15 The Day After
Cora woke in the night to the sound of rain lashing against the windows.
She was safe, though, her head resting on Cal’s chest, his arms warm about her, holding her close.
She could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, beneath her cheek.
She lifted her head and in the dancing light of the single guttering candle, she saw his eyes, wide open, gazing at her.
“Not asleep?” she whispered.
“Daren’t. Might wake up and find it’s all a dream.”
“Good dream,” she said drowsily, snuggling into his embrace and drifting back to sleep.
The next time she woke, it was to the sound of birdsong.
The rain had stopped and the morning light blazed through the unshuttered windows.
Cal was sleeping peacefully on his side, one arm and one leg free of the blanket, his chest rising and falling gently.
She slipped out of bed, donned her shift and crept barefoot out of the hut and across the rain-soaked clearing to the privy.
Then back, to dress as best she could in her evening gown, cursing the myriad tiny buttons.
In the end, she decided her shawl would have to cover the gaps.
Her feet were wet, and after wrestling in vain with her stockings, she stuffed them into her reticule, and slid her slippers onto her bare feet.
Her hair was a disaster, but she had never had to tie up her own hair before, so she simply plaited what she could reach and let her shawl hide most of it.
For a moment she watched Cal sleep, treasuring the sight of him and tucking it away with the other unforgettable memories. Then, very gently, she laid a hand on his shoulder. He stirred but did not wake.
“Cal.”
His eyes flew open, then, with a gasp, he saw her and smiled.
“Not a dream, you see,” she said softly, “but I must go.”
“Cora…”
“Ssshh.” She laid one finger on his lips. “No time to talk. I cannot stay a moment longer. Go back to sleep.”
With a quick kiss, she ducked round the curtain and out of the hut.
The sun was already raising steamy tendrils from the sodden grass in the clearing, and on the narrow path that led out of it, every bush drooped with the weight of raindrops clinging to leaf and stem.
Leaning close on either side, she could not avoid brushing against them, soaking her from waist to toes.
A stray bramble clawed at her gown. Above her, the trees were just as wet, and every little breeze unleashed a shower.
No time to worry about it. She had to get back into the house and into her room unseen, or the story of her return in the morning wearing the dishevelled clothes of the evening before could not be contained. It was late, later than she had intended when she had planned this adventure.
The stepping stones and the front lawn were far too public now, so she sped through the woods to the orangery, fumbling in her reticule for the key buried under her wet stockings.
Inside and through the gallery, where Mr Chamberlain’s scaffolding lay empty.
His work on the ceiling had yielded just one floating angel so far, but fortunately he was not an early riser.
She skittered through the Chinese room, hearing voices in the library next door — two housemaids by the sound of it.
Up the service stairs and up again to the attic floor, along the narrow corridors where the female servants' bedrooms were, all abandoned at this hour.
Then past the lumber rooms and down the other service stairs to the bedroom floor.
Silence. No one about. Heart beating like a drum she ran the last few steps to her own door, flung it open and withdrew into safety.
A dark-clad figure jumped up from a chair beside the window. “Oh, madam, there you are! I was beginning to worry.”
“Souter! I had quite forgotten about you,” Cora cried, horrified. “You have not been here all night waiting for me?”
“I thought you might need me,” the maid said. “I guessed where you were. Oh, madam! Look at the state of you! Your lovely gown is ruined, and whatever happened to your hair?”
“My lack of skill with hairpins happened to it, and the drips from last night’s rain finished it off,” Cora said. “I dare not look at myself in the mirror. Souter, I must have a bath.”
“Yes, madam, but into bed first,” Souter said, tossing aside the bedraggled shawl and beginning to unbutton the gown. “It’s the day for changing the sheets, and no one must know you were not in your bed last night. Madam…” Her hands stilled.
“Souter, you may speak your mind,” Cora said gently.
“Forgive me even for thinking the thought, madam, but… last night was your own choice? I mean… Mr Richard won’t have to meet Mr Garford at dawn or anything horrid like that?”
Cora laughed. “Entirely my own choice, Souter. Nothing for Richard to get upset about.”
“He will anyway, if I know him,” the maid said darkly.
“Forgive me again, madam, but if this is to be a regular occurrence, you’ll need to think more about what you wear.
Change before you go out the night before, I’d say — a morning gown.
I’ll teach you a simple way to pin up your hair.
Then folk who see you coming back next day will just think you’ve been out for an early walk. ”
“Excellent idea, Souter,” Cora said. “What a treasure you are.”
“I’m glad you’re happy at last,” Souter said.
“I’ll not hear a word said against a man who puts roses in your cheeks the way Mr Garford does.
” The maid slipped a nightgown over her head.
“Into bed with you. Wait, wait! Your feet — were you running about the woods barefoot? Let me get some water and clean them up. Then I’ll fetch your chocolate and see about that bath. ”
***
Cal obeyed Cora’s last instruction, slipping back into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he woke again, the light suggested it was almost noon, a clear, rain-washed morning. The eaves were still dripping, and outside on the table, the abandoned wine glass and teacup were filled with rainwater.
He tidied up, washed and dressed hastily, grabbed some bread and a piece of cold meat, and walked through the woods to the place where his workers were hard at work digging out a new ditch to divert a small stream that had been flooding a farmer’s field.
Having satisfied himself that all was in order, he walked on to the edge of the woods overlooking the Brin.
Here he sat and ate his meal, remembering the time he had brought Cora there.
The butterfly… it was the place where the butterfly had settled on her hand and she had said she wished she could be as free as a butterfly. And now she was, but how would it end?
And another, stomach-churning, thought — had it already ended?
Was last night merely a way for Cora to demonstrate to herself that she was indeed free?
Having proved it to her own satisfaction, would she now settle back into the familiar routine of afternoon visits and cups of tea?
He was not sure he could bear it, if so.
His arms ached to hold her again, to lie beside her in the darkness listening to the rain falling — could there be any greater happiness in life than to share it with the woman of your heart?
And not just for one gloriously unforgettable night, but forever.
If only it could be so!
That was too much to hope for yet, but one more night with her — that would be something.
More than something! But she had given him no sign, and now he was jittery with uncertainty.
Would she come again, and if so, when? Must he wait in hope and fear for night after night?
Well, he must, he supposed. It was for her to determine what she wanted.
All he knew was that, whatever she asked of him, she should have it.
He could not sit still a moment longer. Jumping to his feet, he strode back through the forest, seeing no one.
Even the creatures of the woods had deserted their usual posts, for no birds sang and nothing scuffled through the undergrowth.
Or perhaps his rapid progress, taking no care to be silent, startled them all away.
She was not at the hut. How could she be? It was too early… he was too agitated to sit quietly and wait for her, too restless to work at his lathe. For an hour, he worked out his fidgets by chopping and stacking firewood, and still she did not come. Still too early.
He was hot and sweaty, so he took a towel, soap and clean clothes, and bathed in the little pool he’d found away up the hill, just deep enough for him to immerse himself, then lay on the sunny bank to dry off. He dressed in a clean shirt and his Sunday trousers and went back to the hut to wait.
Still too early, for she was not there. Restlessly, he tidied the inside of the hut, although it hardly needed it, washed a couple of shirts and hung them on the line outside to dry, then began methodically preparing his dinner.
An unexciting meal, as it happened, for it was not the night for Cora to join him.
He prepared, he cooked, he ate. And still she did not come.
He took a book outside to read, one of the Latin books she’d brought for him, the flyleaf neatly inscribed, ‘Roland Merrington, Leahollow, Norfolk.’ He opened it, read three lines, could not make his befuddled brain concentrate.
Why didn’t she come? What was she doing…
having dinner, he supposed. No, too early.
Gathering in the drawing room with its hideous painted ceiling.
How anyone could live under such a monstrosity he couldn’t imagine.
Perhaps they never looked up. Perhaps, like Cora, their heads were always down, focused on their cards or journals or, like her, their embroidery.
He went inside, poured himself a glass of wine to remind himself of last night and went back to his post outside. Gradually the light faded, the sunset shrouded in cloud again. He closed the book, and brooded, watching the front door which stayed resolutely closed. Why didn’t she come?