous it was to cry! It was the war of course, the uncertainty, the wretched, hateful windows!
“I’m going to miss you too, Miss Saffy. All of you. I’ve spent over half my life here at Milderhurst; I always assumed I’d end my days here too.” A slight hesitation. “If that doesn’t sound too morbid?”
“Terribly morbid.” Saffy smiled through tears, pinching the locket again beneath her fingers.
Lucy would be dreadfully missed, but that wasn’t the only reason Saffy wept.
She didn’t open the locket anymore; she didn’t need the photograph to see his face.
The young man with whom she’d been in love, who’d been in love with her.
The future had stretched ahead, anything had been possible, everything. Before it was all stolen from her—
But Lucy knew none of that, and if she did, if over the years she’d gathered threads here and there, connected them to form a rueful picture, she was polite enough never to mention it.
Even now. “The wedding will be in April,” she continued softly, handing Saffy an envelope she’d drawn from her pocket.
Her letter of resignation, Saffy realized.
“Spring. In the village church, just a small wedding. Nothing fancy. I’d be very happy to stay on until then, but I understand if …
” There were tears in her eyes now. “I’m so sorry, Miss Saffy, not to give you more notice.
Especially at a time like this, with help so difficult to find. ”
“Nonsense,” said Saffy. She shivered, aware suddenly of a draft, crisp against her damp cheeks.
She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed, noticed the smudges of face powder on the cloth.
“Oh goodness,” she said, pulling a face of mock horror, “what a mess I must look.” She smiled at Lucy.
“Now, never mind your apologies. You’re not to give it another thought, and you’re certainly not to do any more crying.
Love is a thing to be celebrated, not wept over. ”
“Yes,” said Lucy, looking anything but a woman in love. “Well then.”
“Well then.”
“I should get on.”
“Yes.” Saffy didn’t smoke, she couldn’t stand the smell or the taste of tobacco, but at that moment she wished she did. Something settling to do with her hands. She swallowed, straightened a little, drew strength as she often did by pretending to be Percy …
Oh dear. Percy.
“Lucy?”
The housekeeper turned from where she was collecting the empty teacups.
“What about Percy? Does she know about Harry? That you’re leaving us?”
The housekeeper’s face paled as she shook her head.
Unease set up camp in Saffy’s stomach. “Perhaps I ought to—?”
“No,” said Lucy, with a small, brave smile. “No. It’s something I must do.”