The Forbidden Promise

Constance exhaled. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Can you?’ Matthew enquired, his eyebrows raised. ‘Ever been shot at by the enemy, falling down to the ground with no idea where the ground actually is?’

She felt chastised. ‘No.’ She was quiet.

A log shifted in the grate sending sparks high up the chimney.

‘Sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I should be thanking you. Instead I’m being abominably rude.’

‘It’s all right,’ Constance replied.

‘No. No it’s not. My mother would turn in her grave if she knew how easily my manners had failed me.’

Constance smiled. She wanted to say it was all right again. Why couldn’t she think of anything else to say?

They sat in silence for a few minutes, both focused on the fire that lit the otherwise darkened room. She wondered if anyone would be missing her back at the house and whether the pilot was in any condition to trudge through the forest in the middle of the night. Perhaps, given his ordeal, it would be best to wait until morning before they set off so no one caught her in men’s clothing.

‘What will you do?’ he asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

‘Do? About what?’ Constance turned to look at him.

‘About me?’ Matthew looked at her. In the light of the fire she could see his eyes were a pale green. She’d never seen eyes that shade before. They shone brightly and contrasted curiously against his dark brown hair.

‘Well I rather thought, if you preferred, we should sit it out here and you could rest for a while and then in the morning—’

‘Constance, can I trust you?’ he interrupted her.

She swallowed as he said her name. ‘Yes, I think so.’

Matthew laughed. ‘Well if you don’t know, then how do I?’

‘Yes, yes you can trust me.’

‘I need you to help me,’ he said. ‘I need you to … hide me. Just for a short while, I swear to you. Just long enough for them to think I’m dead. Will you do that?’

Constance’s mouth dropped open. He had been so brave. He had been shot down and now, clearly, he was addled by his trauma.

‘Who do you want to think you’re dead?’ she squeaked in disbelief.

‘All of them. The whole bloody lot of them.’

‘But …’ she started. ‘Your squadron? You don’t want me to telephone someone, have them pick you up, have them look after you?’

‘No, I do not,’ he said. ‘Tonight is the last night I participate in this god-awful war. And if I have to pretend I’m dead in order to achieve that then so be it.’

CHAPTER 5

He was mad. He had to be. Constance didn’t know what to say. She stared at him. He looked back at her, a wary expression on his face. As if he half expected her to jump up, to begin scrambling away from him and back towards the house. She didn’t think she needed to run from him but she half-wondered what would happen if she did. Would he spring up behind her and force her back to the cottage now that she knew his intentions to … what exactly? He looked far stronger than her and although he was clearly not handling the ordeal of his crash at all well, he looked as if he would be more than capable of stopping her if she bolted.

‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you want to fight anymore?’

‘That’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard,’ he replied. ‘Why do you think?’

She tried not to be offended but looked at him and waited.

‘Only a madman actually enjoys it – the killing,’ he replied.

Constance blinked. ‘No one enjoys it. But it’s war. It’s your duty.’

His eyes widened. ‘It’s my duty to shoot other men out of the sky?’ His voice was loud. ‘To watch their planes fall away as I slam bullets into their engines?’

Constance thought about that for a moment. ‘Well, yes. It is. I’m sorry but you must. My brother Douglas is a pilot,’ she added.

‘Good for him. Does he enjoy it? The killing?’

‘I don’t think he thinks of it like that.’ Her brother had never talked about it. She wondered if she should ask Douglas. Constance wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know. She thought of Henry with his wandering hands while on the ground and, up in the skies, his finger on a trigger. Something told her he probably enjoyed all of it.

Matthew picked nervously at a bit of fabric on the trousers he’d borrowed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to shelter me. It was wrong. I’m not your responsibility.’

‘Can’t you … can’t you ask for a bit of leave, or something like that?’ she asked. ‘Time to think. You’ve just crashed. No wonder you feel like this now. But perhaps, tomorrow you might—’

He laughed bitterly but chose not to reply. The silence became uncomfortable.

‘Could you become a conscientious objector?’ she offered even though it seemed outrageous to her that this man had his chance to play his part in the war and was refusing to do so.

He shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Really?’ Constance’s brow furrowed. ‘Would you be court-martialled? Would it be desertion?’ Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Would you be shot?’

‘Not here. They don’t do that anymore.’

She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Prison then, perhaps?’

He pulled the thread clear of the trousers and discarded it. ‘Most probably.’

‘At least then you wouldn’t have to fight anymore,’ Constance placated.

‘There is that.’

Constance watched the fire dance and sputter. If she returned to the house and told her father what had happened, what would he do? He would offer the man food and hand him a stiff drink. Then he’d telephone the pilot’s commanding officer and this man, visibly shaken and looking into the fire as if it held all the answers, would be carted off and pushed back into a plane in a matter of days, as was his duty. And then what? Would he just aim it towards the ground this time? A thought struck her.

‘Did you do it on purpose?’ she asked.

‘Do what?’

‘Crash?’

‘No. Of course I didn’t.’ He looked at her sternly. ‘I don’t want to kill but I don’t want to die either.’

Constance nodded.

He yawned. ‘I must sleep.’

She looked at him as he stretched his legs out in front of him on the floor and rested his head back against the armchair. He closed his eyes. Constance chewed her lip, reluctant to move, reluctant for the night to end like this, with her dismissal.

Matthew opened one eye. ‘Can you find your way back to your house in the dark?’

‘Yes.’

He opened both eyes. ‘Then you should go. The very last thing you want is to be found with me. Can you do something for me?’

She watched, waiting.

‘Will you keep quiet? About me being here, I mean. Just to allow me to rest for the night.’

She nodded. ‘All right. And then what will you do?’ she asked as she climbed to her feet, clutching the loose waistband of her borrowed trousers.

‘I’ll go,’ he said simply. ‘I just need a few hours’ rest. If you’ll let me stay for the night, I’ll leave in the morning. You’ll never have to see me again.’

‘Where will you go?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. Regardless, it’s not for you to worry about.’

‘You need to hand yourself in. You can’t run, if that’s what you intend; it will only be worse the longer you leave it,’ she pointed out. ‘If you hand yourself in tomorrow, just walk back in as if you had just crashed and had some rest overnight, it wouldn’t be a fib. Not really.’

He smiled. ‘Thank you for your concern.’

He wasn’t going to do that though. She knew he wasn’t. What would he do? Where would he go?

He looked up at her from where he sat on the floor. His dark mood lightened. ‘Thank you for swimming out to rescue me. It was very brave of you. Thank you for bringing me here too.’

She nodded. ‘Of course.’ As she reached the front door she turned to look at him. ‘I won’t tell anyone you’re here,’ she said.

It was his turn to nod. ‘Thank you. I’ll be gone in the morning.’

‘Good luck,’ she said.

‘You too, Constance.’

Her hand was on the latch but she didn’t lift it. His gaze was fixed on her and hers on him. She opened her mouth to say something, but she didn’t know what. He watched, waiting.

‘Wherever you end up going, please look after yourself.’ She opened the door, slipped into the cold and closed the door gently behind her.

Constance moved quietly through the trees. The walk back would take her around fifteen minutes. The forest was cold, and her hair still damp around her neck. She looked through the trees to see the loch was now perfectly still. Somewhere in its depths was a Spitfire where only a matter of hours ago there hadn’t been. She moved up the stone steps in the garden and slipped through the door to the library, which had been left unlocked. Presumably because her father, who was asleep on the settee in his dress suit, had still been using the room. A cigar smoked gently in a silver ashtray on the low table. Constance stubbed it out. Fearful of him waking and seeing her dressed in men’s clothes, she crept into the dark corridor, climbed the stairs and padded her way silently to her bedroom.

She lay in bed. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t even think about sleep. Instead her mind wandered back to the cottage, back to the pilot. She wondered if he was sleeping. If not, what was he thinking about? He would be considering his options. Oh, the stupid, stupid man. What on earth would happen to him? She wished she hadn’t left like that now. She wished she’d tried harder to talk him round, to make him see that running away, deserting, wasn’t the answer. She also wished she had been more considerate. The man had just crashed his plane. How could she know what that felt like? She was playing no part in this war, as much as it irked her; as desperate as she was to break free of the confines of Invermoray and do something useful. But he was. He was fighting the enemy daily and had just crashed horrifically, almost drowning. How could she know what kind of state of mind was acceptable in that circumstance? He had just needed time to think and she had all but said she wouldn’t help. She hated herself. She had no idea what it was like, this war, not really, stuck out here with nothing to do. She should have been more understanding.

As dawn rolled around Constance pulled aside the heavy velvet curtains that shrouded her bedroom windows. Light streamed into her room through the Splinternet tape that had crisscrossed the large windows ever since war had been declared the year earlier. The housekeeper had been diligent but Constance found it hard to believe German bombers would find Invermoray a worthwhile target. The base at Kinloss and the ships at Lossiemouth held far more interest, surely. She put her hand flat on the cold glass and looked across the loch, through the tree line, in the direction of the ghillie’s cottage. But it was in vain. It could not be seen from the house. The sun rose gently above the mountains in the distance, heralding the morning, making the loch sparkle. He would be leaving soon. Maybe he had gone already.

Her stomach knotted as guilt gripped her. She couldn’t believe what she had done. She couldn’t face the fact she’d just abandoned this man. He had no one to help him. He’d asked her for help. He hadn’t eaten anything. Hadn’t drunk anything. Had the water been shut off at the cottage? He might be in shock. He wasn’t thinking straight. He was probably hoping she’d come back so she could offer to telephone his squadron and take him back. And even if not, he’d been fighting in the skies over England long enough for it to have affected him so badly he was considering deserting. He was clearly traumatised. She had to help him.

Constance brushed her matted hair, which smelled damp and of loch water, threw on any clothes she could find – yanking a blouse and skirt from her wardrobe and hopping her way into her brown lace-up shoes. She tried to pin her hair as she moved down the stairs, two at a time, but she was making a poor effort of it.

From the bottom of the stairs she heard her father’s bedroom door open. She glanced upward in the direction of the sound. He must have taken himself to bed at some point and was now emerging for the day. The rest of the family and staff would be up and moving, if not already. Constance moved quicker, fearful of being seen. How would she explain where she was going, and why? At the side of the house she took the path that skirted the formal gardens. It would take her longer to reach the cottage but there was less chance of being seen. Constance avoided the loch shore, moving between the trees. When she was out of sight of the house she ran the rest of the way, bracken snapping under her feet as she sprinted through the wood.

He might already be gone. What time was it? She didn’t have her watch. Five o’clock in the morning? When she reached the ghillie’s cottage Constance almost slammed into the wooden door, she was running so fast. Breathless, she lifted the latch, pushed open the door and stumbled inside.

CHAPTER 6

August 2020

The door to the library flew open so suddenly it made Kate jump. She’d been gazing so absent-mindedly at the handwritten names in the family Bible that she’d almost forgotten the argument that had been taking place in the entrance hall between mother and son. James stood in the doorway and seethed. He appeared unable to speak, his lips forming a thin line. The pen mark that crossed through Constance McLay’s name was forgotten as Kate closed the book gently – expecting her marching orders from the sullen James.

It was Liz who broke the silence, stepping round her son and across the threshold of the room. ‘James will take you to your room, show you where things are, give you a bit of a tour. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up after a day’s travel? And then we’ll dine together, in about an hour or so. Just pop down to the kitchen. We only use the dining room for big occasions. Not that your arriving isn’t a big occasion but … well … you know what I mean.’ Liz blushed.

Kate found it hard to mask her surprise. She glanced at James. So, she was allowed to stay. The vein throbbing at the side of his temple indicated he was less than happy about being overruled by his mother and he now stood in a silence that spoke volumes.

‘Thanks, Liz. That sounds lovely,’ Kate replied, pointedly ignoring acknowledging the son in case the slightest thing she said sent him over the edge entirely. James merely stared at her, turned and walked into the hallway.

‘Are you coming?’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Or am I showing myself to your room?’

Almost running after him, Kate found him about five stairs up, holding a suitcase in each hand, his chin pointed up as he ascended the staircase. Portraits lined the walls along the staircase but James moved at such a speed Kate wasn’t able to get a very good look at them. Two of the paintings were faintly interesting: a young woman in a silver-grey evening dress, dark hair rolled and clipped near her ears and her brown eyes looking directly at Kate – or the artist, depending on how you thought about it.

The portrait by the side of it was of a very good-looking young man facing side-on in a sky blue RAF uniform. Both looked as if they’d been painted in the 1940s. Kate paused to take in the brushstrokes and the genial expression on the young man’s face. The pictures had been moved about fairly recently. The paint surrounding these was a different colour, brighter than the rest of the slightly faded paint on the wall, indicating that the portraits that had hung there not long before had been covering a larger space.

Then Kate noticed she was alone. James had disappeared entirely and despite trying for an air of elegance, she scurried up the stairs to look for him. At the top of the staircase the corridor stretched both left and right. Kate turned left and stared down the lengthy hallway. Faded, almost threadbare red runner carpet ran down the centre of the corridor and pot plants on tall brass stands stood by the walls. Old framed pencil drawings hung between the numerous dark wooden doors that probably led to bedrooms. But there was no James. Kate turned back on herself and saw he was at the other end of the corridor past the stairs, watching her but making no sound. He’d let her turn completely the wrong way and had simply waited for her to realise. Kate smiled thinly despite the fact she was really starting to dislike James.

He opened a door and walked inside, taking her suitcases with him. Kate moved quickly down the corridor and then wondered why she was hurrying when he was behaving so childishly. She began ambling, looking at the pencil sketches of the estate that lined this side of the hallway. After about thirty seconds, James peered round the door to see where she was. She saw him out of the corner of her eye but made no move to acknowledge him. She didn’t know why he brought out this side in her. James folded his arms and exhaled loudly. When she didn’t move, he coughed to attract her attention.

‘This,’ he called as he moved back inside, ‘is your room.’

Kate entered and stood at the threshold to the chintziest room she had ever seen. She was reminded of the old IKEA television advert that advised customers to chuck out their chintz. This was the ‘before’ picture. But while the room was overcrowded with floral eiderdowns and doilies on surfaces, the walls were devoid of any decoration at all. No pictures – nothing. The bare walls lessened the homeliness but Kate knew she couldn’t actually feel homesick, because her empty little one-bed flat had never truly felt like home. She supposed it was because unhealthy working hours coupled with far too much socialising meant she never really spent much time in her flat. It had always been more of a crash pad. If she stopped to think about it, even when she lived at home with her parents she’d always been nomadic, catching last-minute cheapish weekends away with friends. Surrounded here by peaks and mountains, clean fresh air and a bedroom that was bigger than her entire flat, she might feel at home, might be able to settle even if it was only for six months. She glanced at James, his expression fixed. Perhaps not.

‘The bathroom’s through here.’ James opened a connecting door and pointed. Kate followed him, walking past an ornate four-poster bed, housing an abundance of floral cushions. She looked inside the bathroom. It was white, mock Victoriana with brass taps, which was something at least. She was half expecting an avocado suite given the décor in the rest of the room.

‘Very cosy,’ she said truthfully.

But James was already at the bedroom door, one foot on the hallway carpet. ‘I take it you don’t want the grand tour now.’ He couldn’t meet her gaze.

‘Well, not if you don’t want to,’ she conceded.

‘I don’t,’ he replied.

Kate laughed, more out of shock than anything else. At least the man was honest.

‘My mother tells me you’re on a six-month contract – is that right?’ James looked directly at her.

‘Yes,’ she offered tentatively. Though the job offer was on a six-month basis, she wasn’t strictly on a contract. She didn’t want to highlight that in case James clung on to that small detail and then tried to get rid of her again.

‘We’ve got the next six months to cover the tour then, haven’t we?’ James turned and left.

Kate’s mouth dropped open and she was left staring into the empty corridor where he had just been standing. ‘Wow,’ she breathed. How could anyone be that rude? This wasn’t the way she’d been brought up, and given how charming and friendly Liz was, Kate suspected that wasn’t the way James had been brought up either. Why was he like this then? She sat on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands. A lesser person would have been scared off, of that she was sure. Perhaps James would warm to her, she hoped. Perhaps not. Either way, she couldn’t make any rash decisions about leaving now. She would at least have to stick it out for a few weeks and see how the land lay; see how much involvement James had in the running of the estate and how closely she would be expected to work with him. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.

Somewhere far below, a dinner gong sounded. Kate’s eyes opened and she blinked at her chintz-clad bedroom, lit by the dim yellow glow from the lamp on the side table. She had only meant to rest her eyes for a few moments, but with horror she realised she must have fallen asleep. The nap hadn’t been enough to recharge her empty batteries after a day of travel and she stretched and yawned in succession. While the flight up to Inverness had been mercifully short, the collective time spent travelling to and from and actually at the airport had been tiring.

Crossing to the window, she looked out to see it was growing dark. In the grounds, she could make out some kind of formal garden with a beautiful clipped-hedge parterre that sloped down towards a loch. The moon began its ascent over the mountains and darts of silver light shifted across the water as it lapped gently. The village, somewhere in the distance on the other side of the forest, from what she remembered from the drive, provided no light. The house was utterly remote.

The smell of something delicious cooking drifted into Kate’s bedroom as she opened the door and hurried downstairs, realising she’d unwittingly ignored the dinner gong.

‘Oh good,’ Liz declared warmly as Kate entered the kitchen. ‘You heard it. You should have seen the dust that flew as I rang it. We’ve not used it in years.’

Kate smiled and looked around the large, homely kitchen. It seemed like a relic from a prior decade. Wooden cupboards and Formica worktops were cluttered with cookbooks; some old, some very new. The new Ottolenghi cookbook was upright and propped open with a red wine bottle. Kate had that book in her flat, although she’d never actually cooked from it because she was out so much. She’d bought it because it had a drawing of a huge lemon on the front and went well with her pale yellow kitchen. Only now she supposed her brother was enjoying the use of it, along with her flat, while she was in Scotland. Kate wasn’t sure how long she was actually going to be here given James’s permafrosty reception. His back had been turned since she entered the room, as he flicked through a newspaper on the worktop.

‘Did you get a bit of rest?’ Liz asked.

‘Mm, yes, thanks.’

‘I’m glad. James has made lasagne. I hope that’s OK?’ Liz said.

‘That sounds love—’ But Kate was cut off mid-sentence as James swung round.

‘You’re not one of those bloody vegetarians are you?’ he said accusingly.

‘No.’ Kate held his gaze wondering if he would have lost it completely if she had said she was.

He spun back round and nudged an old yellow Labrador out of the way with his foot as he opened the Aga door. ‘That’s something then, I suppose,’ he muttered towards the oven. The mouth-watering smell was coming from the lasagne bubbling in the dish.

Kate bent down to the scratch the dog’s ears as it ambled towards her and sat at her feet, investigating her silently. His tail thumped slowly against the flagstone floor and when it became clear Kate had no treats to give, he picked himself up and moved back to his bed on the other side of the kitchen. The scrubbed wooden table in the middle of the room had already been laid for dinner and Liz gestured for them to sit.

James placed the lasagne dish on a trivet and stared at it, as if he wasn’t sure whom he should serve first. ‘Help yourself,’ he said eventually.

Kate hadn’t realised how famished she was until now. The packet of pretzels on the flight up from London had been the last thing she’d eaten.

‘Thanks, I will.’

‘Do you drink?’ James asked suddenly.

The serving spoon hovered between lasagne dish and Kate’s plate as she stopped mid-serve. ‘Er? What?’ she asked.

‘Wine? Do you drink wine? You work in PR in London so you must drink gallons of the stuff, but one doesn’t like to assume.’

Kate couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny or rude, but a laugh escaped her lips regardless. ‘Well, yes, I do actually. I mean, not lots—’ she tried to save the situation ‘—but I do like wine. Are you … offering some?’ God, he was hard to talk to.