The Secrets of Meadow Farmhouse. Katie GingerЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Marion Louisa Coeburn

       (2nd July 1891–23rd March 1975)

       and her love

       William (Billy) Arthur Davis

       (6th July 1893–9th April 1917)

       Prologue

      June 1959

      The wedding dress hung in front of the wardrobe, elegant and beautiful. Premature, some might say as she wasn’t even wearing a ring. But Vera couldn’t help telling her mother about the engagement, and her mother couldn’t help but fetch it for her.

      Side by side, they appraised it together, her mother giggling like a schoolgirl, Vera giddy in her excitement. Arty had asked her to keep it quiet until he’d spoken to his parents, but Vera had never been that good at keeping secrets. She was an open book as far as her thoughts and feelings were concerned, wearing her heart on her sleeve. Her half-sister always told her she should toughen up, but Vera had never seen the need, and after the events of the afternoon, when Arty had paused in the middle of the coppice where the ground was lush with green and the tall trees formed a canopy over their heads, taking her hand in his and slowly going down on one knee, it didn’t seem the right time to start now. How could she when there was little to no chance of containing her unbridled joy?

      ‘Will you marry me?’ he’d asked, with trembling hands and a slight shake to his voice.

      As if there were any possibility she’d say no. She loved him more than anything else in the world. She’d never met anyone so kind, so funny or so handsome.

      The sun had shone down on them, dappling through the leaves, causing shadows to dance on the ground. She’d replied instantly with a resounding yes that echoed around them and he’d picked her up in his strong arms and swung her about on the spot.

      Replaying the moment over in her mind, she’d never felt a happiness like it. All he had to do was speak to his mother and father, which he’d do that very afternoon and who, he assured her, would approve. It didn’t bother her that he’d asked before speaking to her father. He was a good man and only wanted her to be happy.

      As soon as she’d returned to the farmhouse flushed with excitement, her mother had guessed and Vera admitted the truth without a thought. Even as a child, without hesitation she’d owned up to the things she’d done, having learned early on that lies were always writ large on her face. Her mother had been over the moon. Apparently they’d been expecting it any day now, and they had celebrated with cake. Even her stepfather had raised a glass of sherry to her good fortune. ‘He’s a fine man. And rich too,’ he teased.

      Vera giggled because they all knew that money meant nothing to her. It was him she loved. The shy, quiet boy she’d spotted in the fields as a young girl, then grown up with, becoming friends and now lovers. Soon they would become husband and wife, marrying at the small church in the village and picnicking on the green. Content in her plans, after the allowance of a small glass of sherry, Vera had tipsily gone to bed.

      The night had been long and restless as her overactive mind refused to cease, unable to sleep for the joy and anticipation pulsing through her veins. She imagined herself in the dress, pictured herself dancing and dreamed of forever being Arty’s wife. In the half-light, she stared at the wedding dress now airing on her wardrobe door. It was, perhaps, a little old-fashioned, but she loved that it was her mother’s, and her mother wanted her to wear it. The neck was too high and would need taking down; the sleeves, too, were long with frilled cuffs, but overall, she liked it. It would be her something borrowed, or perhaps something old.

      A faint tapping at the window drew her attention to the day breaking outside. At first, she’d thought it was rain, but as she listened to its rhythmless nature and growing intensity she realised it was something else. With a thrill of excitement, Vera pulled back the covers and swung her legs out of bed. The cold spring morning penetrated the thin material of her nightdress and she pulled her dressing gown on before silently padding her way to the window.

      As she pulled back the curtains, the emerging white light of the sun illuminated the slowly waking world, blinding her. The sky held patches of cloud here and there, harsh and dark, threatening rain. Her eyes dropped to the ground below her window. Arty. Arty had come to see her. A shiver ran down her spine at the romantic nature of this dawn visit, and as quietly as she could, she ran down the stairs, avoiding the patches of old wood that creaked and moaned underfoot, and unlatched the heavy back door.

      Vera stayed in the doorway, propriety forcing her to hide. Though her mother had always told her not to worry too much about convention, there were some things that would not be tolerated, and meeting a beau in the early hours of the morning in nothing but your night clothes was one of them. Arty stood motionless in his shirtsleeves, his arms hanging limply by his sides. Goose bumps covered his skin from the chill morning air. ‘Arty? What are you doing here?’

      ‘I’m sorry, Vera,’ he replied, his voice weak, almost inaudible. He’d been crying. His eyes puffy and red, bloodshot through lack of sleep and marked under with deep blue shadows. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t marry you.’

      Fear tensed her muscles and a burden of dread rested on her chest. He hadn’t said that. He couldn’t have. ‘What do you mean?’ An incredulous laugh escaped her. ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘I can’t marry you, Vera. I’m so sorry.’ Tears welled in his eyes once more and with a strong sniff he attempted to force them away.

      ‘Why not?’ A weight pressed down, tightening her ribs. ‘You love me and I love you.’

      ‘You know why—’

      She shook her head. ‘But you said you didn’t care. You said—’

      ‘I know what I said.’

      Vera watched the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed heavily. Why was he hurting her like this?

      ‘I have to think of others, not just myself.’

      He was saying words that weren’t his. He’d never have said anything like this before, when their relationship was purely friendship. It must have been his mother. She must have refused her consent. Vera felt the slow, steady tearing in her heart as it ripped so completely in two.

      ‘You don’t mean that,’ she whispered, tears now falling down her face. Her heart ached, slowly breaking as his words sunk in. With white knuckles, she held tight to the doorframe, her body no longer able to stay upright. All her strength had disappeared.

      ‘I’m sorry, Vera, but I do. I have to go.’

      He turned and walked away, and as loudly as she could without waking the others, she called out to him, but apart from a slight turn of his head, he didn’t stop, or acknowledge her anguish.

      Vera’s hands shook as she closed the door and leaned back against it as though it would stop her from disintegrating. Her legs gave way, unable to take the weight of her emotions. She slid down to the floor, curling her legs up and hiding her face behind them. Tears soaked through the fabric of her nightdress so it stuck to her skin. The grey clouds that had threatened only moments before