Sons and Daughters (52 page)

Charlotte sighed. ‘We’ve had the best – the very best – specialists visit, but sadly they all say the same. There’s nothing that can be done.’

‘I’ll see the boy myself. I’ll rouse him. He’ll make the effort for me.’

‘You’ll do no such thing, Father,’ Charlotte snapped. ‘I won’t allow you to upset him.’

Osbert glared at her. ‘
You
won’t allow it. Who do you think
you
are, all of a sudden? Just because Thornton married you, you think you’re someone now, don’t you? Well, you’re nobody, miss, let me tell you.’ He shook his fist in her face. ‘You can’t even give me a grandson!’

It was a cruel jibe, but Charlotte stood her ground. Her father no longer had the power to rule her life or to hurt her with his barbs. Life was dealing her the bitterest of blows: Georgie was lost, Jenny was gone, and Philip was facing death. Osbert’s cruelty in the face of all that was nothing.

Of Ben, she dared not even think. If anything were to happen to Ben, too, then . . . She blocked the thought and dragged her mind back to the present. Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘You’ll come on condition you don’t upset him – or not at all.’

Of course her father came to the manor, as Charlotte had known he would. She’d no wish to stay in the room with them, but she asked the nurse to stay within earshot. ‘If you hear anything you’re not happy with, please send him packing. And if you have any trouble, Mr Thornton is in his study. He’ll be there until he knows my father has left. Just in case. If you need me, I’ll be in my studio.’

Monty nodded and smiled. ‘I think I can handle Mr Crawford. I’ve had plenty of practice, remember?’

The two women smiled at each other before Charlotte gave the nurse a brief nod and went upstairs to shut herself away at the top of the house. She was no longer frightened of her father as she had once been, but she was wary of him.

But the visit passed off peacefully and Charlotte was not even aware that Osbert had left until Kitty came to fetch her. ‘Mr Crawford’s gone, ma’am, and Master Philip is asking for you.’

‘Oh dear, is he – ?’

‘Nothing’s wrong, ma’am. He’s fine – well, as fine as the poor man can be, but he says he wants to talk to you.’

As soon as she sat down at the side of Philip’s bed, he said, ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte, I tried my damnedest, but he’s a stubborn old goat, isn’t he? I tried to get him to agree to change his will leaving Buckthorn Farm to you, but he refused.’

‘Philip, I don’t need the farm. Not now. You should write a letter making
your
wishes clear.’

‘Once I’m gone,’ he murmured, seeming to ignore her remark, ‘he might reconsider.’

Charlotte said nothing. She believed her father would bequeath his farm to anyone he could think of, just so long as it wasn’t his daughter. But she said nothing.

‘I wanted you to have it, Charlotte. I owe you such a lot.’

She was startled. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. It was thanks to you I ever got up out of this bed and walked again. But for you, I might have been here all this time.’

Charlotte’s tears flowed. ‘Perhaps it’d have been better if you had been. At least, you’d have been safe.’

‘But I’d’ve had no life. No life at all. Thanks to you, I qualified, had a few years as a lawyer, which I loved . . .’ Then he grinned cheekily. ‘Had a few girls, and I’ve fought for my country. No, Charlotte,’ he squeezed her hand, ‘I don’t regret a moment. In fact, I’m grateful you gave me that chance. That I’m to die now, well, I’m not the only one. There are thousands of families mourning their sons. I just hope old Ben keeps himself safe . . .’

With those last words, he drifted into sleep.

It seemed that Philip’s prayers for his brother were answered. News came in a long letter from Ben himself the very next morning that he’d been awarded the George Cross and was also being promoted:

‘What did he do?’ Charlotte asked.

Miles continued to scan the thin sheets of paper. ‘He doesn’t say. That’s typical of Ben, isn’t it? But it must have been something incredibly courageous.’

‘If he’s to train recruits, will he be safe?’ Charlotte hardly dared to voice the question.

Miles nodded cautiously. ‘Relatively safe, I hope.’ They stared at each other, appalled to think of the danger Ben had been in every day and they hadn’t even known.

When they told Philip the news, he smiled. ‘Good old Ben. Who’d’ve thought that the quiet one of the three of us would be decorated? Rather appropriate, don’t you think, the
George
Cross? Old Georgie would have been tickled pink.’

The thought brought tears to Charlotte’s eyes; a mixture of pride and heartache.

She sat beside Philip’s bedside talking when he woke or keeping silent whilst he slept. But as long as he clutched her hand and, quite literally, held her there, she stayed.

‘Charlotte?’ He woke suddenly, his eyes wide.

‘Yes, dear. I’m here.’

He let out a long sigh and she felt him squeeze her hand. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but . . .’ He stopped and Charlotte leaned closer, finishing his sentence softly. ‘You’d like the portrait of your mother to hang on the wall opposite your bed, so you can see her?’

Slowly, he turned his head to look at her. ‘How – how did you know?’

‘I just felt that you’d like it.’

‘And – and you don’t mind?’

‘Of course I don’t.’ She bit her lip and then added hesitantly, ‘And would – would you like one of Georgie beside it?’

‘You’ve painted one?’

Charlotte nodded. ‘After that first one of your father, I’ve painted you all as you’ve grown.’

‘Ben?’

‘Yes, Ben too.’

‘And – and me? Surely you haven’t painted me?’

Now she laughed aloud. ‘Of course I have. Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Because – oh, just because . . .’

Now it was Charlotte who squeezed his hand gently.

‘Will you pose for me in your uniform and your medal?’ Charlotte asked Ben when he came home on compassionate leave to visit Philip.

‘I couldn’t. I’d be far too embarrassed.’

‘Then may I at least see your uniform and the medal and will you tell me how you’d wear it? Please, Ben.’ Her voice dropped. ‘It’s for Philip.’

Ben smiled sadly. ‘You’re a crafty little minx, Charlotte Thornton. You know I can’t refuse if you put it like that.’

Charlotte widened her gaze innocently. ‘But it’s the truth. He wants one of all of us. Even me.’ She pulled a face. ‘Though I’m not very happy about doing a self-portrait.’

‘Then get Father to ask Felix to do one of you. I bet he would.’

Charlotte stared at him, not sure if he meant Felix would paint one or his father would ask his friend.

‘Er – well – yes,’ she murmured.

Ben agreed to sit for her and they spent a few companionable hours in her studio, talking when the mood was right or in comfortable silence whilst she worked. When the portrait was finished, they all assembled in Philip’s room to hang the new picture beside those of Louisa, Miles and Georgie.

Philip pulled himself up in the bed, wincing as he did so. ‘That’s wonderful, Charlotte. What a handsome fellow you are, Ben. I’m proud of you, old boy.’ His voice shook a little. Then he cleared his throat and said with greater firmness, ‘But there are still at least two people missing. You, Charlotte. I must have all of you. And Jenny? What about little Jenny? She was part of this family for a while.’

‘I’ve got one of her – in fact, two or three. You could have a look at them and choose which you like best. And,’ Charlotte added shyly, ‘I’ve done another of your father recently. Would you like to see that too?’

‘Aha, an updated version with my grey hair and wrinkles, I expect.’ Miles laughed.

Half an hour later, two more pictures had been hung on the wall opposite the end of Philip’s bed.

‘There still isn’t one of you, Charlotte,’ Philip said.

She turned to him, forcing a teasing laughter into her voice. ‘Now, what would you want a picture of me for? I’m here every day. All the time. In fact, you hardly get a minute’s peace from me.’

Philip closed his eyes with a sigh, but there was a smile on his lips as he said, ‘Father, talk to her, will you? I want all of you there. And can you fix a light so that it shines on them. You see, in the night, when I’m awake . . .’ He drifted off to sleep, but they knew what he meant. He spent many long, wakeful and uncomfortable hours in the night. He’d insisted – no, demanded – that none of the family should sit with him and lose their sleep, so only the nurse ever kept him company during the lonely hours of darkness. But if he could see his family, feel them close by, especially Georgie and even Jenny, then it would bring him comfort.

‘Have you really never done a self-portrait?’ Ben asked Charlotte softly.

As Charlotte shook her head, Miles put his arm about her shoulders. ‘She’s far too modest, and I doubt she’d do herself justice if she did. I’ll get in touch with old Felix. Perhaps he’d come for a weekend and do one of you. He could use your studio. I’m sure he’d do it as a special favour.’

‘There’s someone else . . .’

They all turned towards the bed as Philip, rousing himself momentarily, murmured, ‘Alfie. I want to see Alfie.’

‘What do you think he meant?’ Charlotte asked as the three of them went back downstairs, leaving Philip to rest. ‘Does he want us to fetch Alfie here – in person – or does he mean he wants me to do a painting of him?’ Since the birth of his son, Philip had had little to do with either Alfie or Lily.

‘I don’t know,’ Miles said. ‘Could you do one? A painting of Alfie?’

‘Yes.’ Charlotte was confident. ‘I see him often enough and besides, I can always make an excuse to visit their cottage if I need to.’ Eddie, Lily and their growing family still lived in the Warrens’ former home.

‘I think he meant both,’ Ben put in quietly. ‘I think he wants a painting, yes, but I also think he wants to see Alfie in person.’ He paused and then asked, ‘Do you think they’ve told the boy the truth? How old is he now, by the way?’

Charlotte shook her head slowly. ‘He’ll be fourteen at the end of June and, no, I don’t know they have told him. Lily told me not so long ago they keep putting it off because they find it difficult. But still, there might be a way.’

‘
Now
what is that pretty head of yours scheming?’ Miles smiled.

Charlotte tapped him on the nose. ‘Never you mind.’ She turned to Ben. ‘Could you find out from Philip if you’re right? It might be better coming from you.’

Ben nodded. ‘I’ll go back up. Sit with him until he wakes and bring the conversation round.’ He looked at his father. ‘May I tell him you’ll get in touch with Felix? That would be a way to open up the topic again.’

‘Of course. I’ll telephone him at once.’

A little later, Miles sought out Charlotte. ‘He’s coming at the weekend. He’ll be glad to get away, he says. London had a dreadful bombing raid last night and his gallery was badly damaged. I was lucky to get through on the telephone . . .’ Fear haunted his eyes. ‘Oh Charlotte, I do hope little Jenny is all right.’

Felix came the very next weekend, arriving in a flurry and throwing his arm round each one of them in turn, his beaming smile only sobering when he stood beside Philip’s bed and looked down upon the broken body of the fine young man he’d known. Then he turned to the paintings on the wall, studying each one.

‘Ah, she has such talent, your stepmother,’ he murmured. ‘Such a waste.’

Philip lifted his head. ‘A waste? What d’you mean?’

‘All those years when she was young she was denied the chance to learn and flourish. It’s a miracle she paints as well as she does. But then, no amount of learning replaces genuine inborn talent. But if only she could have studied with the best . . .’

‘Could she still?’

Felix gave a hearty laugh and turned to look at him. ‘My dear, dear boy, Charlotte would never leave your father to go to study in London or anywhere else. She’s devoted to him. “Besotted” might be a better word.’

‘You mean – you mean she really loves him?’

‘Oh my goodness, yes. Haven’t you seen it in her eyes? At the mere mention of his name, her eyes light up and when they’re together, her gaze follows him around the room.’

‘Really.’ He lay back as Felix came and sat down beside the bed. ‘And my father? Does he love her?’

‘Ah,’ Felix sighed. ‘Now that is a little more difficult to say. He loves her, yes, but I’m not sure it’s in quite the same way.’ His glance turned slowly to rest on the portrait of Louisa Thornton. ‘There’s always the memory of your mother, you see.’