The Marlows

by Rosalind Laker

  Tansy, remembering what Dominic had said about him from the tavern steps, knew he had only put into words the truth that she had been refusing to acknowledge, and she had hated him for bringing her face to face with it, and for seeing her in her fright and anguish.

  The funeral tea was held at the Rectory. When the Rector and his wife had offered their parlour for it, Tansy had accepted thankfully. It was a small party of mourners who gathered in the house, there being no relatives to attend other than the Marlow offspring themselves, and only those who had known the late departed best were invited to drink tea and eat the cherry cake, sponge fingers, and the gingerbread, which Tansy and the Rector’s wife had made ready between them. When the modest repast was over the guests made their farewells and left, glancing over their shoulders with curiosity at the lawyer, Mr. Cooper-Evans, who had timed his arrival to coincide with their going, but he ignored them, busying himself getting out his papers while a maidservant cleared the remains of the tea swiftly out of sight into the kitchen.

  On the parlour’s leather-upholstered sofa Tansy took her place between Judith, whose hand she held between both her own, and Nina, who had not shed a single tear. Roger lifted forward a small table to place beside the lawyer’s chair before seating himself on a carved stool and setting a youthful, tool-scarred hand on each knee. The black brim of Tansy’s bonnet, the veil thrown back over it, accentuated the pallor of her face, shadows like bruises under her eyes, and she sat stiff-backed and motionless, expecting nothing. The lawyer cleared his throat in preparation and hooked on his spectacles.

  There in the stillness of the Rectory parlour with its slightly musty aroma and the background sounds of the ticking of a clock and the faint clatter of crockery from the direction of the kitchen, Tansy and the other three heard the last will and testament of the man who had loved them all dearly, no matter how great his faults.

  It was a short will drawn up some years previously in which everything was left to his wife and after her death the residue to be equally divided among their surviving children, with whom he included Judith. But there was little to be shared, most of the items having been disposed of long since in bad times and never replaced, probably forgotten about, and the rest had been destroyed with the cottage itself in the fire.

  “There is a codicil,” the lawyer added, clearing his throat in readiness to continue. “It is as follows: ‘To my beloved elder daughter, Tansy, I leave the house known as Rushmere, in the village of Cudlingham, in Surrey, together with all the contents, household effects, and land appertaining to it. It is my dearest wish that she will use her heart and her head and deal kindly with all she finds in it.’”

  Mr. Cooper-Evans looked over his spectacles at the dumb-founded girl. “This is the property that he inherited some years ago from his widowed grandmother. She was a Hammond before her marriage, and the house had come to her from her side of the family, built — so your father told me — by one of her forebears for use as a small country seat within easy distance of London. Some of the furniture in the house is from the time that ancestor of yours lived there.”

  A sharp nudge from Nina’s elbow jolted Tansy out of her stupefaction at hearing that she owned a house. A whole house. With furniture in it. A home to replace that sad, blackened shell. A place where the four of them could be together again.

  “My father never mentioned Rushmere to any of us, Mr. Cooper-Evans,” she exclaimed, leaning forward in her amazement. “And I know I speak for all of us when I say that I’m sure our mother never knew of its existence.”

  “Indeed?” The lawyer raised his thin, gray eyebrows. “I find that hard to believe. Judging from the number of receipts in the iron box saved from the fire it appears to have drained his resources in upkeep from time to time. Roof repairs, interior decorations, and so forth. Yet to the best of my knowledge it has been untenanted, there being no record of any rents paid or a lease of any kind being transacted. Unless your mother was kept in complete ignorance of the late Mr. Marlow’s financial affairs it’s difficult to see how she could not have known of it. It is my belief he was keeping it in good repair against the day when he would retire from his life of journeying and settle down. It is possible that he would have removed there with your mother if she had been agreeable when the house became his in” — here he referred to a document —”1835 and you were all twelve years younger than you are now. But ladies are often reluctant to leave friends and neighbours and familiar surroundings for the unknown. If the matter was a bone of contention between your parents it would explain why you never heard the house mentioned.”

  Tansy’s bewilderment did not lessen. Her mother had never been one to make friends or hobnob with neighbours, always keeping herself aloof and all outsiders at a distance. It was more likely that she had refused to consider living under a roof gained through the generosity of a member of the Marlow family, never having forgiven them for shutting their doors on her husband as her own family had done to her. But could she not have understood that his grandmother must have felt differently about him from all the rest to leave him a house that had once been hers? But Tansy knew the answer to that: Ruth Marlow had a stubborn streak in her. Pride was a tree with many branches.

  “I still can’t understand why my father should have left it un-tenanted,” she replied, puzzled that Oliver, whose finances had been so often at low ebb, should have allowed a sound property to remain uninhabited when he could have relied upon it to keep his head above water at many a time. “An empty house deteriorates. No wonder he had to keep spending money on it.”

  “I agree. Unfortunately I can offer no other explanation. Your father never confided in me, and apart from consulting me on minor matters and getting me to draw up his will I never saw him from one year’s end to the next.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “There is always the possibility that the property is not attractive in appearance, lacks certain amenities, or is situated in a somewhat inaccessible spot. It may be that you will decide to sell the property after you’ve seen it.”

  “I hope not,” Tansy replied earnestly. “To me that codicil read like an appeal that I should cherish Rushmere, and that means he didn’t want it sold.” Privately she wondered if originally Oliver had intended it as a dowry for her. True, he had set nothing aside for Judith and Nina, but he must have hoped with his unbounding, ebullient optimism that he would have scraped together something else for them to add in further codicils in case of his demise before their respective wedding days dawned.

  The lawyer nodded, and then looked at Judith. “As the eldest, Miss Collins, you will be an excellent chaperone to Miss Marlow and Miss Nina in these new surroundings.”

  “A duty I welcome, sir,” she replied, feeling a sense of pride in being appointed officially such an important role. Without her it would have been difficult socially for two young girls to live alone, and she felt she had come into her own at last, no longer a rootless addition to the family, but a strut to keep them secure.

  “But shall we be able to afford to make a home of this particular house, sir?” Roger intervened bluntly, an aggressive note in his voice. He was feeling a need to assert his male presence. His lack of height was a sore point with him, and it often resulted in his being treated as if younger than his fifteen years. The codicil seemed to deal out that same treatment again in his eyes, it having been a bitter blow to him that the house in question had been left to Tansy. As the only surviving son it should have become his. Jealousy and resentment were high in him, for in addition he saw himself chained to a trade that had not been of his choice in the first place, while the three girls went off to a new county and a new world of interests that would not include him. It was grossly unjust. He tried not to hold Tansy responsible in his own mind for their father’s death, but it was all her fault really. If she hadn’t left him as she did when he was in his cups a doctor might have been fetched when the attack occurred and had time to bleed him and save his life. “Some of these old country places
encompass areas of land that in upkeep would be far beyond our meagre resources.”

  “In the past Rushmere did dominate a good many acres, but your father sold them off, leaving the house with a modest garden and orchard. As to your financial state, that brings me to the next point I have to discuss. As I mentioned to you, he has left you all but penniless. He was a man to whom money came and went with equal ease, and we must remember that he had expected many years yet in which to lay aside provision for the future. But the house is a good asset, and you will have enough on which to live modestly for a little while. I admit that it is obvious that your father did not wish Rushmere to be sold, but he would not have wanted you to starve in comparative grandeur to keep it in the family.”

  Tansy spoke thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure about that. My father must have tightened his own belt many a time to find funds for Rushmere.”

  “And at our expense, too,” Nina muttered bitterly, speaking for the first time.

  “Be thankful that Father did keep the place in repair.” Roger retorted with a sharp glance at his sister. “At least it will be sound and dry, and you won’t be going to a ruin.”

  “You can be sure of the property’s good condition,” the lawyer endorsed, “and your decision to move into the house, at least for the time being, is exactly what I intended to advise. It will reunite you under one roof and give you a respite in which to recover from your sad bereavements, one following so close upon the other, and at leisure you can make plans for the future.” He glanced again at some papers on the table and took up a letter. “This brings me to the final matter. From the papers in the strongbox I discovered that your father owned a half share in a colt — a yearling to be exact — and at the present time it is being trained and stabled by the other half owner, a Mr. Dominic Reade, at his stud at Ainderly Hall in Cudlingham.” The lawyer paused, looking over his spectacles at Tansy’s involuntary gasp of dismay, but when she said nothing, only lowering her head and biting her lip, he assumed she had merely been taken aback of yet another surprising piece of information, and he continued with what he had been saying. “I wrote to the gentleman and received this reply, which I will read to you.”

  Tansy clenched her fists in her lap. That she should find herself inextricably linked with Dominic Reade through this business over a young race horse was a cruel trick of fate. She wanted to forget him, to put him from her mind. With dismay she listened to the letter, which was brief enough, stating that the late Mr. Marlow had wished to negotiate terms to purchase Dominic Reade’s own share. Incredulously she learned that the sum of three hundred guineas had been bandied about by her father, who must have been bluffing his way through on the basis of a hoped-for loan that he had been counting on from an unknown source, but this had been a first offer and refused. However, in conclusion, Dominic Reade announced his willingness to discuss the colt’s future with Miss Marlow at any time when a period of her mourning had elapsed and she felt able to consider the matter.

  “Three hundred guineas!” Nina expostulated, her face contorted with a furious indignation. “How dared Papal How dared he! A mere handful of sovereigns clinking in his money belt and he strutting about as though he were a millionaire.”

  “Hush, Nina,” Judith implored in deep distress. “Don’t say anything you’ll regret.”

  Roger, his face rapt, had risen to his feet and he spoke half to himself and half to the lawyer. “A colt! And at such a price! Papa must have known there was something special about it. And it’s stabled in Cudlingham. I’d like to see it. And soon. Do you think — ”

  “No, Roger!” Tansy’s voice cut across his. She had sprung up from her chair and he had never seen her look more resolute. “Put away your daydreams. Papa told me once it’s an old trick in the racing world to boast of a colt’s high purchase price and chances when it’s entered for a race — and then the owner bets on another, less favoured horse which he knows has more chance of winning and gets far greater odds. Mr. Reade can buy our half share. I’m willing to agree to that — and without delay!”

  Roger screwed up his eyes in mutinous exasperation. “What’s happened to you, Tansy?” he demanded heatedly. “I’ve never known you show prejudice against the Turf before. Mama hated it and all it stood for, but that was natural, I suppose. But I’m not interested in the tricks of the racing world. It’s the horses I’ve wanted to be with. I thought you always understood that. You — and Father. Is it so wrong to want to see — just to see and clap and perhaps even ride once — a colt that he picked out, whatever his reasons might have been?”

  “I’m not against racing. I never have been. Do you think I’ve ever forgotten the wonderful outing I had with Papa years ago when he took me on my own with him to Goodwood?” She gave a choked, emotional half laugh, half sob. “He won on a horse called Harkaway, and riding home afterward we cried out the name like a huntsman’s tallyho at everyone we met. To me the Turf is Papa. But it’s vital to my peace of mind that we get rid of the colt.”

  “It is right and proper that you should dispose of the half share in this horse as soon as possible,” Mr. Cooper-Evans interposed approvingly, “but I feel bound to point out that Mr. Reade’s letter gives no indication that he is prepared to buy — only the matter of selling is referred to. If you could persuade him to sell the animal on your mutual behalf, then that would settle the whole business swiftly and amicably.” He began to pack up his papers, making ready to leave. “By all means get in touch with me if you should need advice on the matter. I am not a sporting man myself and find it incredible that the total value of the yearling appears to be six hundred guineas, but even if it fetches a smaller figure on the open market you will still receive an acceptable little sum to invest and tide you over any unexpected difficulties or expenses incurred at Rushmere. Now I shall take my leave of you.”

  They all stood to say their goodbyes, and Roger went to fetch the lawyer’s coat, which he held for Mr. Cooper-Evans to thrust his rather long arms into it, and then handed him his top hat and cane. The lawyer held them at his side as he had a last word with Tansy.

  “I must warn you that getting rid of the colt will not sever altogether your connection with it if it should ever run at Epsom Racecourse. I omitted to tell you that the village of Cudlingham lies no more than a mile away from that famous spot, and it’s possible that you may be able to see it from the windows of Rushmere.”

  Roger saw him out to his brougham and the three girls were left alone in the parlour. Tansy, still ashiver inwardly from the impact of all she had learned in the past hour, slipped an arm tightly through Judith’s, and spoke in awed tones: “Just think! We have a home to go to. We’re going to be reunited as a family.”

  Nina, patting her hair into place before a looking glass above the mantel, watched their reflection and felt the old tug of deep-rooted jealousy. Tansy was quick enough to turn to Judith on every occasion, but it was a different matter when it came to her. Well, she was determined not to let bereavement dampen the prospect of moving to a new home in a new district, which had excited her instantly in spite of her feeling of outrage that her comfort had been sacrificed over the years for it. She intended to cast aside her dyed black mourning clothes at the first opportunity. It was not that the death of both parents had left her untouched; indeed, she had sorrowed deeply and in private, but more for the tragic manner of their passing than from a personal sense of loss. She had longed too often to be free of her mother’s strict control not to accept the situation now there was no changing it, for Ruth had been the only one difficult to deceive with her inventive lies, and sometimes only by biting the inside of her cheek till it bled or nipping the skin of her wrist with her nails was she able to keep the guilty colour from flooding up into her cheeks under her mother’s clear and steady gaze. As for her father, she had been fonder of him than anybody realized, but she had never been his favourite and the knowledge had embittered her. Tansy had been the shining apple of his eye, and always she had fel
t shut out, the least important of his children in those exuberant home-comings when he flung gifts from his saddlebags as though each were a cornucopia of never-ending surprises. So she had deliberately shown less enthusiasm for the presents received, no matter how they delighted her, unable to control the hurt and jealousy that rose in her at being the last to be picked up and kissed and swung around in the air. She took hard the times when the gifts were less lavish and poverty lay like a shadow over the cottage, feeling that he had failed her more than the others, for he knew it distressed her to be shabbily dressed in Tansy’s made-over garments and to go without treats or pleasures, and she laid all blame for everything at his door, seeing it as a further denial of his love.

  It was small wonder she had grown up the odd one out, never pouring out her heart to the other two girls as sisters often did at bedtime hours when they shared the same room. She and Tansy should have been close, there being no more than eleven months between them, but instead Tansy drew more to Judith than to her, albeit unconsciously, and even Roger showed that he preferred their company to hers any day.

  “But how can we be reunited?” Judith was saying. She was feeling her new position already, but did not want to push her advice. “Roger has to serve four more years of his apprenticeship, unless” — here her eager hope started in her eyes and she clutched at Tansy’s wrists —”you’d buy him out of his indentures and let him come with us.”

  Nina, retying her bonnet strings, gave a delicate snort. “He’ll never stick another four years at Mr. Webster’s anyway, I can tell you. He’ll turn foot-loose like Papa and make a similar mess of his life.”

  Tansy knew that Nina was only voicing a possibility that she herself had considered. Roger’s restless mood boded ill, but during the long weeks of her vigil she had confidently awaited her father’s decision about what should be done to settle him, never dreaming that the responsibility would be hers alone when the time came. She wanted him to have nothing to do with Dominic Reade or the colt, but it went against her whole heart to think of leaving him behind in the village where daily he would see the sad, blackened shell that had once been their home whenever he went in and out of Webster’s brickyard, quite apart from everything else there was to consider.