The Victory Garden(66)
“Depends what you mean by ‘witch,’” the lady said. “Long ago, a cow would die and the owner would claim that someone had cast a spell on it or had given it the evil eye. There have been several women who lived alone in that cottage, and that is always suspicious to the general population. Why is she living alone without a man? Surely that must mean she is up to no good.”
“But I was told there were murders?”
Lady Charlton chuckled again. “You don’t want to believe anything the villagers tell you. There was one woman who disappeared, and the rumour went about that the man she was betrothed to had killed and buried her. But her body was never found, and the man in question also disappeared from the neighbourhood soon after. If you want my opinion, what probably happened was that she ran off with a handsome gypsy who was camped nearby. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”
“Before your time here?”
“Oh yes, before my time here,” she said. “I’ve lived in this house for thirty of my eighty-three years. Less than half my life. I wasn’t overjoyed to come here in the first place, but Henry inherited the title and property, so we had to give up a rather exciting way of life abroad and settle down here. Naturally, we hoped for more children after James, but sadly that didn’t happen.”
How ironic, Emily thought as she watched the flames flicker. Two women who had wanted more children in their marriage and had not been able to have them. And here she was, with one brief encounter with a man and a child growing in her belly. She put her hand to it now. In spite of her expanding waistline, it still didn’t seem real.
They dined at one end of the table in the large, chilly dining room. There was a clear broth followed by lamb’s liver in a rich gravy, and then rice pudding with sultanas. Emily found it extremely satisfying, but Lady Charlton apologized. “I’m sorry we have reverted to nursery food,” she said. “In spite of living in the country and having a home farm, it becomes harder and harder to obtain decent meat.”
They took coffee by the fire, and then Emily got up to leave.
“I do hope I can persuade you to join me for dinner every evening,” Lady Charlton said. “It is extremely tiresome to dine alone, and I get the feeling that you enjoy an old woman’s stories.”
“Oh, I do,” Emily said. “I love to hear about your experiences in different parts of the world.”
“Well then, why the reluctance?”
Emily shifted uneasily. “I suppose I feel I should be learning to stand on my own two feet, not have someone else cook for me.”
“Rubbish,” Lady Charlton said. “What else does Mrs Trelawney have to do but to cook? And if she cooks for one, it is just as easy to cook for two. So I think we’ve closed that matter for me. And when can I expect you to join me in the house, sorting through my husband’s collections? Is there really much to do in the garden at this time of year?”
“The rest of the roses need pruning, and the kitchen garden should be restocked with winter produce to keep us going,” Emily said. “I’m going to speak to Simpson about onion sets and Brussels sprouts and the like. I know a little bit about planting those now.”
Lady Charlton smiled. “Quite the little farmer.”
As Emily made her way back down the hill, she allowed herself a small grin of satisfaction. She had acquired some skills. She was able to earn her keep.
Back in the cottage, she settled herself at the table, close to the fire, the cat at her feet, and took out her writing set.
My dear Clarissa,
I am sorry I have ignored your last letter for so long, especially when you are going through such a harrowing time with the influenza cases. We have not seen any sign of it here yet, thank goodness. I hope it does not succeed in travelling across the Channel, although I suspect some of the returning soldiers will bring it with them.
Again, my lack of response has not been through laziness. On the contrary, I have been extremely busy, planting onions, ploughing, picking apples . . . quite the little farm girl—that’s what Lady Charlton said. You would have been amused to see me trying to wrestle the plough behind two giant horses!
But my real reason for writing only now is that I did not know how to put into words all that has happened recently. My life has turned upside down, Clarissa. I wrote of my hopes and dreams, my marriage to Robbie and a life in Australia. All dashed, I regret to say. He was killed, Clarissa, being frightfully brave and piloting a doomed plane away from a village.
And that is not all. I hardly dare to write this, and I beg you not to show the letter to anyone else—most of all, do not mention it to my parents. I find myself in the family way. I am overcome with shame as I write the words, and yet in some way there is a joy in having Robbie’s child. At least a small part of him still lives. But as you can imagine, I have no idea how I am going to face the future. Certainly not with my parents, who have made their views on the subject more than clear. For the moment, I have taken up residence in a cottage at the edge of an estate close to Dartmoor. The owner, Lady Charlton, has been surprisingly understanding. I will help her with her garden and with cataloguing her husband’s collections in return for having a place to live. To the rest of the villagers, I’ll be Mrs Kerr, war widow. I only hope that
She broke off, as there was a knock at the front door. She got up and opened it, expecting a visit from Alice, or maybe Simpson with more coal, and was surprised to see a strange man standing in front of her. His jacket was tied together with string. He wore an old, shapeless hat over shaggy hair, and his face was half-hidden by an untrimmed beard. Emily recoiled at the smell of him.