China Garden

by Liz Berry

  The long sunken shutters of his eyes lifted. Hawk’s eyes, ages old. But the green was dark, clear, full of sharp intelligence.

  “Not long now,” he echoed her own thought, but joyfully, as though it was something he looked forward to. He turned his head slowly, staring up at the heights of Barrow Beacon Hill.“I was dreaming about the old days. I was walking on the hill with my Caroline.”

  Clare felt herself flushing. She turned away and pulled a chair up nearer to him.

  “Despite everything, you know, I have always loved Ravensmere. I was brought up here by my grandfather. I ran in the fields and bathed in the pool by the waterfall.”

  Clare picked at a loose thread on her jeans.

  “My grandfather, Eldon Edgar Aylward, was a strange and rather frightening man. He was very tall. There was a grandeur about him. He was deeply learned in many cultures and esoteric knowledge. He knew seven languages, some of the most ancient—Icelandic, Arabic, Sanskrit, Chinese. He was expert in archaeology, natural history, science, geology. He spent years researching his life’s work.”

  Clare smiled.“Ten volumes. The Evolutionary History.”

  “Correct. But he was a lonely and unhappy man. He had to wait for his beloved Rosamond to grow up. He married her on her seventeenth birthday. He was thirty-nine, but it was a love match for all that. Three years later she died bringing my father into the world.

  “My grandfather never married again. He was reclusive. Yet he made many good friends—William Morris, who shared his love of Iceland, Burne Jones, who made a memorial window for him in the church, The Waters of Paradise.”

  “I saw it,” said Clare.“It’s beautiful.”

  “And appropriate. He imagined, I think, that he was reincarnated from an ancient, more beautiful age.”

  Clare said,“Atlantis?”

  The green eyes focused on her.“Perhaps. He firmly believed he had evidence of its existence.”

  “What evidence?” asked Clare, but he was far away in the past, speaking slowly.

  “I don’t think my grandfather could bear to look at his son. He blamed him for his wife’s death. He sent him away to school as soon as possible, thence to Oxford, and made over our great London house in Berkeley Square to him. It was a terrible mistake. He grew up knowing nothing of Ravensmere or the Benison and deeply resented being made to marry my mother, another Rosamond Kenward, on threat of losing his inheritance.”

  There was a long silence. Clare said,“They weren’t happy?”

  “He made her suffer for it. He was a gambler and a womanizer. One of Prince Teddy’s circle. He spent vast sums on the jewels of the kept women that he preferred to my dear mother and he gambled away the town house and over a million pounds—a great sum in those days.”

  Clare took a deep breath.“I saw his memorial in the church. He died at Ypres in the First World War. I thought he was a great hero.”

  He said, succinctly,“He was a bullying sadist whose greatest pleasure was to beat my mother black and blue and whip me with a cane until I was bleeding.”

  Clare stared at him horrified.

  “His death came only as a relief to us. My grandfather sent for me and I came back to Ravensmere. My mother refused to come back—who can blame her? —and was one of the first victims of the great influenza epidemic that ravaged Europe after the War.”

  “You must have been lonely.”

  “I was not allowed to visit my mother. My grandfather . . . tolerated me. Saw that I was educated. And passed on the Trust.”

  Clare was appalled. What had gone wrong with all these people? Surely Ravensmere was meant to be a loving and peaceful place. But it seemed there was a long line of pain stretching back generation by generation.

  “I hated my father, but I am bound to admit that he was badly treated as a child. He was a victim too. You know, Clare, I begin to see at last that we are indeed all born victims of victims. It is a strange and terrible thing how history repeats itself. I married my Caroline when I was twenty-one. We had only one year together before she was taken from me. I was very bitter. I was determined not to marry again. There would be no more Guardians. Let the Benison take its chances, I thought. Let it all go—what did I care?

  “When it was clear there was going to be another war, I joined the Royal Air Force. Your grandfather, John, Caroline’s brother, came to me and pointed out my responsibilities to Ravensmere and the village. If I was killed everything would go to the Fletchers. So I married again to get an heir for Ravensmere. I made a bad choice.”

  His voice sank into silence. Clare waited patiently. She thought he had maybe dropped off to sleep, and wondered if she should tiptoe out, but suddenly he spoke again, loudly and strongly, banging the chair arm with frustration, startling her.

  “I did my damnedest to get killed in the War. Flew the most dangerous sorties, volunteered for lunatic ventures. Offered myself for death in every way—and survived. Other, better, men went down all around, but not me. Not a scratch. My punishment was to survive.”

  Clare said,“VC, DSC, DFC.”

  He snorted disparagingly.

  “You should be grateful,” she said.“You might have been terribly disabled, not killed.”

  “Oh no,” he said, ironically,“they wouldn’t allow that. You have to be strong and well to guard the Benison. Well, or dead. Strong in body, strong in mind.”

  There was a strange look in his eyes. For a moment Clare thought it might be fear. But that could hardly be in a man with medals for bravery and the next moment it had gone.

  He took a deep breath.“After the War, Cecily and I patched things up briefly and my son was born. I loved my son, but the marriage was—disastrous. We fought like cat and dog. She was jealous and wild. There is bad blood in that family.”

  Clare said tentatively,“Perhaps she thought you still loved Caroline.”

  He looked at her in surprise.“But that was true. Only ever Caroline. She was soft and gentle. She never raised her voice. Here...” He fumbled in his jacket pocket and handed her a miniature in a small gold case.

  A pale girl with smooth fair hair cut short under her ears smiled hesitantly at her, but there was no smile in her eyes.

  Clare handed it back.“She looks sad. What did she die of?”

  But he had looked away broodingly across the Great Lake and did not answer. At last he said rawly,“I loved my son but he disliked me. He blamed me for his mother’s death. It was an accident, but he thought I had driven her to her death by my neglect and my lack of love.

  “I couldn’t bear to see that virago in my Caroline’s place. I hated to see her walk through the rooms of Ravensmere. And she was no good to me. She could never be a Guardian. I was glad when she broke her neck hunting.”

  Clare felt cold. Poor Cecily. How would it feel married to someone who could only love a dead woman, and who resented and hated you?

  “I was vindictive, inhuman. Taking out on her my anger about the loss of Caroline. But I was punished, Clare. I was dreadfully punished. My son died too. My only son.”

  He looked deathly tired suddenly, and Clare wondered if she ought to stop him. To her dismay she saw his cheeks were wet.

  “Mr Aylward …”

  “No, I want you to hear. To know the truth. To understand why I wanted Ravensmere to die. Why I refused to do my duty as Guardian.

  “I went away from Ravensmere and devoted myself to making money. I am a gambler, Clare, like my father, but I gamble on the Stock Exchange and the international money markets. They say all gamblers do it because they really want to lose and destroy themselves. But I couldn’t lose. I have a ... talent ... for forecasting the movement of the market.”

  He gave his ironic croaking laugh.“The Benison looks after its own. But none of it mattered. I’d lost Caroline and then I lost Brandon.

  “I left him to grow up wild and lonely. I heard from Roger Fletcher that he was reckless and irresponsible like his mother. On the day he died we quarrelled violently.


  “I helped to kill my son, Clare. I blamed the Kenwards. Your mother. But mine was the greater blame. I accept that now. I made him what he was.”

  His voice sounded so anguished that Clare gripped his hand.“It’s all over, Mr Aylward. It was all done with years ago. Perhaps he wasn’t as bad as you thought. Roger Fletcher was probably telling lies. You’ve got to forgive yourself. There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

  For a moment he went absolutely still, thinking. His green eyes pinned her with painful intensity. He said, at last,“But I have to put it right. When I came back to live permanently at Ravensmere I tried to pass through the Seventh Gate, but the web would not part.”

  “What web?” Clare said,“Do you mean the Seventh Gate in the China Garden? But there’s only an imitation Gate there.”

  But he wasn’t listening, and she saw that he had that strange look in his eyes that her mother had sometimes. His voice took on the weird chanting rhythm that sent a chill down her spine.

  “It has taken me a long time to understand and accept defeat. A long time to acknowledge the wrongs I’ve done. They will not let me go, whatever my suffering, until there is a new Guardian.”

  Clare rubbed her forehead.“But if Roger Fletcher inherits Ravensmere, surely he’ll be the Guardian too?”

  He stared at her with weary amusement.“They would never allow Roger to inherit.”

  Clare said cautiously, feeling her heart give a great leap of hope,“You mean, you’ve changed your Will? Roger Fletcher won’t inherit?”

  “The Will was never made in his favour. It suited me to allow him to believe it was. For a time I sought to use him as a weapon of destruction. Futile. The Guardians are hereditary. I thought you understood that. Brandon was the next male Guardian.”

  He was looking at her closely, but Clare did not notice.

  “Bring him to me, Clare. I said I’d never forgive them. I swore that the son of that woman would never set foot in Ravensmere, but I was wrong. God help me it has taken me twenty years to accept it. I’ve been wrong all my life. Bring him quickly. I have to put it right.”

  Clare said, frightened,“But, you know Mr Aylward, Brandon’s dead. You just told me...”

  He said in a more normal voice.“Not Brandon, girl. D’you think I’m senile? Go to Kenward Farm and bring the boy to me.”

  Clare said, incredulously,“You want to see Mark? Mark Winters at the farm?”

  “Bring him.”

  “But...Well it’s difficult. You see I’m not actually talking...”

  “You must bring him quickly, Clare. There is danger. The time is running out.”

  Chapter 21

  Clare went back to the stables and made herself a cup of coffee, and then a sandwich she couldn’t eat, trying to put off the evil moment when she had to go to Kenward Farm. Why couldn’t he just telephone, she thought, or send James?

  But she knew why. Mark would need to be persuaded to come. She would feel a fool looking for him at his home, and she would have to sink her pride and start talking to him again, and all the pain would come back.

  Her mother came in quickly, holding a newspaper over her hair against the heavy rain.

  “It’s bucketing down. The weather’s broken with a vengeance. But after all that heat it’s a bit of relief to see rain again.”

  “What are you doing home at this time?” Clare pushed her sandwich away.

  Frances began to drag the vacuum cleaner out of its cupboard.“I’ve got a few hours free. Mr Aylward doesn’t want me—he’s got some estate business on hand. Mr Bristow is hopping round making telephone calls for him all over the place. Roger Fletcher and James Kenward have been sent for and his solicitor is coming over from Bath. I just hope he isn’t overdoing it.”

  Clare said,“He wants me to fetch Mark Winters from Kenwards.”

  Frances stopped dead.“He wants Mark?” Her eyes were shining.

  “But why? I thought they’d been trying to keep him off the estate. Why does he want Mark?”

  “I expect we’ll find out.”

  “But you know already, don’t you?”

  Frances switched on the cleaner, and Clare pulled out its wall plug with determination.

  “Clare!”

  “You’ll have to tell me sometime. Don’t you think I’ve got a right to know? Everybody else does.”

  Frances fingers curled into fists. She stuffed them into her pockets. She said coldly,“Very well. If you must know. Mark is Mr Aylward’s grandson. Brandon’s son.”

  “Brandon’s son! But you said you were engaged to Brandon, and then he died ... Oh, my God!” she went paper white.“Is Mark my brother?”

  “Of course not. If Mark was your brother do you think I’d have let it go as far as it has?”

  Clare raised her head slowly and met her mother’s gaze. She knew about them. Knew she had made love with Mark. A dark flush flooded up her neck and burned over her face.

  Frances said,“Mark told me. He was worried he had made you pregnant. He said he wanted to marry you.”

  “Big of him. He’s going away. To Australia or Canada or somewhere. When he gets his money.”

  Frances said,“It will be too late. He won’t get away. He has to stay.”

  “But...”

  “He can’t accept that yet. Frightened of the responsibility, like his father. He feels angry and trapped. That’s why Bran was so wild. Mark’s all right. When he finds his purpose he’ll be all right. When he accepts. If he doesn’t, he’ll die.”

  Clare watched her mother, saw the filmed eyes, and heard the high even note in her voice, and shivered.

  She said, hesitating,“Did you love Brandon?”

  Frances rubbed her forehead.“Oh yes, I loved him. I loved him very much. He was like the other half of myself. But before he died I broke our engagement.”

  “But if you loved him so much, if he loved you, why did you break it off? How could you?”

  “I found out ... something.”

  “Nothing could have been so important if you really loved each other,” Clare said definitely, almost accusing, thinking of Mark. If she really loved Mark she would never be able to let him go whatever happened.

  “I had no choice.”

  “You always say that’s not true. There’s always choice.”

  Frances’ voice shook.“I found out my sister was having Brandon’s baby.”

  “Your sister!” Clare felt the rush of hot blood to her face.

  “My half-sister, Vivienne. She’s three years younger than me. Mark is her son.”

  “Mrs Carlton-Winters! Vivienne Kenward that was. I suppose she moved back to Kenward Farm when your father died,” Clare said, as another piece of the jigsaw dropped into place.“Why didn’t I guess? So what happened?”

  “We grew up together, Brandon, Vivienne and me. We used to go to the village school together until Bran was sent away to school.”

  Clare heard herself say,“You used to meet at the stile opposite the gates and run down the footpath across the field.”

  Frances looked at her anxiously. Clare said,“It’s all right. I’m beginning to get used to it. Go on.”

  “Well, Bran and I were always close. Then we got engaged. I went to London to shop and get my wedding dress. While I was away they … betrayed me.”

  Care said carefully,“You mean while Brandon Aylward was getting married to you he got your sister pregnant.”

  Frances’ voice was hard.“You can understand why Vivienne and I don’t see each other.”

  “And Mark—he’s really Mark Aylward?”

  Her mother shook her. head.“He’s Mark Kenward. Brandon never married Vivienne. Mark is illegitimate. Mr Aylward would never let her use the name. Vivienne eventually married Roddy Carlton-Winters and he adopted him.”

  Mark the Bastard. Clare understood Pete Anscomb’s jibes now.“He’s my cousin,” she said, dazed.

  “Half-cousin,” Frances said bitterly.“He could have been my son.�
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  Clare stared at her. The bond, she thought. That’s why her mother got along with Mark so well.

  “Does he know?”

  “Oh yes. There are family photographs. He recognized me.” Frances swallowed, and suddenly Clare could see through her calm mask. There was so much pain and anguish there. The betrayal had hurt her so badly perhaps she had never truly recovered.

  “He didn’t tell me,” said Clare, and felt her own hurt bite deeper.“And neither did you. You brought me down here not telling me anything. I feel a complete fool.”

  “I was trying to protect you.”

  “I don’t need protection,” Clare said angrily.“I need the truth. Then I’ll know how to deal with things myself.”

  Kenward Farm seemed to be deserted as Clare trudged reluctantly up the track from the lane. It was very old, sunken into the hill behind it. It was massive, like a fort, the windows deep and small, its roofs sagging, mossy with lichen. It had an immense, deep porch and a door like a church. The outbuildings, barn and stables, forming a square next to it, were too neat and clean to be a working farm.

  She took a deep breath and pushed open the barred gate, which said Kenward Stables, and closed it carefully behind her. Immediately there was a volley of honking, and a phalanx of geese advanced on her from the other side of the pond across the yard. A barking dog was quelled by a raised female voice and Clare saw there was a woman striding across the yard towards her.

  She was tall, with a high-boned face and a great mane of dark red hair. She was wearing jeans stuffed into wellies, and for a moment Clare thought she was young, but there was a streak of white hair in the glorious auburn and fine lines round her eyes and mouth.

  Her face riveted Clare. It was her own face grown older, full of bitter experience.

  The woman stared back at her, immobile, and then she threw back her head and roared with laughter.

  “My God, no wonder she didn’t bring you here when she came back for the funeral.”

  Clare was embarrassed and furious with her mother. Another unnecessary deception. She said,“You must be my Aunt Vivienne. I came to see Mark. That is, I’ve got a message for him.”