The House at Mermaid's Cove(50)
“Forgive me for askin’,” George said, “but you’re not the cousin who ran off to South Africa, are you? With the tin miner?”
The question was such a surprise that I laughed. “No—that’s not me.” I gave him a wry smile, hoping he wouldn’t probe further, wouldn’t expose my ignorance of Jack’s family. But, of course, he couldn’t see me.
“She had all her goin’-away clothes delivered to the ’ouse—a wedding dress an’ all,” he went on. “The parcel was addressed to ’Is Lordship—not the old viscount, mind, but Mister Jack. My old ma was ’ousekeeper in them days, and she opened it. Teased ’Is Lordship somethin’ rotten, she did: thought it was ’im getting wed on the quiet until ’e told ’er it were for ’is cousin.”
The story filled me with a mixture of exultation and relief: it had been a joke, then, that talk about a secret wife.
Jack was still away on the day of my shopping trip to Falmouth with Merle. I’d become used to seeing him morning and evening when he brought the dog down to the cove for a walk. I tried not to listen out for Brock’s joyful barking when I was getting ready to go up to the farmyard. I missed Jack’s visits. I didn’t like to admit it, even to myself, but it wasn’t just the company I missed—it was him.
The Land Girls were rowdier than usual that morning. They’d just heard that there was to be a dance hosted by a platoon of American soldiers newly arrived in Cornwall. The talk was all about the gifts they expected to get if they managed to get their claws into a Yank, as they called them. Silk stockings, chocolate, and cigarettes were the most sought-after items.
Edith gave me a sly smile as she emerged from under a cow. “I suppose you met lots of Americans in London.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t tell her that the only American I’d ever encountered was the one I’d rescued from a beach in France.
“I bet you went dancing every night when you lived there,” she persisted.
“Are you joking?” I grunted. “Most nights I was so worn out all I wanted was my bed. I haven’t been dancing in years.” This blend of truth and fiction seemed to satisfy her—although the look she gave me as she ducked down spoke volumes. In her eyes I was a pitiable creature with terrible hair who didn’t know how to make the most of herself, nor how to have a good time.
I applied myself to the teats of the next cow waiting to be milked, unable to shake the image she’d conjured of people in London living fast and free despite the bombs raining down. I couldn’t help wondering whether Jack was making the most of being there on government business, going out at night to escape the twin pressures of running an estate and a secret military operation. I imagined him in a crowded, smoke-filled room with a whiskey in his hand, attracting admiring glances from women like Edith. Women who would be all over him, like ants on honey, once they got him onto the dance floor.
“You’re missing the bucket!” It was Marjorie, to my left, who alerted me to what I was doing. I’d been so wrapped up in thoughts of Jack that I’d squirted milk all over my boots.
After the milking was done, I went to find Merle. She was in the kitchen, up to her elbows in flour, making bread dough.
“I won’t be long.” She slapped a ball of dough onto the marble slab beside her and started kneading it. “Could you do me a favor? I need to post a letter in Falmouth. There are stamps in the bureau in the library. Could you fetch them for me? I’ll be ready to go by the time you come back.”
I wondered if the letter was for Fred. Merle hadn’t mentioned him since the day she’d told me about their love affair. I thought I’d better not ask. If she hadn’t heard from him, she was bound to be worried, and raising the subject would make things even worse.
I went down the passage that led to the great hall. The portraits of Jack’s ancestors seemed to stare down accusingly as I crossed the room, as if they knew how I felt about him. When I reached the door of the library, I opened it noiselessly—another legacy of my years as a nun. It had been a rule of the convent, no rasp of hinge or lock. If a nun allowed a door to slam, she was supposed to kiss the floor and say three Glorias.
The musty smell of old books hung in the air. The Morse code machine looked incongruous in such a room—modern and alien against the hunting scenes hanging on the walls. The briefcase that contained it lay open on the desk in the center of the room, with the codebook Merle used to decipher messages from France beside it.
The bureau was over by the window. Like all the furniture in the house, it looked as if it had seen better days. Slivers of the mother-of-pearl inlay had fallen out, and when I pulled down the flap, one of the legs wobbled precariously. There were rows of pigeonholes down both sides. I suddenly remembered, as I searched for the stamps, that I’d intended to write to Janet, the Land Girl who was in hospital. In all the drama of the past few days, it had gone out of my head. I made a mental note to write to her as soon as I got back from Falmouth.
My fingers went in and out of the pigeonholes but found no stamps. I tried a drawer at the back of the bureau, but the brass knob came off in my hand when I went to open it. Frustrated, I grasped the sharp end of the screw protruding from the wood. It took a few seconds of determined pulling to open it. But the only things inside were a few paper clips and a dog-eared envelope.