I was as happy as I could be, considering my growing anxiety about Philip. Raymond understood and he talked of Philip. He did not try to soothe me. I believe he was beginning to think that some misadventure had befallen him and he wanted me to be prepared for bad news.
It was a bright day, with frost in the air—a sparkling sort of day which sets one's skin glowing. The horses were frisky and we let them gallop across a meadow, pulling up sharp as we came to the hedge.
Raymond said: "Ready for the glass of cider?"
I replied that I was. There would be the intimacy of the parlour with probably no one else there on Boxing Day. Perhaps he would ask me again. I hoped not, for although I was wavering, I was still unsure.
There was a big fire in the inn parlour and a Christmas tree set up in the window and sprigs of holly behind the pictures on the walls.
"They are determined we shan't forget it's Christmastime," said Raymond.
He ordered the cider. There was no one else in the parlour.
The host brought it. He said: "Not many people about this morning. It's the holiday. Most of them are at their own firesides."
Raymond lifted his glass and said: "To us, and in particular to you, Annalice. I hope you'll have some good news soon."
I felt sad because I knew he meant Philip.
"It is getting so long."
He nodded.
"It was a year last October. And only one letter since then. There must be something wrong. Philip would write because he would know how anxious we are."
Raymond was silent, staring into his glass.
"I wish I could go out there," I said. "To the South Pacific. I wish I could discover for myself..."
"Go out there!" He put down his glass. "You mean you ... go out there alone!"
"Why not? I do hate these stupid conventions which seem to imply that because one is female one is half-witted."
"I know what you mean, but it could be a hazardous journey."
"Others have gone. We have had our intrepid lady explorers. Some of them have gone into the most dangerous country."
"Do you really mean you would go?"
"It is an idea which has been in my mind for some time."
"Is that why you won't marry me?"
"I am not sure. It isn't that I don't love you. I do. But I'm not sure about being in love, which is a different thing I suppose. I think loving is probably better than being in love."
"It can be more permanent. Being in love is often transient, I believe. People fall in love easily, so why shouldn't they fall out with equal ease?"
"Do you love me or are you in love with me?"
"Both."
"Raymond, you are so good, and I am so foolish."
"No. You want to be sure. I understand."
"You are the most understanding person I have ever met. You understand about Philip, don't you?"
"Yes, I believe I do."
"I can't settle. I want to know. If something terrible has happened to him I want to find out about it. Then I might accept the situation and perhaps in time put it behind me. What I cannot endure is this uncertainty."
"That is very understandable."
"And you don't think I am being foolish in hating this inactivity so much that I want to go out and do something about it?"
"I think it is perfectly natural. I should feel the same."
"Oh, I do love you. You are so sensible."
"Thank you."
"I think I shall marry you ... in time. That is if you still want me to when I am ready."
"I shall be waiting."
I was so moved, I turned away.
He leaned towards me. "I think this stands between us," he said. "This fear of what has happened to your brother. If he came home you would be at peace, and if you knew the worst you would come to me for comfort."
"It may be that is so. I think of him almost all the time. Sometimes I think I shall never know. We have been so long without word. And I'll never be able to go and search for him. There is my grandmother. I couldn't leave her, could I? You see, it would mean both of us gone."
"It is a pity there were only two of you. If there had been a big family..."
"I have two brothers and one sister. Half brothers and sister, of course. They are in Holland."
"Yes, I remember. Your father married again."
"Granny M is so angry because he gave up maps and went into the export business." I couldn't help smiling. "She gets really angry, but I think what hurts her is that she has grandchildren in Holland whom she doesn't know."
"When you marry me you will have to leave her."
"Yes, but that is different. She is hoping I will marry you. She thinks that would be very cosy. We wouldn't be far off and she hopes for great-grandchildren. She seems rather stern but she does love children. She likes the thought of carrying on the family and all that."
"It's a great pity that you can't at least meet the rest of the family."
"They are in Amsterdam. My father writes now and then and that is all. He is completely absorbed in his new family as I suppose he would be. They are there and we are far away, and as I cost my mother her life when I was born he might remember me with pain. I know exactly how he feels."
"It is a mistake for families to be apart unless of course they can't get on together. But this seems to be a sort of drifting."
"That describes it exactly. There is no feud ... nothing like that, just a drifting."
"Now if these grandchildren were with your grandmother, your little jaunt might not be impossible."
"There would be great opposition but I could overcome that, if I thought there was someone there to comfort her."
"I am sure you would."
"Oh, I do wish Philip would come home."
"Let's drink to that," he said.
His eyes met mine over the glass, and I thought: Yes, I love him. Where else would I find someone who was so kind, so tender, so loving, so understanding.
What a fool I am, I thought.
And yet the cruel memories came flooding back. It was in a place rather like this that Ann Alice had first seen Desmond Featherstone. He had been seated at such a table. I remembered the description vividly.
Perhaps I would eventually subdue these memories.
I believed I would ... in time.
We were in February when Raymond made the announcement.
He was spending the weekend with us—a habit now for he always came except when he was at home in Buckinghamshire. He had just arrived and we were having tea in Granny M's small sitting room when he said: "I shall be going abroad in March. My father is going with me. We shall be on the Continent... France, Germany and Holland. It's a business trip which we make periodically."
"We shall miss you," said Granny M.
"How long will you be away?" I asked.
"About a month, I should think."
A month without him! I thought. Each day getting up, looking
for news of Philip which did not come, wondering, asking ourselves again and again why we had not heard.
We were beginning to accept the fact that something must have happened to him, but that did not make it any easier. If only we could know, I used to think. Then we might begin to grow away from it.
Now the prospect of a month without Raymond's company was rather depressing.
"Grace wants to come with us," went on Raymond.
"Grace!" cried Granny M.
"We ... the family ... believe it is good for a girl as well as boys to see something of the world. I think she is getting round my father. He is rather susceptible to Grace's wiles. He thinks though that she might have to be left alone a good deal... while we are engaged on business, and she would get rather bored. Now ... if she had someone with her... We thought if she had a companion ... and we were wondering if Annalice would care to come with us."