Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles, #1)(104)

Giles returned to Oxford on the fourth day. He didn’t need to speak for me to realize his news wasn’t going to give me succour. It turned out to be far worse than I had even anticipated. Emma and her mother had left for Mulgelrie Castle, where we had meant to be spending our honeymoon, with no relations to be allowed within ten miles. Mrs Barrington had instructed her solicitors to begin divorce proceedings, but they were unable to serve any papers on her husband as no one had seen him since he’d crept unnoticed out of the vestry. Lord Harvey and Old Jack had both resigned from the board of Barrington’s, but out of respect for Sir Walter neither had made their reasons for doing so public – not that that would stop the rumour-mongers having a field day. My mother had left Eddie’s Nightclub and taken a job as a waitress in the dining room of the Grand Hotel.

‘What about Emma?’ I said. ‘Did you ask her . . .’

‘I didn’t have a chance to speak to her,’ said Giles. ‘They’d left for Scotland before I arrived. But she’d left a letter for you on the hall table.’ I could feel my heart beating faster as he handed me an envelope bearing her familiar handwriting. ‘If you feel like a little supper later, I’ll be in my rooms.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, inadequately.

I sat in my chair by the window overlooking Cobb’s quad, not wanting to open a letter that I knew wouldn’t offer me a glimmer of hope. I finally tore open the envelope and extracted three pages written in Emma’s neat hand. Even then, it was some time before I could read her words.

The Manor House

Chew Valley

Gloucestershire

July 29th, 1939

My Darling Harry,

It’s the middle of the night, and I am sitting in my bedroom writing to the only man I will ever love.

Deep hatred for my father, whom I can never forgive, has been replaced by a sudden calm, so I must write these words before bitter recrimination returns to remind me of just how much that treacherous man has denied us both.

I only wish we’d been allowed to part as lovers, and not as strangers in a crowded room, the fates having decided we should never say the words ‘until death do us part’, although I am certain I will go to my grave only having loved one man.

I will never be satisfied with just the memory of your love, for while there is the slightest hope that Arthur Clifton was your father, be assured, my darling, that I will remain constant.

Mama is convinced that given enough time, the memory of you, like the evening sun, will fade, and then finally disappear, before heralding a new dawn. Does she not recall telling me on the day of my wedding that our love for each other was so pure, so simple and so rare, that it would unquestionably withstand the test of time, which Mama confessed she could only envy, as she had never experienced such happiness.

But until I can be your wife, my darling, I am resolved that we must remain apart, unless, and until such time, it can be shown that we can be legally bound. No other man can hope to take your place and, if necessary, I will remain single, rather than settle for some counterfeit.

I wonder if the day will dawn when I do not reach out, expecting to find you by my side, and if it will ever be possible to fall asleep without whispering your name.

I would happily sacrifice the rest of my life to spend another year like the one we have just shared together, and no law made by God or man can change that. I still pray that the day will come when we can be joined together in the sight of that same God and those same men, but until then, my darling, I will always be your loving wife in all but name,

Emma





49


WHEN HARRY FINALLY summoned up the strength to open the countless letters that littered the floor, he came across one from Old Jack’s secretary in London.

Soho Square

London

Wednesday, August 2nd, 1939

Dear Mr Clifton,

You may not receive this letter until you’ve returned from your honeymoon in Scotland, but I wondered if Captain Tarrant stayed on in Oxford after the wedding. He didn’t return to the office on Monday morning, and he hasn’t been seen since, so I wondered if you had any idea where I might contact him.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

Phyllis Watson





Old Jack had clearly forgotten to let Miss Watson know he was going down to Bristol to spend a few days with Sir Walter, to make it clear that, although he had caused the wedding to be abandoned and had resigned from the board of Barrington’s, he remained a close friend of the chairman’s. As there wasn’t a second letter from Miss Watson among his pile of unopened mail, Harry assumed that Old Jack must have returned to Soho Square and be back behind his desk.

Harry spent the morning answering every one of the letters he’d left unopened; so many kind people offering sympathy – it wasn’t their fault they reminded him of his unhappiness. Suddenly Harry decided he had to be as far away from Oxford as possible. He picked up the phone and told the operator he wanted to make a long-distance call to London. Half an hour later, she called back to tell him the number was continually engaged. Next, he tried Sir Walter at Barrington Hall, but the number just rang and rang. Frustrated by his failure to contact either of them, Harry decided to follow one of Old Jack’s maxims: Get off your backside and do something positive.

He grabbed the suitcase he had packed for his honeymoon in Scotland, walked across to the lodge and told the porter he was going up to London and wouldn’t be returning until the first day of term. ‘Should Giles Barrington ask where I am,’ he added, ‘please tell him I’ve gone to work for Old Jack.’