The Skylark's Secret(38)
Somehow the next time I glance at the kitchen clock it’s nearly midnight and we’ve talked for hours. Davy drains the cup of coffee that I made ages ago and pushes his chair back from the table.
‘Thank you for a lovely evening, Lexie. It’s been grand sitting at Flora’s kitchen table again, hearing her daughter laugh a bit. This house was always filled with song and good cheer.’
When he leaves, the cottage seems too empty. I’ve enjoyed his company and now I’ve been able to place him, I remember that Mum used to mention his name every now and then. As I clear the cups into the sink, his words echo in the empty kitchen. The range ticks softly to itself as it cools for the night and from the hill behind the cottage comes the ratcheting call of a corncrake. I wander through to the sitting room and pick up Mum’s picture from the mantelpiece. ‘I think it’s time this house was filled with song and good cheer again,’ I tell her.
And she smiles her approval back at me as I resettle the picture in its place and turn out the light.
Flora, 1940
On the Sunday evening, the day after she’d cooked for the fishing party at Ardtuath House, Flora sat on the bench in front of the cottage letting the sun bathe her in its light, its rays setting the red-gold tints in her hair afire as it traced a languid path across the western sky. She had her mending basket beside her and was sewing a button on to one of her father’s shirts. Securing it with a few quick stitches, she snipped the thread and folded the shirt neatly, setting it to one side. Before reaching into the basket for the next item, she relaxed for a moment, leaning her head against the cottage wall behind her, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the warmth.
Despite the peace of the day’s end, thoughts buzzed in her head like flies, irritating and persistent. The news on the wireless that morning had been deeply unsettling: only last week thousands of troops had been evacuated from Dunkirk in the face of the German advance, the Netherlands having fallen and Belgium having surrendered a few days earlier; a British aircraft carrier had been sunk off Norway by German battleships; Paris had been bombed, and Italy was issuing increasingly belligerent declarations. It had been a relief when the news bulletins had come to an end and the music programme had begun. But even singing along to the familiar tunes had failed to lift Flora’s spirits much. And then, as a reminder that the war affected those closer to home, too, she’d bumped into Bridie on a walk after lunch, who’d told her that a family at Poolewe had just received a telegram to say their son’s plane had been shot down over the Channel and he was missing, presumed dead. Bridie said, too, that while the evacuation from Dunkirk had saved many lives, news was filtering through that the 51st Highland Division had been trapped inland and many of the men taken prisoner. The threat of the war, which at first had seemed to lie far off beyond the wall of hills, had begun to insinuate itself into the little white croft houses along the lochside now, casting an ever-present shadow of fear even on days when the sunlight sparkled across the water.
It dominated all their thoughts these days, making Flora’s private concerns seem petty in comparison. And yet she still couldn’t help mulling over Sir Charles’s behaviour towards her yesterday. He’d been so cold. Usually he treated her with a brittle joviality, at best, or a casual disregard. But something had shifted since he’d become aware of the closeness between her and Alec. Her pride was still stung by the way in which he’d humiliated her. She tried to push those thoughts aside. She knew Alec loved her, but would he defy his father if it came to it? She’d sensed his anger yesterday and yet he’d been helpless to act. Both he and his mother were held fast in the steely grip that Sir Charles exerted on his family. Was their love strong enough to withstand that force?
She sighed, opening her eyes at the sound of a blast from a ship’s whistle out on the loch. Another battleship had pulled into the harbour, manoeuvring as it dropped anchor, and a tanker was drawing alongside to refuel it. Tomorrow morning she’d be back on duty at the camp at Mellon Charles. At least that would be a welcome distraction, knowing she was doing her bit for the war effort.
She reached into her mending basket to pull out a sock in need of darning and began to thread a thick needle with a strand of Lovat green wool. The sound of footsteps on the path behind the house made her turn, expecting it to be her father back from seeing to the garron. But it was Alec who appeared, his face creased in a frown. His expression melted into a broad smile at the sight of her sitting there and he threw himself down on the bench beside her, sweeping her into his arms, narrowly avoiding being impaled by the darning needle in her hand.
He was quick to apologise for his father’s behaviour. ‘I can’t believe how awful he was yesterday, showing off in front of the Urquharts like that. Making a point of inviting the Kingsley-Scotts, too. He’s been impossible all weekend. Poor old Ma has retreated to her bed with a headache now that they’ve gone. He just refuses to accept that the war has changed everything.’
‘But has it really changed everything?’ Flora asked, resting her head against his shoulder and gazing out at the vast grey hulks anchored in the bay. ‘Is the world now so different that the likes of a laird’s son can be with a gamekeeper’s daughter?’
He drew back, holding her at arm’s length, trying to read her expression. His dark eyes were filled with pain and love. ‘Flora, I have never thought of you in that way. Nor your father, nor Ruaridh. They are like family to me, always have been. And you – well, you must know that I’ve loved you for years. And I want to love you more, for all the years we have left. In this uncertain world, it feels like my love for you is the only certain thing I have to hold on to. Whatever happens, for God’s sake, Flora, don’t let my father take that from us.’