The Hidden Years

Still frowning, he thought quickly. He had her address—a brief note sent when he got back to camp, telling her that he was being posted abroad and wouldn’t be able either to give her his address or get in touch for some time…yes…yes, that should do it.

The odd letter, two or even three perhaps. He scowled to himself, cursing under his breath, already regretting his involvement.

Damn Edward for the interfering old woman he could be, but he dared not take the chance, however slight, of Edward making trouble for him. He had already received a couple of warnings and the threat that if his CO had to discipline him a third time he would be grounded permanently, and he wasn’t having that.

If Kit loved anything it was flying, flying and the mixture of exhilaration and fear that came with going into action, better by far than any thrill he got from having sex.

Yes, little as he relished the idea, once he was back at camp he would have to drop the damned girl a line, carefully omitting his address, of course…

In Lizzie’s heart was a mixture of joy and desolation. Joy in their finding of one another, in their coming together in a physical celebration of their love—trying to forget her own pain and shock, selflessly thinking only of Kit, of his pleasures, his needs, his satisfaction. And desolation because they had had so little time together.

Her body ached in an unfamiliar way, a faint tenderness between her legs. She placed her hand over her body, wondering uncertainly what it was that drove men so incessantly and violently to perform such an act, and why she had found that all the wonderful, singing pleasure she had been enjoying at the touch of his hands and mouth against her body had disappeared at that moment of physical joining, which should have been so wonderful—the physical completion of their love for one another.

Was there something wrong with her? She started to walk down the lane and retrieved the shoes she had left there the day before, her pace quickening as anxiety tensed her body.

Aunt Vi had always refused to discuss sexual matters; the information Lizzie had gleaned from the other girls’ conversation had been varied and sometimes unappealingly frank, but she had naïvely assumed that, when two people loved, their physical union was blessed with a spiritual leavening which lifted it above the mere physical coupling she had heard described graphically and sometimes very coarsely by her companions.

Now she wondered unhappily why she had not experienced the wonderful magical pleasure of which she had read; why Kit’s possession of her had not transported her to that special plane which belonged only to lovers.

She ached for Kit to be with her, so that she could talk to him, unburden herself of her doubts.

All of a sudden she felt very tired, very alone…very unhappy, her feelings in stark contrast to her earlier elation.

When she returned to the hostel, subdued, with dark shadows under her eyes, she was relieved to discover that she had the place to herself. She was glad to be alone. She didn’t want to discuss Kit with the other girls; their relationship was special, sacred almost.

She had done something which Aunt Vi had always impressed on her that no decent girl did outside marriage, but she felt no guilt or remorse for having done so. These were different times from those Aunt Vi had known. Sometimes a few fleeting precious hours were all one might have. There was a recklessness in the air, a fierce determination to take everything that life offered while life still existed, because no one knew when that precious gift of life might be snatched away.

No, she felt no anguish at having loved Kit, only a terrible aching need to have him with her…close to her…holding her. He was a pilot and he hadn’t needed to tell her the dangers he lived with daily.

She listened to the news bulletins…read the papers…she was an intelligent girl, and, even if she hadn’t already witnessed the devastation and destruction that could be wrought on human flesh by the weapons of destruction created by mankind in her work at the hospital, and experienced in the loss of her parents, she had too vivid an imagination not to be aware that Kit could be killed or maimed every single time he went out on a mission.

That night when she came off duty, and before she went to bed, she prayed as she had never prayed in her life before, ‘Please God, keep Kit safe.’

And even as she whispered the words she knew that she was only repeating what millions of other women over the country were also saying, and that for every man whose life was spared there were others whose lives were not…women whose pain she could already imagine, recoiling from it as though it were her own, frantically trying to push her knowledge of it out of her mind. She must be strong…for Kit’s sake and her own. She must be strong and brave and when she saw him again she must smile and laugh and not allow him to see her fear. Must somehow find a way of ensuring that she did not disappoint him, of hiding from him her growing dread that sexually there was something wrong with her, something that prevented her from enjoying his lovemaking as she wanted to enjoy it.

Just over a week after she had said goodbye to him, Lizzie received Kit’s letter. She touched the envelope with trembling fingers, turning it over and over before opening it, her heart bursting with joy.

If the few scant lines on the single sheet of paper disappointed her, she forced herself to accept that a man on the verge of leaving with his squadron to fight for his country was not in a position to sit down and write a long love-letter.

Avidly reading and then rereading every single word, she soon had them committed to memory.

Just a few lines to tell you that I shan’t be able to be in touch for some time, old thing. As I warned you, it looks as though I shall be taking a ‘holiday’ in foreign parts.

Will write again as soon as I can. In the meantime, sweetheart, think about me as I shall be thinking of you.

With love, your Kit.

Lizzie pressed the final words to her lips, torn between tears and elation; elation because she had at least heard from him and because his letter held no hint of the distance and irritation with which he had left her, and fear because he was going into danger.

She frowned a little when she realised there was no address on the letter, no way she could get in touch with him, and then realised that she would probably have to wait for his next letter, since he himself probably did not as yet know just where he was to be posted.

She refolded the letter and put it back in its envelope, and then put it in her handbag. From now on she intended to carry it everywhere with her. She closed her eyes, trembling a little as she tried to visualise Kit actually writing it…his hand inscribing the words…his dark head bent over the paper.

Oh, dear God, please keep him safe, she whispered. Please keep him safe.

Lizzie and Edward paid two more visits to view the rhododendrons but Edward could tell that her heart wasn’t in it. He wanted to ask her if something was wrong, but shrank from doing so.

Since he had been wounded, he had become acutely sensitive about his physical appearance, about the destruction of his manhood. He recognised Lizzie’s compassion for him and sometimes at night when he couldn’t sleep he ached bitterly to be a whole man again and not an empty shell of one, incapable of arousing a woman to any emotion other than pity.

Most of the women who worked at the hospital only reinforced his awareness of his physical disabilities—only with Lizzie did he feel anything approaching ease. Her patent innocence meant that she did not look at him with the same mixture of pity and contempt with which he felt the others viewed him.

Now he sensed that she was different, abstracted…lost in some private world of her own, but it didn’t occur to him to associate this sudden change in her with the visit of his cousin.

Edward and Kit had never got on, even as boys. As the elder, Edward had nevertheless grown up knowing that he was the less favoured. Kit was the one who would eventually inherit Cottingdean and not him. Edward was the one who loved it…who ached for it when he was away from it, who begged his parents to be allowed to spend his holidays there…but ultimately Cottingdean would belong to Kit. He had tried not to feel resentful, but perhaps this would have been less hard if Kit had shared his love for the house and its land.

Cottingdean had been in their family since the time of Charles II. Their ancestor—penniless, landless, titleless—had supported Charles throughout his exile, fought and played at his side, and when Charles had been finally placed on the throne he had offered to reward him with a title and the exalted position of a Gentleman of the Bedchambers. Knowing how much it would cost him to maintain such an exalted position, instead of accepting the King’s generous offer, he had asked that instead Charles allow him to marry the widow of a Cromwellian supporter.

The King, suspecting a love-match, had given his consent and had then been astonished to discover that the woman in question was plain and well into her thirties.

Plain she might have been, but she had provided her first husband with five healthy daughters, and the rich and well-tended flocks of sheep that grazed on the lands that had been her dowry from her parents.

Philip Danvers had reasoned that a woman so evidently and bountifully fertile could well provide him with the sons he wanted, and the rich pastures her first husband had carefully nurtured during the years of the Protectorate would yield far more profit than an empty title.

The widow had no option but to accept this second husband with as good a will as she could muster. It was the King’s command that she marry his friend. She was under no illusions; Cottingdean was a rich property to a man who owned nothing but the clothes on his back and the sword at his side. Oh, no, she knew quite well why she was being married, and it was not to provide her lusty new husband with a bedmate.

Thus it came as something of a surprise to discover how attentive her new husband was in bed, and continued to be even after the birth of their first and then their second son.

Philip Danvers had quickly realised that his plain, dull wife, whom he had married for her wealth and for sons, had a sensual gift that many a courtesan would have welcomed and flaunted, and because he was a man with a sense of humour, he laughed to himself sometimes in the privacy of their bedchamber while they rested in one another’s arms, sated and relaxed, and when she asked him why he would tell her that it was because, in giving her to him, the King had given away one of the rarest treasures in his Kingdom.

It was not of his ancestors, however, that Edward was thinking as he sat motionless in his wheelchair, staring into space, but of those generations as yet to come…as yet unborn. Kit would marry and one day produce sons who would inherit Cottingdean, and he hoped they would love and cherish it as he had always longed to have the right to do.

Now, though, he was forced to admit that even if his father had been the elder…even if he had inherited, he would never be able to father sons for the house. Almost violently he clenched his hands and wished as he had wished so often that he might find the courage to end this dull misery that was his life.

Kit had made it plain to him that there would be no sanctuary for him at Cottingdean. He had even talked of selling up, damn him…of living permanently in London, as though Cottingdean was nothing more than a burden he wished to be rid of. How he resented him for that. How he almost hated him for it!

CHAPTER THREE (#u9297192c-5fbb-5fea-9191-c5a976f555f4)

‘SAGE, I’m awfully sorry to interrupt you, but Alexi is on the phone and he’s insisting on speaking with you.’

Sage stared so blankly at her that for a moment Faye wondered if she had actually heard her.

The large, comfortably upholstered chair which had replaced Edward’s leather chair when Liz had taken over the library had been pushed away from the desk, and when she had opened the door Sage had been curled up in the chair, her knees drawn up into her body, a silky wing of hair falling across her face, so deeply absorbed in what she was reading that for a moment Faye had been reminded of that much younger and far more vulnerable Sage she had known when she herself first came to Cottingdean.

Now, though, as Sage raised her head, the illusion was shattered and Faye wondered to herself if Sage actually knew how very commanding and autocratic she could look when that cool, distant reserve shuttered her expression.

‘Alexi?’ she queried now, almost as though the name meant nothing to her.

She glanced involuntarily at the open diary she was holding and Faye felt a tiny flutter of apprehension stir in her own stomach. What was in the diaries that was so compelling that Sage was still here reading them hours after she had first walked into the room? The fire had burned low in the grate, and, apart from the pool of light cast by the reading lamp on the desk, the room was heavily shadowed; sombrely shadowed, Faye thought, shivering in a faint stirring of unease.