Never Forget Me (9 page)

* * *

It started to rain as Flora made her way back to the Lodge, not inconsequential drizzle, but thick, no-nonsense drops that were wetter than should be possible. Clutching her mackintosh around her, she stumbled along the well-known path, too numb to cry.

Geraint had said nothing because there was nothing more to say. Her declaration had been the final nail in the coffin, as far as he was concerned. At least she had not embarrassed herself by begging. He wanted her, she had no doubt about that, despite her relative lack of experience, but he did not want her love.

‘And I do love him,’ she whispered, coming to a halt at the place where they had kissed earlier. ‘I love him so much.’

It had crept up on her so stealthily she had hardly been aware of it. She had been so caught up in the wholly new experience of falling from attraction to desire to love that she had not realised she’d fallen until it was too late, and she had not been able to admit it to herself until it was too late, either. Too late to retreat. Too late for it to make any difference. He did not love her. He
would
not love her. And perhaps he had a point.

These past few weeks, she had changed so much, but was she really different inside? Would she cope with a husband who required a nurse rather than a wife? A man who thought his injuries made him no longer a man. Would she fail him? Would she resent him? Right now, she could not imagine doing anything but loving him, but she was so horribly aware that she remained untested. Should anything happen to one of her brothers, she was pretty certain her mother would crumble. Was she really so sure that she herself was any different?

And even if he did survive unharmed, there was Geraint’s political ambition. A laird’s daughter would be no asset to a working-class hero. He was probably just letting her down gently.

Miserably, Flora plodded on along the forest path, which was fast churning into mud underfoot. It didn’t matter, because Geraint was determined she would never be tested. Not by him. She loved him, but he did not want her. It kept coming back to that. That, and the niggling suspicion that he was keeping something from her. But whatever it was, it didn’t matter, either. He wanted her to leave him free to get on with his life. Or death. She shuddered. The only way she could prove her love was to do as he bid her. And the only way she could do that was to leave Glen Massan as soon as possible.

No point in weeping and wailing; there was already too much of that in a world at war. ‘I will find something useful to do,’ Flora muttered as she emerged from the path into the grounds of the House. ‘I will find something that challenges me, something that everyone else will think I can’t possibly do. And I will prove them wrong. All of them. It doesn’t matter that Geraint will probably never know.’

* * *

The skies had once again cleared, and the moon was rising over the loch by the time Geraint arrived back at Glen Massan House. Once in the Great Hall he hesitated. The drawing room, which would serve as the officers’ mess, was unoccupied, but a burst of laughter came from the dining room, the designated mess for the men. The gramophone was playing ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’
.
It was the kind of sickly-sweet sentimental song designed to make mothers cry. The men sang it when they were maudlin. It made Geraint cringe.

‘Till the boys come ho-ome.’ The song finished and he opened the door, quickly calling out to the men to be at ease, before helping himself to a glass of beer from the barrel that stood in the far corner.

‘All right, Corp, what’ve you been up to?’

‘Walking out with that Miss Flora again, sir?’

‘One up for the enlisted men, eh, sir? She’s got good taste, she has.’

‘Here’s mud in your eye, Corp.’

‘I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now’ started up on the gramophone, causing a fresh burst of laughter.

‘Put a sock in it, you lot.’ Geraint took a long, refreshing swallow of beer and sat down on the window seat, one of the few fixtures that remained. From here he could survey the room without seeming to, and at the same time, he was sufficiently detached not to put a damper on his men’s enjoyment.

He had no cause to feel guilty, but it was there all the same, gnawing at him. Guilt at having failed to tell her the whole truth when she had stripped herself bare for him, literally and metaphorically. In his world, admitting to a weakness meant admitting to being less than a man. But Flora’s honesty put him to shame.

The clock on the wall above the mantel showed past midnight. It was a functional piece, army issue, but Geraint checked it against his own watch all the same, before calling time on the remaining stragglers. After a few token protests, the room cleared quickly. The clatter of boots on the bare boards of the staircase was succeeded by silence as the men made their way up the second flight of stairs to the newly created dormitories on the third floor.

He stood at the window gazing out at the moon suspended high above the loch. He should not have allowed her to fall in love with him. He should not have allowed himself to get so close. He had no right to that soaring, exhilarating joy when he thought of her loving him. He didn’t deserve her love. Not someone as damaged as him, who would let her down, shame her. He would speak to the colonel tomorrow and claim a severe bout of patriotic guilt. With the new company arriving, he would be easy to replace. At the front, he would confront his fears and overcome them. Or not.

He cursed under his breath, a Welsh oath that his grandfather had used, whose meaning he had never known. He liked the way it sounded. Wearily, Geraint switched out the electric light and locked the door of the mess.

Chapter Eight

T
he first heavy snow of winter was falling steadily as Flora sat in the parlour of the Lodge. The cold mid-December weather seemed to have no effect on the army’s routine. The now-familiar sound of men drilling on the driveway, the crunch of boots interspersed with the staccato barks of the sergeant major formed a permanent backdrop to all conversation.

She had barely seen Geraint since the afternoon in the bothy. Most of the tasks they would have undertaken together, he had delegated. ‘I need to concentrate on the training side of things,’ he had told her. She watched him obsessively from a distance whenever she could, but studiously avoided being alone with him lest she embarrass them both by throwing herself at him and begging him to love her, please love her.

Instead she concentrated on making her own plans. After many painful hours of contemplation, writing out lists of her meagre skills, perusing every detail of the war effort in the press, interrogating anyone and everyone with power or influence, she had concluded that she would be best suited in some sort of organising role. She had proved that she could negotiate, order, cater. The hotchpotch of hospitals, which stretched out along the Western Front and was staffed by volunteers from as far afield as America, required specialist medical help. But for the men in transit from the front or waiting to go, convalescing, taking their leave, in dire need of food and beer and cigarettes, for those she could help organise comfort. In France, she would see the effects of war first-hand. In France, she would at least be in the same country as Geraint, though he would never know it. In France, she thought with some trepidation, she would either crumble or thrive.

Across from her, Lady Carmichael was laboriously knitting socks for the war effort. ‘You seem to have a great deal of correspondence of late,’ she said. ‘Who are all these letters from?’

‘This one is from Sheila.’ Flora unfolded the closely written sheets from the envelope. ‘She is being kept very busy. The hospital she has been assigned to takes those surgical cases who are well enough to be transferred from France.’

‘I visited Mrs Oliphant today. As you know, Ronald is home. The woman is so determinedly optimistic, one has not the heart to try to make her face reality.’ Lady Carmichael laid down her knitting and rubbed her brow. ‘To be honest, Flora, I can’t help but wonder if I’d be the same myself if it were—if it were— If I were ever to be so unfortunate as to be in her shoes.’

‘Neither Robbie nor Alex have enlisted yet,’ Flora said.

‘You’ve heard Alex arguing with your father since he came home from school. I suspect he will wear him down eventually. And as to Robbie...’ Flora’s mother sighed and picked up her knitting. ‘It won’t be long. I know my sons.’

Flora folded Sheila’s letter and placed it on top of the cream, embossed envelope addressed to her in an elegant script. She had already sent her reply accepting the post. If things went to plan, she would be on her way to France at the end of January, but she could not bring herself to tell her parents just yet. There was someone else she needed to share her news with first. Someone else she would be forced to say goodbye to. And despite the fact that she told herself over and over that it was for the best, she knew it would be the most difficult thing she had ever had to do.

* * *

A week before Christmas, the audience in the packed village hall was on their feet clapping and cheering. On the stage, the soldiers from the Glen Massan camp concert party took another curtain call. Seated in the front row beside her father, mother and brother Alex, Flora dabbed frantically at her handkerchief.

‘Splendid my dear. Just what was needed to raise everyone’s spirits at this difficult time.’ The laird leaned across his wife and smiled at his daughter as the makeshift orchestra sounded the opening chords of ‘Silent Night’ and audience and cast began to sing along.

The carol sent everyone home in a subdued mood, their thoughts occupied by the men and boys of the village who were absent. Ghillie McNair had received a letter from his son Peter the day before, informing him that he had been awarded best marksman in the whole of the division in which he was training. ‘Chip off the old block,’ the father said proudly to anyone who would listen. ‘All that grouse shooting paying off. He’ll give Jerry what for.’

Flora’s brother Alex’s unremitting demands to be permitted to enlist made her want to scream at him about the futility of it all. There were times when she believed she could easily side with the pacifists. Only knowing that it would also mean taking sides against those she loved most prevented her.

* * *

When the glossy black car pulled up in front of the Lodge the next day, she was alone in the house. Expecting one of the officers with a message for her father, she had to clutch at the door handle as she watched Geraint ease his long legs out of the driver’s seat.

‘I need to talk to you.’ He had on a greatcoat over his uniform and wore a pair of thick leather driving gloves. He looked tired. There were shadows under his dark eyes. ‘Come for a spin with me.’

‘That’s a staff car,’ Flora said stupidly.

‘Lent to me by one of the Red Tabs who owes me a favour. Will you come? Please, Flora, it’s important.’

She nodded, afraid to speak lest she burst into tears. Pulling on her coat and gloves, wrapping a plaid shawl around her head, she managed to regain control over herself, but the shock of seeing him, the rush of affection that enveloped her, was quickly replaced by a sense of foreboding. He had been so very careful to avoid being alone with her, only something momentous could have changed his mind. Love? But Geraint didn’t look like a man about to speak of love. He looked like a man about to...

‘You’ve received your orders,’ Flora said flatly as she took her seat in the front of the car.

Geraint, concentrating on manoeuvring the car through the narrow gate posts and onto the public road, nodded curtly.

‘When do you leave?’

‘Off to a training camp tomorrow, then France in a few weeks.’

‘So this is goodbye.’ Flora closed her eyes, leaning back against the soft leather of the car seat, willing the tears not to fall. She would not have him pity her, she would not make him feel guilty, she would not have his last memory of her as weak and snivelling.

He reached over to touch her hand briefly. ‘I know it might have been better if I had simply left...’

‘No!’ Flora sat up, her eyes wide with horror. ‘Don’t say that.’

He winced. ‘I simply wanted to spare us both something that cannot be anything but painful, but I can’t because I can’t go without telling you the truth. You’ve been so completely honest with me, I owe you that.’

‘What truth?’ The ominous feeling flooded back.

‘Wait. Let me find somewhere we can stop and talk properly.’

* * *

They were speeding along the main road west. Geraint glanced across at Flora, who was huddled deep down in the plush leather seat, her shawl pulled tightly around her shoulders. Her face was set and pale as she stared blankly ahead. He’d found it painful, these past few weeks, to shun her company, but that was nothing compared to the pain he felt, knowing that he was about to change her opinion of him irrevocably. It had to be done. He could not allow her to live a lie. Between them, if only ever between them, there would be honesty. That would be his consolation.

Though he had put the canvas roof up, the wind whistled through the space between it and the doors. The road was a narrow strip hewn into the hillside. Waterfalls gushed at sporadic intervals from the rock face on one side. On the other, far below, a ribbon of a stream meandered along the valley floor. At the top, the summit known locally as the Rest and be Thankful, he pulled into a clearing and cut the engine.

Flora shifted sideways to face him. His resolution wavered as he gazed at her. Her love was the most precious thing anyone had ever given him. He did not doubt her ability to cope without him, but he wished fervently that he did not have to make her do so. He had to make her see that what he was actually giving her was her freedom. Knowing that would be enough. It would have to be enough. Geraint clenched his gloved hands around the polished steering wheel. ‘The truth is,’ he said determinedly, ‘I’m not the man you think you love. I can’t leave you with false illusions about me, Flora, it wouldn’t be fair.’

‘Do you mean you’ve lied to me?’