by Liz Berry
Clare laughed uneasily.“I know I do!”
“There’s nothing to be worried about.”
“But wouldn’t I have known before? It’s only since I came here.”
“Perhaps something about the place woke old inherited memory in the genes, or latent abilities which you had blocked before. Are you sure you didn’t have any odd experiences as a child?”
Clare was staring at her, remembering now a number of tiny incidents—of people seeming to disappear suddenly, of knowing what her friends were thinking, of looking down at herself far below in bed—all of them forgotten until now.
She felt shaken, as though a door had opened in her mind, revealing a whole new part of herself she had never even suspected was there.
“I’m all right? Not ill?”
Dr McKinnon smiled. She had the kind of smile that made you feel better just looking at her, Clare thought.
“Tired. Stressed. A bit anaemic. Not mad. Not ill. Not hallucinating. Just more than you thought you were. Rejoice. You’ll soon get used to it.”
Stunned, Clare watched Dr McKinnon fold herself into her car. She leaned out.“For hundreds of years the Abbess here was chosen in a peculiar way. Come down and see me one day when you’re ready. I’m writing a local history of Ravensmere. I think you’d be interested.”
“Very partial Mr A. is to a bit of fish,” Mrs Anscomb was saying, chopping parsley for a fish casserole.“Only eats fish and chicken. No meat since the War you see. A great hero he was, m’dear. Though you’d not think it, him sitting so miserable now. One of the Few he was, flying them old Hurricanes in the War. There’s a painting of him in his uniform.”
“Sorry?” said Clare. She was sitting at the big scrubbed table in the kitchen, picking the tops off raspberries, half her mind following the flowing stream of Mrs Anscomb’s comments, the other half trying to think of a way of getting to see Mr Aylward. It was not something she was looking forward to, but her conscience would not let her remain comfortably silent. Somehow she must speak to him personally. All her instincts were telling her it was vitally important, not just to ask him to let Mai open the China Garden, but also to make a last-ditch effort to stop the destruction of Ravensmere. She must tell him what Roger Fletcher was doing. He might tell her to mind her own business, but at least she would have done what she could.
“Sorry?” Clare said again.
“The painting,” Mrs Anscomb repeated patiently. She was used to only half the attention of her listeners.
“I didn’t see it on the tour.”
“It’s in the South Drawing Room. My mother always said he were such a sad little fellow. Only had his Grandpa Eldon, and a strange one he was, always digging about for old bones.”
Clare grinned. It was a good thing Mrs Potts-Dyrham couldn’t hear her disrespectful comments about the author of the ten volume Evolutionary, History.
“What happened to his father and mother?”
“His father fell at Ypres in the First World War. There’s his memorial in the church. Another hero, they say, but if you ask me it was a lucky escape for Ravensmere.” She looked sideways at Clare.“Women. And gambling in the south of France with the Prince of Wales set. He had a vicious temper. When he went off to France his wife ran away to London, and refused to come back although the old Earl begged her to for the boy’s sake. She died sudden in the great flu epidemic after the War.”
“Mr Aylward lost his wife, too, didn’t he?”
“He’s never been lucky in love, poor man. He married his childhood sweetheart, and she died only a year after they were married. It changed him, my mother always said. Got very bitter. His second marriage didn’t do nothing for him neither. That were a funny business. Very sudden.
“We never thought he would marry again. But his cousin was killed at Dunkirk, and he up and married Cecily Carlton-Winters the following week, and went off to the War two days later. All the village thought he’d, like, got her in the family way, but t’werent so—Brandon weren’t born till a good few years after the War.
“A very posh lady, she were. Foreigner to these parts you know, came from Westbury way. Didn’t care for the House or the village. Didn’t understand our ways.”
Mrs Anscomb slammed the oven door on her casserole, and began to assemble the ingredients for pastry-making.
Clare watched her. Maybe she could speak to Mr Aylward in the garden—if he ever went in the garden, of course. Roger Fletcher would be back soon and it would be even more difficult to get to see him.
Clare washed the raspberries under the clear, icy water. Spring water. Even the water was different here. She drained them and stood the bowl on the table. There must be some way she could get to see Mr Aylward and introduce herself. Maybe she should write a letter to him. But how good was his eyesight? Did somebody read his letters to her? Probably her mother. She’d never get a letter past her mother.
“She weren’t liked you know,” Mrs Anscomb was saying.“Very unhappy they were. Rows could be heard in the kitchen. You’d see her galloping away up on the old moor. Wild blood in the Carlton family, they say. Broke her neck she did, out with the Hunt and no one surprised about that or regretting her, to be truthful.”
Clare felt a twinge of sympathy for Cecily Carlton-Winters. It couldn’t have been easy, trying to fill the place of an adored childhood sweetheart. Second-best and hated by all the staff.
Mrs Anscomb shook her head.“Marry in haste.” She sprinkled flour on to her board and swiftly rolled out the pastry, tipped it over and rolled again.
“It was the succession, I should think,” Clare said, getting interested.“His cousin was probably his heir. If he was going off to the War he maybe thought he might get killed himself. He needed a son.”
Mrs Anscomb nodded sagely.“That’ll be the way of it. But you can’t change fate, I always say.”
“But he did have a son. What happened to him?”
Mrs Anscomb seemed to be concentrating on her pastry. She lifted it, filled the base of the dish, tipped in the raspberries, and covered them, deftly pinching and shaping the pastry into flowers and fluting the edge.
“That’s fantastic,” Clare said, admiringly.
Mrs Anscomb laughed.“Sixty years’ practice makes perfect.”
“What happened to Brandon Aylward?” Clare asked again, gathering up the pastry things, determined to get an answer this time.
Mrs Anscomb hesitated.“I told you, Mr A. don’t like him mentioned. Very angry he was when he died. He had an accident.”
“He was angry!”
“I’ve never known him so angry.” She shivered.“Oh well, it’s all water under the bridge now. I shouldn’t talk to your mother about Brandon either, Clare m’dear. Very painful subject it is to a lot of people.”
“But why…?”
Mrs Anscomb glanced up at the big clock on the wall.“Well, well, it’s nearly eleven o’clock. How time do fly. Time for elevenses.”
Rapidly she began to lay out a silver tray with a lacy cloth, cups and teapot.
“Very partial to a cup of tea is Mr A. Never liked coffee. Always the China tea and a couple of my oatcakes. Lapsang Souchong. Tastes funny to me, but it wouldn’t do if we were all the same.”
She poured steaming water into the pot.“You could help me by taking the tray up to him m’dear, if you don’t mind. He’ll be out on the terrace in his wheelchair, taking the sun.”
Clare gaped at her, unable to believe she had heard right.“Take Mr Aylward his tea?”
“You don’t mind, m’dear? I want to finish off here. It’s easy to find. There’s a service lift at the end of the corridor, direct to Mr A’s own dining room. And there’s a door on to the terrace. It won’t take you a few minutes.”
“No, that’s all right. No problem.”
Clare could have kissed her. She couldn’t believe it was going to be so easy, after all.
Chapter 11
The door of the lift opened on to a small service area
and Clare went through into Mr Aylward’s private dining room. The room was smaller than the Great Dining Room she had seen yesterday, but not much.
It had a big oval table in the exact centre, on a Persian carpet woven to the same shape, but its chairs were set back against the gold-damask covered walls, and the bare top of the table had a film of dust. It was a long time since there had been a dinner party here, Clare thought.
She could hear raised voices. She rested the heavy tray on the table, and saw that the French doors at the end were open to the terrace. She hesitated nervously. Should she knock on the window or something, or wait until the shouting match was finished? She moved forward cautiously.
“Bring the girl to me here!” The voice was bell-like and strong, modulated like a great actor.
She could see him clearly through the door. Mr Aylward was sitting in his wheelchair next to an ornamental iron table, newspapers and books scattered around him on the stone paving, as though he had thrown them down impatiently.
“Bring her here! Here I say.” He thumped the paving with his stick, frustrated, like a child.“I want to see her.”
He was a big man. Even huddled under the rugs he was tall, broad shouldered, with long arms and legs folded into the wheelchair, which seemed too small for him. Once upon a time he must have been huge, Clare thought. His face was strongly boned, hawkish, handsome even now in old age. There was a strong family likeness to the paintings she had seen yesterday. He had the same arrogance, the same sardonic amusement, but there was a bitterness about the mouth, not softened by the heavy white hair almost to his shoulders.
Clare had expected someone withered and very old, but he hardly looked his age. A powerful and angry man, she thought, swallowing. Did she really need to speak to him? Wasn’t there any other way? It was absurd to be afraid of a sick old man, but she was afraid, all the same.
Her mother was standing next to him, looking strained, her hands clenched on a chairback.
“Mr Aylward, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Did I ask you to think? Just fetch the girl. You brought her with you. I know she’s here.”
Clare realized, with a shock, that he was talking about her. She moved back quickly behind the thick brocade curtains that framed the windows.
Frances said sourly,“I didn’t bring her. She came of her own accord.”
Mr Aylward grunted with satisfaction.“I thought so. It goes on.”
“I’m not having her involved. She’s going to university in October. That’s what she wants.”
“She was sniffing around the China Garden last night.”
Clare flushed. How on earth did he know that? You couldn’t see the Garden from this wing. It looked south to the lake, not west to the gardens.
Frances was clearly shaken.“I don’t believe you. She was in her room all night.”
“Trying to get through the First Gate. She’s ready. It’s the time. The cycle begins again.”
“No!” Frances’ voice rose.“I won’t have her involved.”
“You have no choice. Surely you understand that after all these years?”
“She’s going to university,” Frances said obstinately.“She has a right to her own life.”
“She’s the Kenward daughter. The Chosen.”
“Over my dead body,” said Frances wildly.“She’s not to be told.”
There was a tense silence and then Edward Aylward said in a low strange voice that made Clare’s blood freeze in her veins.“If you obstruct them, Frances, it may well be over your dead body. You know that. Haven’t you learned your lesson?”
“She’s not to be told,” said Frances again,“It’s all a lot of nonsense.”
Clare could hear the note of hysteria in her voice. She was close to breaking point. Clare was suddenly furious. This dreadful man was actually threatening her mother.
She retreated silently, picked up the tea tray and carried it swiftly out to the terrace. She banged it down on the table by Edward Aylward’s side, and straightened, pushing the hair back from her face, so that her accusing eyes met his fiercely, and got a shock of surprise. His eyes were bright green, as brilliant as emeralds, astonishingly young in the networked folds of his dark old skin.
“Clare!” Her mother exploded angrily.“You have no right to be here.”
“Mrs Anscomb sent me.”
There was a series of strange, croaking sounds coming from Mr Aylward. Clare moved forward, alarmed, but Frances put out her arm, her face icy.“Mr Aylward is amused. Since you’re here, you’d better pour the tea.”
Clare stared at him, the angry colour high on her cheeks.“Why are you threatening my mother? Why are you laughing at me?”
“Not you, young woman,” he said, recovering.“The irony of fate, destiny, call it what you will. You laugh or you cry. I’ve always laughed. Where did you get that dark red hair?”
“It’s black, not red,” Glare said, her colour deepening. She felt uncomfortable with red-haired people. They always seemed so extrovert and free—not at all like herself.
“It’s black with dark-red lights. Do you think I’m blind? What’s your name?”
Clare swallowed. There was a frightening aura of power about him, and a strangeness which she could not identify. The brilliant green eyes stared at her, sharply alive and penetrating.
Frances said tightly,“This is my daughter, Mr Aylward. She seems to be helping Mrs Anscomb today.”
“What’s the matter with her? Can’t she answer for herself?” He hadn’t taken his eyes off Clare and she stared back, half-hypnotized.“Well?”
“I’m Clare, sir. Clare Meredith.” She swallowed again, annoyed with herself for speaking to him as though he was her old headmaster.
An odd expression shadowed his face and was gone. His eyes moved sideways to Frances, blandly.“Clare Meredith?”
Frances said angrily,“My husband’s name. As you know. Clare is only seventeen, Mr Aylward.”
“What’s your second name, girl?” Once again, the question shot at her, caught her off-guard. There was a queer note in his voice and he was sitting forward gripping the arms of his chair.
“Clare. Just Clare.”
He looked at Frances and waited, like a judge, pinning her with dagger green eyes.
Her mother shifted uncomfortably and said reluctantly,“She’s Clare Rosamond.”
“Ah!” He sank back in his chair.
Clare stared at her mother, and could hardly believe she had heard correctly. She had another name. Rosamond. It made her feel very odd. A different person. A stranger to herself. She felt very upset. No wonder her birth certificate had always been unavailable, locked in the bank with the other family papers.
“Why?” she said to her mother, but Frances turned her head away.
“After your mother. It’s a family name. It’s the tradition.” Edward Aylward sounded amused.
“You’re Rosamond too?” Clare said to her mother. Frances said bleakly,“I left Rosamond behind. I changed my name.”
“You should have told me my real name,” said Clare trying to keep the hurt out of her voice, but her mother was looking at Edward Aylward angrily.
“I hope you’re satisfied. You’re so clever, but don’t think it makes any difference. She’s only staying here until she goes to university. She’s not getting involved. Do you hear? I won’t have it. She’s free and she’s staying that way.”
He smiled, ruefully, charmingly.“Dear Frances, you still can’t accept, can you? I tell you that we are not able to choose.”
The smile transformed his face. Clare blinked and saw a much younger Edward Aylward looking at her with a handsome, hard face, reckless and laughing, with those strange magnetic eyes. The image faded and the older man was there again instantly, smiling at her as though he knew.
Frances said bitterly,“Well, you’ve changed your tune, Mr Aylward. When did you accept?”
“I learned by experience. I came back—eventually.”
“Well, I got free,” Frances said proudly.“I made my own choice. I made a good life.” The colour was flaming in her high cheek bones, the emotion sizzling off her like electricity.
Edward Aylward smiled derisively.“Did you, Frances Rosamond Kenward, Guardian of the Benison? What then are you doing here?”
“You know why. I came because you needed me,” she said wildly.“I came to help you.”
His eyes seemed to be glimmering with light. He shook his head.“To expiate. To atone. You broke the sacred Trust, Frances.”
For a moment Frances held her ground, her eyes locked in battle with his, and then tears spilled over and ran down her face. She turned swiftly and ran through the dining room.
“What have you done to her?” Clare cried and turned to go after her.
His raised voice stopped her.“Let her go. She needs to cry. She needs to accept and to mourn. It’s been a long time. Bring that chair here and sit down.”
Clare hesitated, then moved the chair forward.
“I don’t understand any of this,” she said wearily, sitting down.“I never even knew I had another name. Why keep it secret?”
“It’s a special name. One Rosamond in every generation. It means ‘famous protectress’. You may pour me a cup of tea. No sugar.”
Clare had forgotten the elevenses. She thought the tea was probably cold by now, but she hastily filled one of the fine bone china cups and handed it to him. His fingers were long, and seemingly all bones and skin. The cup and saucer trembled. He crunched one of Mrs Anscomb’s oat cakes, and stared out over the balustrade to the Great Lake laying below the curve of the lawn, shining like a mirror in the morning sunlight.
Clare wondered if now was a good time to introduce the subject of the China Garden, and make her appeal to save Ravensmere.
She said, instead, putting off the difficult moment,“What is that tower, up on the hill, the other side of the lake?”