“Why did she hide the diary?” Emma asked.
“She didn’t want her parents to destroy it,” Mrs. Hilliard replied.
“Why would they wish to destroy it?” asked Lilian, frowning.
“Therein lies a tragic tale.” Mrs. Hilliard gave the portrait a lingering glance, then turned her head to face us as she began, “Bright, pretty, and full of life, Cissy was her family’s best hope of ascending the social ladder. I hasten to point out that her marriage to Albert Anscombe would have been as advantageous to him as it would have been to her. The Anscombes needed money, and the Pargetters had it. The dutiful daughter and the dutiful son knew full well that they would help their respective families by marrying. It was a match made in a dutiful Victorian heaven.”
“Sounds ghastly,” I said.
“You’re not a well-brought-up Victorian girl,” said Mrs. Hilliard. “Cissy derived an immense amount of satisfaction from the prospect of pleasing Albert’s parents as well as her own. She enjoyed her extended stays at Anscombe Manor, and the Anscombes were delighted with her. The servants approved of her, too. The cook was especially fond of her—fond enough to swap recipes with her. It was a lowly housemaid, however, who showed Cissy the priest hole. The maid had discovered it while dusting the paneled walls.”
“A housemaid,” Emma said under her breath as another piece of the puzzle dropped into place.
“When her parents offered to send her to India, Cissy rejoiced,” Mrs. Hilliard continued. “She could scarcely wait to see her handsome fiancé strutting about in his scarlet tunic, she looked forward to meeting his friends, and she was enthralled by the notion of exploring a country that was so unlike her own. She left England in high spirits, but within a month of her arrival in India, it all went wrong.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“She became desperately ill,” Mrs. Hilliard replied. “And Albert, being young, carefree, and careless, neglected her. One can hardly blame him. The sparkling girl who’d charmed his fellow officers was suddenly feverish, haggard, and bedridden. He paid dutiful visits to her sickroom, but they were often cut short by more pleasurable pursuits.”
“Albert had regimental duties to perform as well,” Lilian pointed out. “Surely the aunt who accompanied Cissy to India would have been better equipped to nurse her niece than he was.”
“She was an excellent nurse,” Mrs. Hilliard acknowledged, “but though she did her best, Cissy’s health continued to decline. Regimental medical officers were called in, to no avail. Finally, the chief consultant summoned a local physician who specialized in the treatment of febrile diseases. The local physician spent many hours at Cissy’s bedside, monitoring her condition and giving her various medications he’d developed in his private practice. The medications helped, but they had an unfortunate, if predictable, side effect.” She turned her head to look again at Cissy’s portrait. “The doctor and the patient fell in love.”
Lilian and I heaved sentimental sighs.
“Of course they did,” said Lilian. “How could they help it?”
“They couldn’t,” I said. “She was his damsel in distress and he was her knight in shining armor.”
“Albert had only himself to blame,” Emma said severely. “He should have paid more attention to his intended.”
“Albert never got the chance to blame himself,” said Mrs. Hilliard, “because Cissy never told him or anyone else of her love for the doctor. Her sense of duty kept her from following her heart. She couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her family.”
“In Victorian times, a doctor would have occupied a lower rank in society than the son of a titled squire,” Lilian allowed.
“The doctor’s social status wasn’t the problem,” said Mrs. Hilliard. “The problem was that he was Indian and Hindu, while she was English and Christian.”
“Oh, dear,” said Lilian, her face falling. “It would have been difficult, if not impossible, for them to overcome the appalling prejudices that infected so many minds at the time. I doubt that either his family or hers would have approved of their relationship. If he and Cissy had married, they could have found themselves cut adrift from everyone they held dear.”
“It was the wrong period in history for them to fall in love,” said Tilly.
I jumped at the sound of her voice. It had been so long since she’d spoken that I’d almost forgotten she was there.
“Before the Indian Rebellion began in 1857,” she went on, “the British East India Company encouraged intermarriage as a way of promoting commercial trade. After the rebellion, there was a much stricter separation between the two communities. Those who flouted convention often paid a high price. They ran the risk of being disowned by their families, dismissed from their jobs, and harassed by their neighbors. Some were killed. The extremely wealthy could get away with it, but a doctor wouldn’t have had the resources to protect himself and his wife from abuse.”
“Well said,” Mrs. Hilliard observed, “and quite correct. Are you a historian, Miss Trout?”
Lilian, Emma, and I chorused, “No.”
“No,” Tilly murmured, blushing.
“You have a better-than-average grasp of the period,” Mrs. Hilliard said with an approving nod. “When Cissy’s aunt saw which way the wind was blowing, she whisked her niece back to England. Her decision was understandable, but it had tragic consequences. Cissy wasn’t strong enough to endure the rigors of a lengthy sea voyage. She suffered a relapse of her illness and succumbed to it only a few weeks after she came home to Leyburn Farm.” Mrs. Hilliard looked toward the broad window in front of the walnut desk. “She was buried in our section of the churchyard in Skeaping village.”
“The poor child took her secret with her to the grave,” Lilian said, shaking her head sadly.
“Not quite,” I said. “She hid her Indian diary to keep it from being tossed on the fire. She knew her story was scandalous, but she clearly wanted someone to read it someday. She wanted someone to know about the great love of her life.” I looked at Mrs. Hilliard. “She’s lucky that someone was you.”
“True,” said Mrs. Hilliard. “Had it been her mother or her father, I doubt that I would have had the privilege of reading her words.”
“She left the golden heart behind as well,” Emma said quietly. “Did she write about it in her diary?”
“She did,” said Mrs. Hilliard. “Toward the end of the diary, she describes the final embrace she shared with the doctor. Before they said their last good-byes, he presented the heart to her as a symbol of his undying love.” She extended a tapered fingertip to trace the M entwined with the C in the glimmering filigree. “His name was Madesh Acharya.”
“Madesh,” I whispered.
“I looked into his history after I read Cissy’s Indian diary,” said Mrs. Hilliard. “Dr. Acharya lived to a ripe old age, but he never married.”
“He had a heart of gold,” Lilian said simply. “His love for Cissy remained untarnished, despite her death and the passage of time.”
“I wonder what Albert would have thought if he’d been aware of Cissy’s true feelings?” I said.
“We’ll never know,” said Mrs. Hilliard. “Albert Anscombe wasn’t the type of chap who’d confide his innermost thoughts to a diary. And everything worked out for him in the end. He was a shadow of his former self when he left the army, but his brother’s death elevated his status and his mother found another well-heeled young lady for him to marry. By all accounts, he lived happily ever after.”
“Didn’t you wonder what had become of golden heart?” Emma asked.
“Of course I did,” Mrs. Hilliard replied. “I searched high and low for it. It never occurred to me that Cissy could have hidden it in the priest hole in Anscombe Manor. She would have had just enough time to do it, though, and to bestow the besan ladoo recipe on the cook, before her relapse. She must have tho
ught Dr. Acharya’s gift would comfort her during her long years of marriage to Albert.”
“If she wanted nothing more than to be comforted,” I said, “she wouldn’t have created the altar. I believe she wanted something else, something impossible.” I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat and went on, “Cissy was outwardly dutiful, but I don’t think she ever stopped hoping that she would somehow be reunited with Madesh. That’s why she offered the heart to Ganesha. She hoped the remover of obstacles would make the impossible possible.”
“A dying girl’s last wish.” Mrs. Hilliard nodded. “It would be unbearably sad if I didn’t believe that they were reunited. God’s heart is big enough to hold people of all faiths and races. I have no doubt that Cissy was waiting for Madesh when he finally entered heaven.”
No one spoke. The silence might have gone on for quite a long time if it hadn’t been interrupted by a soft but determined knock on the door. Lilian rose to answer it. A little boy marched into the room, picked up a teddy bear, and marched out. Lilian smiled at him indulgently, closed the door after him, and resumed her seat.
“You must forgive my great-grandnephew,” said Mrs. Hilliard. “He’s rather attached to his teddy.”
“I’m impressed by his good manners,” I said. “At his age, my sons wouldn’t have knocked.”
“He’s never knocked before,” Mrs. Hilliard assured me. “Mary Charlotte must have coached him.” She clasped her hands together. “Well. I believe we’ve come to the end of our stories. Thank you for bringing the golden heart with you. I’d lost hope of ever seeing it.”
Emma’s brow furrowed. “I’m not taking the golden heart home with me, Mrs. Hilliard. It belongs to your family, not mine.”
“It belongs where Cissy left it,” Mrs. Hilliard countered. “Whatever her intentions in creating the altar, I’ll forever think of it as a memorial to a love that never died.”
“It’s a beautiful memorial,” said Emma, “which is why it shouldn’t be hidden away like a shameful secret in a home that was never hers. Once you’ve seen it, you’ll understand why it should be brought into the daylight in her true home, the place where she’s remembered best by those who never stopped loving her.”
“Would you allow me to see it in situ?” Mrs. Hilliard asked.
“Yes, of course I will,” said Emma. “You and your family will always be welcome at—” Her words were drowned out by the sound of a heart-wrenching sob.
Tilly had burst into tears.
Twenty-one
Tilly buried her face in her hands and wept inconsolably. I stared at her, too stunned to move, and Emma looked equally shocked. Lilian, who had far more experience than we did with overwrought adults, was the first to act. The vicar’s wife jumped to her feet and put a comforting arm around Tilly’s shaking shoulders.
“There, there,” she crooned. “There, there.”
The sound of her voice brought Emma and me to our senses. I crossed to pat Tilly’s back, and Emma slid out of her chair to kneel before her.
“What wrong, Tilly?” Emma asked. “Did Cissy’s story upset you? Is that why you’re crying?”
Tilly answered with an unintelligible wail. Emma looked helplessly at Lilian and me and sat back on her heels.
Mrs. Hilliard was on her phone. “Mary Charlotte? Please see to it that we’re not disturbed. No, we don’t need a fresh pot of tea. Yes, of course it’s cold, but . . .” She drew a calming breath, then went on authoritatively, “Please be so kind as to ensure that no one else knocks on my door, Mary Charlotte. Thank you.” She slipped the phone into her pocket, retrieved a box of tissues from the desk, and thrust it beneath Tilly’s bent head. “Here you go, dear. Use the whole box, if you like. There’s nothing healthier than a good cry, but you must admit that you’re producing a prodigious amount of snot.”
“I’m s-sorry,” said Tilly, pressing a handful of tissues to her face.
“There’s no need to apologize,” Mrs. Hilliard said airily, placing a small wastebasket within Tilly’s reach. “When I cry, I turn into a snot factory.”
Tilly laughed convulsively into her wad of tissues. She continued to breathe in short, hiccuping gasps as she mopped her face, but her weeping subsided after she blew her nose. When Lilian returned to her armchair, Emma and I returned to ours.
I didn’t know what was going on with Tilly, but Mrs. Hilliard’s offhand comments seemed to be doing her more good than our outpouring of sympathy. Aunt Dimity’s words about Mr. Barlow and Bree came back to me as I watched our hostess take charge of the situation: Mr. Barlow is exactly the sort of company Bree needs at the moment. He won’t tiptoe around her or pummel her with questions about her feelings. Mrs. Hilliard certainly didn’t tiptoe.
“Would a tot of whiskey help?” she inquired of Tilly. “I received a rather splendid single malt from one of my nephews as an early Christmas present.”
“Thank you, but your single malt would be wasted on me.” Tilly gave her face a comprehensive wipe and dropped the well-used tissues in the wastebasket. “I’m not accustomed to drinking hard liquor.”
“It’s never too late to learn,” Mrs. Hilliard told her, resuming her seat.
“Perhaps not,” Tilly said wistfully, “but it’s too late for . . . for other things.”
“What things?” asked Mrs. Hilliard. “I’ll concede that it may be a bit late for you to run with the bulls in Pamplona, or to drive a Formula One race car in Monte Carlo, or to swing by your toes from a trapeze, but I somehow doubt that you’ve ever yearned to do any of those things.”
“I haven’t,” Tilly acknowledged. “My reach has never exceeded my grasp. My expectations were never great.”
Mrs. Hilliard considered her for a moment, then said, “You’re a dutiful daughter.”
“I w-was,” Tilly faltered, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
The door opened without warning and Mary Charlotte strode into the sitting room, carrying a tray laden with a silver tea set and a serving dish piled high with gingerbread men.
“Mary Charlotte!” Mrs. Hilliard exclaimed in tones of deep displeasure.
“You said the tea had gone cold,” Mary Charlotte explained blithely, bending before each of us to allow us to refill our cups and to select a cookie. “I can’t abide cold tea and I’m certain your friends can’t either.”
Mrs. Hilliard looked daggers at her cousin, who carried on, regardless, but I had to duck my head to hide a smile. Mary Charlotte could talk until she was blue in the face about her concern for our well-being, but she couldn’t fool me. I recognized a snoop when I saw one. Unless I was very much mistaken, which I wasn’t, she’d intruded on us in order to find out why she’d been asked not to intrude on us.
Mary Charlotte glanced surreptitiously at Tilly’s swollen eyes and tear-streaked face, set the tray on the desk, waved aside our thanks, and left. I had no doubt whatsoever that a story about the strange little woman who’d been crying in Auntie Rose’s sitting room would make the rounds of the farmhouse within the next ten minutes. By my calculations, it would reach Skeaping village before teatime.
“You’ll have to come clean now,” Mrs. Hilliard said to Tilly. “If you don’t, I won’t be able to correct the tale my dear cousin is even now concocting about you. And you will want me to correct it. I’m afraid Mary Charlotte has a somewhat lurid imagination.”
“I hardly know where to begin,” said Tilly.
“I’d start with the young man,” Mrs. Hilliard said knowingly. “There was a young man, wasn’t there?”
Tilly turned her face toward the fire.
“No,” she said quietly. “There was no young man.” She gave me a shy, sidelong look. “My family tree would resemble yours, Lori. I, too, am an only child of two only children. When my father was disabled by a stroke, I assumed his role as my family’s chief breadwinner. When my mother fell ill as well, I became their so
le caretaker.” She shrugged. “There was no one else.”
“How old were you when your mother’s health failed?” Mrs. Hilliard inquired.
“Twenty-five,” Tilly replied. “My mother and father had their savings, and I had a steady job at a bank, so we had enough money to make ends meet, but not enough to hire a full-time nurse. When I wasn’t at work or at church, I was at home, taking care of my parents. I had no time to spare for a young man.”
“It’s a lot of weight to put on a young woman’s shoulders,” Mrs. Hilliard commented. “Had I been in your shoes, I would have been just a touch resentful.”
“My shoes would be much too small for you,” said Tilly. “It may sound strange, but I was perfectly content to stay at home.” A faint, self-deprecating smile played about her lips. “As you may have noticed, I’m no Cissy Pargetter. I was never pretty or outgoing or socially adept. I never aspired to be the belle of any ball. Reading has always been my preferred pastime, and my situation in life allowed me to read as much as I pleased.”
“Is that why you know so much about Tudor architecture?” Emma asked.
“And automobile mechanics?” I said.
“And the English Reformation?” said Emma.
“And the Hindu religion?” I said.
“And the banns of marriage?” said Lilian.
“And the history of newspapers?” I said.
“And the altered relationship between colonists and the colonized throughout India in the wake of the 1857 to 1858 Indian Rebellion?” said Mrs. Hilliard.
Tilly waited for us to stop peppering her with questions, then answered humbly, “I’ve always had a wide range of interests.”
“A wide range of interests?” I repeated with an incredulous laugh. “You’re a walking, talking library.”
“I have a retentive memory,” said Tilly, “and I had a lot of time to read. I looked after my parents for nearly thirty years.”
“You have one trait in common with Cissy,” said Mrs. Hilliard. “You have a sense of duty.”
Aunt Dimity and the Heart of Gold Page 18