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Table of Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Booklist

Author Note

A Kiss Goodbye

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Dearest Sylvie

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Forever With Me

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Historical Note

Copyright

A Kiss Goodbye

Marguerite Kaye

Chapter One

Argyll, Scotland—October 1914

Corporal Geraint Cassell, late of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers and currently seconded to the Army Service Corps, gazed out of the window as the staff car swept up the impressive driveway. There was something about the quality of light, the way it filtered through the battleship-grey clouds, casting a soft haze over everything, that made him think of home. The picturesque villages they had skirted on the journey north, though, looked nothing like the gritty Welsh mining village in which he had been raised, where the narrow houses huddled into the valley, their tiny windows looking blindly out onto the road, which rose steeply towards the pit head and the winding wheel that dominated the skyline. In contrast, the whitewashed Highland cottages seemed like something out of a child’s fairy tale.

Private Jamieson pulled the car to a halt in front of Glen Massan House. Geraint surveyed the place with a jaundiced eye. It was more like a castle than a house. Built in the Scots’ baronial style, he had gleaned from the requisition orders, it sat on a promontory with a commanding view over Loch Massan. A large tower five stories high with crenellated battlements bolstered one side of the grey granite building, while the main body of the house, with its steep-pitched roofs and its plethora of smaller, conical towers, seemed to have been added higgledy-piggledy. The result was strangely attractive. It was easy to imagine generations of Carmichael lairds striding out from that massive portico in their plaids, hounds yelping at their heels, to go off on a stag hunt or whatever it was that Scottish lairds did.

Generations of crofters and serfs had no doubt dutifully served their lord and master here, working the land for a pittance and shivering in their thatched cottages, Geraint reminded himself. Whatever this war brought, one thing was certain, it was the end of the line for people like Lord Carmichael and his privileged family.

The war would see the end of the line, too, with a bit of luck, for the ‘Old Contemptibles’ like Colonel Aitchison, whose ilk were bumbling about with General French over on the Western Front. Geraint belatedly turned and saluted as his so-called superior officer finally stumbled out of the staff car juggling gloves, hat and swagger stick. No doubt the Carmichaels of Glen Massan House would resent being evicted from their pretty Highland castle, but Geraint refused to feel sorry for them.

* * *

‘I simply can’t comprehend why the army wants our home. Why Glen Massan?’

The question was rhetorical, though Lady Elizabeth Carmichael had asked it repeatedly since the requisition order had arrived. Her daughter, Flora, looked up from the newspaper in which she had been reading the first encouraging reports of the battle being waged at Ypres. ‘Perhaps it really will be over by Christmas,’ she said, ‘in which case, we will only have to decamp to the Lodge for a few months.’

‘A few months! The place is tiny. There are only three bedrooms.’

‘Then Robbie will have to bunk with Alex the next time he comes up from London,’ Lord Carmichael said patiently.

‘But that means you and I will have to share a bedroom.’

‘We are married, Elizabeth, and there is a war on, in case either fact had escaped your attention. It is up to all of us to make sacrifices.’

Lady Carmichael took a sip of tea. ‘Do you really think it will be over by Christmas as they say?’ she asked her daughter.

Flora’s opinion was so rarely consulted that for a moment she was quite taken aback. ‘I don’t know,’ she answered simply. ‘If the newspapers are to be believed...’ She halted mid-sentence, because the growing casualty lists and the claims of imminent victory seemed to her at odds. The reports in the papers were unrelentingly cheerful, full of praise for the bravery of the men who went ‘over the top’. At times, they made life in the trenches sound like some sort of Boy Scout camp. In the first weeks, Flora had been as enthusiastic as everyone else, but now that men from both sides were dying in unimaginable numbers, she was beginning to have the most unpatriotic doubts about the ability of those in charge to do their job.

Not that she would dream of saying so in front of her parents, who considered any talk of casualties defeatist. Leaning across the table to clasp her mother’s hand, she smiled weakly. ‘Perhaps it will be over soon. I sincerely hope so.’

‘It is selfish of me, but you know how much your brother Alex wishes to join the older boys from his school who have already enlisted.’

‘Alex is only seventeen,’ the laird said pointedly. ‘He is at no risk.’

But Robbie, Flora’s other brother, who was twenty-five and currently running his wine-importing business from London, certainly was. The laird did not say so, but it was obvious to her that all three of them were thinking that Robbie’s joining up was a distinct possibility. ‘It’s almost a full year before Alex is eligible to enlist,’ Flora said, trying to sound more reassuring than she felt. ‘If it’s not over by Christmas then it certainly will be long before then.’

‘I hear that our ghillie’s son, Peter McNair, is talking of joining up,’ Lady Carmichael said. ‘Mrs Watson from the village shop told me that they are attempting to form one of those units Kitchener made such a fuss about.’

‘A Pal’s Battalion,’ the laird said dismissively. ‘Foolish name, foolish idea. This is a small community, we can ill afford to lose significant numbers of men.’

‘I quite agree,’ Lady Carmichael said. ‘Our local young men would be better served tending to the fields. Not that I would dream of saying so outside these four walls,’ she added hastily. ‘We are at war after all. Though why that requires us to be cast out of house and home...’

‘We shall know soon enough,’ her husband retorted sharply. ‘The army are due this morning.’

Lady Carmichael sighed. Weak autumn sunshine filtered through the voile curtains draped over the two long windows of the dining room, bathing her in its unforgiving light. Her mother’s stern beauty had held up remarkably well, Flora thought. They were so unalike, mother and daughter, sharing little but the same grey-blue eye colour. She would have liked to possess some of her mother’s curves, but she had inherited her father’s physique, being tall and slim.

‘Would you like me to deal with the army chaps?’ she asked, thinking that at least she might spare both her parents and the unsuspecting officer in charge.

Lady Carmichael, however, looked horrified. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You cannot possibly take on such a task, it would be quite beyond you.’

‘I am twenty-three years old, and since you trust me with little more than flower arranging, I don’t see how you can have any idea what I am capable of.’

‘Flora!’

Lady Carmichael looked scandalised by this unexpected riposte. Flora was rather surprised at herself, for though she often disagreed with her mother, she rarely allowed herself to say so. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, feeling not at all contrite, ‘but I would very much like to feel useful, and I wished to spare you what can only be a painful process.’

‘Flora is quite right,’ the laird said, coming unexpectedly to her aid. ‘It will be difficult for us to relinquish the house. Perhaps we should delegate the task to her after all.’

‘Father, thank you.’

‘Andrew! You cannot mean that. Why Flora is— She has no experience at all. And besides, think of the proprieties. All those rough young soldiers.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Elizabeth, those rough young soldiers are British Tommies, whom I’m sure will treat both the house and our daughter with respect. Whatever the army’s intentions are for Glen Massan, it will require our home to be stripped of its contents. I am trying to spare you the trauma of witnessing that, and frankly I have little stomach for the sight, either.’ Lord Carmichael patted his wife’s hand. ‘Best you concentrate your energies on making the Lodge comfortable for us, my dear. If Flora makes a hash of things, I can always step in.’

It was not quite the wholehearted endorsement she would have liked, but it was nevertheless more than she had hoped. What was more, loathe as she was to admit it, her father was entitled to his reservations. ‘I shall do my best to ensure it doesn’t come to that,’ Flora said, pleased to hear that she sounded considerably more confident than she felt. It was wrong to think that any good could come from this horrible war, but it would be equally wrong for her not to seize the opportunity it provided to prove herself.

Outside, a horn honked, gravel scrunched and in the distance, a low rumble could be heard growing ever nearer. Flora ran to the window. ‘Speak of the devil. It’s an army staff car. A Crossley I think, Father. Alex would know.’ She gazed out in amazement at the convoy of dusty vehicles following behind the gleaming motor car. ‘Goodness, there are so many of them. Where will they sleep?’

‘Certainly not in the house. At least—I suppose we could accommodate some of the officers,’ Lady Carmichael said unconvincingly.

‘My dear,’ the laird said, ‘this will be their house very soon. They will sleep where they choose. In the meantime, I expect they will put up tents.’

‘On the lawn! In full sight! Andrew, you cannot...’

‘Elizabeth, you must allow Flora to worry about the details.’

As truck after truck pulled to a stuttering halt and what seemed to Flora like a whole battalion of men began to descend, she struggled not to feel quite overwhelmed.

‘It is like an invasion,’ her mother said in horror, and Flora couldn’t help but think that she was right.

The driver of the staff car pulled open a door and a polished, booted foot appeared. Flora straightened her back and took a deep breath. These are our brave boys, she reminded herself. ‘I think we’d better go and see what we can do to assist them.’

Her father gripped her shoulder. ‘Bravo,’ he said softly. ‘Get your mother to the Lodge first. Join me as soon as you can.’

Feeling anything but brave, Flora watched him leave before turning to her mother and pasting on a smile. ‘Well, it looks as though the war has arrived in Glen Massan.’

Chapter Two

Geraint listened distractedly as Colonel Aitchison droned on, reading out the army regulations, statutes and by-laws governing the requisition of the house in the manner of a judge delivering a death sentence. Across from him, seated on an ornately scrolled and gilded sofa, Lord Carmichael held himself rigidly, his face expressionless, though judging from the way his fingers curled and uncurled compulsively, this was merely the aristocratic stiff upper lip on full display.

A tall, thin man with a helmet of red hair and a neatly trimmed beard, the laird looked more like an academic of some sort than the exploitative landowner he surely was. There was an aesthetic quality to that long, narrow face, intelligence in that wide brow and those piercing eyes. Very piercing, Geraint thought, catching the man’s glance and finding himself being scrutinised with disconcerting thoroughness. He squared his shoulders and glared back, and was surprised when the laird gave him a wry smile in return.

As the colonel turned to the specifics of recompense, Geraint’s attention wandered. The drawing room was huge, the cornicing of the high ceilings formed in a geometric pattern that looked vaguely Oriental. A bay window at the far end looked out onto the gardens at the rear of the house, and at the opposite end, a massive white marble fireplace was flanked by a pair of statues bearing gilded torches. Aphrodite? Artemis? Athena? Knowing that he had not the slightest chance of attending university, and having besides a natural antipathy towards anything that smacked of privilege, Geraint had been dismissive of the classical elements of his education. All Greek goddesses looked pretty much the same to him.

The door opened and a girl burst in, startling the colonel into temporary silence. Her bright head of auburn hair gave her away immediately as the laird’s daughter. Geraint got to his feet several seconds before the portly colonel could manage to do the same. Not a girl, but a young woman in her early twenties. Tall and slim, clad in one of those white dresses that only the well-heeled could afford to wear, she had around her neck a strangely masculine little black silk cravat that served to emphasise her femininity.

‘Colonel, may I introduce you to my daughter, Flora.’

She didn’t walk across the room so much as float, though Geraint could see that her feet in their delicate little shoes were firmly planted on the antique rugs that covered the floor, and he saw also, because he took the trouble to look, that her ankles were as slim and elegant as the rest of her. Her hair, which she wore piled on top of her head, was a shade darker than her father’s, the colour more lustrous. Beneath it, there was just a touch of haughtiness in her startling blue-grey eyes and humour, too, in that generous mouth. She was no Greek goddess, but she was lovely.

And she was looking enquiringly at him now. ‘Corporal Cassell,’ her father said by way of introduction.

‘Corporal Cassell. How do you do?’

The hot dart of desire that made his belly clench took him entirely by surprise. Flora Carmichael, spoilt little rich girl, was most certainly not his type. She turned to him with one dark brow raised, holding out her genteel little hand. He caught a waft of her flowery scent and it was intoxicating. For a moment, for just a moment, he actually thought she felt the jolt of connection, too, as his fingers touched hers and her eyes widened a little. Then he remembered who he was and where he was. Women like Flora Carmichael did not look twice at men like him, and men like him did not fraternise with the enemy. He dropped her hand abruptly and sat back down, realising too late that he hadn’t even returned her greeting and had thus most likely confirmed her assumption that he was a complete boor before he’d even opened his mouth.

* * *

Flora took her place by her father’s side on the sofa, somewhat confused. Had she just been snubbed? Across the room, the rude corporal kept his eyes firmly on his commanding officer, allowing her to study him covertly. He looked to be about Robbie’s age, perhaps two or three years older than herself, though it was difficult to tell, for there was a hard edge to him that her elder brother did not possess. Jet-black hair, cropped ruthlessly short. Was he, then, a recent recruit? Dark eyes rimmed with thick dark lashes were set under a high, intelligent brow. His face was all angles, softened only by the fullness of his lower lip. It was a memorable face and a handsome one, though not in the least gentle or kind.

His attention switched, and he caught her staring at him. She refused to avert her gaze, though she could feel the colour creeping up her neck. What had she done to earn such overt antagonism? He was positively bristling with it.

‘Flora?’

She stared at her father blankly, her fingers straying to her cravat.

‘The colonel has been explaining that Corporal Cassell will be in day-to-day charge of the requisition handover. Unfortunately the lieutenant assigned to the role is indisposed.’

‘Naturally I will be keeping tabs on things,’ the colonel said. ‘I’m staying with an old colleague who lives just next door, a Colonel Patterson—do you know him, Lord Carmichael? We fought the Boers together, you know.’ Colonel Aitchison paused, looking somewhat confused. ‘What was I...’

‘The guided tour. Sir,’ the corporal prompted, none too subtly, ‘to ascertain which rooms can be utilised for what.’

His voice was unexpected, his accent softly lilted. ‘You are Welsh,’ Flora exclaimed in some surprise.

‘I am a soldier, Miss Carmichael.’

It was not just antagonism, he had obviously taken an instant dislike to her, which shouldn’t matter one whit, and most certainly should not hurt her. Flora got to her feet, forcing the colonel and the rude corporal to stand. He was taller than she expected, more intimidating as he stood there in his pristine uniform, his feet in their gleaming boots planted slightly apart, as if he was on guard duty and would challenge her right to pass. In her own home!

‘Let us proceed with the tour at once.’ Because the sooner this is over, the sooner I shall be rid of you, she implied as she strode past him, her nose in the air, knowing that she must look perfectly ridiculous as well as appearing dreadfully rude. ‘Good morning, Colonel.’

‘My daughter is right,’ she heard her father say, ‘the sooner the better. If that is all for now, Colonel?’

‘A few signatures, the rest can be ironed out later. As I said, I shan’t be far away. Hoping to bag a few grouse while I’m here, actually. Maybe even a salmon. Patterson was telling me there is excellent fishing on his stretch of the river. In the old days...’

The meeting was clearly over. Flora fumbled with the latch.

‘Allow me.’

Corporal Cassell reached around her, the sleeve of his jacket brushing her arm, ushering her through the open door. She was absurdly conscious of how slight she was compared to his broad physique. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She had expected him to return to the drawing room, but instead he followed her out to the Great Hall, wandering over to the stone fireplace and studying the display of claymores ranged in a wheel on the wall above it. ‘Do you keep these in readiness to repel an invasion by the English?’ he asked.

Flora rarely lost her temper, but she felt her hackles rise. This man was insufferable. ‘It may have escaped your notice, but we are actually fighting on the same side in this particular war.’

‘I doubt you and I will ever be on the same side, Miss Carmichael,’ Corporal Cassell said, turning his attention to the array of muskets in a case by the window. ‘You’d do well to make sure the colonel doesn’t clap eyes on these, else he’ll be requisitioning them.’

‘They would be of little use, since they are over a hundred years old.’

‘I’m willing to bet they’re still a damn sight more effective than what they’ve been giving our boys to train with,’ he exclaimed with surprising viciousness. ‘Broom handles, pitchforks, guns minus bullets if they are very lucky,’ he added, in answer to her enquiring look. ‘This war has caught the army on the hop. If you could but see...’ He stopped abruptly.

‘If I could but see what, Corporal Cassell?’

He shrugged and turned away to look at a large flag displayed on the wall.

‘The standard you are looking at was borne at Culloden,’ Flora said, addressing his back. ‘Though some of the clan fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie, others were on the side of the crown.’

The corporal made no reply. Thoroughly riled, and determined to force him to acknowledge her presence, Flora went to stand beside him. ‘Above the standard is our family crest, which is also carved over the front door. Tout Jour Prest. It means...’

‘Always ready. You see, I am not wholly uneducated.’

‘I did not think for a moment that you were. Why do you dislike me so much, Corporal?’

He twisted round suddenly, taking her off guard. ‘I bear you no ill will personally, Miss Carmichael, but I do not approve of your type.’

‘My type?’ His eyes, she realised, were not black but a very dark chocolate-brown. Though he clearly intended to intimidate her, she found the way he looked at her challenging. It was deliberately provocative. ‘And what, pray tell, do you mean by that?’

‘All this.’ He swept his arm wide. ‘This little toy castle of yours. All these guns and shields and standards commemorating years of repression. A monument, Miss Carmichael, to the rich and privileged who expect others to do the filthy business of earning their living for them.’

‘My father works extremely hard.’

‘Collecting rents.’

‘He does not— Good grief, are you some sort of communist?’

She could not help but be pleased at the surprise on his face. ‘What on earth would you know about communism?’ he demanded.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘I am a socialist and proud of it.’

‘Like Mr Keir Hardie? He has made himself most unpopular by campaigning against the war. Are you also a pacifist?’

‘A conchie? Hardly, given my uniform and my rank. What do you know of Keir Hardie? I wouldn’t have thought someone like you would be interested in him.’

‘Someone like me! A female, do you mean, or one of my class? Do you have any idea how patronising that sounds? Silly question, of course you do.’

‘I did not intend to insult you.’

‘Yes, you did, Corporal Cassell.’ Flora glared at him. ‘Please, feel free to continue with your barbs. Being a patriot, I am delighted to afford you the opportunity to practise something that gives you such obvious pleasure.’

To her astonishment, he burst out laughing. ‘I will when I can think of one. I must say, you are not at all what I was expecting.’

His backhanded compliment should most decidedly not be making her feel quite so pleased. Quite the contrary, she should have taken extreme umbrage by now, and left him to his own devices. Instead Flora discovered that she was enjoying herself. Corporal Cassell was rude and he made the most extraordinarily sweeping assumptions, but he did not talk to her as if she was witless. ‘I have never met a socialist before. Are they all as outspoken as you?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never met a laird’s daughter before. Are they all as feisty as you?’

‘Oh, I should think so. Centuries of trampling over serfs and turning crofters out of their homes into the winter snows leave their mark, you know.’

He smiled wryly, acknowledging the hit. ‘And then there is the red hair. Though it would be a crime to label it something so mundane as red.’