‘Ooh, how thrilling!’ said Lady Fitz. ‘You must let us know if it’s good.’
Outside, they paused to talk to Mavis Brooks who had her toddler at her side. In the sunshine, the girl’s bright red ringlets shone like rubies.
Adeline watched, entranced. When she turned back her eyes glistened with tears.
‘What is it?’ said Dorothea quickly, ‘Is everything all right?’
Adeline sighed. ‘No. Not really.’ She retrieved a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘Five years I’ve been trying for a child,’ she said. ‘And every month’—she shrugged—‘nothing. Some days the longing is hard to bear.’
‘Oh dear.’ Dorothea put her hand on top of Adeline’s and squeezed it. ‘You poor, poor thing. That must be so difficult.’
‘It should be natural, and easy, having a baby, shouldn’t it?’ She regarded Dorothea with a look full of yearning. ‘All Edward wants is a son. I’m so hopeless that I can’t even give him that.’
‘Adeline,’ whispered Dorothea, ‘you mustn’t say that. It’s not your fault. Nature has its own ways.’ Dorothea felt a swimming sense of discombobulation. How could nature or God, or whoever oversaw the orderly continuity of the human population, get things so wrong? Adeline needed a child. Dorothea did not. This cosmic mix-up had caused them both significant anxieties. Dorothea considered Adeline. She looked worn out. Dorothea leaned in and gave her a quick hug. ‘I shall bake a cake to cheer you up. Tea tomorrow? What do you say?’
29
DOROTHEA
1975, CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
‘Here! Over here, Dorothea!’ Francis was waving from an opening in the crumbling brick wall of the kitchen garden. ‘Look! He went in under those berries.’ He was pointing to the patch of raspberry canes. A tiny rabbit, no bigger than a mitten, had sprinted across the lawns as they sat, reading. It had pulled Francis from what should have been a poetry lesson. Francis was on his stomach, peering beneath the tangle of bushes.
‘Don’t get scratched by those awful things, darling.’
From the other side of the walled garden, Stan looked up from his vegetable patch. ‘Damn pests,’ he said, then grinned at Dorothea. ‘I’ve gotten most of them, but they’ve bred in the last week! They’ll eat all those brussels sprouts before I can pick them.’
‘I hate brussels sprouts! They can eat all of them.’ Francis was standing now, disappointed the rabbit would not be enticedfrom its hole. He picked strands of straw from his sleeves until he was clean.
‘I’ll grow you extra carrots, lad. They’ll make you see in the dark. And I’ll plant extra for Peter Rabbit there.’ Stan forked hay into his wheelbarrow and pushed it past Dorothea, giving her a wink.
A cooing noise came from the direction of the Moses basket, and she walked back and eased herself down onto the grass. Louis’s hands were jerking around, out of the swaddle. He blinked slowly, and her heart squeezed with love for him.
‘We should go in soon and wash for dinner, Francis,’ she called.
He frowned, then disappeared behind the wall. A leg, then his whole body appeared as he heaved himself up onto the top. ‘Ta-da!’ He let his legs drop over the wall, pleased with himself. ‘Do you think we could go to Paris one day?’
‘Why do you want to go to Paris?’
She watched him eat a handful of raspberries as he peered out over the lake. ‘I want to be like Yves Saint Laurent and own a camera and see all the pretty things they make there.’
‘How do you know about Yves Saint Laurent?’
‘I read about him inBritish Vogue.And about fashion houses.’
‘In Paris?’
‘Yes! And the fashion shows! And the lovely fabrics and wonderful clothes the models wear on stage.’ He reached to his collar and said, ‘I think this shirt is out of date. We are very behind in England.’
‘Where did you see aBritish Vogue?’
‘Mummy liked them. I have loads of them.’
Dorothea was saddened by his wistful face, his longing for the days his mother had been here. ‘Perhaps I could borrow them,’ she said. ‘They sound fascinating.’
‘You can, if you look after them.’
‘Of course I will.’
