Daisychain Summer

  He looked at the photograph and knew at once that he had a son; a boy he couldn’t own! Dark and black-eyed, like himself. Not Sutton fair, but one of Mary Anne’s. A Pendennis.

  Damn you, Anna! he screamed silently inside him. And damn his mother for making him marry her. He looked up to see Maudie pulling on her gloves.

  ‘Goodbye, Elliot,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve enjoyed our talk. You can keep the photograph.’

  She walked away from him, straight-backed. At the bar counter she paused, nodding in the direction of the table she had just left.

  ‘I’d take him a brandy, if I were you – a stiff one. He needs it,’ she said to the landlord.

  She was smiling as the public house doors swung shut behind her. She was still smiling as she knocked on the back door of her brother’s shop.

  Elliot Sutton gulped down the brandy the barman placed on the table, then ordered another. He didn’t know whether to get raging drunk or to slink into a corner and weep; weep because he had never felt so miserable in the whole of his life. Natasha Yurovska pregnant by him, perhaps carrying a son, though he would never know, and now Edward; the heir he wanted, destined to become a pork butcher.

  Yet by Anna, only a girl, miscarried babies and a dead child. Fate was cruel to him because it was jealous of him; envied him his looks, his lifestyle, his expectations. And because of Fate he knew he would give no son to Pendenys – and on a son his mother’s favours depended.

  No child of his for Pendenys, and Nathan so taken up with goodness that he’d likely never get around to fathering one. So it would be Albert and Albert’s all-American boy who would have Pendenys, in the end. It was too much to think about, let alone to bear. He felt like going to London, now, dragging Anna into his bed, showing her where her duty lay. But there was Igor to contend with and the black-bearded Cossack and besides, he was too drunk. Tonight, drink was all that was left to him. Tomorrow, he would think things out, plan what he would do, but tonight he would drink until things became bearable then go home to Pendenys where his mother at least would understand how he felt; understand about Anna, that was. She didn’t know about Natasha – not all of it – and best not remind her about Maudie; best not tell her she had sold her grandson for fifty pounds.

  She should have insisted he marry Maudie, he brooded. Maudie would have given him any number of sons, by now; wouldn’t have run home to her mother because she didn’t feel well.

  ‘Hey!’ He raised a finger. ‘Bring me another!’

  Get drunk, that’s what! It was the only way to ease the hurt Maudie had inflicted on him. Another couple, and he wouldn’t give a damn.

  ‘Don’t you think, sir, that perhaps you’ve had enough?’ the barman murmured. ‘Maybe it would be as well if you –’

  ‘And maybe it would be as well if you did as you were told and brought me another brandy!’

  He pushed back his chair, walking carefully to the bar, then, picking up the glass, emptied it without once taking it from his lips. Then he slammed a fistful of coins on the counter and walked towards the door.

  Home to Pendenys, that’s where. And he hadn’t had too much. He knew what he was about. Elliot Sutton could hold his drink as well as any gentleman.

  The evening air hit his face like ice-cold water and he leaned against the wall to steady himself. Then he walked to his car, opening the door, picking up the starting handle.

  It was, he thought, gazing down at the small hole, like trying to insert a latchkey in the dark. It wasn’t easy, drunk or sober. He went down on his knees, cursing quietly. Damn the thing. Couldn’t get it in. Never start the car, at this rate …

  ‘Now then, squire – want a hand?’

  Elliot gazed up, saw the work-soiled overalls, the toe-capped boots. Carefully he got to his feet.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind, old man. Know how to crank up a car?’ He handed him the starting handle, then fished in his pocket, bringing out a coin. ‘Get it going, there’s a good fellow.’

  ‘Granted soon as asked, young sir.’ The man inserted the handle, then swung it with ease. The car engine kicked, started, then settled down to a measured throb.

  Elliot got into the car, slamming the door. Then he released the brake, blowing the horn loudly, defiantly. Damn them all! He didn’t care! He was Elliot Sutton of Pendenys; why should he?

  ‘What’s this, then? You come into money?’ the landlord asked as the man dropped a shilling on the counter.

  ‘Nah. Pull us a pint, and have one yourself. Easy come, easy go, eh? All I did was start up a car.’

  ‘Mister Sutton’s, you mean?’

  ‘Don’t know who he was. Only know he wasn’t capable of getting his motor started. Shouldn’t be driving. He’ll knock someone over and lame them if he isn’t careful.’

  Young Sutton, had it been? The man had heard about him and his rich mother. An arrogant little bastard, by all accounts. Still, he’d parted with a shilling and a shilling paid for three pints of best ale. Live and let live.

  Elliot Sutton let go his indrawn breath, his clenched hands relaxed on the wheel. He’d made it home. Nothing at all wrong with him. God! but he was tired; would sleep like a baby the moment his head touched the pillow. He steered into the carriage drive, Pendenys ahead of him. It was almost dark; neither one thing nor the other, this shifting half-light. Not far to go, now. He accelerated, sending the car hurtling forward.

  He didn’t see it there until it was almost too late; laid in the middle of the drive – a young ram, sound asleep. He parped loudly on his horn, startling the creature, sending it scrambling to its feet to face the glare of headlights, stupefied.

  ‘Bloody animal!’ He steered to the left. The ram, panicked by the blaring horn, jumped high in the air. He felt the bump, slammed on his brakes. Damn it. He hoped it hadn’t scratched the paintwork.

  The steering wheel refused to respond to his hands; the car spun into a skid. He reached for the brake, pulling on it with all his strength, closing his eyes as he went out of control. He didn’t see the oak tree; he only heard the sickening, tearing sound as he crashed into it; felt pain slam through his body.

  Out! Get out! Open the door! Handle jammed – bloody thing jammed! Got to get out!

  There was a roar that filled his head and a bright red light that hurt his eyes. God! He was on fire!

  ‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No …’

  The cowman going in for early milking found the motor, saw the mangled body of the ram a few feet away. Wide-eyed with shock he ran back towards the gate-lodge. They had a telephone at the lodge, connected to Pendenys, could ring from there – tell them …

  ‘Mr Elliot’s car, I think. Burned out,’ he choked. ‘Can’t be sure, though, it’s in such a mess. Ring them, will you?’ He wanted nothing to do with it; didn’t want to be the one to have to tell the bad news. He could have sworn there was someone inside that car, slumped over the wheel. ‘Ring Pendenys?’ he pleaded.

  Was it Mr Elliot, in there? It didn’t bear thinking about. The mistress would go out of her mind. Eyes averted, he walked quickly away.

  God! What a way to die!

  ‘Met the postman at the bottom of the lane.’ Tom laid the letter on the kitchen table. ‘Said I’d save his legs. It’s from Julia.’

  ‘I’ll read it when I’ve finished dishing up, though what she can have to say to me I don’t know,’ Alice smiled. ‘It isn’t five minutes since I saw her.’

  ‘So tell me?’ Tom demanded when she had slit open the envelope. ‘Left something behind at Rowangarth, did you?’

  ‘No. Oh, dear Lord! Here – read it for yourself. She’s wanting me to ring her.’

  ‘Alice?’ Her cheeks had flushed bright red, her eyes were wide and moist with tears. ‘Reuben? Not Reuben?’

  ‘Read it, Tom!’

  ‘“… and I have to tell you” – good grief!’ His eyes met hers. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Read it, I said! Read it out loud, so I’ll know!’

  ‘All right
– and I have to tell you that Elliot is dead. He crashed his car. Can you ring me – reverse the charges? I can’t believe it. I just can’t.’

  ‘Oh, Tom.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Hold me, love?’ She wrapped her arms around his waist, laying her head against his chest. ‘I feel, oh …’

  He pulled her closer as he felt the shaking of her body, resting his cheek on her head, making little hushing sounds. And then she began to weep, as terrible a sound as he’d ever heard; sobs that seemed to tear her in two.

  ‘There now, lass. Don’t get yourself upset – not over him.’

  ‘Upset?’ She pushed him from her, gazing into his face with wild eyes. ‘Not upset, Tom. Shock, happen, though it’s a relief, really. He’ll never be able to hurt Drew, now, don’t you see? And I wasn’t crying from pity. I was crying because I’m ashamed – of myself, my thoughts.

  ‘When I read that letter, you see, it was as if there was a singing inside me and all I could think of was that I wanted to go back there, dance on his grave!’ She pulled her sleeve across her eyes, then took a deep, steadying gulp of air. ‘I’m sorry, though, for his mother. She loved him, didn’t she? I think she was the only person in the world who did – but she loved him, for all that.’

  She would remember Mrs Clementina when she said her prayers, tonight; Mr Edward, too. It was the least she could do.

  ‘And you’ll ring Julia, like she wants?’

  ‘I’ll go to the village, later on, then walk back with Daisy and Keth, after school. Daisy’ll have to be told. Now get on with your dinner.’ Her face was wooden, her voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘I can’t eat it, Alice. All at once I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Me, neither. Give it to the dogs …’

  Alice waited beside the public telephone, heard the postmistress ask. ‘Is that Holdenby 102? Will you accept a charge call from Mrs Dwerryhouse?’

  She turned from the little switchboard, nodding to Alice to pick up the receiver.

  ‘Julia? When …?’

  ‘Oh, love – I’ve been waiting for you to ring. It was some time on Wednesday night; late, they think. Are you all right?’

  ‘I am, now. It was a long time before it sank in, though. What happened?’

  ‘We don’t know – not for sure – but a sheep ran out, they seem to think. It was near to home; they’d got sheep grazing on Pendenys parkland. One of the men from Pendenys Home Farm found the car. They told Uncle Edward first. Aunt Clemmy was still asleep. Amelia was there, thank goodness; she waited until Doc James got there before she would let them tell Aunt Clemmy. Then she phoned us.

  ‘Mother’s been at Pendenys on and off, ever since. Poor love – she’s badly shocked; brought it all back, Pa being killed the same way, I mean. I think she’s wishing she hadn’t bought me a car, now. I believe it was awful, at Pendenys. Aunt Clemmy fainted when they told her.’

  ‘And Anna?’

  ‘She’s on her way back. Coming by train. Amelia will be at York, now, meeting her. Amelia’s been a brick. I’m glad she’s there. Mother looked washed out when she came home, last night. Aunt Clemmy’s under sedation, most of the time. They don’t think she’ll make it to the funeral and mother thinks it’s best if she doesn’t.’

  ‘When is it?’ Alice needed to know the exact time; needed to ask God, silently and secretly, to forgive him for all the misery he had caused.

  ‘Saturday, at noon. I’ll be there, but not the children. Miss Clitherow will look after them at Rowangarth – and Tatiana’s nanny …’ There was a silence, then she said, ‘I hated Elliot. I’ve got to say it, even though it was a dreadful way to die. I still can’t grasp the fact that he’s gone – I just can’t.’

  ‘I know how you feel. I carried on something awful when I read your letter. I was glad Tom was there. I said I wanted to dance on his grave, though I’m sorry, now, that I said that.’

  ‘Don’t be, Alice. I’m not sorry, either – only for Aunt and Uncle and Anna. I know Anna loved him once, but it’s anybody’s guess, how she’s going to take it.’

  ‘I know. If he’d been my husband …’ Alice left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘I told Drew – gently as I could. He looked bewildered, as if he couldn’t quite understand what dying meant. I thought he was going to cry, then he said, “Poor little Tatty. We’ll have to be extra kind to her, now.” Just what Giles would have said. He’s so like Giles that you’d think he was –’

  ‘He is Giles’s,’ Alice said softly. ‘You’ve got a lovely son, Julia.’

  ‘I know. You and me both, Alice. Bless you for phoning, love – and for understanding …’

  ‘Oh, I understand, all right – and Julia, take care, when you’re driving?’

  21

  Clementina Sutton stood at the stone-mullioned landing window, staring trancelike into the courtyard below. She wore an unfashionably long black dress which fitted her tightly because she had last worn it long ago on the deaths of her Rowangarth nephews and, briefly, for Julia’s husband. But this day she cared little for her appearance when uppermost in her mind was the certainty that nothing in the world would make her attend her son’s funeral. She could not face it, would have thrown herself weeping to her knees at the graveside had Edward insisted she be there.

  ‘I shall stand at the window – watch him go.’ No one would be allowed to see her torment because no one – not even Helen – could understand the enormity of it. She did not have the self-discipline to conduct herself as Helen would on such occasions; hadn’t the breeding, truth known, nor Helen’s courage. The funeral, she had insisted, must be private with none there save family, and Nathan to conduct the service, commit his brother to the earth.

  Why was this such a beautiful day, the sky so brilliantly blue? How dare birds sing? She had wanted to be alone with Elliot, see him one last time, say her own private goodbye, but they had refused her, begging her gently to remember him as he was.

  ‘Four cars,’ she murmured. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Edward and Anna are in the first one, and Albert and Amelia following; then the Petrovskys.’

  ‘And?’ Clementina fretted.

  ‘Your butler and my housekeeper – and Mrs Martin, from Denniston. I thought staffs should be represented.’

  ‘Yes.’ It should have been a big funeral – weren’t they Suttons, after all – yet it was best, this way. ‘Where are the children?’

  ‘Better they shouldn’t be there, Clemmy. Such sadness is not for little ones …’

  ‘No.’ Clementina gazed fixedly at the scene below; four black cars – she refused to look at the flower-laden hearse – four groups of people, black-clad, and Pendenys servants and Denniston House servants standing on the steps, stiff as black statues, staring ahead, unmoving. ‘Do you understand how I am suffering, Helen?’

  ‘I do.’ She reached for Clementina’s cold, white hand. ‘Only too well. But you will be brave, my dear. Elliot would want it.’

  ‘Where is Julia?’ She did not want to talk about being brave.

  ‘At Rowangarth, with the children and the nannies. She wanted to be with the children …’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Clementina fingered her jet beads with nervous fingers. She needed to weep, but tears were denied her. There was to be no comfort. Her reason for living was being taken away from the home he had been born in; leaving behind the inheritance she had so jealously amassed in his name. How dare death take the son she had schemed for and cheated for? How could life be so cruel?

  Helen, too, gazed down to where her brother-in-law stood.

  ‘You’ll stay with Clemmy?’ Edward had asked her. ‘She’s so upset, Helen. There are times I fear for the state of her mind. God knows where it will all end.’ He had given her the bottle. ‘Look – could you try to get her to take a couple of these tablets? I daren’t leave them lying about – don’t know what she might do. Not deliberately,’ he hastened, ‘but they are heavy sedatives and she might just – accidentally, you know …’<
br />
  ‘I’ll be very careful, Edward. Two, you said?’

  ‘If you could persuade her – when we’ve left for the church, that is. It’s awful to see her, though, when she’s taken them. It’s as if she’s in another world, like a bewildered child that doesn’t know what’s going on. Yet without them her grief is terrible to see. I can’t grieve for Elliot, Helen. There’s this awful feeling inside me, but it’s numbness, nothing else.’

  ‘The grief will come, Edward; I promise it will.’ She held out a hand for the tablets. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she had said.

  Clementina stared, unblinking. They were getting into the cars, now. Soon, they would take her son away, take him from her. They would drive him to Holdenby where men in black wearing crepe-trimmed top hats would be waiting to walk, snail’s pace, through the village in front of the hearse. She saw it all in her mind, her heart. Slowly, then, to the church gates where Nathan would be waiting. And he would walk in front of Elliot, chanting meaningless prayers; Nathan her heir, now, who had no wife, no son to give to Pendenys.

  ‘Helen,’ she moaned. ‘Help me!’

  ‘There now, there …’ Helen drew her close. ‘Be brave. Say goodbye. Let him go with your love, Clemmy. If it is any comfort, remember that I know what it is like to lose a child.’

  ‘No! Not just a child; not just a son. Elliot. He was my life, my whole life. Oh, he could be a naughty boy but I love – loved – him so. There is nothing left for me, now.’ Her voice rose, harsh and tormented. ‘It would have been better if I had been in that car beside him!’

  ‘No, Clemmy! You must never say that again! You must be brave. Edward needs you; he needs comfort, and Anna and Nathan and Albert. They grieve for Elliot, too. Be strong, for their sakes.’

  ‘I can’t be strong. I try, Helen, but I don’t want to go on living without Elliot. He was the one I loved, you see.’

  ‘Then think about Anna? She loved him, too. Anna is too young to bear such sadness on her own. Help her, Clemmy – for Elliot’s sake, be kind to Anna and Tatiana?’

  ‘Why should I be? You say she loved him, yet she didn’t give him the thing he wanted most of all. She gave him a dead son, Helen, and for that I’ll never forgive her!’