Rosie Thomas 4-Book Collection: The White Dove, The Potter’s House, Celebration, White

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Rosie Thomas 1986, 2000, 1982, 2000

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Rosie Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007560622, 9780007560547, 9780007560585, 9780007560530

Ebook Edition © November 2014 ISBN: 9780008115302

Version: 2014-10-11

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

The White Dove

The Potter’s House

Celebration

White

Keep Reading: THE ILLUSIONISTS

Keep Reading: THE KASHMIR SHAWL

About the Author

Also by Rosie Thomas

About the Publisher

The White Dove

BY ROSIE THOMAS

Contents

Title Page

Part One

One

Two

Three

Part Two

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Part Three

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Part Four

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

One

The cedar tree was four hundred years old; as old as Chance itself. The shade beneath the cedar was more fragrant, cooler and deeper than the shade of any of the other great trees across the park. From its protective circle the family could look into the dazzle of light over the velvet grass, back to the terrace and the grey walls rearing behind it. The splash of the fountain was a deliciously cool note in the heavy heat of that long afternoon of July 1916.

Amy Lovell sat squarely at the tea-table, her chin barely level with the starched white cloth, wide eyes fixed on the sandwiches as fragile as butterflies, tiny circlets of pastry top-heavy with cream and raspberries, melting fingers of her favourite ginger sponge, and enticing dark wedges of rich fruit cake. A long time had passed since nursery lunch at twelve, and Amy was hungry. But she sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, without even a rustle of her frilled petticoats. Her feet, in highly polished boots with intricate buttons and laces, did not nearly touch the grass, but she held them rigid. Only yesterday Papa had banished her from the tea-table for swinging her legs, and she had not even had a sandwich, let alone a ginger sponge finger. Amy allowed herself one sidelong glance at Isabel, six years old to her own four-and-a-bit, and saw that her sister looked as effortlessly still and composed as always.

A flutter of white cloth to the right of the table heralded the silent arrival of Mr Glass, the butler, with another, subsidiary table. This one was laden with silver tea-things.

‘I will pour out myself, Glass, thank you,’ said Amy’s mother in her special, low voice. When Amy first heard the word ‘drawling’ it pleased her, because it sounded exactly like Mama.

‘Very good, my lady.’

Mr Glass retreated across the grass, flanked by the maids with their apron and cap strings fluttering, and left them alone. Amy sighed with satisfaction. It was the best moment of the day, when she and Isabel had Mama and Papa all to themselves.

Lady Lovell stretched out her hand to the silver teapot. Her dark red hair fell in rich, natural waves, and where it was caught up at the nape of her neck beads of perspiration showed on the white skin. Her afternoon dress of pale rose silk was pleated and gathered, but it failed to disguise the ungainly bulk of the last days of pregnancy. Her hand fluttered back to rest over her stomach, and she sighed in the heat.

‘Could you, Gerald? Glass does hover so, and it is so nice to be just ourselves out here.’

‘That is his job, Adeline,’ Lord Lovell reminded her, but without the irritation he would have felt seven years ago.

He had fallen in love with his first sight of the exquisite eighteen-year-old American steel heiress dancing her way through her first London Season. And Adeline van Pelt from Pittsburgh, her head turned by her aristocratic suitor’s ancient title as much as by his formal charm, had agreed to marry him even though he was twice her age.

They had not made an easy beginning of their first months together at Chance. Lord Lovell was a widower, already the father of a twelve-year-old boy. His interests, apart from a well-bred liking for pretty girls, were horses, cards, and his estates. The new Lady Lovell came home with him at the end of the Season with only the barest understanding of what their life together would be like. It had come as an unpleasant shock, after the blaze of parties and admirers, to find herself alone much of the day while Gerald rode, or shot, or saw his farm managers. Yet at night, in her bedroom, he miraculously became everything she could have wanted. It was inexplicable to Adeline that her husband found it necessary to pretend, all day long, to be somebody he clearly wasn’t, and only to let the passion, and the laughter, out at night when they were alone.

To his concern, Gerald found that his wife was easily bored, capricious and unpredictable. She was either yawning with ennui, or filling the house with disreputable people and in a whirlwind of enthusiasm for painting the library in pink faux marble. She romped unsuitably in front of the servants, kissed him in public, and had no idea of what was expected of her as Lady Lovell.

And yet the sceptics who smiled behind their hands at the incongruous match and gave it a year to last, found themselves proved wrong. The Lovells grew happy together. Gerald unbent, and Adeline, to please him, learned to obey some of the rules of English upper-class life. Airlie Lovell, the son from his first marriage, remained Gerald’s adored heir, but the two little girls, with the look of their beautiful mother, were more important to him than he would have thought girl-children could ever be.

He smiled at Adeline now over their red-brown, ringleted heads.

‘Of course I will pour the tea, my darling. Meanwhile Glass can recline in his pantry reading Sporting Life, and all will be well with the world.’

‘Thank you,’ Adeline murmured. Her answering smile was tired. She leaned back in her padded chair and listlessly opened her little ivory fan. Gerald saw that her eyes were shadowed, and even her fan seemed too heavy to hold. Of course her condition wearied her. It would only be a few more days now, please God, and then the baby would be born. Then, soon, he would be welcome in his wife’s bedroom again. At the thought of Adeline’s long, white legs and the weight of her hair over his face Gerald shifted in his seat and put his finger to his collar.

‘Well, little girls,’ he said loudly. ‘What have you been doing with Miss May this afternoon?’

‘Handwriting,’ Amy said promptly. ‘It’s awful. “Press down on the lines, Miss Amy”…’

‘That will do,’ her father said. ‘Are these children really allowed cake before bread and butter, Adeline?’

‘Of course they are. Didn’t you prefer cake at their age?’

Amy, with one ginger sponge securely on her plate and the possibility of at least one more to come, beamed with sticky pleasure.

Then, across the smooth grass, between her mother’s rosepink shoulder and her father’s cream-jacketed arm wielding the teapot, she saw a man on a bicycle. He was riding along the west drive, which meant he had come through the west gates leading from the village. Against the bright sunlight he looked all black, perched on top of his angular black bicycle, and his spidery black legs were pumping round and round as he spun up the driveway.

He must be bringing something for Cook in the kitchen, Amy thought. The butcher’s delivery boy had a bicycle like that, only his had a big basket at the front and a wide, flat tray at the back. All the bicycles from the shops had baskets like that, she remembered, and this one didn’t. So it couldn’t be a delivery. The man was riding too fast, too. And instead of wheeling away to the side of the house and then to the kitchen courtyard, he rode straight on. He disappeared from sight behind the wing that enclosed the wide, paved court at the front of the house. The man on the bicycle had gone straight to the great main door.

Amy frowned slightly, wondering. She had only ever seen carriages and cars sweeping up to the main door. Then she took another bite of her cake and looked at Isabel. It was usually safe to take a lead from Isabel, but her sister did not seem to have noticed the man on the bicycle. And Mama and Papa had not seen him either, of course, because their backs were turned to the west drive.

It couldn’t be anything interesting, then.

Amy had barely given her full attention to her tea once more when something else caught her eye. It was so unexpected that it made her stop short, with her cake halfway to her mouth.

Mr Glass had come out of the tall open doors on to the terrace again. Instead of moving at his usual stately pace, he was almost running. He was down the steps, and covering the width of lawn that separated them from the house. Amy was suddenly aware that the afternoon was almost over, and Glass’s shadow was running ahead of him like a long, black finger pointing at them under the shade of the cedar tree. Isabel was looking curiously past her, and she heard the sharp chink as her mother quickly replaced her cup in its saucer.

But her father was frozen, motionless, as he watched Glass coming over the lawn. The butler was carrying an envelope in one hand, and a silver salver in the other. He hadn’t even given himself time to put the two together. Then he reached the table under the tree.

‘A telegram, my lord,’ he said. Yet he still kept hold of it, stiff-fingered, as if he didn’t want to hand it over. In his other hand the silver salver dangled uselessly at his side.

‘Give it to me,’ Gerald Lovell said quietly.

Slowly, as if it hurt him to do it, Glass held out the buff envelope. Lord Lovell took it, tore it open, and read the message it contained.

The little girls looked from one to the other of the adult faces, mystified by the chill that had crept over the golden afternoon.

‘Thank you, Glass,’ he said quietly. Then, very slowly, he got up and stood with his back to the little group, staring away at the incongruous sun on the grey walls of Chance.

Glass bent his head, and went silently back across the grass.

‘Gerald,’ Adeline said sharply. ‘Please tell me.’

For a long moment, he didn’t move. When at last he turned around to face them again, Amy thought for a terrifying second that this wasn’t her father at all. The square, straight shoulders had sagged and the familiar, stem face had fallen into bewildered hollows and lines. Even the crisp, greying hair seemed to have whitened. But worst of all was his mouth. It was open, in a horrible square shape that was like a scream, but no sound was coming out of it.

‘Oh God,’ Amy heard her mother say. ‘Dear God. Not Airlie.’

At the sound of his son’s name Gerald stumbled forward. His shoulders heaved, and the scream came out of his mouth at last as a low, stricken moan. He dropped to his knees in front of his wife’s chair, and the moan went on and on. Amy saw Isabel put her hands up to her ears, as if to shut the sound out. Her sister’s face had gone dead white, with her eyes dark holes in the whiteness.

‘Hush, my love,’ Adeline said. ‘Oh, Gerald.’

Lord Lovell rocked forward on his knees and put his head in his wife’s lap. The telegram fell on the grass and lay face upwards to the blank sky. Isabel got down from her chair, moving like a stiff-legged little doll. She leant over it, not touching it, and read the words.

2nd Lt The Hon’ble Airlie Lovell killed in action July 1. Deepest regrets. Lt Col. A. J. S. Warren, O/c 2nd Bn Kings Own Rifles.

At last the moaning stopped. ‘My son?’ Lord Lovell said. His head reared up again and he looked into his wife’s face. His tears had left a dark, irregular stain on the rose silk of her skirts.

‘My son,’ he repeated in bewilderment. Then he put his hands on either side of the mound of Adeline’s stomach. ‘Give me a son again,’ he begged her. ‘Give me my son back again.’

Sharply, Isabel turned away. She held out her hand to Amy. ‘Come on,’ she said, and when Amy didn’t respond she whispered urgently, ‘Please come.’

Obediently, even though she was puzzled and afraid, Amy slid off her chair and with Isabel pulling her onwards the two little girls ran hand in hand across the grass to the sun-warmed steps, and into the silent house. In the cool dimness of the long drawing room Isabel hesitated, wondering where to run to next, and in that instant Amy looked back.

The picture she saw was to stay with her for ever. She saw her parents still under the cedar tree, her father almost unrecognizable on his knees with the squareness gone from his shoulders and the line of his straight back bowed and defeated. His face was buried like a child’s in the folds of rose silk and her mother’s head was bent over his, seeing nothing else.

Amy wanted to run back to them and squeeze herself between them, telling them to make everything all right again, but Isabel’s grip on her hand was firm. She mustn’t go to them. Isabel seemed to understand something about this sudden cold in the sun that she couldn’t.

But now Isabel was saying ‘Where can we go?’ in a thin voice that suddenly sounded lost. ‘It’s Nanny’s day off, do you remember? And it’s after four o’clock, so we can’t see Miss May, and Cook doesn’t like us to go in the kitchen in the afternoon …’

Her voice trailed away.

‘Up to the nursery,’ Amy answered with conviction. ‘Everything will be all right there.’

Slowly now but still hand in hand they walked the length of the drawing room, past the sofa where their mother sat before dinner when they came down to kiss her good night on the evenings when there were no guests, through another salon hung with pictures and past spindly gilt furniture, and out into a great space where a wide staircase curved away above their heads. Isabel and Amy turned their backs on the cathedral-like quiet and slipped through a discreet door hidden in the shadows under the stairway. Beyond the door the corridor was narrow and stone-flagged. From somewhere close at hand came the sound of another door banging, hurrying footsteps and an urgently raised voice. They began to walk faster again, making for the stairs leading up to the sanctuary of the nursery wing.

The day nursery was on the west side of the house, and the blinds were half drawn against the light. Long bars of sunshine struck over the polished floor and the familiar worn rugs.

The last time he had been at home, Airlie had draped himself with them, playing bears on his hands and knees, laughing and puffing and telling the girls that the same rugs had been on the floor when he was a baby. When the game was over he had stood up and brushed the fluff from the new uniform he was so proud of. Amy remembered the smell of wool and leather, and the creak of his highly polished Sam Browne belt.

At first sight the nursery seemed empty, but then there was a rustle and the door of one of the tall cupboards swung to. A girl emerged from behind it, round-faced under a white cap, her arms full of folded linen. She saw their stricken faces and let the linen fall in a heap.

‘Miss Isabel, Miss Amy, what’s wrong then?’

Bethan Jones was the new nurserymaid. She was sixteen years old and had come to Chance from her home in the Welsh valleys only a month ago, and the little girls barely knew her except as a quick, aproned figure fetching and carrying for Nanny. Her soft Welsh accent sounded strange to them, but they heard the warmth in her voice now. Amy ran to her at once and Bethan’s arms wrapped round her.

‘There now. Tell Bethan, won’t you?’

Bethan pulled her closer, rocking her, and looked across at Isabel, still standing at the door.

‘What is it, lamb?’

Isabel was torn between what she believed was the right way to behave, and what she really wanted to do, which was to run like Amy and bury herself in Bethan’s arms. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and said formally, ‘I am afraid that a telegram came. My brother Airlie has been killed in France.’

Amy felt Bethan flinch as if from a blow, but still she didn’t fully take in the words.

‘The poor boy,’ Bethan said simply. ‘The poor, poor boy.’

She held out her hand and Isabel stopped trying to behave in the right way and ran to shelter beside her sister.

‘What does it mean about Airlie?’ Amy asked, and seeing Isabel’s wet, crumpled face she began dimly to understand that nothing at Chance would ever be the same again.

‘It means that a German soldier shot him with a bullet, and hurt him so much that he’s dead, and we won’t ever see him again,’ Isabel said. ‘Never, never, because they will bury him in the ground.’ Her voice rose, shrill with horror, and her fingers snatched at the blue cotton of the nurserymaid’s uniform skirt.

‘Hush, darling,’ Bethan soothed her. ‘Don’t talk about it like that. Amy, it means that your brother was a brave, brave man and you must be proud of him. It’s a terrible war, but we should be thankful for all the brave soldiers who are fighting for us and pray for it to be over so that they can come safe home again. Do you understand?’

But how could they? Bethan answered herself.

‘Listen,’ she said softly, ‘your brother wanted to go to war to fight for England, and all the things that he believed are right. All good men do. If I was a man, I’d go. My brothers went as soon as they could, and … and my fiancé is in France too. He’s a private in the Welsh Division, the 38th, and when he comes home we’ll be married. It’ll be hard at first, but we’ll manage a place of our own and then you can come and see me, wouldn’t you like that, to come to Wales and see the valleys? There’s nowhere like it, you know. Ah, it’s not beautiful country like this, all cornfields and great trees, but it’s the best place on earth.’ Bethan closed her eyes on the nursery and saw the ranks of tiny grey houses clinging to the steep valley sides, the black slag hills and the skeletal towers of the pit winding-gear, and the sudden moist flashes of green between the laced black fingers of the mine workings. ‘He was doing grand, Dai was, before the War came,’ Bethan whispered. ‘More tonnage out of his pit than ever before, and him with a job at the coal face. There’s none to beat Welsh steam coal, you know. None in the world.’ And she lowered her head so that her cheek was pressed against the little girls’ smooth hair, and cried with them.

When Nanny Macleod came back from her afternoon off she found them still sitting on the nursery floor, and with their three faces identically stained with the runnels of tears.

For three days Chance was as silent as a crypt. Gerald Lovell saw no one. He sat in his library, looking out across the lawns to the trees of the park, his head tilted as if he was listening for a sound that never came. On the third afternoon he went outside, keeping to the shade of the avenues of trees as if he couldn’t bear to feel the sun’s warmth on his head. He walked painfully to the little church enclosed by the estate, and in the shelter of the thick stone walls he read the memorial tablets of Lovells spanning the centuries. Almost every one of them, lords of the manor and their ladies, old men and matriarchs, children dead in infancy, unmarried daughters and weakly younger sons, had been put finally to rest in the family vault. Even that was denied to Airlie. Bitterness rose like nausea in Gerald Lovell. There could be no burial service here for Airlie as there had been for Gerald’s father, as there would be one day for Gerald himself, with the family in heavy mourning in the big, square, screened-off family pew, and the church filled with neighbours, tenants and estate workers paying their dutiful respects. The letter from Airlie’s commanding officer following the telegram praised him for his heroism. Airlie had died beneath Thiepval Ridge and was buried with his comrades. ‘A soldier’s grave for a fine soldier,’ the captain had written as he must do in an attempt to comfort the families of every one of the men dead under his command. There was no comfort in it for Gerald. There could be no fittingly solid coffin for Airlie, made from one of Chance’s own oaks and heaped with flowers from the scented July borders. Airlie had been hastily huddled into the ground with the mutilated bodies of a hundred, perhaps a thousand others.

Gerald lurched against a pew end, the pain like a living thing inside him. His head arched backwards, and over his head he saw the dim, greenish-black folds of an ancient banner. He reached up with a curse and tore the cloth from its staff, the fibres splitting into tiny, dusty fragments that drifted lazily around him. The gold-thread-embroidered letters were tarnished with age, but still legible.

‘Regis defensor,’ Gerald said loud. ‘The King’s Defender.’ His sudden laugh was shockingly loud in the silent church. ‘Is that what he was doing, defending the King? I could have done that just as well. Why wasn’t it me? Oh God, Airlie, why not me instead?’ He lifted his hands above his head and tore the black banner in two, and then again, letting the shreds of it fall around him until only the gold thread remained, and then twining that around his fingers and pulling it so tight that his fingers went as white as candles. Then, just as suddenly, the fit of rage left him and he dropped the thread, turning away from the debris and walking out of the church as if it didn’t exist.