Figs in Frost

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Lucia marries young, yielding more to her parents urgings than the dictates of
her heart. As the years go by, she grows to despise her brutish, egotistical
husband - finding contentment only in raising her two young daughters. Then
suddenly, Lucia falls gloriously in love, discovering the tenderness and bliss
she has never even dared to dream of. And so her husband fights back with the
only weapon he has - forcing Lucia to choose between the children she cherished
and the man she loves...

Release date: November 21, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 176

Sample

THAT night when Elizabeth Winter took the two girls up to the schoolroom, en route for bed, she had a bad time. She had guessed during dinner that, although downstairs neither of the children had said anything, they would deluge her with questions once they were alone.

Barbara, the eldest, was, after all, fifteen and no baby. It must have been pretty plain to her that something was very wrong during that awful meal. She had felt so sorry for the girls. Sorry for their father. Sorry in a way for her, the woman who was the cause of all the trouble, although that particular spirit of compassion in Elizabeth was mingled with contempt. She could not admire a woman who made a scene in front of her own children.

Barbara started the questioning. The moment they were in the big cheerful room Barbara said:

“Libby!” (That was what they called her.) “What on earth is the matter with Mummy and Daddy?”

Before Elizabeth could answer, Jane, two years younger than her sister, chimed in:

“Yes. What is it, Libby? Mummy has been crying. I could see she has. Her eyelids were all red, and she sniffed into her hankie instead of eating her pudding. And Daddy looked so cross. She was so cross with him, too, when he talked about us all going down to Cornwall. She said she wouldn’t go, then she pushed away her plate and …”

“That’s enough, Jane darling,” broke in Elizabeth, her cheeks felt hot and her heart was heavy with a sensation of shame. Shame that these children should have to say such things, should have had to see such things.

“Mummy isn’t well, that’s all, and it just isn’t your business, so hurry and put away that draughtboard. Jane, there’s a black draughtsman on the floor … Barbara, pick up that ball by the window … then hurry to bed … the pair of you.”

The girls looked at each other and grimaced, but they did what they were told. And the grimace held no malice because they loved Elizabeth Winter. She had been their governess since their nurse had left them eight years ago. During that eight years she had become one of the family and an essential part of their lives. They admitted to each other that, after their parents, they loved Libby better than anybody in the world. More even than their aunts and uncles, or their grandmother. They loved her because she was so different from the other governesses whom they met at the houses of their friends. She wasn’t what they called ‘bossy’ or dictatorial. She didn’t forbid them to do everything they wanted to do. She generally had a good reason for saying ‘no’ when she did say it, and she loved them very much. They knew that.

Three years ago when Barbara had first gone to boarding-school, and there had been some talk of Elizabeth leaving the family, they had had awful moments all round. Everybody had been miserable. Then Mummy had decided to keep Libby on because Jane was still at day school and needed somebody to look after her when she came home. And there were Barbara’s holidays. So here was Libby still with them. And they were glad.

They adored their mother. She was beautiful and clever and she spoiled them. Daddy, they didn’t see so much of. He was very busy. And although he was very nice to them, he didn’t have much to do with them really, and they didn’t feel that they knew him very well.

In fact they felt that they really knew Libby better than anybody else. She understood them. If anything was wrong, somehow it was always Libby who put it right, whether it was finding something they had lost, planning an outing they particularly wanted, or nursing them when they were ill. Mummy was always there in the background, an exciting and fascinating person, and Daddy supplied the money so far as they could see. But it was to Libby they fled in moments of emergency.

Libby was quite young. To them, she seemed old because twenty-seven does seem a good age to children. But they had once heard their mother say to their father that ‘it was a shame Elizabeth didn’t meet the right man and get married, because she was still so youthful and so pretty.’

Everybody thought Libby was pretty. She had very blue eyes, beautiful, long-lashed eyes, but she was rather short-sighted and she wore horn-rimmed spectacles when she was doing her reading or writing. Sometimes she got awful headaches because of her eyes and then Barbara and Jane tried to be quiet and help her to get better. They were sympathetic with her because she was so nice to them. A year ago when her widowed mother had died and she had been awfully upset, they had saved up a week’s pocket money to fill the schoolroom with flowers for her when she got back from her unhappy holiday.

Elizabeth Winter knew that the two girls were devoted to her and this evening she was more than ever upset in herself, because she felt that she was letting them down. She had had to lie to them about their mother and stop them questioning her. She did not like that. She always liked to be perfectly frank with the children. She could have strangled those two at dinner, she told herself, fond though she was of them. Why couldn’t they control themselves when the girls were downstairs? Why couldn’t Lucia have stayed in her bedroom if she wanted to cry, instead of doing it in public? And why had Guy to choose dinnertime, when the children were present, to threaten Lucia that he was going to shut up the house and take them all to Cornwall? He must have known it was a sore subject with Lucia and bound to upset her.

Elizabeth turned on the hot-water tap in the bath and stood watching the water run, meditatively waiting for the girls to get undressed and come in. Her face puckered with worry. She kept thinking about dinner. What an awful atmosphere there had been! Lucia, as Jane said, with her eyes all red as though she had been crying bitterly. Guy looking grim and sulky and stubborn. Guy was a morose, difficult creature at the best of times and one of his worst faults was stubbornness. He had no tact. He was aggravatingly pompous. This present situation needed tact, and a lot of understanding and subtle handling, if he were to keep Lucia. That thought made Elizabeth’s heart sink a bit lower. If he were to keep Lucia! But Elizabeth had a most unpleasant presentiment that he wouldn’t … that the other man would win. For although Elizabeth had tried for years to like and respect Guy Norton, who was, as a rule, agreeable to her, she saw his faults. She knew that he was quite unsuited to Lucia. They got badly on each other’s nerves, and in her heart of hearts Lucia had Elizabeth’s sympathy. But she belonged to the school that believed that a woman, having ‘made her marriage bed, must lie upon it’.

Surely Lucia couldn’t leave Guy? If she did it meant her also leaving the children. She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t.

Barbara and Jane came into the bathroom. Elizabeth looked at them. Her two pets. Barbara, so tall that she was, at fifteen, taller than Elizabeth herself, slenderly built like her mother but with her father’s reddish hair and very white skin. She would possibly be a beauty when she had got over the puppy stage. At the moment she was awkward, her teeth were having to be corrected with a gold band and she had reached the giggling schoolgirl stage. She was crazy about sports but she hadn’t been allowed to play so much tennis this summer because she had outgrown her strength a little. She was a conscientious truthful child and Elizabeth had an admiration for Barbara, but she had just a little bit too much of her father’s pomposity in her. She was good and she liked to boast about it. That was so typical of Guy. There were innumerable times when Elizabeth had heard him preaching virtue to his wife and family and boasting his own claims to it. That was what made Lucia so cross. He was an insufferable prig – she was human.

Jane was her mother’s child. Although she never showed it, because she disliked favouritisms, Elizabeth had a soft spot for little Jane. At thirteen, she was shorter by a head than her sister, inclined to plumpness but more like her mother in colouring. Those were Lucia’s large greenish hazel eyes with the long brown lashes which curled backwards. And the big pupils. Elizabeth had never seen such huge black pupils. And Lucia’s dark brown hair, of satin texture. Jane wore it in two little plaits. Jane had dimples in her cheeks. She had always been much naughtier than Barbara, quicker to break the rules but quicker to be sorry.

Once the two girls were in the bath, soaping themselves merrily, they were talking about Biscuit, their Aberdeen, who was at the Vet’s and was returning tomorrow. They seemed to have forgotten about the trouble during dinner.

Elizabeth was thankful. She went into the bedroom where the two little beds had been turned down by Clara, the housemaid. It was a pretty room, furnished in soft madonna blue, with silver stars on the ceiling. Everything had been designed by Lucia. She had always wanted the girls to have lovely things. She was herself an appreciative artist, without being creative in any way. But she loved good things, good pictures, books, classical music, and she had an eye for colouring.

The whole house was lovely and up to a few months ago, Elizabeth had looked upon it as one of the happiest of homes. She had felt herself singularly fortunate that she was in it, and one of such a darling family.

But now everything was changed. Everything … since Christmas when that young man Charles Green had arrived on the scene. If there was one person Elizabeth resented in her mind it was Charles Green. Not because she disliked him personally. Nobody could dislike Charles. He was too utterly charming. She could well see the fascination he had for women. But she disliked him because of the harm he had done this house. He had come between Guy and Lucia. Elizabeth would despise any man who could help break up a home – especially where there were children.

Elizabeth walked to the window and drew aside the curtain. It was a lovely evening in July and still light. The perfume of night-scented stock drifted up to her from below. That green lawn, sloping to the river’s edge! That dark graceful cedar, that beautiful herbaceous border, were all so familiar to Elizabeth. It was in that garden that the children had played since Jane was born.

Heron’s Cry was an old manor house built of grey stone and half covered with creeper. It stood in the banks of the river close to Marlowe. Guy had a small motor-boat and when he was not using it the gardener knew how to drive it and could take the girls, with Elizabeth, for picnics.

A perfect home, Heron’s Cry, and Lucia loved it more than anybody. That was what seemed to Elizabeth so sad. Guy had bought it just before Jane was born and it was Lucia who had helped him to perfect it and was interested in the garden as well as the interior decoration. Lucia was always so full of ideas, so imaginative. Yet here she was, well on the way to ruining the tranquil loveliness by her own folly. She couldn’t leave Heron’s Cry, Guy and the children.

The bedroom door opened. Elizabeth let the curtains fall and turned round. She expected to see Barbara or Jane, whichever girl had got out of the bath first. But instead she saw their mother.

Lucia Norton walked into the room slowly and without her usual buoyancy of step.

“I’ve come to say good night to Barbara and Jane,” she announced.

Her voice, too, Elizabeth noticed, had lost its customary timbre of gaiety. Lucia was highly-strung and had an excitable, nervous temperament which added to her physical attractions and gave her great charm. Even Elizabeth Winter, who knew her so well, knew all her faults as well as her good points, was always struck afresh every time she saw Lucia by that extraordinary charm. And by her extreme good looks, still as perfect as ever, although she was a woman of thirty-five.

She was, as usual, exquisitely dressed. Elizabeth had never seen Lucia wear frilly or fussy garments. All her things were plain, perfectly tailored and in perfect taste. The long black skirt with the little black jacket over a green chiffon blouse, which she wore tonight, accentuated her slenderness and her height. She was a head taller than Elizabeth. She had grown a little too thin this summer. Her cheeks were hollow and those brilliant eyes looked enormous, as though some inner fire was consuming her, as though something was sapping her vitality, and in defence she was straining it to its uttermost. She did not as a rule use much make-up because she had a naturally fine complexion, black lashes and brows pencilled by nature. But tonight she had put on some rouge and it had made her cheek bones stand out more than usual.

Elizabeth noticed that the long fingers with their red varnished pointed nails clenched and unclenched convulsively over the chiffon handkerchief that she was carrying. Her lips were heavily rouged. She had sweet pouting lips. She kept biting them nervously. She wore no jewellery except a diamond clip on the lapel of her coat. Guy had given her that clip for Christmas.

Lucia looked quickly, nervously round the bedroom.

“Where are my bad daughters?”

“Still in the bath.”

“Oh! Then I’ll go and say good night to them in there.”

“Or shall I send them downstairs in their dressing gowns?”

“No, I’m going out.”

Elizabeth busied herself rolling up a pair of Barbara’s stockings. She noted the fact that there was a hole which must be darned. She did not look at Lucia, but she said:

“I thought you were staying in for an early night.”

“I did intend to, but Guy drove me mad at dinner and I feel I shall go mad unless I get out of this house.”

Elizabeth Winter looked up at her employer then.

She forgot for a moment that she was a paid employee and remembered only that she was Lucia Norton’s friend. She said:

“I don’t like to hear you say that.”

Lucia gave a hysterical little laugh.

“It’s Guy’s fault. He shouldn’t bait me. He knows I don’t want to go down to Cornwall. He knows perfectly well I don’t want to leave here for the moment. Besides, the children love the river. They don’t particularly hanker after the sea. It’s a lot of nonsense saying we need a change. Barbara’s at Eastbourne all through the term and Jane comes up with us to London in the winter. Why should we go down to Cornwall?”

Elizabeth did not reply. Her lips twisted slightly. Lucia must realise, she thought, that she could see through her; must know that she was talking a lot of nonsense. For Lucia herself, only last summer, had argued with Guy that the girls did need the sea air during the summer holidays. She, herself, had planned the Cornish trip just before Christmas. What a fatal Christmas it had been. Fatal, because it had brought Charles Green into Lucia’s life.

Lucia Norton saw the expression on the young governess’s face. She knew that expression. She knew when Elizabeth was being sceptical, disbelieving.

Elizabeth Winter was a privileged person in this household and nobody appreciated her worth, the invaluableness of her services to the family more than Lucia. At the same time there were moments when Elizabeth infuriated her. And this was one. Elizabeth was always so correct, so irreproachable. But she didn’t preach-She didn’t shout about her own goodness which Guy was always doing, and she was fundamentally good and honest and inclined to be self-effacing. Too much so. Lucia didn’t believe in too much self-effacing. Where did it lead you in this world? It merely got you down in the end. You had to snatch things from life. Life wouldn’t give them to you. And when you found your happiness, you must have the courage to take it and keep it. You couldn’t always get it without paying a price for it either.

Elizabeth was the sort of girl who wouldn’t take her happiness if the price had to be paid by somebody else. She would suffer herself, but never let anybody else suffer. Such a philosophy was the reason why she was still unmarried. Lucia knew about the one big love affair in Elizabeth Winter’s life. The man had wanted her to go to India with him, but she wouldn’t leave her mother so he had gone alone. It was a shame – in Elizabeth’s case particularly, because she would have made a marvellous wife and mother. But she was the victim of her own virtues. And there was little doubt in Lucia’s mind that Elizabeth expected her, or any woman in her position, also to become the victim of virtue. To sacrifice herself rather than anybody else.

Hurting Guy wasn’t what mattered, particularly. He had forfeited her love, her admiration, months before Charles came on the scene. He had repelled her by his cruelty, his unattractive sulky conduct and selfish ardours. Sickened her with perpetual jealousies, possessiveness, and his stubborn refusals to let her lead the sort of life which she wished to lead. He offered passion. Sensuality without tenderness; without consideration for her feelings. That was his greatest crime. And he had a high opinion of himself; he was convinced that every other women he met envied his wife. Oh, if she left Guy, she would have no regrets. But it was the children who mattered to Lucia. She could not bear the idea of hurting them.

The thought of Jane and Barbara was such a torment these days. Nobody, she thought, save those who had endured, and least of all this steady, good little Elizabeth, could know what hell a woman, torn between her lover and her children, suffered.

Then Elizabeth said:

“You’re awfully tired, Lucia. It would do you good to have an early night.”

“It would do me good to have a change from this house,” said Lucia violently. “Only not with Guy. It would be different if I could take the children away by myself.”

“Why not suggest that.”

Lucia stared.

“Don’t be silly, Elizabeth. You know what a row there would be if I did that. That’s Guy. He never will be separated from me for a moment longer than he can help. And he never goes away himself. He comes back from the city every night, every night at the same time …” She gave a little laugh, and the long nails suddenly tore the chiffon handkerchief apart.

Elizabeth frowned and looked toward the door. Any moment Barbara and Jane would be running in from the bathroom. She did not want Lucia to be here in this state. She said:

“You are not well. Do go to bed early. Go now. I’ll come and massage your head. I can say good night to the girls for you.”

A moment’s silence. The older woman stood still without moving, her large brilliant eyes staring over Elizabeth’s fair head through the parted curtains at the night. Her nostrils were dilated. She reminded Elizabeth of a thoroughbred, checked suddenly on a wild course, feeling the curb, hating it, yet blindly obedient to some memory of hard training.

Then Lucia said:

“I’m all right, Elizabeth. Just a bit overstrung. I know what you’re worrying about. You’re afraid the children will see but I won’t let them. I’m ashamed of that scene at dinner. I won’t let it happen again.”

Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. Lucia had control of herself again. And being privileged Elizabeth walked up to the older woman and touched her arm with a gesture of affection.

“It’ll be all right,” she said. “I know you’ll make it all right for the girls. And, oh dear! it is a bit funny about Guy coming home every night and never going away. Some women would give their souls to have such reliable husbands. It all seems so pathetic.”

“If you had to live with Guy …” began Lucia.

She stopped. The door had swung open. Jane rushed in. Not the merry, giggling Jane whom Elizabeth had left in the bath, but with her face screwed up, streaming with tears.

“Why, my darling!” exclaimed Lucia, forgetting her own state of mind in a rush of maternal feeling. “What on earth’s the matter?”

Elizabeth Winter said quietly:

“Have you two been fighting again?”

Jane flung her towel on the floor. She was in one of the violent tempts which occasionally rent her. Jane’s temper was like her mother’s. Swift and violent, but quickly over, and she never bore malice. She said through her tears:

“I won’t ever have another bath with Barbara. She’s a beast!”

“Now don’t be silly,” said Elizabeth.

But Lucia gathered the small shaking figure in the blue dressing gown into her arms, drew Jane over to one of the beds and sat down on it.

“Mummy’s lamb … what is it? What’s that naughty Barbara done?”

Jane wiped her face with the back of her hand, sniffed, cast an eye at Elizabeth, who returned it with a half-humorous, half-warning smile, then decided to keep her counsel.

“I’m not going to sneak,” she said gruffly.

In came Barbara, cool, face shining from soap and water, teeth scrubbed, reddish curls wet and glistening. Barbara looking morose and extraordinarily like her father.

Lucia hugged Jane’s plump little body with a feeling of sympathy. With some sternness she regarded her elder daughter.

“What have you done to Jane? You’re much older, Barbara, and I do think …”

“It’s not fair to blame me, Mummy,” broke in Barbara, tossing her head. “Jane started it. She’s a silly cry-baby. If she was at St. Winifred’s, she’d be laughed at by all the girls.”

Jane quivered and tried to struggle out of her mother’s arms.

“But I’m not at your beastly school and I hope I never go! My own’s much better anyhow, and you are a beastly tease …”

Before Lucia could interfere further, Elizabeth Winter put an end to this little scene. Lucia, she knew, would deal with it emotionally. She would want to comfort the weeping Jane who was small and round and lovable. She would want to reproach Barbara, But Elizabeth had no intention of doing either thing. She had a strong sense of justice and never allowed her personal feelings to conquer it.

“If you don’t mind, Lucia, I’ll settle this. I think I know what’s wrong. Barbara likes to tease and Jane can’t always take it. It’s a pity that Barbara can’t see when she’s gone too far and it’s a pity that Jane doesn’t ignore her—”

She turned to the girls.

“Now come along you two. Off with your dressing gowns this minute and not another word, or tomorrow you won’t come with me in the motorboat to buy sweets. You’ll stay in the schoolroom and darn your stockings. There’s a nice. . .