The Forbidden Promise. Lorna Cook

when she realised his behaviour was anything but romantic.

      ‘Henry?’ she had questioned, when he had pulled her closer again. He had smiled as if he’d done nothing wrong and she doubted herself. Was she being too prudish? The silver-grey silk ball gown clung to her skin as she danced, and she had caught Henry staring at her chest on more than one occasion. He had clearly found it a challenge to listen to her conversation, to drag his eyes up to meet hers. She had begun rambling, in order to cover her embarrassment, her growing sense of disappointment. When she had excused herself to powder her nose, uncertain as to what was happening and if she should allow it, he had cornered her, pulling her into the darkened orangery, which was unlit in case enemy aircraft should spot a light through the glass panes.

      Constance knew men had needs and she wasn’t unworldly. She knew what those needs were and what part she’d be expected to play. While she’d been told that a girl should save herself for her husband, there were many girls at her Swiss school who had bragged joyously that they’d been up to far more than they should with the opposite sex. But as much as she thought she might eventually want it with Henry she wasn’t quite sure. Not yet. She didn’t want him to go off her but whatever was happening between them needed to permeate. Just a little longer. Just until she was sure.

      ‘You look beautiful tonight,’ he had said, his eyes raking her body.

      And then he had kissed her, his lips crashing against hers, his hands holding her shoulders. She had tried to put her arms around his waist, her eyes wide open, uncertain if she was responding correctly, unfamiliar with how far she should let this go. His eyes were closed and he was slowly ushering her further into the deserted orangery, until she was up against an oversized hothouse palm her mother had been cultivating for the best part of a decade.

      His whisky-soaked breath had coated her tongue as he kissed her harder and faster and she wasn’t sure if it was this, or the realisation her skirt was being lifted that made her suddenly rigid.

      ‘Henry!’ she chastised as she pushed free of his grasp. She attempted to laugh, to brush aside his behaviour.

      ‘Come here.’ Henry held out his hand. Tentatively she had taken it. Perhaps it was simply the party spirit and a little too much to drink that had motivated him into this small bout of madness. Maybe now he realised he had been pushing her a little too much and was relenting.

      ‘Haven’t you wanted this as long as I have?’ he asked, nuzzling her neck.

      Disappointment flooded her. Had he noticed her reaction to him and simply disregarded it? She didn’t know what to say. Until this evening she had never seen this side of him and it had confused her.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly. It was all happening too fast, and not at all like she’d ever imagined. ‘I’m not sure … like this … here …?’

      ‘There’s nobody about. We could find a dark corner; over there looks good. I’ll lay my jacket down for you so you don’t get cold on the tiles.’ The suggestion of chivalry was misplaced.

      ‘No, Henry, I don’t …’

      ‘If you don’t know what to do, I’ll show you. Now come on, lie down over here.’

      ‘No, Henry.’ She was firmer now. She finally knew what she wanted and it wasn’t this. ‘No.’

      ‘If you loved me …’ he said, incensed, letting his suggestion hang.

      She knew in that very moment that she did not. Disappointment had engulfed her. How could it all end like this, so horribly?

      Without another word she had turned and left Henry standing in the orangery, breaking into a run until she had found safety in numbers in the ballroom.

      She needed to be as far away from Henry as possible, to think. And so she had lied. A migraine so painful she thought her head would explode. Her mother had baulked at the picture Constance had drawn in front of their guests and excused her daughter – it was almost midnight, and guests would be leaving soon. But instead of running to her bedroom Constance ran into the cool night air, past the fountain, skirting the ornamental garden and down towards the loch in the distance where she had always found her own haven of peace and calm. No guests would brave the dark journey down to the water’s edge for fear they would trip to their deaths in the blackout and miss out on the Champagne her parents were doling out from their carefully hoarded supply in the cellars under the house. She was entirely alone.

      Dangling her feet into the cool water, Constance looked back through the darkness to where she could just about make out the outline of the baronial mansion. Inside were fifty or so of her mother and father’s closest friends, and barely any of her own, still celebrating Constance’s birthday with little regard for her absence and even less for the war outside Invermoray House.

      It was no longer the faint noise of the band playing, but rather another sound that suddenly caught her attention, causing her to look skyward. A smattering of low grey cloud hid something she sensed was looming closer in the dark night sky.

      It took Constance a few seconds to understand she was listening to the sound of a Spitfire engine. But far from its usual smooth whir, it sputtered and whined as if gasping for breath. She saw its outline against the darkness of the sky above and the black mass of forest on the horizon as the plane dropped from the sky. Its engine went almost completely silent before it juddered to life and then died again, the propellers slowing to a complete stop. And Constance realised the pilot must still be inside, trying to restart the engine instead of doing the sensible thing and parachuting himself to safety. Perhaps in the blackout he had no idea how close to the ground he was.

      As the plane sank even further, Constance knew it was going to crash and she scrambled to her feet, moving quickly over the jutting rock in case the plane should bank suddenly towards her. But it did not.

      The Spitfire came level with her before hitting the water at such a horrific angle, Constance was sure one of its wings had been ripped clean away, sending spray high into the air. Instinctively she turned away to avoid the large splashes. After the loss of its wing the plane spun and tumbled on the water until Constance didn’t know which way round it was. Where was the pilot? It took only a few seconds for the weight of water to fill the vessel before the plane gurgled and disappeared below the surface; the water smothering it entirely as if it had never been there at all. There was no sign of the pilot. No noise of him swimming to safety in the darkness. The false tide from the crash lapped strongly against the rock.

      She stood shaking, her eyes wide, her breaths coming in quick succession, her hands still tightly clutching her shoes and stockings. Constance knew she had to do something, but her body refused her call to action. She was rooted to the spot, staring across the water at where the plane had been. She was torn. If she ran back to the house for help there would be no time. If she did not do something, he would be dead within minutes, if not already. She had to save the pilot.

      Forcing herself to move, Constance clambered down the rock and into the water, cutting her leg on a sharp edge as she did so. She couldn’t feel the pain, or the blood as it trickled down her ankle mixing with the water; so intense was her need to reach the stricken pilot, who she imagined hopelessly fighting with his safety belts and the hatch above. Her silk evening dress clung to her legs as she strode as quickly as she could through the water in the direction of where the plane had sunk from view.

      Inside the house the grandfather clock in the entrance hall struck midnight, and the band played on to revellers unaware of the events outside. Congratulations were passed to Constance at the close of her twenty-first birthday. Such a shame she had felt unwell. Perhaps too much Champagne had taken its toll. Her bed was the best place for her. Shortly the band would finish, guests dispersing – their carefully saved petrol coupons taking them the distance to their homes and neighbouring estates – and then the housekeeper would begin the ritual of closing Invermoray House down for the night.

      As the water reached Constance’s waist she pushed her feet off from the pebbled loch-bed and let go of her shoes and stockings, so that they drifted away behind her as she swam further into the darkness.