‘Walked from Ludlow.’ He looked exhausted, bedraggled. ‘Where is everyone? Where’s my father?’
‘They’ve all gone to the Thorntons. Giles, what’s the matter?’
‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Oh, Caro, everything.’ He sat down limply on the grass beside her. ‘I’ve been sent down.’ He stared at his feet as he spoke, as if he could not meet her eyes.
‘Sent down? From Cambridge? Giles, why?’ She did not entirely understand what it meant, but his tone told her that it was bad.
‘Debt,’ he said. ‘And other things. Oh, Caro, I’ve been such a fool!’ And then, ‘The Thorntons? Is Sophie engaged then? Oh, that might help. Father may not be quite so angry.’
‘I don’t know,’ she told him. ‘Nobody said anything. I think, maybe, old Mrs Thornton wanted to see Sophie.’
‘To decide if she’s good enough!’ He flared up, then sank his head in his hands. ‘To come home in disgrace just now! Caro, I won’t do it to them.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Pretend you never saw me! I’ll find some way. Promise me, Caroline, word of honour.’
‘Promise what?’
‘Not to say I came.’
‘Giles, I can’t. I don’t tell lies.’
‘You won’t need to. Why should they ask if I’ve been here, when there’s no reason in the world why I should have been? Just don’t say anything.’ He spaced out the words, slowly, for emphasis. ‘That’s easy enough. You’ve never been much of a talker. And then when I come back, with my fortune made, we’ll laugh about it, won’t we Caro?’
‘But where will you go?’
‘To the devil, the way I feel right now. No, no.’ He saw her look of horror. ‘Only funning, Caro. I’ll look about me; join the army perhaps; lord knows they need men badly enough.’
‘Your father would not like that. He means you to succeed him in the living here.’
‘In a thousand years’ time! Please God!’ He added belatedly. ‘No, Caro, that’s all over, all done with. He’ll know soon enough. They are bound to write to him. No need to hurry with the bad news. But the Church is not for me, nor I for the Church. I have it! I’ll go to Uncle George in Hereford. Why did I not think of that sooner? There, you have done me good already, little Caroline, got my mind working again. Of course: Uncle George. He’s always been good to me. Sent me ten guineas when I first went up, and told me to be careful what company I kept. Oh, my God, careful!’
‘Giles dear,’ she said. ‘I think your father would rather you came to him than to your Uncle George. I don’t think he and your mother are very fond of Mr Besmond, even though he is her brother.’
‘Fond! I should think not indeed. Uncle George and his father opposed their marriage tooth and claw. Mammon, they think he is, or Belial or Beelzebub or something. But he’s a rich man, Caroline, and my uncle, and he’ll help me. I shall go to him at once. Say nothing to anyone, and I’ll be back in a few days with better news. A week at the most.’ His face fell ludicrously. ‘Caro, love, can you lend me some money?’
‘Me? Lend you money? You’re joking me.’ But she knew he was doing nothing of the kind. ‘Much better stay and talk to papa,’ she told him. ‘I know he’d want you to.’
‘And how he’d scold,’ said Giles. ‘I have it! Caroline, lend me your pearls.’
‘My pearls?’ She could not believe her ears.
‘The ones your mother left you. You know where they are. In my mother’s jewel case. They’re yours, to do what you like with. Please, Caro? They’d pay my way to my uncle and he’ll arrange to get them back for you. I promise he will.’
She did not quite understand what he meant, but she had never been able to refuse him anything, and after a little more persuasion went into the quiet house and upstairs to Mrs Trentham’s room. Nothing in the house was ever locked up. The jewel case, with its scanty contents, always stood on the dressing table in the big bedroom, and her neat fingers easily opened the little, so-called ‘secret’ compartment where the string of pearls was kept.
She loved the feel of them and was angry with herself for minding so much that she must give them to Giles.
‘Thank you, little Caro.’ He surprised her with a swift kiss on the cheek, then turned and hurried back the way he had come, down the footpath through the orchard.
Left alone, she picked up the Latin grammar, then dropped it again. Her peaceful afternoon was irredeemably spoiled. If only it had all been a dream, a bad dream. Perhaps, if she pretended hard enough, it would turn out to have been.
She was very quiet when the family came back from Mrs Thornton’s house, but they were so full of happy talk that nobody noticed. Mrs Thornton had given her approval. Dr Thornton had proposed for Sophie, and been accepted, and the wedding was to be quite soon, at Mrs Thornton’s express request. Mr Trentham looked a little grave when he said that.
The old lady had summoned him into her boudoir and explained the situation gruffly, abruptly. ‘It’s not the match I’d have picked for my son,’ she had said. ‘Forgive me, but I’ve always been used to plain dealing. I’d have liked an older girl, and a richer one, but the boy’s mad for your Sophie, and I want to see him settled. I’m a dying woman, Mr Trentham, and I’d like to see the new mistress into the house before I go. She’s a sweet child; she’ll do. My son don’t want her told about me, and he’s right, but I thought it only fair to explain to you.’
So Sophie was to be married at Michaelmas and the family talk was all of bride-clothes. They must drive into Ludlow, Mrs Trentham said, and visit the linen drapers there.
‘What a happy, busy summer we are going to have. Of course I shall go.’ She overruled her husband’s protest. ‘Sophie would make a sad mull of things without me. And, besides, the outing will do me good. I’m sure you can spare me the horses from the farm this once, Mr Trentham.’
Chapter Two
Left behind from this outing, Caroline found it hard to concentrate on her book. She had had a moment of horrible fright when Mrs Trentham was getting ready and had reached for her jewel case.
‘And now, something to dress up my old gown.’ She had looked thoughtfully at the box’s frugal contents. ‘Might I, just this once, borrow your pearls, Caroline?’ And then, changing her mind as she frequently did these days. ‘No, I’ll wear my cornelians.’
A week had passed without a word from Giles, and Caroline had pushed his visit so successfully to the back of her mind that this moment of fright had come as a rude awakening. And then, later in the morning, after the party had left, the post had come and Nurse Bramber had exclaimed:
‘Here’s a letter from Jesus College, but it’s not in Master Giles’ hand. I do hope he has got one of those fellowships Mr Trentham used to speak of. That’s a piece of news the master could do with and no mistake.’ And then, ‘Why, Miss Carrie, what’s the matter? You look as if you’d seen a ghost in the glass.’
‘It’s nothing.’ But she was sure that the letter brought news of the disgrace Giles had spoken of. Oh, the poor Trenthams…She was glad to put away her books and join Nurse Bramber in the fine sewing she was doing for Sophie’s trousseau.
‘That’s never the carriage already?’ Nurse Bramber dropped her work in her lap.
‘Surely not. They’d hardly have had time for their luncheon at the Feathers.’ But Caroline got up and moved over to the window that commanded a view of the short drive. ‘It is they,’ she said. ‘I hope nothing is the matter.’
‘They can’t have done much shopping. Miss Sophie will be cross.’ Nurse Bramber moved anxiously into the hall and opened the front door as the carriage drew up on the sweep. Something must be very wrong indeed. Mr Trentham had the door open and the steps down before the carriage stopped, and was soon carrying his wife into the house.
‘Thank God, nurse!’ He saw her waiting on the steps. ‘Prepare Mrs Trentham’s bed. Quickly. And you,’ he turned to the coachman, ‘be so good as to go to Dr Thornton’s and ask him to come at once.’ Pausing for a moment in the hall, to s
hift his half-conscious wife to a more comfortable position in his arms, he looked down and saw the letter on the side table. ‘Ah!’ It almost seemed as if he had expected it. ‘Caroline.’ He paused. ‘No, that must wait. I’d like to see you in the study as soon as we have got Mamma to bed.’ He turned away and carried her upstairs, followed by Sophie, who had emerged, looking at once cross and frightened, from the carriage.
Half an hour later, Mr Trentham joined Caroline in the study, where she had crept, burdened by an indefinable, overwhelming sense of guilt, while the rest of the family scurried to and fro ministering to Mrs Trentham. ‘She’s resting now.’ His face was bleak. ‘I wish the doctor would come. Now, Caroline, I have to ask you a question.’ He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small packet and handed it to her. ‘When did you last see these?’
She knew it was her pearls before she had undone the paper. ‘Last week.’ She raised frightened eyes to his. ‘When you were at the Thorntons. I promised not to tell.’
‘Thank God for that. You gave them to Giles? He had your permission?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She was glad that it seemed to make him feel better. ‘Not gave.’ She went on to explain. ‘Lent. He said he would return them when he had seen his uncle.’ She could see that Mr Trentham had the letter from Cambridge crushed in his hand. ‘Is he in bad trouble, poor Giles?’ she asked.
‘Yes. But not a thief, thank God. He’s gone to George Besmond? Well, I suppose that is something to be thankful for. Ah, there’s the doctor. Caroline, I should scold you, but there is no time.’ And he left her to her wretched thoughts.
Creeping out into the hall a little while later, she found Sophie furiously prowling about the house. ‘Well, miss!’ She pounced on Caroline. ‘And what, pray, have you to say for yourself? Little thief!’
‘What do you mean?’ She looked down at the pearls, which she had twisted absentmindedly round her wrist. ‘They are mine,’ she protested.
‘When you are grown up! Now look at the trouble you have made. Gave them to Giles, I suppose! And he has no more sense than to pawn them with Mr Brown, the Ludlow jeweller. Well, of course he knew with whom he was dealing. We are not quite unknown in the district! Told Papa he had been waiting for the chance to come out and tell him about it. Mrs Thornton had commissioned Papa to have her rubies reset for me,’ she explained angrily. ‘And now look what you and Giles have done! Papa came out, white as a sheet, having spent all the money meant for my bride-clothes in redeeming your wretched pearls. And blurted the whole out to Mamma, asking when she had last seen them. So of course she had hysterics and it was all questions and sal volatile and we had to come home with no shopping done and no money! I’ve never seen Papa so angry. What has Giles done? What did he say to you? And what possessed you not to speak of it? If Mamma dies it will be all your fault. And how am I to get married without bride-clothes?’ A new thought struck her. ‘If Mamma dies, I shan’t be able to get married! Caroline, I could kill you!’
‘Giles made me promise…’
‘Giles! Always Giles! We pinch and scrape so that he can go to the university, and now look what he does to us! All wasted! With a proper dowry I could have had Tom Staines!’ And then, horrified at what she had let out. ‘Caroline, if you ever breathe a word of that, I really will kill you. Promise?’
‘Yes.’ Caroline was beyond resisting yet another dangerous promise. And, besides, Dr Thornton had emerged from the main bedroom and was coming downstairs talking encouragement to Mr Trentham.
‘Keep her quiet,’ he was saying. ‘Absolute rest. No worry. I hope you have news of the young rascal soon, but do not let her be fretting about him. And as to the bride-clothes,’ — he saw Sophie awaiting him in the downstairs hall — ‘so long as I get my beautiful bride, who cares about them!’
‘You told him!’ Sophie turned angrily on her father as soon as the door had shut on her betrothed. ‘How could you, Papa! If Giles is in bad disgrace, Mrs Thornton will forbid the banns, as like as not. Is he?’ she asked anxiously.
‘I am afraid so. But no need to be anxious on your own account.’ His tone was a reproof. ‘Young Thornton has said the most handsome things and promised it shall make no difference. He wanted to pay for your bride-clothes himself, but of course I could not allow that. You will always find, my dear, that it is best to tell the truth and shame the devil.’ He looked at Caroline as he said this and she retired to her room in a new flood of tears.
A letter came from George Besmond two days later, having been delayed in the slow, cross mail from Hereford. It enclosed his own draft to cover the money Giles had received for the pearls, and an incoherent note of apology from Giles himself. Mr Trentham looked very grave and showed neither letter to anyone.
‘Mr Besmond is sending Giles to India,’ he announced at dinner.
‘To India!’ exclaimed Sophie. ‘Oh, Giles has all the luck!’
‘Will he come home first?’ asked Caroline.
‘No,’ said her father.
‘Mamma will mind,’ said Sophie.
‘I am afraid so, but Dr Thornton says there is to be absolutely no excitement. And, besides, I do not wish to see Giles.’
‘But Mamma is better?’ asked Caroline, still overwhelmed with guilt.
‘Much better. You must not be looking so wretched, child. I know you only did it for the best, and indeed, as it has worked out, who is to say you were not right? I hope that India will be the making of Giles, and his uncle seems truly pleased that he went to him in his trouble.’ He smiled a little wryly. George Besmond had enjoyed the little triumph of saving his nephew from certain disgrace, and had not spared his brother-in-law in his letter.
Luckily, Mrs Trentham was still too weak to ask to see it. Warm June gave way to hot July, with the garden a blaze of hollyhocks and sweet-scented roses, but still she kept to her bed, and Dr Thornton, who now visited most days, began to look anxious and urge that she be encouraged to get up and come downstairs.
‘To sit in the air would do her the world of good,’ he told Mr Trentham after one of these visits. ‘Your garden smells so delicious, it would cheer her up, I am sure.’
‘I wish we could persuade her,’ said Mr Trentham, ‘but perhaps until the shock of Giles’ going has worn off a little…’
‘Young wretch,’ said Thornton. ‘Has he any idea, I wonder, of the harm he has done?’
‘I hope not.’ Trentham silenced him with a warning glance.
But Caroline had heard. She had been surprised to be denied access to Mrs Trentham’s sickroom but had accepted Nurse Bramber’s explanation that the fewer people the invalid saw for the present the better it would be for her. Now, she began to wonder anxiously whether there was not more to it.
‘Papa.’ She approached Mr Trentham when he returned from seeing the doctor out. ‘Is Mamma very angry with Giles and me? Is that why I may not run errands for her?’
‘Dear child,’ he was looking haggard with worry, ‘she is not quite herself again yet. She does not feel fit for company.’
‘Company! But Papa…’ She stopped, taking it in. ‘I did not understand,’ she said. ‘It’s all my fault, isn’t it?’ She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘It is because of me that she won’t come downstairs? She doesn’t want to see me? She thinks it’s my fault that Giles has been sent away?’
He could not deny it. Adoring Giles as she did, Mrs Trentham had focused all her resentment on Caroline. ‘She is not quite reasonable at the moment,’ he explained to the white-faced child. ‘Women get these fancies at her age, and must be humoured. I am more sorry than I can say, my dear, but you must try not to mind it.’
‘Mind it?’ said Caroline. ‘But, Papa, if that is why she will not come downstairs, I must go away. You always said that it was better to face things as they are. Only,’ she swallowed a sob, ‘where shall I go?’
Dr Thornton, who was no fool, had reached the same conclusion as Caroline, and put it to Mr Trentham when he called next day. ‘It is time
Mrs Trentham came downstairs.’ They had adjourned to the study. ‘It is doing her no good to stay cooped-up in her bedroom. There is some little fancy about Caroline, is there not?’
‘I am afraid so,’ said Trentham ruefully. ‘It’s hard on the child.’
‘And bad for Mrs Trentham. Has Caroline no relatives of her own that she could visit for a while? I know you treat her quite as your own, but surely…’
‘It’s not easy.’ Trentham had been thinking anxiously on very much the same lines and was glad of a confidant. ‘I look on you quite as a member of the family already. I’d be grateful for your advice, Thornton.’ He plunged into the story of Frances Winterton’s arrival, Caroline’s birth and the one visit from the Duke of Cley and his ladies. ‘So far as I know,’ he concluded, ‘they are all the kin Caroline has aside from some cousins Mrs Winterton spoke of in Sussex, who’ve done nothing about her. Her mother sent her a doll once, and the Duke makes her an allowance but, to tell you the truth, that has become a problem too, and one I am afraid that Mrs Trentham has begun to resent. He has never increased it, you see.’
‘And with the way the cost of living has risen during this endless war…awkward for you. And I can understand, too, that the Chevenham household is hardly one to which you would wish to send a ten-year-old child. A very curious ménage indeed, as I am sure you must know as well as I do. Amazing to think that that notorious charmer, Frances Winterton, is your little Caroline’s mother. You would hardly call the child a beauty.’
‘No. I am afraid she was a disappointment to the Duke when he came. Poor child, she was quite beglamoured by that worthless mother of hers. It was then that the trouble started, I’m sorry to say. She had been quite a favourite of Mrs Trentham’s before, but naturally she minded seeing the child pine and mope over a creature like Frances Winterton.’ He did not mention his wife’s jealousy of himself. That was his own affair, not to be mentioned even to a future son-in-law.
The Lost Garden (The Purchas Family Series Book 5) Page 4