The Stolen Years. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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the dates of the bottles were anything to judge by. Gavin, having spent part of every summer since early childhood at his uncle and aunt’s in Limoges, with occasional trips to nearby Bordeaux, knew good wine.
October came and the nights grew cold. The leaves turned from red and gold to bronze, and each evening they lit the huge fireplace in the study, the smallest room in the house and the easiest to heat. It was here and in the kitchen that Greta and he spent most of their time, talking about their lives, about Skye and Edinburgh, the MacLeod coal business, the summers in France where Gavin had learned how porcelain was made.
Greta listened, enthralled, for Gavin was a good storyteller, adding creative license when he felt it was required, in an effort to make her laugh and forget some of her sadness. Sometimes she would play the piano—which was surprisingly well tuned, for having spent so long silent—and Gavin thought of Flora.
Then one day he woke up and the forest had transformed into a magical, snow-covered fairyland that glistened in the morning sunlight. It made him realize just how long he’d been there and, as at the hospital, he was overwhelmed with guilt for allowing himself to fall into the comfortable rhythm with Greta, and making no attempt to get back to the front. Looking out the window, he realized that wouldn’t be possible now until spring. His leg still hurt and the limp remained, and in the back of his mind he wondered if it would ever heal. But he shunned that idea, convinced, with the invincibility of youth, that everything resolved itself at some point.
He got up and went to the window, feeling the cold, dry air mix with warm sun on his skin. Below, a trail of tiny hoofprints in the virgin snow told him deer were about. All at once he thought of Flora, ashamed that, of late, her image was somewhat hazy. He loved her, of course, but his desire and fondness for Greta was intensifying, particularly since two nights ago, when he’d heard her weeping in her room. He’d entered and sat next to her in the dark, stroking her hair. Then—he wasn’t quite sure how—she was in his arms, and their lips had met, hers closed until gently pried open, her surprise and innocent response forcing him to draw back. But he’d stayed, holding her in his arms, and there had been little sleep for him that night.
He dressed, knowing Greta would be waiting in the kitchen for them to have breakfast. They’d become like a couple, spending their days and much of their nights together. Gavin wondered with a shudder just how long he could stand the longing he felt when she laid her head against his chest, her eyes filled with love and hope. He had to keep strict tabs on himself, sure that she was unaware—as were most young girls—of the inevitable consequences of her actions. He loved her too, in his own way, but most of all he wanted her, and being so close day and night was becoming torture.
Later that day it snowed again and they sat in the study, Gavin trying to concentrate on his book, a treatise on the Franco-Prussian War, while Greta worked on a half-finished tapestry she’d found in an upstairs cupboard, oblivious of what her presence was doing to his frayed nerves. He snapped the book shut. “Damn the snow. We can’t even get out for a walk.”
“I like it. It’s so cozy being inside, watching it fall. Especially with you,” she murmured, blushing.
“I wish you’d stop that.” He got up and poked the fire. “I’ll be off as soon as the weather permits. My leg will be better by then. There’s nothing to stop me from trying to get back to my unit. I’ve stayed far too long as it is.”
“But I thought you were happy here,” she whispered, the tapestry abandoned, eyes brimming with hurt surprise.
“How can I be happy, Greta, when I should be doing my duty for my country, not lounging here doing nothing.” He poked the fire harder and a log fell sideways, sending sparks up the chimney. “I can’t spend the rest of my life rotting here. You know that.”
“Have I done something wrong?” she asked, troubled.
“Of course not,” he replied testily, hating himself for causing her consternation and bewilderment but unable to help it.
“Then what is it, Gavin, dear?” she asked, getting up. “Tell me. Something’s wrong. I can feel there’s something you don’t want to tell me.”
“It’s nothing. Nothing you’d understand,” he muttered, placing the poker back on its stand next to the fire.
“Why? Perhaps if you explained, I might.” She stood next to him, waiting for him to encircle her in his arms before raising her lips to his.
He pulled away and crossed over to the window. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said weakly. “You’re so innocent. A baby. You—you have no idea what it is like for a man to be close to you, day and night, and not—it doesn’t matter. The least said the better. I’ll get some wood in before dark.”
“No.” She stopped him, eyes glinting. “You are going to tell me exactly what it is I’m doing wrong. I won’t let you fob me off with excuses. I thought we were happy together. Almost as if we were married,” she added, blushing again.
“But married people don’t just—oh, forget it, Greta. You’ll understand one day.”
“No. I want to understand now, Gavin—there may never be a ‘one day.’ I know married people sleep together in the same bed. Is it something to do with that?”
He looked down at her, ashamed of himself, and reached for her hand. “They do more than just sleep together, my darling.”
“I had sort of gathered that. Could we do that other thing?” She came close, face flushed and eyes alight. “Would it make you happy?”
“No.” He shook his head firmly. “It wouldn’t be right. We’re not married, and well—you could end up having a baby.”
“Can you at least explain it to me, Gavin? Then I could decide, couldn’t I?”
“For Christ’s sake, Greta,” he exclaimed, embarrassed.
“Well, it can’t be that awful. After all, most women must do it, don’t they? I want to be yours, darling, all yours…whatever that means.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I would be betraying my loyalty to Franz.”
“Nothing’s wrong anymore, Gavin,” she said, drawing nearer as evening closed in and shadows bounced off the faded brocade walls. “That’s all the past now. We don’t know what will happen tomorrow or the day after, when the war will end, or…or anything. I want to feel married to you, even if we’re not. And maybe someday we can be.”
“No!” he exclaimed, Flora’s face flashing before him. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? Don’t you love me?”
“Of course I love you, Greta, but—oh, it’s too difficult to explain,” he said, pulling her close and casting Flora from his mind as his hand slipped to the small of her back and he pressed her body gently against his. She stiffened. “Do you understand, darling?” he whispered. “Are you sure you want to know, my Greta? Are you certain?” His senses dimmed as once more he made her feel his erection, barely hearing her whispered assent before leading her toward the large daybed.
One by one he undid the tiny buttons of her high-necked blouse, swallowed hard at her quick intake of breath when his hands reached her breast. Still he continued, unhurried, shedding each garment until she stood before him, her smooth, white skin gleaming in the shadows, her hair a burnished mane highlighted by the glow of the flames. Her eyes were misty now, innocent fear replaced by primeval female desire as she reached up, swept away the golden strands that had fallen over her breasts and stepped away from him.
“My God, you’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman on earth,” he whispered, awed yet somewhat hesitant. This was not one of the French whores at Paris Plage whom he’d paid to experiment with, a brief sexual fling like Annelise. He was about to make Greta a woman, and the knowledge was both frightening and exhilarating.
“Gavin,” she whispered, cheeks ablaze, her voice husky with desire.