And yet. There was a purpose and serenity to our days. Hearing the children play hide-and-seek in the garden, it was easy to forget the fighting overseas. I set up a studio in the least dilapidated of the barns and painted the blossom in the orchard. As we gathered the apples and pears, I felt a sense of fulfillment. Our queer triangle seemed a haven of sanity compared to the war. My silent wish, as I opened my eyes each morning, was that nothing should disrupt our peace.
When the house became too cold, we moved into a barn where the stove was more reliable. I slept in a box bed that had been built into the wall, and Duncan and Bunny spread rugs on the floor. I sent the children to stay with Clive and for weeks on end we saw no one. While the two men tended the animals, I concocted meals from whatever ingredients I could find. When I could, I worked. I painted the skeletons of the trees, the thick cocoon of snow that for a short time effaced the world. I sensed that if I waited long enough things would right themselves. As we huddled together during the dark winter evenings, the taut coil of Duncan’s desire began to unravel. Each morning, I gazed out over the frozen landscape and looked for signs of spring.
When Bunny first announced his intention to leave, I greeted the news like a welcome liberation. It was what I had dreamed of for so long. Yet I knew I had to be careful. I hung Duncan’s portrait of him above the fireplace when we were at last able to move back into the house, as a reminder of the place he had held. I wrote to him with our news. Bunny responded with details of his work in France, the terrible plight of the refugees he was helping. Duncan listened in silence as I read his letters out loud.
It is New Year’s Eve. You are wearing a dove-gray dress with a lace collar and trim. Leonard presides, handing round drinks. I sit opposite you and try to make you laugh with anecdotes of my Christmas at Garsington. You look tired. Your eyes have that opaque look I have come to fear. I want to reach across and put my arm round you. Instead, I describe the pantomime we all took part in; Ottoline’s extraordinary disguises. I ask how you are. Before you can say, Leonard is upon us, fussing in case you are tired. You shake your head when he suggests you should go to bed. I watch you rally, fire a question at Maynard, then one at Clive. Leonard hovers for a moment, then seeing he cannot prevail, resumes his role as host. Inevitably, the conversation turns to the war.