“Building the railway, was he?” Interest had sparked in the man’s eyes. “Ah, well now, there’s a man after me own heart. Me brother’s a Hingineer on a railway back home in England. Now, I’d be right glad to help you, ma’am, but the cabin’ll be a bit rough. An’ I can only take you to France, ma’am.”
“I don’t mind one bit, Captain,” Carrie had smiled and silently had blessed the Captain’s ‘ hingineer’ brother. “I can find something else from there, I’m sure.”
The passage home had taken over three months. Three months in which she had been able to rest and recover her composure after Lloyd’s death and her hurried departure from Captain Jeremy Richmond’s clutches.
Now finally – after several more weeks – she was back in Abbeyford and the years between seemed to slip away.
As she stood at the gate leading into the stableyard of the Manor, Carrie hesitated, irresolute. If he were still here, how could she just burst in upon him? What if he had a wife and children? Would it not be wrong of her to disturb the peace he had perhaps found for himself? And yet, her own heart ached for sight of him. She knew, deep down, that whatever his situation now, his love for her had been so deep that even the passage of these last twelve years could not have dimmed that love.
She walked through the deserted yard, everywhere was neglected and overgrown. The stables were tumble-down, the weeds growing through the cobbled yard. Jamie cannot live here now, she thought with sudden disappointment. He would never allow it to become like this – unless, unless he had lost all heart, all ambition with her going.
She knocked on the back door, but there was no reply so she walked round to the front of the house and pulled on the stiff bell-rope there. She waited for what seemed a long time until she heard shuffling footsteps approach the door.
It opened slowly and Carrie found herself staring at a stranger – a woman of about her own age. She wore a low-cut silk dress which once must have been a fine ball gown, but now it was rumpled and stained. Her hair was piled up untidily on to her head, tendrils hanging down around her face.
“What d’you want?” Her voice was rough and her manner coarse.
Carrie’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “Does – Mr Trent live here?”
There was a moment’s silence as the woman eyed Carrie. “And if he does, what do you want wi’ him?”
Carrie almost gasped in astonishment. Surely, surely not Jamie?
She squared her shoulders meeting the woman’s hostile eyes calmly. “ I’d like a word with him, if you please?”
“Oh, ‘I’d like a word with him, if you please’,” the woman mimicked mockingly. “ What’d he want wi’ the likes o’ you?”
I might well ask the same question of you, Carrie thought but aloud she repeated, “I would like to see him, please,” with far more confidence in her tone than she felt.
Oh Jamie, Jamie, her heart cried out. Not this!
“You’d best come in then,” the woman turned, leaving the door open for Carrie to enter and follow. She flung open the door of what had once been Squire Guy Trent’s study and stood aside for Carrie to enter the room.
“There he is – but I doubt you’ll get much sense out of him jus’ now. Been drunk for two days, ’ee has.”
The smell of drink hit her forcibly as Carrie stepped into the small room. She blinked and as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness of the room, she saw the figure of a man sprawled across the desk, an empty whisky bottle on its side. His head was resting on one arm, a few inches from his limp hand. She almost spoke the name aloud – Squire Trent – for this is how she had last seen him. Then she checked herself. No, no, he was dead, by his own hand. Jamie had told her. Then who …?
She walked round the desk until she could see his face and when she did she drew breath sharply in surprise. “Pa!”
It was indeed her father. At the sound of her voice Evan stirred and raised bleary, bloodshot eyes to squint up at her. Carrie’s heart missed a beat. It was as if she were seeing a ghost, for now her father was the image of the defenceless, pathetic old man she remembered as Squire Guy Trent – Evan’s own father!
“Oh, Pa, what are you doing here?”
The woman, who had stood in the doorway watching, now moved into the room. “ Is ’ee your Pa, then? Well, I niver!”
Carrie looked up at the woman. “ Calls himself Trent, does he?”
The woman looked surprised. “ Yea. Why, ain’t that ’is name, then?”
Carrie smiled sadly. “ It used to be ‘Smithson’.”
The sound of her voice, or the use of his former name, roused Evan. “Me name’s Trent. I’ve a right to the name of Trent – it’s my birthright!”
Carrie leaned closer. “ Pa, it’s Carrie.”
The blurred eyes squinted at her. “ Carrie? Ha – told you I’d live here one day, didn’t I?”
“Much good it seems to have done you,” she said candidly.
“I got a right to be here.” He banged the desk with his clenched fist and swept the empty bottle to the floor. The sound of shattering glass made the two women jump.
“You ’ is daughter, then?” the woman asked Carrie. “Well I never knew ’ee was even married!”
“Where is my mother?” Carrie asked.
“Lord knows,” the woman shrugged. “ Taken me in proper, ’ee ’as.” Her glance rested balefully on the sprawling form.
“Does anyone else live here?”
“No, only us two.”
“Pa,” she shook his shoulder. “Pa – where’s Ma and the boys?”
“Gone, all gone.”
“Where – where’ve they gone?”
“Dead – all dead,” he moaned and slumped forward again.
Carrie caught her breath and she and the woman gazed at each other.
“Ee, love, I’m right sorry to hear that.” For the first time there was friendliness in the woman’s tone. “ You bin away then? Didn’t you know?”
Carrie shook her head. “I’ve been away for almost twelve years.” She paused then asked. “Do you know who lived here before Mr – Trent?” Referring to her father by that name did not come easily, but it was the only name by which this woman knew him.
“No,” she shook her head. “ ’Ee was here when I came. I met him in Manchester, an’ he brought me back ’ere.”
Carrie sighed and looked down with sadness at her father. He’d achieved his bitter ambition – to ruin the Trents and to live in the Manor House himself. But it had not brought him any happiness. In so doing he had ruined himself also.
“There’s nothing for me here,” she turned away and walked slowly from the room, past the woman and out of the house.
“Come an’ see ’im again – when he’s sober,” the woman called after her, but Carrie only smiled faintly and nodded. She passed through the silent stableyard, averting her eyes from the buildings – that was where poor Guy Trent had ended his useless, tragic life. Once in the lane she turned to the left and climbed towards the wooded brow of the hill. Sadly she wandered through the shadows, hardly knowing where her footsteps led her. So many memories came crowding back. Memories of those wonderful days of summer. Memories of the handsome young man she had loved and still loved to this day.
She paused at the edge of the wood to look at the abbey ruins and then was drawn towards them.
The ruins had changed little. The ground within the crumbling walls was still littered with rubble, and the little room was still intact. If she had been more of a fanciful nature she might have imagined she heard the echoing laughter of the happy, ghostly lovers. Herself and Jamie? Or Guy Trent and his Sarah?
She shuddered and turned away down the hill towards the village. The bright day seemed to mock her sadness. She was no nearer, now, of finding Jamie again than she had been when she had left India. If anything she was even farther away, for then she had pictured him still living here.
Fondly – romantically – she had imagined him still living in Abbeyford Manor
. Her heart had woven the fantasy of a joyful, poignant reunion. Her arrival at the Manor, Jamie’s strong arms about her, the haven of love she sought.
But he was no longer here.
He had gone, and all that was left was her drunken, pathetic father, now the image of the man – his own father – whom he had hated with such venom all his life; on whom he had sought – and achieved – such a terrible revenge!
But his revenge had destroyed them all.
Where was Jamie now? Where could he have gone? Who would know?
Her steps led her automatically to the churchyard set in the centre of the village. She pushed open the gate and went in. Walking among the gravestones, without thinking she began to search for those of her mother and brothers.
“May I help you?” A kindly voice spoke behind her making her jump.
She turned round to see the smiling face of a young curate. “ Oh – I – er – don’t quite know.”
“Were you looking for a particular grave?” he asked gently.
She nodded. “I’ve been away for almost twelve years. I have only just learnt that my mother and younger brothers are – dead. I wondered …”
“Perhaps I can help. I could look in the Parish Register, if you like.”
Carrie nodded. “That would be very kind of you. I’d like to know – where they are.”
“Come along, then,” the young man said briskly and led the way into the quiet dimness of the church and through into the vestry.
He pulled a huge book from a shelf and laid it on the table. “Now, can you give me some details.”
“Well, there’s Lucy Smithson and her two sons, Matthew and Thomas.”
“And you’ve been left about twelve years?”
“Yes.”
His finger was running down the pages.
“Smithson …” he murmured. “Ah now, here’s a Luke Smithson.”
Sadness swept over Carrie at the memory of her elder brother. “Yes – yes, he died just before I left.”
“Ah – so the names you are looking for would be later than that.” There was a short pause when he said. “ Now here we are – Matthew and Thomas Smithson. Oh dear me, their deaths are listed on the same date. Now, wait a minute, I seem to remember. Yes, were they working on the building of the railway?”
Carrie nodded.
“Yes, now I remember. There was an explosion – dynamite incorrectly placed, I believe. There were seven killed, I think.” He counted the names in the register. “Yes, seven. And I’m afraid your brothers were amongst that number.”
“And my mother – Lucy Smithson.”
Again he searched. “Yes – here it is. She died only two months after your brothers.”
Carrie nodded again, a lump in her throat. She could imagine poor, worn-out Lucy, finally beaten by the loss of her two youngest children. Of all of the seven children Lucy had borne, only Carrie now survived.
“Could you also look for a Sarah Smithson? She was my grandmother.”
For several moments his finger ran on down the page. Slowly he shook his head. “No – I can’t see any Sarah. There’s a Henry Smithson. He died eight years ago.”
“Yes. He was – her husband.” Carrie hesitated for he had not been her grandfather. That was Squire Trent.
Suddenly, a thought struck Carrie. “Wait a minute. Go back a little. To the time when Squire Guy Trent died.”
The young curate made no comment, but did as she asked.
“Why, yes, her name is directly after his. She died the following week.” His eyes were upon Carrie, questioningly, but even though the young man had been so kind she did not want to confide in him.
Let the unhappy lovers’ secret die with them, and she thought how ironic it was that they had been obliged to live out their lives apart and yet in death their names were close beside each other.
“Can you tell me where my mother and brothers are buried, please?”
“Ah, yes, now where are we?” He looked back at the list again, noted the numbers of the graves and then from the back of the book pulled out a plan of the graves in the churchyard. “ Yes, they’re all together over by the yew tree in the far corner.” Again he turned, almost apologetically, towards her. “Their graves are unmarked, I’m afraid. No one requested any head stones and the parish cannot …”
“No, no, of course not,” Carrie said swiftly. Her father would never have thought to spend his money on such things as gravestones! Sooner a bottle of whisky, she thought bitterly.
It was quiet and peaceful under the yew tree in the corner of the churchyard. Probably the only peace her mother had ever known, Carrie thought sadly, and wished she could have done more to make her mother’s life easier. The grass was long and the area neglected, but she could just detect the gentle mounds showing where her mother and brothers were buried. At last she turned away, sick at heart that, at the moment, she could not afford to erect headstones either. “ Some day, some day …” she promised the silent earth.
Then intruding into her quiet solitude came the sound of a train whistle as it neared Abbeyford Halt, then moments later it burst into view, puthering clouds of grey smoke. Fascinated, and yet partially appalled by the iron monster thundering through the quiet valley, Carrie watched it screech to a brief stop at the Halt and then, with much chugging, it pulled away and was soon gone, leaving only the tell-tale cloud of smoke drifting over the village.
It was beginning to grow dusk, she had allowed that train to depart without her, and she doubted that there would be another that day. Besides, she was not yet ready to leave Abbeyford. Surely there must be someone here who knew where Jamie had gone. But who?
“Of course,” she murmured aloud and a small smile of fresh hope curved her mouth. “ His stepmother – Lady Adelina Lynwood!”
She remembered Jamie’s words all those years before – could almost hear his beloved voice; ‘She’s very beautiful and has been very kind to me. I’m very fond of her.’
Jamie would not leave without telling his stepmother where he was going. She would go and see Lady Lynwood, and with that thought her feet began to move eagerly up the lane, then she stopped. It was too late now to walk the several miles from Abbeyford to Lynwood Hall. She could hardly arrive there late at night.
Carrie decided she would stay here in Abbeyford and visit Lady Lynwood the next day. But where could she stay? She could not – would not – go back to the Manor. She wandered down the one village street and found herself outside the cottage which had been her grandmother’s. It was empty and cold; she thought, but it offered shelter. There could be no harm in her staying there overnight.
The cottage was lonely, haunted with memories of the old couple who had lived there.
Carrie found a few bits of wood in the coal-house at the back and built a fire in the living-room grate. Though the chimney smoked a little through lack of use, the fire warmed her. She drew the old rickety armchair towards the blaze and banged the cushions vigorously to get rid of the dust, then she curled up in it and despite the fact that it was now several hours since she had eaten, she soon fell asleep.
The morning found her cramped and even more hungry and cold, for the fire had burnt down whilst she had slept.
She splashed her face and hands under the creaking pump in the small backyard and tidied her hair. Then, since there was nothing she could breakfast on, she left the cottage and began the long walk over the hills to Lynwood Hall.
At the Hall, the butler led her into the morning room. Carrie dropped a curtsy and said, “It is kind of you to see me, your ladyship.”
“Please be seated,” Lady Adelina indicated the wide window-seat near her, where she was sitting, some embroidery in her lap.
“Thank you,” Carrie said and moved across the room and sat down. Now that she was closer she could see that Lady Adelina had scarcely altered since the last time she had seen her – over twelve years previously. Her rich auburn hair was just as beautiful with not a trace of grey and he
r lovely face showed not the faintest line or blemish. She was staring at Carrie, a slightly puzzled expression in her eyes. “Should I know you, Mrs Foster?” she murmured. “ I can’t seem to recall …”
“My lady – we did meet once, but the circumstances, my circumstances, were very different then.” She trembled a little inwardly, but met Lady Lynwood’s gaze with an outward show of fearlessness. “I am Evan Smithson’s daughter.”
Hatred and fear swept across Lady Adelina’s face, then she touched her forehead with trembling fingers and tried to smile. “ I’m sorry, my dear, it was just a shock to hear his name again …”
Carrie leaned forward, no longer afraid. Lady Lynwood did not resent her, though she obviously felt a deep, abiding hatred for Evan Smithson.
“Why do you hate him so much?”
Lady Lynwood met her clear, questioning gaze. “My dear, it would be very wrong of me to tell you. Just let me say that something he – he did, caused me a great deal of unhappiness. I cannot forgive him – though I know I should.”
“It seems,” Carrie said quietly, “his bitterness and twisted soul has touched many lives – and – brought unhappiness to them all.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You know he is living in Abbeyford Manor now and calling himself Trent?”
Lady Lynwood gasped. “ No! No, I didn’t. We have severed all connections with Abbeyford now – even though it is only a few miles away. We sold Abbeyford Grange – my grandfather’s old home – so there is no need for me to visit Abbeyford now. I went there once, just after the railway line was completed, but to me the village has been spoilt.”
Carrie nodded, then said, “Lady Lynwood, the reason for my visit is – to ask you – if – if you know,” the colour rose in her cheeks and her heart beat faster, “ where Jamie Trent is?”
“Jamie?” Lady Lynwood gazed at her for a moment then she smiled. “Of course, he told me. You and he fell in love, but your father and – another man, I forget his name …”
“Lloyd Foster,” Carrie interposed. “ They came between us, and I was tricked into marrying Lloyd.”
Abbeyford Remembered Page 12