The Last Garden in England(80)

When I’d finished, Matthew looked down at our hands lightly touching fingertip to fingertip. “I’ve sat at Wisteria Farm these past weeks, trying to think of what I might have done. Why you might have pulled away from me, when you are all I think of.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “There is another way, Venetia.”

I shook my head. “I’ve considered everything.”

“No you haven’t.”

“Yes, I ha—”

“Marry me.”

I jerked back. “Marry you?”

“Marry me, please,” he repeated, his voice cracking as he grasped for me.

I tried to twist my wrist out of his grip. “You don’t have to do this. I have a plan.”

“Stop talking about your plan. I don’t like your bloody plan one bit!” His voice rang out the harshest I’d ever heard from him.

I stepped back. “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not? Can you honestly say that you feel nothing for me?” he asked.

I couldn’t, and both of us knew it.

He brushed a bit of my hair from my forehead. “I know that what we have has not been a passing fancy for you—you took an incredible risk.” When I said nothing, he tried another tack. “You spoke of your respectability.”

“It’s the one thing I have,” I said.

“You have me. You have our child,” he said tenderly.

My resolve nearly faltered. I wanted so badly to believe in the words he offered me, but they were just words.

“Your sister won’t stand for it. She dislikes me,” I said.

“Helen is not my keeper, Venetia.”

“I know that the Melcourts are your landlords. You would lose Wisteria Farm.”

His jaw tightened. “And the income my brother-in-law gives me each year as part of my sister’s marriage settlement. But what dignity would I have as a man if I let that keep me from my responsibilities?”

“Even if we did marry, people would talk,” I pushed.

“People want to believe in love.”

“People want to believe in the fallacy of others,” I countered.

“Are you always so cynical?” he asked with a smile.

I planted my hands on my hips. “Are you always so idealistic?”

Rather than responding, he wrapped his arms around me.

“I’ve found the woman I’m going to marry. What man wouldn’t be idealistic?” he murmured into my hair.

In spite of my better judgment, I melted into him. I craved his reassurance.

“How would we do it?” I asked.

He gave a short laugh. “Well, I expect that we probably won’t be wed in All Soul’s in the village, if that’s what you mean.”

“There’s only so much longer that I can keep the child a secret.”

“Then we’ll follow your plan. Together,” he said.

“Go away?”

“Yes. We’ll marry quietly and go on a tour of Italy or Spain. It will look like our honeymoon, and it will allow you to go into your confinement. After a month, we’ll write home and tell everyone that we fell in love with the countryside and have decided to stay a little bit longer. You’ll have the baby. We’ll announce the birth nine months after the wedding. When we return in a couple of years with a child who is a little taller than other two-year-olds, who will know the difference?”

There were still risks. One false move, one spilled word. The scandal could destroy both of our families. If I were a better woman, I would have walked away right then and there. Instead, I swallowed and nodded. “Then we’ll marry.”

He caught my face up in both of his hands and touched our foreheads together. “You will not regret it. I promise you.” He stepped back. “I should return to the house. Helen will be looking for me.”

I watched him walk away, ducking his head under tree branches, until I could see him no longer.

Sitting here, writing these words, I know I should be happy. A good, honorable man will marry me. I will not be forced to have a child alone. For the first time in my life, someone will walk with me, side by side. But for all of that, I cannot help the sinking feeling that we are naive to think that we can outrun a ticking clock and the inevitable ruin that will follow.





? BETH ?


Saturday, 12 August 1944

Southampton

My darling Beth,

Every time I receive one of your letters, the sun shines again. They are what sustains me and makes me know that this brutal campaign will be worth it if I can come home to you.

You asked how I feel about working behind the line. I cannot tell you much, as you know, for fear that this letter will become entirely black strikethroughs, but I will say it’s not the sort of visceral existence that I felt when I was fighting. Nothing can replace that, but I can see the good that we’re doing. Whenever a lorry full of petrol rolls onto the road, I know that that is going to move us forward. Whenever supplies for the bakeries or butcheries arrive, I know that the men will eat.

How is the farm? How are Mr. and Mrs. Penworthy? Has Ruth finally found herself a flyer? These little details are what holds me close to you and Highbury.

One thing you can do for me is call on Lord Walford at Braembreidge Manor. I know you’ll not want to bother the man who owns such a grand place, but he’s a lonely sort and I worry about him. Only promise me you won’t let him charm you into marrying him instead. He may be seventy-three, but he is an earl.