Chapter 21
The next day, when Jack answered a knock at the door, a messenger boy stood there. Jack took the telegram from him and called Florence.
‘For you,’ he said as she came running down the stairs having seen the boy from her window.
With her heart pulsing in her throat, she ripped it open. Good news or bad, you never knew.
Then Florence gasped in delight. ‘Oh my gosh. It’s brilliant news. élise has had her baby.’
‘When?’
‘Two days ago. A girl,’ she squeaked. She gulped and then exploded into exuberant laughter. ‘We have a niece. Hélène and me. We have a niece.’
Jack beamed at her.
‘I can’t believe it. I must write straight away. I’ll send élise my congratulations and tell her about the snow.’
‘Did you tell her you have a job?’
‘Yes, in my last letter.’
She didn’t tell him how surprised Hélène had been to hear she was staying on in Devon.
But Florence had written back emphasising how peaceful it was, and reiterating that Jack was rarely there – which had been true, at the time.
She’d already written about Claudette asking her to search for her long-lost sister, Rosalie.
She had mentioned the row too, but reassured Hélène that things with their mother seemed to be on a better footing now.
Once she finished the letter of congratulation to élise, she danced around the kitchen unable to fully absorb the news. It felt like such a miracle.
‘I’m an auntie,’ she said, whooping. ‘I’m an auntie.’
And then she began to cry.
‘Whoa,’ Jack said, drawing her towards him. ‘It’s all right.’
As he held her to study her face, she looked back at his eyes so full of compassion and felt something deep inside her.
She began laughing and crying at the same time, not even knowing what it was, like a child giddy with joy who then can’t then help bursting into tears.
‘I wish I were there so much, Jack. It hurts not to be with them.’
He wrapped his arms around her. ‘I know. A new baby, a new life in a family is so significant and not to be there must be awful.’
‘Yes.’
He let her go and stepped away. ‘Well, I think a celebratory glass of port is in order.’
‘You have port?’
‘I’ve been saving it. Oh, and Ronnie gave me this.’ He handed her a tin. ‘It’s Christmas cake. And he let me have a small chicken, six eggs, four slices of bacon, a tiny chunk of cheese, bread, potatoes, apples, and some root vegetables.’
This time Jack had insisted on using his ration coupons.
Florence was thrilled because the vegetables she was growing were now hidden somewhere beneath the snow and wouldn’t be ready yet anyway.
While Jack was away, she had been living on oats, winter cabbage from Gladys, and the odd fried egg, so this was bounty.
‘I’m going to make us a sumptuous celebration meal for supper tonight,’ she said.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Let’s just wait and see how you’re feeling later.’
She nodded but wasn’t really listening. She felt full of beans, as if she could climb the highest mountain. Well, perhaps not that. She’d had enough of mountain climbing to last a lifetime.
A little later, though, and Florence was surprised by how weary she had become, as if the plug had been pulled suddenly. So, telling Jack she would take a short nap, she left him lighting the sitting room fire.
She undressed, put on her nightdress, and fell asleep instantly.
When she woke, she couldn’t believe it was already dark outside.
She fumbled for the switch on her bedside lamp, turned it on, and as low light flooded her room, she yawned.
How long had she been asleep? She located her slippers, grabbed her thick candlewick dressing gown, then headed for the stairs but, pausing at the top, she sniffed.
Roasting chicken. Jack was roasting the chicken.
‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ he said when she entered the kitchen.
‘Sorry.’
He smiled at her. ‘Not at all.’
‘Thought you said you couldn’t even cook eggs.’
‘I said I couldn’t cook them apart from frying them.’
So, you remembered too, she thought, but said, ‘Well, it smells wonderful.’
‘Take a pew, mademoiselle. Here, catch,’ and he threw a box of matches and pointed at the table where four fresh candles stood in their holders.
She lit the wicks while he busied himself with the food.
‘Do we have wine?’ she asked.
‘Coming up. Red, already uncorked and breathing. I know it’s traditionally white with chicken but I’m a red wine man.’
‘I love red wine too and I don’t give a fig for tradition.’
‘That’s my girl.’
‘Hardly a girl any more.’
He faced the room to look at her, narrowed his eyes just a fraction and something passed between them she desperately needed to understand.
Then she had it. Recognition. The way his lips parted – as if he were a little surprised – told her he was properly seeing her for the first time.
‘No,’ he said very softly and more to himself than to her. ‘You’re not.’
‘What?’
‘A girl.’
He has noticed, she thought as her heart thumped. He has noticed.
Then he dished up the roast potatoes and vegetables and brought the chicken to the table. He carved some for her and then handed her a plate piled high with food.
‘Crikey, I can’t eat all that.’
They clinked glasses once he’d poured the wine, the candles flickered, and Florence was content. He seemed to be too, and she didn’t want to ruin it, but after the way he had just looked at her … she knew she needed to ask him about Hélène. Couldn’t avoid facing it any longer.
As they finished the meal, she stifled her nerves and said, ‘There’s something I need to discuss with you.’
‘I thought there might be.’ There was a flat tone to his voice and a moment’s silence as he looked at her with a serious, unwavering expression. ‘Fire away.’
She felt herself blushing, the heat rising in her cheeks. ‘I have to ask how you feel about Hélène.’
He nodded.
‘Well?’
There was a long uncomfortable silence. All Florence could hear was the wind outside.
‘I’ve seen the question in your eyes,’ he said. ‘But I have been too cowardly, or … I don’t know … In any case I’ve been resisting it.’
‘Resisting?’
‘You know my relationship history is complicated.’
‘Belinda?’
It took a moment before he spoke again. ‘I was very … I suppose, fond of Hélène. She’s a terrific person and I admired her strength of character, but I wasn’t ready. And I wasn’t in love with her, not then and not now.’
Florence nodded, feeling relieved but knowing there was more. ‘You slept with her though?’ she said softly, trying not to sound accusing.
‘Once.’ He paused for a moment and shook his head. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. It was wrong, and I blame myself, but she was so upset … Anyway, on my last night in France I stayed away.’
‘I remember.’
‘Almost as soon as we got back to England, I wrote to her, via Geneva of course, to clarify things between us.’
‘You didn’t say.’
‘No. It was a difficult letter to write. Besides, it was between me and Hélène. I thanked her, told her how much her friendship had meant to me, and I wished her well for the future. I knew how she felt when I was in France, although she never said, but I wanted her to understand there was no chance of anything more developing. I said I hoped we’d always be friends. ’
Florence felt a pang and hung her head. ‘Poor Hélène,’ she whispered, thinking how hurt her sister must have been.
‘Does that answer your question?’ he asked.
She didn’t reply at first, then raised her head and met his gaze. ‘I think you know it doesn’t.’
He lifted the bottle of wine aloft. ‘Empty.’
She nodded.
He shook his head as if remembering. ‘Coming across the mountains with you was extraordinary. I saw how terrified you were every single day, but it never stopped you. You were brave, Florence. Very brave.’
‘Jack, I feel …’ Desperate to touch him, she reached out, heart pounding, but he didn’t respond, and feeling rejected, she withdrew her hand. She took a long slow breath to steady herself.
‘I can’t give you what you need, Florence. I’m an old, grief-stricken divorcé and if we hadn’t been thrown together that would have been the end of it. Do you see? I’m not the man you need. I’m just the man you’re temporarily stuck with.’
She nodded her head slowly, but the muscles in her throat constricted and she couldn’t speak. Yes, she saw. It was humiliating, but she saw.
She rose to her feet. ‘I’m feeling tired,’ she managed to say in as normal a voice as she could. ‘I think I’ll go to bed now.’
And she climbed the stairs, crawled into bed, and with her pillow over her head, she cried silently.