The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(56)

He did neither. He just turned his head to look at me, and I could see a different look in his eyes, a melancholy I’d never seen in him before.

After a few minutes he broke his gaze, then pulled away and glanced around the side of the tree, and then, just like that, off he went, grasping my hand and pulling me after him, darting through the trees as fast as we could go. I almost stumbled a few times, but the tug of his hand dragged me onward. I was petrified and exhausted. What did he intend to do with me?

All of a sudden, we tumbled into a clearing, the golden morning sunshine tunneling through the gap in the treetops; it was as if the world had survived after all, glorious and resplendent in the pale early-morning glow.

“Which way?” he whispered, panting in the warm air.

“Here,” I said, quietly, catching his hand, leading him down through the trees. “The edge of the wood is just down here, and then we can skirt the orchard down to Bullsend Brook. It leads to the back of Dawkins Farm, and you can go back to the village from the other side.” I was thinking of the fastest route to the fields where the men would be working, someone to hear my cry for help if need be.

As we came out of the orchard and entered the copse around the brook, we began to slow down. He still kept hold of my hand, his thumb brushing the back of my fingers. It was strange, as we never like to be seen together in public. I am cautious about Daddy seeing us, and he is, well, just cautious, which doesn’t seem surprising now. But there we were, hand in hand like young lovers, water trickling over the smooth gray rocks below as we walked through the glistening trees, in and out of the shade of the branches, in a strange juxtaposition between good and evil.

“You’re more than I bargained for, Venetia,” he said quietly.

“So are you!” I spluttered, not really knowing where to begin.

“Why did you follow me?” he asked.

“I couldn’t believe you were involved in the black market,” I replied. “And yet it seems to be the least of your ventures.”

He looked confused for a moment, then said, “Oh, Kitty must have told you,” as if that cleared up everything.

“I followed you because I had to find out more about the black marketing. Obviously I had no idea I’d find out you’re a Nazi spy, too,” I snipped. “Are there any illegal activities you don’t do, Alastair?”

He smiled. Yes, smiled, as if he were proud of himself. “Well, I don’t do many at all, unless you count house burglary. I dabbled in a spot of forgery once, which was quite interesting. I felt it improved my art actually.”

I was stunned, and stopped walking for a moment to take it all in. I mean, I knew he was a black marketeer and everything, but he sounded like a completely renegade criminal, who clearly had no conscience whatsoever.

“And now you’re a traitor, too,” I said limply. I looked up into his clear brown eyes, the word so ugly and clumsy in my mouth, so repulsive. “How could you help the enemy, and on our own soil, too?” I was angry with him for letting me down, angry for what he was doing. “I never knew you spoke German! How many other people are you, Alastair?”

“Many,” he said simply. “I speak French, too, if it’s any consolation.”

“Why would that be a consolation?” I said, and started walking again.

“It’s a lot more complicated, Venetia. I can’t tell you about it right now, but you have to trust me.” He came after me, trying to take my hand.

“How could it get more complicated?” I spat, snatching my hand away. “You’re a criminal and a traitor. Most people would be satisfied with just one: criminal or traitor, but no, Alastair Slater has to be both.” Then I added, “And a very poor artist just in case that’s not enough.”

He laughed. “Oh Venetia, I’m not really that bad an artist, am I?”

“Yes.” I smarted. “You had my portrait completely wrong. You don’t know me at all. You’ve had me wrong all along.”

“I see that I have,” he smirked, although I could see he was getting ruffled. “I’ll change it, Venetia. I’ll find the painting and I’ll change it. I’ll make you into the gentle goddess that you are.”

“Why should you bother?” I shouted. “I’d have thought another minx would be exactly your style!” I turned to face him. “You have a nerve asking me to trust you, when all you’ve done is lie and cover up.”

He took my hand. “Venetia, I may be a lot of things, but I have always been true to you.” His voice was velvet smooth, steady and serious. “I love you, Venetia. I thought you loved me, too, felt it inside. We’re meant to be together.”

“I don’t know if I can be with a traitor,” I said, my voice breaking, tears beginning to well up in my eyes, and then I made a feeble wobbly laugh. “Black marketeer was fine,” I said, “but not a traitor.” My face dropped, and I began to cry, right there in the wood, the trees silently standing around us, conveying on the world their stoical constancy.

“It’s not that bad, Venetia.” He put his arms around me and pulled me in tight, trying to recapture our cozy nighttime world. “You have to trust me. It’s far more complicated.”

I sank into his warm body like it was a sustaining or intoxicating drink that kept me alive, and yet I knew deep inside that the morning’s endeavors had put a different light on him, on us.