carriages had to queue at the door in the afternoons.”
“Ella, you’ve moved again,” said Rosa. “Chin up, please, and look a little further to the left.”
When the clock struck eight I glanced at Mother for permission to leave the room, threw my shawl round my shoulders, and went down the garden to unlock the gate. Then I walked back and forth, taking deep breaths of the June air as the hem of my gown brushed a border of lavender and a gray moth fluttered in the ivy. I might just hear Henry’s footsteps in the lane but otherwise I would have no notice of his arrival until the gate opened.
A snick of the latch and there he was, half hidden by leaves, hat under his arm, jacket slung over his shoulder. I could hardly catch my breath, he was so beautiful and so distinguished with his expectant gaze and moustache clipped in a new, possibly Hungarian, style.
He hugged me like a brother, kissed my hand and drew it through his arm. I now registered other alterations; there was a tic in the muscle of his jaw that came and went like a pulse, and though he looked tired he was quite tanned, presumably from the sea voyage. I measured the kiss he had given me against all the others I had received from him and knew that it had been more lingering than usual but by no means as presumptuous as Max Stukeley’s. He smelt of sunshine, sweat, soap, and, inevitably, of sickness.
We stood in the seclusion of the wilderness while I told him about our visitors. “My aunt is keen to discuss her symptoms and my cousin Rosa wants you to take her on a visit to the hospital and turn her into a doctor.”
“Does she indeed? Then let’s stay out here for the evening where there’s just you and me and nobody wants anything.”
“You wait until you meet Rosa. She’s extraordinary. I’d forgotten how dull she makes me feel.”
“How dare anyone make my Mariella feel bad about herself? No, I want to see your Rosa less and less.”
We took the longest possible route up to the house through the wilderness and over the lawn. A thrush ran across the grass ahead of us and our feet trod a carpet of needles under the cedar. “Was your trip to Pest successful?” I asked.
“Definitely, yes. I shall be writing a paper for the British Medical Journal and have been invited to deliver a public lecture. But whether I’ll get anyone at Guy’s to change their practices is another matter.”
“What changes would you like to see? ”
We had made a slow rotation of the lawn and were now hidden from the house by the cedar’s great trunk. “Let me look at you,” he said as I stood with my back to the tree, my eyes on the rose arch behind his left shoulder. A lock of my hair had blown loose and ruffles of my muslin gown were flying up in the breeze. Beyond the cedar the garden faded into dusk.
“Mariella.” I risked a glance into his eyes and was a little frightened. “Whenever I am away, you draw me back. I hope that will always be the case. I hope that you will always be a beacon, guiding me home.”
He took my hand and drew me closer until I was pressed to his chest and his other hand was on my back. With a pang of grief I understood that he would never touch me again as the friend who used to gallop my eight-year-old self across this same lawn and swing me up into the cedar so that I perched, helpless with laughter, squealing to be lifted down. For one dizzy moment I thought that if I looked up I would see my own white-stockinged legs in the tree above.
“Mariella? ”
His face was so near mine that I felt his breath on my forehead. The expression in his eyes was part smiling, part heavy and distracted. For a moment the kiss was suspended between us and his fingers, gripping my hand, were crushed by our bodies. The juxtaposition of two times confused me; at that moment I was both child and woman and there was something in the heat of his hand on my back and the pressure of his leg amongst my skirts that made me hesitate. His
“Ella, you’ve moved again,” said Rosa. “Chin up, please, and look a little further to the left.”
When the clock struck eight I glanced at Mother for permission to leave the room, threw my shawl round my shoulders, and went down the garden to unlock the gate. Then I walked back and forth, taking deep breaths of the June air as the hem of my gown brushed a border of lavender and a gray moth fluttered in the ivy. I might just hear Henry’s footsteps in the lane but otherwise I would have no notice of his arrival until the gate opened.
A snick of the latch and there he was, half hidden by leaves, hat under his arm, jacket slung over his shoulder. I could hardly catch my breath, he was so beautiful and so distinguished with his expectant gaze and moustache clipped in a new, possibly Hungarian, style.
He hugged me like a brother, kissed my hand and drew it through his arm. I now registered other alterations; there was a tic in the muscle of his jaw that came and went like a pulse, and though he looked tired he was quite tanned, presumably from the sea voyage. I measured the kiss he had given me against all the others I had received from him and knew that it had been more lingering than usual but by no means as presumptuous as Max Stukeley’s. He smelt of sunshine, sweat, soap, and, inevitably, of sickness.
We stood in the seclusion of the wilderness while I told him about our visitors. “My aunt is keen to discuss her symptoms and my cousin Rosa wants you to take her on a visit to the hospital and turn her into a doctor.”
“Does she indeed? Then let’s stay out here for the evening where there’s just you and me and nobody wants anything.”
“You wait until you meet Rosa. She’s extraordinary. I’d forgotten how dull she makes me feel.”
“How dare anyone make my Mariella feel bad about herself? No, I want to see your Rosa less and less.”
We took the longest possible route up to the house through the wilderness and over the lawn. A thrush ran across the grass ahead of us and our feet trod a carpet of needles under the cedar. “Was your trip to Pest successful?” I asked.
“Definitely, yes. I shall be writing a paper for the British Medical Journal and have been invited to deliver a public lecture. But whether I’ll get anyone at Guy’s to change their practices is another matter.”
“What changes would you like to see? ”
We had made a slow rotation of the lawn and were now hidden from the house by the cedar’s great trunk. “Let me look at you,” he said as I stood with my back to the tree, my eyes on the rose arch behind his left shoulder. A lock of my hair had blown loose and ruffles of my muslin gown were flying up in the breeze. Beyond the cedar the garden faded into dusk.
“Mariella.” I risked a glance into his eyes and was a little frightened. “Whenever I am away, you draw me back. I hope that will always be the case. I hope that you will always be a beacon, guiding me home.”
He took my hand and drew me closer until I was pressed to his chest and his other hand was on my back. With a pang of grief I understood that he would never touch me again as the friend who used to gallop my eight-year-old self across this same lawn and swing me up into the cedar so that I perched, helpless with laughter, squealing to be lifted down. For one dizzy moment I thought that if I looked up I would see my own white-stockinged legs in the tree above.
“Mariella? ”
His face was so near mine that I felt his breath on my forehead. The expression in his eyes was part smiling, part heavy and distracted. For a moment the kiss was suspended between us and his fingers, gripping my hand, were crushed by our bodies. The juxtaposition of two times confused me; at that moment I was both child and woman and there was something in the heat of his hand on my back and the pressure of his leg amongst my skirts that made me hesitate. His
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