Her Frozen Heart Page 5

  ‘Hmm.’ Sara frowned and looked up at the ceiling, then said, ‘I don’t think so. Not from what I saw.’

  Caitlyn thought of how much Sara had seen since they met as students: the dating disasters, failed romances and, of course, Patrick. And Caitlyn had been there to witness Sara’s dizzying life: her first marriage which, like a firework, burned brightly and exploded rapidly; and the longer, more painful death of her second marriage. A sense of unease came over her, and Patrick’s jumbled last words echoed again in her mind, just out of reach.

  Is Sara hinting that she knows something?

  She looked across the table at Sara, at the familiar china complexion, the slanted grey eyes and the cascade of russet hair and thought, I’m being crazy. It’s Sara. My friend. We’ve been through so much. What don’t I know about her?

  But Patrick had wanted to tell her something she didn’t know.

  What did he want to say? Even now, as she and Sara sipped their wine together, ideas flickered through her mind. That they were having an affair?

  She dismissed it at once. The idea was too ridiculous. Patrick had known Sara for years. He met her before he’d proposed to Caitlyn. He was most certainly immune to Sara’s charms. That had been one of the things that drew her to him in the first place.

  If there was one thing I was sure of, it was that Patrick was not interested in Sara. And Sara would never do that to me. I know she could be badly behaved sometimes, but she never set out intentionally to hurt me. She wouldn’t have dreamed of betraying me like that. Whatever Patrick wanted to say, it wasn’t that. And it was probably nothing. I’m sure it was nothing. Some silly discussion they’d had. But now she had an opportunity to ask. She hesitated and then said, ‘Sara, had he said anything to you recently?’

  Sara put her head on one side, her expression mildly interested. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. About anything. How he was feeling. What he was up to. About me.’

  Sara drank another mouthful of wine before answering. ‘No. I hadn’t seen him for ages. We hadn’t spoken since that time I came over here for dinner. Why?’

  ‘I . . . I just had the impression he’d been in touch with you, that’s all.’

  Sara’s eyebrows lifted gently. ‘Why did you think that? What did he say?’

  ‘He said . . . you know what, I can’t remember. It was nothing. I probably misunderstood.’ Caitlyn sighed. ‘I suppose I’m worried that he might have confided something in you – about not being happy.’

  ‘He was happy,’ Sara said simply, ‘I’m sure of it. You don’t have to worry about that. He liked his fun and games, didn’t he?’ And she took another sip of her wine. ‘You were the one, Caitlyn. The one who wasn’t happy.’

  Chapter Six

  Tommy marched across the great hall, sighing with exasperation. Her meeting with Mr Spottiswoode that morning about the estate income and the repairs had gone badly. Now that the men were coming back and taking up their old jobs, the estate manager seemed to think it was perfectly fine to ask for higher rents, which had been frozen for the duration. But Tommy didn’t know how she could look the tenants in the face at church on Sundays if she demanded more money.

  ‘We’ll wait until the next quarter,’ she’d said with finality. ‘Then we can think again.’

  ‘And what does Mr Whitfield say about this?’ enquired Spottiswoode. ‘There are many urgent repairs to take care of. The Charfield barn . . .’

  Tommy had been irritated. ‘You’ve dealt with me for the last three years, Mr Spottiswoode, and that’s how it will continue until my brother is well enough to resume work. He’s still recovering, as you know.’

  ‘Of course, of course, Mrs Eliott. And it’s a pleasure to work with you.’ Spottiswoode had smiled but Tommy knew what he really thought. The sooner Roger was back, the better.

  The truth was that ever since Roger had inherited Kings Harcourt Manor a few years before the war, he’d never managed to take charge. Spotty had been left to his own devices, which was clearly the way he liked it. Once Tommy had arrived with the children, she’d seen at once that Roger would never be able to run the estate effectively. It wasn’t in his bones. Or not, perhaps, in his head. Whatever it is, it’s always been there. It’s not the war, even if that made it worse.

  Everyone had pretended that Roger was making the decisions, or that her mother was the arbiter, but, invisibly, unacknowledged, Tommy had taken on the burden and had shouldered it as well as she could, even though she felt ill equipped for the task.

  And I think I managed it. We all came through. We’re still here.

  That was why it infuriated her to be patronised by Spotty, whose flat feet and short sight had made him unfit for army service and allowed him to lord it over those here at home.

  Horrible man! I wish I had the confidence to let him go. But I suppose I need him. She flung open the drawing room door and went in, saying, ‘Oh, damn it all!’

  ‘Hello there.’ Fred was standing at the piano by the silver-framed photographs that sat on its polished surface, his expression quizzical. ‘Are you all right?’

  Tommy stopped short, flushing pink with embarrassment. ‘Goodness, I am sorry. Please ignore me. It’s nothing.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not,’ he said, ‘but I wouldn’t dream of prying.’ He gestured to one of the photographs. ‘I was admiring this.’

  Tommy saw that he was indicating a studio portrait taken at the time of her engagement. ‘Well . . . thank you. It was a long time ago now.’

  Sometimes she could hardly believe that the perfectly complexioned, full-lipped girl was her, with the soulful eyes and dark hair set in immaculate waves, a strand of pearls glowing on her pale silk dress. That morning, looking in the glass, she’d despaired of the state of her hair, and used a tiny amount of the lipstick she had left. Before the war, she’d never have left the house without her hair perfectly done, and powder, rouge and mascara. Now she was eking out her supplies and doing her best with what was left.

  But there were other reasons why she hated to look at that photograph.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve changed at all,’ Fred said gallantly.

  Tommy laughed. ‘I was only eighteen then. Two children, ten years and the war! I’ve changed a little. We all have.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Fred smiled at her. ‘I really came down to look at the Gainsborough. Roger said it was best in the morning light. I rather hoped you might explain it to me.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m no expert, but I’m happy to show it to you.’ She turned and headed back out to the hall, gesturing to Fred to follow her.

  ‘Why is it tucked away like that? In the dark?’ Fred asked as they skirted the stairs to face the portrait in its shadowy home. The murky light could not conceal its beauty. ‘She should be over the fireplace, instead of that collection of swords you’ve got there.’

  ‘It’s because she was in the attic for so long. The swords went up when some martial ancestor fancied a nice, warlike display, before the painting was discovered.’

  ‘In the attic!’ exclaimed Fred, astonished. ‘A Gainsborough?’

  ‘It’s rather a sad story. The woman in the painting died at the age of twenty-two, not long after this portrait was painted. She was perfectly fine one day, then found dead in bed the next, for no reason they could discover. Her name was Venetia. Such a pretty name. It makes me think of Venetian glass, which seems appropriate – beautiful but fragile. I wanted it for Antonia but I was afraid of bad luck. Her husband, one of our ancestors, was so heartbroken he couldn’t bear to look at her portrait, and put it away in the attic. It was only brought down a few generations later and hung here. I’ve often wondered why they didn’t put her back over the fireplace, but she’s been in the shadows ever since, even though it’s our best picture.’

  ‘Yes. It’s very fine. Very.’ Fred stood close to it, gazing up into Venetia’s mournful grey eyes. ‘She looks like a living ghost, with her powdery grey ha
ir and white muslin dress. ‘And yet she’s also completely alive.’

  Tommy came and stood beside him. ‘I suppose it was love that made her husband put the portrait away.’

  Fred glanced at her. ‘What else?’

  ‘There are other reasons why we can’t bear to be reminded of the dead, aren’t there? Guilt, for example. Self-reproach. Despair.’

  ‘They can all be mixed up with love, can’t they?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so.’ Tommy stared at Venetia. As a girl, she had always wondered what the portrait would say if it could speak, sure that there was a story behind those sad eyes. Now she didn’t know if she could bear to hear it. There was already too much sadness in the world. ‘I love this painting, but sometimes I wish we could turn it into money.’

  ‘Sell it?’

  Tommy nodded. ‘It’s a horrible thought but it would save our bacon. We sold a lot to pay off the duties when Father died. We’re stony broke. I expect Roger’s mentioned it.’

  ‘I’m afraid he hasn’t,’ Fred said. ‘Roger doesn’t talk about things like that.’

  ‘I don’t think he even considers them.’ They stood for a moment in silence in front of the beautiful young ghost on the canvas and Tommy said cautiously, ‘I . . . I wanted to ask you about Roger. Do you think he’s all right?’

  Fred frowned and pursed his lips. ‘Truthfully, I have no idea. He can seem perfectly fine and then not himself at all. He’s very blue. I don’t know why. He doesn’t like to think about life and what he should do with his future.’

  ‘His future is here,’ Tommy said. ‘At least, that’s what everyone expects.’

  ‘Yes. That may be the problem.’

  ‘Really?’ She was surprised. ‘I thought it was the war that changed him.’

  ‘I think the war has changed us all.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. But . . . I don’t know, he seems more shut off than he once was. Or maybe I’m imagining it.’

  ‘He’s always had a strong streak of melancholy. I don’t think that the army was ever going to be the right kind of place for him. He’d have been better off serving some other way, but there’s no explaining that sometimes.’

  ‘Was it the right place for you?’

  ‘I knew what had to be done,’ he said after a moment. ‘And I could bear it. But I wish it hadn’t been necessary. There are things – horrors – that I’ll never unsee. It’s changed me fundamentally. It’s no wonder Roger couldn’t cope.’ He looked at her with that sympathy she’d seen before in his eyes. ‘He told me your husband was killed in the war.’

  ‘That’s right. In the first year, in France.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. It must have been terrible.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I ought to feel something. Everyone thinks I do. Tommy said, ‘You’re very kind. But plenty of people lost someone. I’m hardly unique.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it any easier to bear, does it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think perhaps it does.’

  ‘How did the children take it?’

  ‘They barely knew their father before he left, they were just babies. They’ve never known a life with him in it. They talk about him, but don’t truly miss him at all. It might sound awful but they don’t.’

  ‘But you must miss him.’

  She paused for a moment and then said lightly, ‘Of course. It gets easier, though. And we all get our fair share of suffering.’

  ‘Yes. That’s true.’ Fred gazed at her, his face even more angular with the way the morning light cast shadows on him.

  ‘Haven’t you lost someone?’

  The expression in his eyes was unreadable. ‘Only friends. I haven’t lost a lover, the way you have.’

  She wanted to put out a hand and touch his arm and say urgently, Oh, he wasn’t a lover. I’ve never lost a lover because I’ve never had a lover. It wasn’t like that at all.

  The door to the passage opened and the children came racing in, shouting about a fox in the garden, and the next moment, Tommy was being pulled by both hands to look through a window and see it. When she looked back over her shoulder, Fred was gone.

  Chapter Seven

  Patrick’s family came over from Australia for his funeral, people so different from Patrick that it was difficult to believe they were his close relatives, except that his brother shared the same striking green-grey hooded eyes. Caitlyn had found Patrick’s eyes so attractive, almost disconcertingly beautiful, lending a softness to his face. It was strange, painful, to see them again in his brother’s rounder, tanned visage. But otherwise his family didn’t remind her of Patrick at all. They only made her think of how hard he’d worked not to be like them in any way.

  His mother, too tanned with bright blonde short hair, was loud, strident, her Australian accent so broad it was hard to believe she’d been born in Britain and only moved to Australia as an adult when she and her husband decided to seek the good life in the sun with three-year-old Patrick. His brother and sister had been born afterwards, in the new country. Now his mother had all the zeal of the convert for her adopted homeland, and was always astonished that Patrick had left.

  The truth was that Patrick’s whole existence had been dedicated to removing himself from his family and embracing a self he carefully constructed. He had become the educated, cultured Englishman; there was no trace of a twang in his perfectly pronounced upper-class accent, and he barely acknowledged the years he’d spent in Australia or even mentioned the place. For him, life had started when he’d taken up his place at university in London, and he had quickly absorbed everything he needed in order to blend in to his surroundings and become a success there.

  As they stood in the church on the corner of Kensington High Street, Caitlyn glanced along the pew at his family and couldn’t help thinking how much Patrick would have disliked having them there at his funeral. He wouldn’t have liked his mother’s black dress or the fussy veiled hat she’d put on, and he would have loathed the way she sobbed into a ball of tissue throughout the service. He would have hated that his brother read out in a flat, heavily accented voice a poem chosen by the family from Winnie-the-Pooh – Christ, she could hear Patrick snap, I’m not a bloody child! He’d have been glad that Ryder, his best friend, did the eulogy in precisely the kind of restrained, English way that Patrick adored: elegant, unsentimental, with a touch of wit and a moving conclusion. He would have liked Ryder’s Savile Row suit, and the vicar’s address, with its tribute to Patrick’s attendance at the church and his many generous gifts to it, and to its charities.

  It was hard to stay focused during the funeral; Caitlyn was so aware of Patrick’s mother and her heaving shoulders and his father patting her arm in a weak, ineffectual way. When she wasn’t trying to shut them out, she was thinking of Max, who stood beside her white-faced, still dazed and uncomprehending, his hand clutching hers. He went up on his own when the vicar beckoned, turning to face the congregation, standing in front of his father’s coffin as he read out the piece by Anne Brontë that she had chosen. His high voice sounded pipingly sweet as he said the words. They had rehearsed them so often that Caitlyn knew them off by heart and they chimed in her head as Max said them. Then he came back and stood beside her, looking up for her verdict. She smiled and whispered that she was very proud and so was Daddy. They sang the last hymn and it was over; they were stepping out into the bright spring sunshine, blossom whirling through the air on the breeze currents. The coffin would be taken away for an unwitnessed cremation. Later, there would be ashes to collect. She would think about that another time.

  The procession went up the hill to the hall she had booked for the wake. Waiters carried trays, serving out tiny sandwiches, miniature quiches and sausages on sticks to the guests. A table of full wine glasses awaited them. Caitlyn took a glass of water and watched Max run off with his cousins, the gravity of the funeral forgotten. He couldn’t stay sad for long; his childish optimism and interest in life couldn’t be kept down. But when the sadne
ss did come, it fell on him like a great weight, smashing him down, flooring him. Gradually, she knew, the weight would lessen. It would never go away but it would become easier to bear. She almost envied him the simplicity of the process: grief for his loved one followed by an eventual recovery. He was on his way to finding a peace with it. When would hers ever come?

  Maura came up, looking unusually solemn in her black skirt and jumper. Her wild dark hair had been tamed into a neat ponytail. She always wears colour. I’d never noticed, Caitlyn thought as she returned her sister’s hug.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked, gazing anxiously into Caitlyn’s face.

  ‘Fine.’ Caitlyn smiled. ‘I’m glad it’s over.’

  ‘It was a lovely service, darlin’. Patrick would have loved it.’

  Caitlyn nodded. ‘I know he would.’

  Mourners were circling her discreetly, wanting to say their words of sympathy, and she geared herself for the job of receiving them. ‘I have to mingle,’ she whispered to Maura.

  ‘I’ll be right here if it gets too much. Just catch my eye and I’ll rescue you.’

  Caitlyn nodded, comforted, and turned to talk to the head of Patrick’s chambers, who was evidently anxious to be on his way back to court.

  She was talking to his clerk Stacey, who was asking about what to do with the contents of Patrick’s rooms, when Patrick’s mother came up. They hugged stiffly, both aware of their lack of real familiarity with the other.

  ‘Thank you for that very nice funeral,’ his mother said, her tone subdued. ‘It did justice to Pat.’