Only Time Will Tell

44

I’ll never forget the first time I saw him.

He came to tea at the Manor House to celebrate my brother’s twelfth birthday. He was so quiet and reserved that I wondered how he could possibly be Giles’s best friend. The other one, Deakins, was really strange. He never stopped eating and hardly said a word all afternoon.

And then Harry spoke, a soft, gentle voice that made you want to listen. The birthday party had apparently been going swimmingly until my father burst into the room, and then he hardly spoke again. I’d never known my father to be so off-hand with anyone, and I couldn’t understand why he should behave in that way towards a complete stranger. But even more inexplicable was Papa’s reaction when he asked Harry when his birthday was. How could such an innocuous question bring on such an extreme reaction? A moment later my father got up and left the room, without even saying goodbye to Giles and his guests. I could see that Mama was embarrassed by his behaviour, although she poured another cup of tea and pretended not to notice.

A few minutes later, my brother and his two friends left to go back to school. He turned and smiled at me before leaving, but just like my mother, I pretended not to notice. But when the front door closed I stood by the drawing-room window and watched as the car disappeared down the driveway and out of sight. I thought I saw him looking out of the back window, but I couldn’t be sure.

After they had left, Mama went straight to my father’s study and I could hear raised voices, which had recently become more and more common. When she came back out, she smiled at me as if nothing unusual had happened.

‘What’s the name of Giles’s best friend?’ I asked.

‘Harry Clifton,’ she replied.

The next time I saw Harry Clifton was at the Advent carol service at St Mary Redcliffe. He sang O Little Town of Bethlehem, and my best friend, Jessica Braithwaite, accused me of swooning as if he was the new Bing Crosby. I didn’t bother to deny it. I saw him chatting to Giles after the service and I would have liked to congratulate him, but Papa seemed to be in a hurry to get home. As we left, I saw his nanny giving him a huge hug.

I was also at St Mary Redcliffe the evening his voice broke, but at the time I didn’t understand why so many heads were turning and some members of the congregation began to whisper among themselves. All I know is that I never heard him sing again.

When Giles was driven to the grammar school on his first day, I begged my mother to let me go along, but only because I wanted to meet Harry. But my father wouldn’t hear of it, and despite my bursting into controlled tears, they still left me standing on the top step with my younger sister Grace. I knew Papa was cross about Giles not being offered a place at Eton, something I still don’t understand, because a lot of boys more stupid than my brother passed the exam. Mama didn’t seem to mind which school Giles went to, whereas I was delighted he was going to Bristol Grammar, because it meant I’d have a better chance of seeing Harry again.

In fact I must have seen him at least a dozen times during the next three years, but he was never able to recall any of those occasions, until we met up in Rome.

The family were all staying at our villa in Tuscany that summer when Giles took me to one side and said he needed to ask my advice. He only ever did that when he wanted something. But this time it turned out to be something I wanted just as much as he did.

‘So what are you expecting me to do this time?’ I asked.

‘I need an excuse to go into Rome tomorrow,’ he said, ‘because I’m meant to be meeting up with Harry.’

‘Harry who?’ I said, feigning indifference.

‘Harry Clifton, stupid. He’s on a school trip to Rome and I promised to get away and spend the day with him.’ He didn’t need to spell out that Papa wouldn’t have approved. ‘All you have to do,’ he continued, ‘is ask Mama if she could take you to Rome for the day.’

‘But she’ll need to know why I want to go into Rome.’

‘Tell her you’ve always wanted to visit the Villa Borghese.’

‘Why the Villa Borghese?’

‘Because that’s where Harry will be at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

‘But what happens if Mama agrees to take me? Then you’ll be stymied.’

‘She won’t. They’re having lunch with the Hendersons in Arezzo tomorrow, so I’ll volunteer to be your chaperone.’

‘And what do I get in exchange?’ I demanded, as I didn’t want Giles to know how keen I was to see Harry.

‘My gramophone,’ he said.

‘For keeps, or just to borrow?’

Giles didn’t speak for some time. ‘For ever,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Hand it over now,’ I said, ‘or you can forget it.’ To my surprise he did.

I was even more amazed when, the next day, my mother fell for his little ploy. Giles didn’t even have to offer to act as my chaperone; Papa insisted that he accompany me. My deceitful brother made a show of protesting, but finally gave in.

I rose early the following morning and spent some considerable time thinking about what I should wear. It would have to be fairly conservative if my mother wasn’t to become suspicious, but on the other hand I wanted to make sure Harry noticed me.

While we were on the train to Rome, I disappeared into the lavatory and put on a pair of mother’s silk stockings and just a touch of lipstick, not enough for Giles to notice.

Once we’d checked into our hotel, Giles wanted to leave immediately for the Villa Borghese. So did I.

As we walked through the gardens and up towards the villa, a soldier turned to look at me. It was the first time that had happened, and I could feel my cheeks reddening.

No sooner had we entered the gallery than Giles went off in search of Harry. I hung back, pretending to take a great deal of interest in the paintings and statues. I needed to make an entrance.

When I eventually caught up with them, I found Harry chatting to my brother, although Giles wasn’t even pretending to listen to him as he was clearly besotted by the tour guide. If he’d asked me, I could have told him he didn’t have a chance. But older brothers rarely listen to their sisters when it comes to women; I would have advised him to comment on her shoes, which made me quite envious. Men think the Italians are only famous for designing cars. One exception to this rule is Captain Tarrant, who knows exactly how to treat a lady. My brother could learn a lot from him. Giles simply regarded me as his gauche little sister, not that he would have known what the word gauche meant.

I picked my moment, then strolled across and waited for Giles to introduce us. Imagine my surprise when Harry invited me to join him for dinner that night. My only thought was that I hadn’t packed a suitable evening dress. Over dinner, I discovered that my brother had paid Harry a thousand lira to take me off his hands, but he had refused until Giles also agreed to part with his Caruso recording. I told Harry he’d got the records and I’d got the gramophone. He didn’t catch on.

As we crossed the road on the way back to the hotel, he held my hand for the first time, and when we reached the other side, I didn’t let go. I could tell it was the first time Harry had held a girl’s hand, because he was so nervous he was sweating.

I tried to make it easy for him to kiss me when we got back to my hotel, but he just shook hands and said good night as if we were old chums. I hinted that perhaps we might bump into each other again once we were back in Bristol. This time he responded more positively, and even suggested the most romantic location for our next date: the city’s central library. He explained that it was somewhere Giles would never come across us. I happily agreed.

It was just after ten when Harry left and I went up to my room. A few minutes later I heard Giles unlocking his bedroom door. I had to smile. His evening with Caterina can’t have been worth a Caruso recording and a gramophone.

When the family returned to Chew Valley a couple of weeks later, there were three letters waiting for me on the hall table, each with the same handwriting on the envelope. If my father noticed, he said nothing.

During the next month, Harry and I spent many happy hours together in the city library without anyone becoming suspicious, not least because he’d discovered a room where no one was likely to find us, even Deakins.

Once term began and we weren’t able to see each other as often, I quickly became aware just how much I missed Harry. We wrote every other day, and tried to grab a few hours together at the weekends. And that’s how it might have continued, had it not been for the unwitting intervention of Dr Paget.

Over coffee at Carwardine’s one Saturday morning, Harry, who had become quite bold, told me that his English master had persuaded Miss Webb to allow her girls to take part in the Bristol Grammar School play that year. By the time the auditions were held three weeks later, I knew the part of Juliet by heart. Poor innocent Dr Paget couldn’t believe his luck.

Rehearsals meant not only that the two of us could be together for three afternoons a week, but that we were allowed to play the parts of young lovers. By the time the curtain went up on the first night, we were no longer acting.

The first two performances went so well that I couldn’t wait for my parents to attend the closing night, although I didn’t tell my father I was playing Juliet as I wanted it to be a surprise. It wasn’t long after my first entrance that I became distracted by someone noisily leaving the auditorium. But Dr Paget had told us on several occasions never to look into the audience, it broke the spell, so I had no idea who had left so publicly. I prayed it wasn’t my father, but when he didn’t come backstage after the performance I realized my prayer had not been answered. What made it worse was my certainty that his little outburst was aimed at Harry, although I still didn’t know why.

When we returned home that night, Giles and I sat on the stairs and listened to my parents having another row. But it was different this time, because I’d never heard my father be so unkind to Mama. When I could bear it no longer, I went to my room and locked myself in.

I was lying on my bed, thinking about Harry, when I heard a gentle knock on the door. When I opened it, my mother made no attempt to hide the fact that she’d been crying, and told me to pack a small suitcase because we would be leaving shortly. A taxi drove us to the station and we arrived just in time to catch the milk train to London. During the journey, I wrote to Harry to let him know what had happened and where he could get in touch with me. I posted the letter in a box on King’s Cross station before we boarded another train for Edinburgh.

Imagine my surprise when the following evening Harry and my brother turned up at Mulgelrie Castle, just in time for dinner. We spent an unexpected and glorious nine days in Scotland together. I didn’t ever want to return to Chew Valley, even though my father had rung and apologized unreservedly for the way he’d behaved on the night of the play.

But I knew that eventually we would have to go home. I promised Harry on one of our long morning walks that I would try to find out the reason for my father’s continued hostility towards him.

When we arrived back at the Manor House, Papa could not have been more conciliatory. He tried to explain why he had treated Harry so badly over the years, and my mother and Giles seemed to accept his explanation. But I wasn’t convinced he had told us the whole story.

What made things even more difficult for me was that he forbade me to tell Harry the truth about how his father had died, as his mother was adamant that it should remain a family secret. I had a feeling that Mrs Clifton knew the real reason my father didn’t approve of Harry and me being together, although I would have liked to tell them both that nothing and no one could keep us apart. However, it all came to a head in a way I could never have predicted.

I was just as impatient as Harry to find out if he’d been offered a place at Oxford, and we arranged to meet outside the library on the morning after he received the telegram letting him know the result.

I was a few minutes late that Friday morning, and when I saw him sitting on the top step, head in hands, I knew he must have failed.

45

HARRY LEAPT UP and threw his arms around Emma the moment he saw her. He continued to cling to her, something he’d never done in public before, which confirmed her belief that it could only be bad news.

Without a word passing between them, he took her by the hand, led her into the building, down a circular wooden staircase and along a narrow brick corridor until he came to a door marked ‘Antiquities’. He peered inside to make sure that no one else had discovered their hiding place.

The two of them sat opposite each other at a small table where they had spent so many hours studying during the past year. Harry was trembling, and not because of the chill in the windowless room that was lined on all sides by shelves of leather-bound books covered in dust, some of which looked as if they hadn’t been opened for years. In time they would become antiquities in their own right.

It was some time before Harry spoke.

‘Do you think there is anything I could say or do that would stop you loving me?’

‘No, my darling,’ said Emma, ‘absolutely nothing.’

‘I’ve found out why your father has been so determined to keep us apart.’

‘I already know,’ said Emma, bowing her head slightly, ‘and I promise you it makes no difference.’

‘How can you possibly know?’ said Harry.

‘My father told us the day we returned from Scotland, but he swore us to secrecy.’

‘He told you my mother was a prostitute?’

Emma was stunned. It was some time before she recovered enough to speak. ‘No, he did not,’ she said vehemently. ‘How could you say anything so cruel?’

‘Because it’s the truth,’ said Harry. ‘My mother hasn’t been working at the Royal Hotel for the past two years, as I thought, but at a nightclub called Eddie’s.’

‘That doesn’t make her a prostitute,’ said Emma.

‘The man sitting at the bar with a glass of whisky in one hand and the other on her thigh wasn’t hoping for stimulating conversation.’

Emma leant across the table and touched Harry gently on the cheek. ‘I’m so sorry, my darling,’ she said, ‘but it makes no difference to how I feel about you, and it never will.’

Harry managed a weak smile, but Emma remained silent, knowing it could only be a few moments before he asked her the inevitable question.

‘If that wasn’t the secret your father asked you to keep,’ he said, suddenly serious again, ‘what did he tell you?’

It was Emma’s turn to hold her head in her hands, aware that he’d left her with no choice but to tell him the truth. Like her mother, she was no good at dissembling.

‘What did he tell you?’ Harry repeated, more emphatically.

Emma held on to the edge of the table as she tried to steady herself. Finally she summoned up the strength to look at Harry. Although he was only a few feet away, he could not have been more distant. ‘I need to ask you the same question you asked me,’ said Emma. ‘Is there anything I could say or do that would stop you loving me?’

Harry leant across and took her hand. ‘Of course not,’ he said.

‘Your father wasn’t killed in the war,’ she said softly. ‘And my father was probably responsible for his death.’ She gripped his hand firmly before revealing everything her father had told them the day they returned from Scotland.

When she’d finished, Harry looked dazed and was unable to speak. He tried to stand up but his legs gave way beneath him, like a boxer who’d taken one punch too many, and he fell back into his chair.

‘I’ve known for some time that my father couldn’t have died in the war,’ Harry said quietly, ‘but what I still don’t understand is why my mother didn’t simply tell me the truth.’

‘And now you do know the truth,’ said Emma, trying to hold back the tears, ‘I would understand if you wanted to break off our relationship after what my father has put your family through.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Harry, ‘but I’ll never forgive him.’ He paused before adding, ‘And I won’t be able to face him once he finds out the truth about my mother.’

‘He need never find out,’ said Emma, taking him by the hand again. ‘It will always be a secret between us.’

‘That’s not possible any longer,’ said Harry.

‘Why not?’

‘Because Giles saw the man who followed us to Edinburgh standing in a doorway opposite Eddie’s Nightclub.’

‘Then it’s my father who’s prostituted himself,’ said Emma, ‘because not only did he lie to us yet again, but he’s already gone back on his word.’

‘How?’

‘He promised Giles that man would never follow him again.’

‘That man wasn’t interested in Giles,’ said Harry. ‘I think he was following my mother.’

‘But why?’

‘Because if he was able to prove how my mother earned her living, he must have hoped it would convince you to give me up.’

‘How little he knows his own daughter,’ said Emma, ‘because I’m now even more determined that nothing will keep us apart. And he certainly can’t stop me admiring your mother even more than I did before.’

‘How can you say that?’ said Harry.

‘She works as a waitress to support her family, ends up owning Tilly’s, and when it’s burnt to the ground she’s accused of arson, but holds her head high, knowing she is innocent. She finds herself another job at the Royal Hotel, and when she’s sacked, she still refuses to give up. She receives a cheque for six hundred pounds, and for a moment believes all her problems are solved, only to discover she’s in fact penniless just at the time when she needs money to make sure you can stay at school. In desperation, she then turns to…’

‘But I wouldn’t have wanted her to…’

‘She would have known that, Harry, but she still felt it was a sacrifice worth making.’

Another long silence followed. ‘Oh my God,’ said Harry. ‘How can I ever have thought badly of her.’ He looked up at Emma. ‘I need you to do something for me.’

‘Anything.’

‘Can you go and see my mother? Use any excuse, but try to find out if she saw me in that dreadful place last night.’

‘How will I know, if she isn’t willing to admit it?’

‘You’ll know,’ said Harry quietly.

‘But if your mother did see you, she’s bound to ask me what you were doing there.’

‘I was looking for her.’

‘But why?’

‘To tell her that I’ve been offered a place at Oxford.’

Emma slipped into a pew at the back of Holy Nativity and waited for the service to end. She could see Mrs Clifton sitting in the third row, next to an old lady. Harry had seemed a little less tense when they’d met again earlier that morning. He’d been very clear what he needed to find out, and she promised not to stray beyond her remit. They had rehearsed every possible scenario several times, until she was word perfect.

After the elderly priest had given the final blessing, Emma stepped out into the centre of the aisle and waited, so Mrs Clifton couldn’t possibly miss her. When Maisie saw Emma, she couldn’t hide a look of surprise, but it was quickly replaced by a welcoming smile. She walked quickly towards her and introduced the old lady who was with her. ‘Mum, this is Emma Barrington, she’s a friend of Harry’s.’

The old lady gave Emma a toothy grin. ‘There’s a great deal of difference between being his friend and being his girlfriend. Which are you?’ she demanded.

Mrs Clifton laughed, but it was clear to Emma that she was just as interested to hear her reply.

‘I’m his girlfriend,’ said Emma proudly.

The old lady delivered another toothy grin, but Maisie didn’t smile.

‘Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ Harry’s grandmother said, before adding, ‘I can’t stand around here all day chatting, I’ve got dinner to make.’ She began to walk away, but then turned back and asked, ‘Would you like to join us for dinner, young lady?’

This was a question that Harry had anticipated, and for which he’d even scripted a reply. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Emma, ‘but my parents will be expecting me.’

‘Quite right too,’ said the old lady. ‘You should always respect your parents’ wishes. I’ll see you later, Maisie.’

‘May I walk with you, Mrs Clifton?’ asked Emma as they stepped out of the church.

‘Yes, of course, my dear.’

‘Harry asked me to come and see you, because he knew you’d want to know that he’s been offered a place at Oxford.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful news,’ said Maisie, throwing her arms around Emma. She suddenly released her, and asked, ‘But why didn’t he come and tell me himself?’

Another scripted reply. ‘He’s stuck in detention,’ said Emma, hoping she didn’t sound over-rehearsed, ‘writing out passages from Shelley. I’m afraid my brother’s to blame. You see, after he heard the good news, he smuggled a bottle of champagne into school, and they were caught celebrating in his study last night.’

‘Is that so wicked?’ asked Maisie, grinning.

‘Dr Paget seemed to think so. Harry’s dreadfully sorry.’

Maisie laughed so uproariously that Emma had no doubt she’d no idea her son had visited the club last night. She would have liked to ask one more question that still puzzled her, but Harry couldn’t have been more emphatic: ‘If my mother doesn’t want me to know how my father died, so be it.’

‘I’m sorry you can’t stay to lunch,’ said Maisie, ‘because there was something I wanted to tell you. Perhaps another time.’

46

HARRY SPENT THE FOLLOWING week waiting for another bombshell to drop. When it did, he cheered out loud.

Giles received a telegram on the last day of term telling him he’d been offered a place at Brasenose College, Oxford, to read History.

‘By the skin of his teeth,’ was the expression Dr Paget used when he informed the headmaster.

Two months later, one scholar, one exhibitioner and one commoner arrived in the ancient university city, by different modes of transport, to begin their three-year undergraduate courses.

Harry signed up for the dramatic society and the officer training corps, Giles for the union and the cricket club, while Deakins settled himself down in the bowels of the Bodleian library, and, like a mole, was rarely seen above ground. But then, he had already decided that Oxford was where he was going to spend the rest of his life.

Harry couldn’t be so sure how he would be spending the rest of his life, while the Prime Minister continued to fly back and forth to Germany, finally returning to Heston airport with a smile on his face, waving a piece of paper and telling people what they wanted to hear. Harry wasn’t in any doubt that Britain was on the brink of war. When Emma asked him why he was so convinced, he replied, ‘Haven’t you noticed that Herr Hitler never bothers to visit us? We are always the importunate suitor, and in the end we will be spurned.’ Emma ignored his opinion, but then, like Mr Chamberlain, she didn’t want to believe he might be right.

Emma wrote to Harry twice a week, sometimes three times, despite the fact that she was working flat out preparing for her own entrance exams to Oxford.

When Harry returned to Bristol for the Christmas vacation, the two of them spent as much time together as possible, although Harry made sure he kept out of the way of Mr Barrington.

Emma turned down the chance to spend her holiday with the rest of the family in Tuscany, not hiding the fact from her father that she’d rather be with Harry.

As her entrance exam drew nearer, the number of hours Emma spent in the Antiquities room would have impressed even Deakins, but then Harry was coming to the conclusion that she was about to impress the examiners just as much as his reclusive friend had done the year before. Whenever he suggested this to Emma, she would remind him that there were twenty male students at Oxford for every female.

‘You could always go to Cambridge,’ Giles foolishly suggested.

‘Where they’re even more prehistoric,’ Emma responded. ‘They still don’t award degrees to women.’

Emma’s greatest fear was not that she wouldn’t be offered a place at Oxford, but that by the time she took it up, war would have been declared, and Harry would have signed up and departed for some foreign field that was not forever England. All her life she had been continually reminded of the Great War by the number of women who still wore black every day, in memory of their husbands, lovers, brothers and sons who had never returned from the Front, in what nobody was any longer calling the war to end all wars.

She had pleaded with Harry not to volunteer if war was declared, but at least to wait until he was called up. But after Hitler had marched into Czechoslovakia and annexed the Sudetenland, Harry never wavered in his belief that war with Germany was inevitable, and that the moment it was declared, he would be in uniform the following day.

When Harry invited Emma to join him for the Commem Ball at the end of his first year, she resolved not to discuss the possibility of war. She also made another decision.

Emma travelled up to Oxford on the morning of the ball and checked into the Randolph Hotel. She spent the rest of the day being shown around Somerville, the Ashmolean and the Bodleian by Harry, who was confident she would be joining him as an undergraduate in a few months’ time.

Emma returned to the hotel, giving herself plenty of time to prepare for the ball. Harry had arranged to pick her up at eight.

He strolled through the front door of the hotel a few minutes before the appointed hour. He was dressed in a fashionable midnight blue dinner jacket which his mother had given him for his nineteenth birthday. He called Emma’s room from the front desk to tell her he was downstairs and would wait for her in the foyer.

‘I’ll be straight down,’ she promised.

As the minutes passed, Harry began to pace around the foyer, wondering what Emma meant by ‘straight down’. But Giles had often told him that she’d learnt how to tell the time from her mother.

And then he saw her, standing at the top of the staircase. He didn’t move as she walked slowly down, her strapless turquoise silk dress emphasizing her graceful figure. Every other young man in the foyer looked as if he’d be happy to change places with Harry.

‘Wow,’ he said as she reached the bottom step. ‘Who needs Vivien Leigh? By the way, I love the shoes.’ Emma felt the first part of her plan was falling into place.

They walked out of the hotel and strolled arm in arm towards Radcliffe Square. As they entered the gates of Harry’s college, the sun began to dip behind the Bodleian. No one entering Brasenose that evening would have thought that Britain was only a few weeks away from a war in which over half the young men who danced the night away would never graduate.

But nothing could have been further from the thoughts of the gay young couples dancing to the music of Cole Porter and Jerome Kern. While several hundred undergraduates and their guests consumed crates of champagne and ate their way through a mountain of smoked salmon, Harry rarely let Emma out of his sight, fearful that some ungallant soul might attempt to steal her away.

Giles drank a little too much champagne, ate far too many oysters and didn’t dance with the same girl twice the entire evening.

At two o’clock in the morning, the Billy Cotton Dance Band struck up the last waltz. Harry and Emma clung to each other as they swayed to the rhythm of the orchestra.

When the conductor finally raised his baton for the National Anthem, Emma couldn’t help noticing that all the young men around her, whatever state of inebriation they were in, stood rigidly to attention as they sang ‘God Save the King’.

Harry and Emma walked slowly back to the Randolph chatting about nothing of any consequence, just not wanting the evening to end.

‘Well, at least you’ll be back in a fortnight’s time to sit your entrance exam,’ said Harry as they climbed the steps to the hotel, ‘so it won’t be too long before I see you again.’

‘True,’ said Emma, ‘but there’ll be no time for any distractions until I’ve completed the last paper. Once that’s out of the way, we can spend the rest of the weekend together.’

Harry was about to kiss her goodnight, when she whispered, ‘Would you like to come up to my room? I’ve got a present for you. I wouldn’t want you to think I’d forgotten your birthday.’

Harry looked surprised, as did the hall porter when the young couple walked up the staircase together hand in hand. When they reached Emma’s room, she fumbled nervously with the key before finally pushing open the door.

‘I’ll just be a moment,’ she said as she disappeared into the bathroom.

Harry sat down in the only chair in the room and tried to think of what he’d most like for his birthday. When the bathroom door opened, Emma was framed in the half light. The elegant strapless gown had been replaced by a hotel towel.

Harry could hear his heart beating as she walked slowly towards him.

‘I think you’re a little overdressed, my darling,’ Emma said, as she slipped off his jacket and let it fall to the floor. Next she undid his bow tie before unbuttoning his shirt, and both joined the jacket. Two shoes and two socks followed, before she slowly pulled down his trousers. She was about to remove the one remaining obstacle in her path, when he gathered her up in his arms and carried her across the bedroom.

As he dumped her unceremoniously on to the bed, the towel fell to the floor. Emma had often imagined this moment since they’d returned from Rome, and assumed that her first attempts at making love would be awkward and clumsy. But Harry was gentle and considerate, although he was clearly every bit as nervous as she was. After they’d made love, she lay in his arms, not wanting to fall asleep.

‘Did you like your birthday present?’ she asked.

‘Yes I did,’ said Harry. ‘But I hope it’s not going to be another year before I can unwrap the next one. That reminds me, I’ve got a present for you too.’

‘But it’s not my birthday.’

‘It’s not a birthday present.’

He jumped out of bed, picked his trousers up off the floor and rummaged around in the pockets until he came across a small leather box. He returned to the bedside, fell to one knee and said, ‘Emma, my darling, will you marry me?’

‘You look quite ridiculous down there,’ said Emma, frowning. ‘Get back into bed before you freeze to death.’

‘Not until you’ve answered my question.’

‘Don’t be silly, Harry. I decided that we were going to be married the day you came to the Manor House for Giles’s twelfth birthday.’

Harry burst out laughing as he placed the ring on the third finger of her left hand.

‘I’m sorry it’s such a small diamond,’ he said.

‘It’s as big as the Ritz,’ she said as he climbed back into bed. ‘And as you seem to have everything so well organized,’ she teased, ‘what date have you chosen for our wedding?’

‘Saturday, July the twenty-ninth, at three o’clock.’

‘Why then?’

‘It’s the last day of term, and in any case, we can’t book the university church after I’ve gone down.’

Emma sat up, grabbed the pencil and pad from the bedside table and started to write.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Harry.

‘I’m working on the guest list. If we’ve only got seven weeks…’

‘That can wait,’ said Harry, taking her back in his arms. ‘I feel another birthday coming on.’

‘She’s too young to be thinking about marriage,’ said Emma’s father, as if she wasn’t in the room.

‘She’s the same age I was when you proposed to me,’ Elizabeth reminded him.

‘But you weren’t about to sit the most important exam of your life, just a fortnight before the wedding.’

‘That’s exactly why I’ve taken over all the arrangements,’ said Elizabeth. ‘That way Emma won’t have any distractions until her exams are over.’

‘Surely it would be better to put the wedding off for a few months. After all, what’s the hurry?’

‘What a good idea, Daddy,’ said Emma, speaking for the first time. ‘Perhaps we could also ask Herr Hitler if he’d be kind enough to put off the war for a few months, because your daughter wants to get married.’

‘And what does Mrs Clifton think about all of this?’ her father asked, ignoring his daughter’s comment.

‘Why should she be anything other than delighted by the news?’ Elizabeth asked him. He didn’t respond.

An announcement of the forthcoming marriage between Emma Grace Barrington and Harold Arthur Clifton was published in The Times ten days later. The first banns were read from the pulpit of St Mary’s by the Reverend Styler on the following Sunday and over three hundred invitations were sent out during the next week. No one was surprised when Harry asked Giles to be his best man, with Captain Tarrant and Deakins as the principal ushers.

But Harry was shocked when he received a letter from Old Jack, declining his kind invitation because he couldn’t leave his post in the current circumstances. Harry wrote back, begging him to reconsider and at least attend the wedding, even if he felt unable to take on the task of being an usher. Old Jack’s reply left Harry even more confused: ‘I feel my presence might turn out to be an embarrassment.’

‘What is he talking about?’ said Harry. ‘Surely he knows that we’d all be honoured if he came.’

‘He’s almost as bad as my father,’ said Emma. ‘He’s refusing to give me away, and says he’s not even sure he’ll come.’

‘But you told me he’d promised to be more supportive in the future.’

‘Yes, but that all changed the moment he heard we were engaged.’

‘I can’t pretend that my mother sounded all that enthusiastic when I told her the news either,’ Harry admitted.

Emma didn’t see Harry again until she returned to Oxford to sit her exams, and even then not until she’d completed the final paper. When she came out of the examination hall, her fiancé was waiting on the top step, a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other.

‘So, how do you think you got on?’ he asked as he filled her glass.

‘I don’t know,’ sighed Emma, as dozens of other girls poured out of the examination hall. ‘I didn’t realize what I was up against until I saw that lot.’

‘Well, at least you’ve got something to distract you while you wait for the results.’

‘Just three weeks to go,’ Emma reminded him. ‘That’s more than enough time for you to change your mind.’

‘If you don’t win a scholarship, I may have to reconsider my position. After all, I can’t be seen associating with a commoner.’

‘And if I do win a scholarship, I may have to reconsider my position and look for another scholar.’

‘Deakins is still available,’ said Harry as he topped up her glass.

‘It will be too late by then,’ said Emma.

‘Why?’

‘Because the results are due to be announced on the morning of our wedding.’

Emma and Harry spent most of the weekend locked away in her little hotel room, endlessly going over the wedding arrangements when they weren’t making love. By Sunday night, Emma had come to one conclusion.

‘Mama has been quite magnificent,’ she said, ‘which is more than I can say for my father.’

‘Do you think he’ll even turn up?’

‘Oh yes. Mama’s talked him into coming, but he’s still refusing to give me away. What’s the latest on Old Jack?’

‘He hasn’t even replied to my last letter,’ said Harry.

47

‘HAVE YOU PUT ON a little weight, darling?’ asked Emma’s mother as she tried to fasten the last clasp on the back of her daughter’s wedding dress.

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Emma, looking at herself critically in the full-length mirror.

‘Stunning,’ was Elizabeth’s verdict as she stood back to admire the bride’s outfit.

They had travelled to London several times to have the dress fitted by Madame Renée, the proprietor of a small, fashionable boutique in Mayfair, thought to be patronized by Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth. Madame Renée had personally supervised each fitting, and the Victorian embroidered lace around the neck and hem, something old, blended quite naturally with the silk bodice and empire bell skirt that was proving so fashionable that year, something new. The little cream tear-drop hat, Madame Renée had assured them, was what women of fashion would be wearing next year. The only comment Emma’s father made on the subject came when he saw the bill.

Elizabeth Barrington glanced at her watch. Nineteen minutes to three. ‘No need to rush,’ she told Emma when there was a knock on the door. She was sure she’d hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and told the chauffeur not to expect them before three. At the rehearsal the previous day, the journey from the hotel to the church had taken seven minutes. Elizabeth intended Emma to be fashionably late. ‘Keep them waiting for a few minutes, but don’t give them any cause for concern.’ A second knock.

‘I’ll get it,’ Elizabeth said, and went to the door. A young porter in a smart red uniform handed her a telegram, the eleventh that day. She was about to close the door when he said, ‘I was told to inform you, madam, that this one is important.’

Elizabeth’s first thought was to wonder who could possibly have cancelled at the last moment. She only hoped it wouldn’t mean reorganizing the top table at the reception. She tore open the telegram and read the contents.

‘Who’s it from?’ asked Emma, adjusting the angle of her hat by another inch and wondering if it was perhaps a little too risqué.

Elizabeth handed her the telegram. Once Emma had read it, she burst into tears.

‘Many congratulations, darling,’ said her mother, taking a handkerchief out of her handbag and beginning to dry her daughter’s tears. ‘I’d hug you, but I don’t want to crease your dress.’

Once Elizabeth was satisfied that Emma was ready, she spent a moment checking her own outfit in the mirror. Madame Renée had pronounced, ‘You mustn’t outdo your daughter on her big day, but at the same time, you can’t afford to go unnoticed.’ Elizabeth particularly liked the Norman Hartnell hat, even if it was not what the young were calling ‘chic’.

‘Time to leave,’ she declared after one more look at her watch. Emma smiled as she glanced at the going-away outfit she would change into once the reception was over, when she and Harry would travel up to Scotland for their honeymoon. Lord Harvey had offered them Mulgelrie Castle for a fortnight, with the promise that no other member of the family would be allowed within ten miles of the estate during that time and, perhaps more important, Harry could ask for three portions of Highland broth every night, without a suggestion of grouse to follow.

Emma followed her mother out of the suite and along the corridor. By the time she reached the top of the staircase, she felt sure her legs were about to give way. As she descended the stairs, other guests stood aside so that nothing would impede her progress.

A porter held open the front door of the hotel for her, while Sir Walter’s chauffeur stood by the back door of the Rolls so the bride could join her grandfather. As Emma sat down beside him, carefully arranging her dress, Sir Walter placed his monocle in his right eye and declared, ‘You look quite beautiful, young lady. Harry is indeed a most fortunate man.’

‘Thank you, Grandpa,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. She glanced out of the rear window to see her mother climbing into a second Rolls-Royce, and a moment later the two cars moved off to join the afternoon traffic as they began their sedate journey to the university church of St Mary’s.

‘Is Daddy at the church?’ asked Emma, trying not to sound anxious.

‘Among the first to arrive,’ said her grandfather. ‘I do believe he’s already regretting allowing me the privilege of giving you away.’

‘And Harry?’

‘Never seen him so nervous. But Giles seems to have everything under control, which must be a first. I know he’s spent the last month preparing his best man’s speech.’

‘We’re both lucky to have the same best friend,’ said Emma. ‘You know, Grandpa, I once read that every bride has second thoughts on the morning of her wedding.’

‘That’s natural enough, my dear.’

‘But I’ve never had a second thought about Harry,’ said Emma, as they came to a halt outside the university church. ‘I know we’ll spend the rest of our lives together.’

She waited for her grandfather to step out of the car before she gathered up her dress and joined him on the pavement.

Her mother rushed forward to check Emma’s outfit one last time before she would allow her to enter the church. Elizabeth handed her a small bouquet of pale pink roses as the two bridesmaids, Emma’s younger sister Grace and her school friend Jessica, gathered up the end of the train.

‘You next, Grace,’ said her mother, bending down to unruffle her bridesmaid’s dress.

‘I hope not,’ said Grace, loud enough for her mother to hear.

Elizabeth stepped back and nodded. Two sidesmen pulled open the heavy doors, the sign for the organist to strike up Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, and the congregation to rise and welcome the bride.

As Emma stepped into the church, she was taken by surprise to see how many people had travelled to Oxford to share in her happiness. She walked slowly down the aisle on her grandfather’s arm, the guests turning to smile at her as she made her way towards the altar.

She noticed Mr Frobisher sitting next to Mr Holcombe on the right-hand side of the aisle. Miss Tilly, who was wearing quite a daring hat, must have come all the way from Cornwall, while Dr Paget gave her the warmest of smiles. But nothing compared with the smile that appeared on her own face when she spotted Captain Tarrant, head bowed, wearing a morning suit that didn’t quite fit. Harry would be so pleased he had decided to come after all. In the front row sat Mrs Clifton, who had clearly spent some time selecting her outfit because she looked so fashionable. A smile crossed Emma’s lips, but she was surprised and disappointed that her future mother-in-law didn’t turn to look at her as she passed.

And then she saw Harry, standing on the altar steps next to her brother as they waited for the bride. Emma continued up the aisle on the arm of one grandfather, while the other stood bolt upright in the front row, next to her father, who she thought looked a little melancholy. Perhaps he really was regretting his decision not to give her away.

Sir Walter stood to one side as Emma climbed the four steps to join her future husband. She leaned over and whispered, ‘I nearly had a change of heart.’ Harry tried not to grin as he waited for the punch line. ‘After all, scholars of this university cannot be seen to marry beneath themselves.’

‘I’m so proud of you, my darling,’ he said. ‘Many congratulations.’

Giles bowed low in genuine respect, and Chinese whispers broke out among the congregation as the news spread from row to row.

The music stopped, and the college chaplain raised his hands and said, ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman, in holy matrimony…’

Emma suddenly felt nervous. She had learnt all the responses by heart but now she couldn’t recall one of them.

‘First it was ordained for the procreation of children…’

Emma tried to concentrate on the chaplain’s words, but she couldn’t wait to escape and be alone with Harry. Perhaps they should have gone up to Scotland the night before and eloped at Gretna Green; so much more convenient for Mulgelrie Castle, she’d pointed out to Harry.

‘Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace…’

The chaplain paused, to allow a diplomatic period of time to pass before he pronounced the words, I require and charge you both, when a clear voice declared, ‘I object!’

Emma and Harry both swung round to see who could possibly have uttered two such damning words.

The chaplain looked up in disbelief, wondering for a moment if he had misheard, but all over the church, heads were turning as the congregation tried to discover who had made the unexpected intervention. The chaplain had never experienced such a turn of events before, and tried desperately to recall what he was expected to do in the circumstances.

Emma buried her head in Harry’s shoulder, while he searched among the chattering congregation, trying to find out who it was who had caused such consternation. He assumed it must be Emma’s father, but when he looked down at the front row he saw Hugo Barrington, white as a sheet, was also trying to see who had brought the ceremony to a premature halt.

The Reverend Styler had to raise his voice to be heard above the growing clamour. ‘Would the gentleman who has objected to this marriage taking place please make himself known.’

A tall, upright figure stepped out into the aisle. Every eye remained fixed on Captain Jack Tarrant as he made his way up to the altar before coming to a halt in front of the chaplain. Emma clung on to Harry, fearful he was about to be prised away from her.

‘Am I to understand, sir,’ said the chaplain, ‘that you feel this marriage should not be allowed to proceed?’

‘That is correct, sir,’ said Old Jack quietly.

‘Then I must ask you, the bride and groom and the members of their immediate family to join me in the vestry.’ Raising his voice, he added, ‘The congregation should remain in their places until I have considered the objection, and made my decision known.’

Those who had been bidden were led by the chaplain into the vestry, followed by Harry and Emma. Not one of them spoke, although the congregation continued to whisper noisily among themselves.

Once the two families had crammed themselves into the tiny vestry, the Reverend Styler closed the door.

‘Captain Tarrant,’ he began, ‘I must tell you that I alone am vested by law with the authority to decide whether this marriage should continue. Naturally I shall not come to any decision until I have heard your objections.’

The only person in that overcrowded room who appeared calm was Old Jack. ‘Thank you, chaplain,’ he began. ‘Firstly, I must apologize to you all, and in particular to Emma and Harry, for my intervention. I have spent the past few weeks wrestling with my conscience before coming to this unhappy decision. I could have taken the easy way out and simply found some excuse for not attending this ceremony today. I have remained silent until now in the hope that in time any objection would prove irrelevant. But sadly that has not proved to be the case, for Harry and Emma’s love for each other has in fact grown over the years, and not diminished, which is why it has become impossible for me to remain silent any longer.’

Everyone was so gripped by Old Jack’s words that only Elizabeth Barrington noticed her husband slip quietly out of the back door of the vestry.

‘Thank you, Captain Tarrant,’ said the Reverend Styler. ‘While I accept your intervention in good faith, I need to know what specific charges you bring against these two young people.’

‘I bring no charge against Harry or Emma, both of whom I love and admire, and believe to be as much in the dark as the rest of you. No, my charge is against Hugo Barrington, who has known for many years that there is a possibility that he is the father of both of these unfortunate children.’

A gasp went around the room as everyone tried to grasp the enormity of this statement. The chaplain said nothing until he was able to regain their attention. ‘Is there anyone present who can verify or refute Captain Tarrant’s claim?’

‘This can’t possibly be true,’ said Emma, still clinging on to Harry. ‘There must be some mistake. Surely my father can’t…’

That was the moment everyone became aware that the father of the bride was no longer among them. The chaplain turned his attention to Mrs Clifton, who was quietly sobbing.

‘I can’t deny Captain Tarrant’s fears,’ she said haltingly. It was some time before she continued. ‘I confess I did have a relationship with Mr Barrington on one occasion.’ She paused again. ‘Only once, but, unfortunately, it was just a few weeks before I married my husband – ’ she raised her head slowly – ‘so I have no way of knowing who Harry’s father is.’

‘I should point out to you all,’ said Old Jack, ‘that Hugo Barrington threatened Mrs Clifton on more than one occasion, should she ever reveal his dreadful secret.’

‘Mrs Clifton, may I be allowed to ask you a question?’ said Sir Walter gently.

Maisie nodded, although her head remained bowed.

‘Did your late husband suffer from colour-blindness?’

‘Not that I’m aware of,’ she said, barely loudly enough to be heard.

Sir Walter turned to Harry. ‘But I believe you do, my boy?’

‘Yes I do, sir,’ said Harry without hesitation. ‘Why is that of any importance?’

‘Because I am also colour-blind,’ said Sir Walter. ‘As are my son and grandson. It is a hereditary trait that has troubled our family for several generations.’

Harry took Emma in his arms. ‘I swear to you, my darling, I didn’t know anything about this.’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Elizabeth Barrington, speaking for the first time. ‘The only man who knew was my husband, and he didn’t have the courage to come forward and admit it. If he had, none of this need ever have happened. Father,’ she said, turning to Lord Harvey, ‘can I ask you to explain to our guests why the ceremony will not be continuing.’

Lord Harvey nodded. ‘Leave it to me, old gal,’ he said, touching her gently on the arm. ‘But what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going take my daughter as far away from this place as possible.’

‘I don’t want to go as far away as possible,’ Emma said, ‘unless it’s with Harry.’

‘I fear your father has left us with no choice,’ said Elizabeth, taking her gently by the arm. But Emma continued to cling on to Harry until he whispered, ‘I’m afraid your mother’s right, my darling. But one thing your father will never be able to do is stop me loving you, and if it takes the rest of my life, I’ll prove he’s not my father.’

‘Perhaps you’d prefer to leave by the rear entrance, Mrs Barrington,’ suggested the chaplain. Emma reluctantly released Harry and allowed her mother to take her away.

The chaplain led them out of the vestry and down a narrow corridor to a door that he was surprised to find unlocked. ‘May God go with you, my children,’ he said before letting them out.

Elizabeth accompanied her daughter around the outside of the church to the waiting Rolls-Royces. She ignored those members of the congregation who had strayed outside for some fresh air or to smoke a cigarette and now made no attempt to conceal their curiosity when they spotted the two women climbing unceremoniously into the back of the limousine.

Elizabeth had opened the door of the first Rolls and bundled her daughter into the back seat before the chauffeur spotted them. He had stationed himself by the great door as he hadn’t expected the bride and groom to appear for at least another half an hour, when a peal of bells would announce the marriage of Mr and Mrs Harry Clifton to the world. The moment the chauffeur heard the door slam, he stubbed out his cigarette, ran across to the car and jumped behind the wheel.

‘Take us back to the hotel,’ Elizabeth said.

Neither of them spoke again until they had reached the safety of their room. Emma lay sobbing on the bed while Elizabeth stroked her hair, the way she had when she was a child.

‘What am I going to do?’ cried Emma. ‘I can’t suddenly stop loving Harry.’

‘I’m sure you never will,’ said her mother, ‘but fate has decreed that you cannot be together until it can be proved who Harry’s father is.’ She continued to stroke her daughter’s hair, and thought she might even have fallen asleep, until Emma quietly added, ‘What will I tell my child when they ask who their father is?’