With a sigh she took up the pile of letters she guessed would be belated thanks from ball guests and bills from her dressmaker, milliner and Dr Alderton. Her guess was correct, yet one envelope stilled her hand holding the silver letter-opener. For several moments she gazed at the familiar handwriting while her heartbeat quickened. Her sister had left without farewells a year ago and there had been no word from her since then, not even a reply to the letter Vere had sent with a newspaper cutting reporting details of Philip’s death in Africa. Why should Margaret write now, and to her rather than to Vere? As she studied the envelope, Charlotte recalled her distress followed by anger on learning the truth of Margaret’s abscondence. The anger had remained until a short time ago when a joking comment had touched her too deeply. Before the Waterloo Ball she might have destroyed this letter unopened — yes, she admitted that probability — but the long white envelope now offered a chance to renew a bond she had believed irrevocably broken. Charlotte slit open the letter and unfolded a single page.
My dearest Lottie,
Are you able to forgive me for leaving without a word of gratitude for all you have meant to me over the years? We are in London to seek help for Kate, who has been ill. I suppose Grandfather would not allow me to come to Knightshill, but I long to see you and so do the children.
We met Vere in Verona as he was about to sail for Athens. How he has changed! But so happy. I am as delighted as I know you will be. He gave me a letter for you which I hope I shall not have to post.
Laurence and I were married very quietly a week after receiving Vere’s news, so there will be no embarrassment over my identity. Dear Lottie, please come, Margaret
The embossed address was that of a London hotel used by those who valued peaceful, dignified surroundings. It was one of the capital’s most exclusive. Margaret and her children were certainly not living in poverty even though Laurence had resigned from the Diplomatic Service.
Although she sat on for some while considering her reaction to this invitation, Charlotte knew that she was being offered a second chance to understand why Margaret had acted as she had. There was also the bonus of seeing the children she loved. This letter was surely a partial denial of the charge of driving her family away. Margaret longed to see her, so she could not have been too terrible a sister.
Leaning back in the chair, she looked over the rose-garden and distant meadows which had a moment ago created yearning and loneliness within. The scene was now warmly familiar and filled with an ambience missing since her brothers and sister left. John Morgan was right. They would all return because their roots lay in this grand old house. Margaret should be allowed to bring her children here. They could never be Ashleighs in name, but they were in heart and spirit. Grandfather must be persuaded to permit their visit, yet the very fact that Timothy and Kate were not named Ashleigh robbed them of their strongest claim to come home.
Knowing Sir Gilliard was rigid in his daily routine and had taken sherry, as usual, before eating luncheon alone in the small dining-room during her recovery, Charlotte was certain of finding him when she went downstairs after tidying herself for the light midday meal. He was standing before the empty fireplace with a glass in his hand. Charlotte had a fleeting impression of a man suffering greater loneliness than she, and she wondered afresh what kind of man he had been before his young bride had deserted him. Sir Gilliard had been her own age then. Had he suffered every day from that moment on? Perhaps not. Like ‘Skinny Minnie’ and John Morgan, he had filled his life with occupation to combat loneliness. Then he had had five grandchildren to mould to his design. Poor Grandfather! Only Vorne had turned out perfectly, and he had been lost at the age of twenty-four. The rest must be greatly disappointing.
Sir Gilliard walked to the decanter to fill a glass for her. ‘Back on duty, I see,’ he commented in military fashion. ‘Damn fool thing to do, but it has doubtless taught you a lesson.’
‘How are you, Grandfather?’ she asked, sitting in her usual chair to sip her sherry.
‘Fit. Extremely so.’ He reinforced his statement by straightening his shoulders and stretching his neck. ‘Don’t like what’s going on in the Transvaal. The Boers need to be reminded of who they’d be taking on if they persist in their outrageous practice of taxing to the hilt all but their own kind, then refusing them the rights of citizenship. Such biased legislation! We won’t stand for it, I promise you. I’ve written to Sir Humphrey advocating a show of strength before they go too far. The government is worried about its gold investments and hopes for peaceful negotiation, but anyone can see the damn Boers are spoiling for a fight. Have been since that terrible affair at Majuba. We lost a great deal of prestige over a confrontation that should never have been forced on our troops!’ He drank the remainder of his sherry. ‘I wrote my thoughts on that in The Military Journal. Brought a flood of controversial correspondence in its wake, but a number of experienced men agreed with my opinion.’
Charlotte knew it was pointless to attempt an interruption. When Sir Gilliard rode a hobby horse he did not dismount until it was exhausted. She closed her ears and enjoyed her sherry. He would not expect comments from her; she was merely a figure at whom to throw his theories. She was aware that there was unrest in South Africa, but political affairs did not interest her. She had a theory of her own to put forward, so the complications of citizenship in the Transvaal were of less than usual interest this morning.
Sir Gilliard returned to his theme during chilled consommé, followed by galantine of duck and green salad. Only when the silver fruit bowl was placed on the table did Charlotte find her opportunity. The old general played into her hands with another familiar theme.
‘The mail was late. Fourth day in succession. Must protest to the Minister again. It really is not good enough.’
Charlotte sliced an apple into neat portions, saying as calmly as she could, ‘I received several notes of appreciation from guests who are habitually late in sending them.’
‘Slovenly,’ he grunted, then popped several black cherries into his mouth. ‘Bad manners, say what you like.’
‘There was also a letter from Margaret, posted in London.’
Sir Gilliard began to peel a peach in silence. It was not the kind which fell when his thoughts were elsewhere; it was a listening, resistant silence.
Charlotte summoned courage. ‘She is in England with her new husband to seek medical help for Kate. Her letter did not elaborate on that subject, but it must be complex if it requires advice from a specialist.’
Her grandfather continued to eat, but she was not deterred by a weapon he used often and to good effect. ‘Vere met up with them in Verona on the eve of his departure to Greece. He is apparently deriving great benefit from his travels.’ She took the final plunge. ‘I should very much like to see my sister and her children. May they come home for a brief visit?’
The blue eyes which retained their youthful vividness looked directly at her. ‘They chose to leave in company with a man who abused my hospitality while exceeding the bounds of morality and honour. Your mother also chose to leave this house, but she understood the penalties and has never attempted to make contact or return. For that, at least, she earns a modicum of my respect.’ He chose another peach and peeled it as if the matter was closed.
Charlotte would not abandon it, however. ‘The children made no choice: they were taken by their mother. If they had not been they would have been slaughtered with Philip. Timothy and Kate love Knightshill, Grandfather. It’s their home.’
‘No longer.’
She began to grow angry. ‘Are you saying that innocent pair, one of whom is as keen to follow Ashleigh tradition as you could possibly wish, can never return?’
He glowered at her beneath bushy white eyebrows. ‘The sins of the father are visited upon the children.’
‘Laurence Nicolardi is not their father. Philip Daulton is dead … and a more pious, moral man you could not encounter. He committed no sin against you.’
&
nbsp; ‘He was a pompous bigot who abused my hospitality by using this house for his own ends. He preached poverty and simplicity, yet availed himself without a qualm of all Knightshill offered. It was only for the sake of those children that I refrained from kicking the fellah out. He did not deserve a place with this family.’
‘But his children do,’ she cried. ‘Their mother is an Ashleigh.’
‘She is a woman with a fancy Italian name.’
‘She has Ashleigh blood.’
‘Bad blood,’ he claimed, frowning once more. ‘The boy has it, too. Must be from your mother’s side.’
Before she could stop herself, Charlotte said, ‘Or Grandmama’s.’
It was unlike her to be vindictive, and she gazed in dismay at the old man’s hardening expression. It was wrong of her to remind him of someone who must have inflicted deep scars upon his pride. Charlotte regarded her grandfather with fond respect. He had been the only stable influence in their lives, setting a supreme example of morality, family loyalty and integrity. He had been generous with his wealth, and caring within his own criteria. Vere had departed without repairing the breach caused by their quarrel. Now she was making wounding remarks to a man nearing ninety, whose dreams had all melted away.
Yet there was justification for her words. Her mother had been a widow, remarrying when she left for America with her Texan; nothing in that to uphold a claim of bad blood. Grandmama, on the other hand, an officer’s wife, had run off leaving her child in the care of a nurse. That her lover had also been Italian did not help Margaret’s cause, but Caroline Ashleigh might be blamed for any bad blood in her descendants. Val had always been reckless and determined. Vere was simply finding his feet, and Margaret might have done anything to avoid sailing for Africa with a husband possessed by his zealous convictions. Bad blood was too strong an expression to use against the three, and it had been in their defence that Charlotte had hit out at the man now studying her with glacial disapproval.
‘If you have finished your luncheon I will retire to the library where I shall meet with good manners, filial respect and matters of greater interest in the pages of Sir Henry Guthrie’s account of the Indian Mutiny.’
He left Charlotte at the table, her neatly sliced apple uneaten. Before receipt of Margaret’s letter she would have been deeply distressed by further alienation of her sole companion at Knightshill, but his refusal to allow Margaret and, especially, the children over the threshold meant she must go to them. Enthusiasm set her on her feet. Why not stay in London for several weeks; if Margaret agreed? Disability had made Charlotte reluctant to venture from the local scene, but it might be time to widen her horizon. With a married sister to accompany her, she could visit galleries and museums, stroll in the parks, maybe even go to the opera.
Hastening from the room to write a reply, she told herself she might not have been welcome on Vere’s Bohemian perambulation along the Mediterranean coast, but she would make the most of this invitation from a sister who did want her company. As she passed a window she saw John Morgan riding from the stables on his big roan. He had been only partially right. The family would return to Knightshill only when Sir Gilliard was no longer master of it. Until that time she must re-establish contact with them all and learn greater understanding.
3
THEY WERE THERE to meet her train looking as if they had always been a complete family. Charlotte’s fears of constraint were dispelled when the children rushed to greet someone they had last seen more than a year ago. In the criss-cross of passengers and general noise of one of London’s busiest rail termini, she hugged close a girl and a boy she had lived with from the days they were born.
‘Aunt Lottie, we have so much to tell you,’ cried ten-year-old Timothy. ‘We’ve seen camels and Legionnaires and palaces and Arab dhows and elephants and black slaves … and a Roman amphitheatre,’ he finished breathlessly.
Charlotte laughed. ‘Not all on the same day, I trust. Gracious Tim, how tall you are!’
Margaret’s son was a true Ashleigh, with thick blond hair, very blue eyes, sturdy build and a restless, energetic personality. He was uncannily like Val had been as a boy. Charlotte could hardly take her gaze from him to turn to Kate, whose illness had brought them all to London. The eight-year-old appeared to have changed little. With the same light-brown hair and green eyes as her grandmother and Uncle Vere, Kate was thoughtful, slow to trust, but intensely loyal towards those who earned it. She clung to Charlotte almost desperately, tears streaking her rather prim little face. An inveterate chatterbox, emotion now prevented her from saying a word. Apart from looking pale compared with her sun-browned brother, the girl gave no signs of being ill enough to need specialist advice.
Charlotte kissed the top of the girl’s head. ‘How I have missed you, dear! It has been such a long year.’
Then Margaret was there before her, and the children were temporarily forgotten as the sisters regarded each other seeking words to express their feelings. In an amethyst silk jacket and skirt, cream organza frilled blouse, and a huge confection of a hat decked with violets and striped ribbons, Margaret looked radiant. Charlotte then realized how miserable her sister had been during those last years with Philip. How had she failed to notice beauty so dimmed? Guilt made her reach for Margaret’s hands, but she could do no more than grip them.
‘I hardly dared hope you would come,’ Margaret confessed, her eyes sparkling with tears. ‘I was awake for half the night anticipating this moment.’
‘I was nervous throughout the journey. Wasn’t that foolish of me?’
They embraced, crushing the children between their long skirts, then drew apart to study each other anew. ‘You haven’t changed, Lottie.’
‘You have,’ she said swiftly. ‘There’s no need to ask if you are happy … and I swear you cannot have bought that wondrous hat anywhere but in Paris.’
They both laughed and embraced again, knowing sisterhood had been re-established. Then a figure arrived beside them to say, ‘There is a carriage waiting. Perhaps you would care to quit this area bedevilled by flying soots and noisy engines for its privacy.’
Charlotte turned towards the man dressed in a pearl-grey suit. She had last seen him at Knightshill when Sir Gilliard had ordered her to arouse his interest as a prospective suitor. Never having really liked or trusted Laurence Nicolardi, she could not now deny that he was extremely personable. His dark eyes glowed with vitality as he made a slight bow, and his smile made nonsense of her constraint.
‘We are all glad that you accepted Margaret’s invitation. I trust I may call you Charlotte. It would be absurd to stand on formality now that we are related, do you not think?’
How like him to speak with such candour … and how different he was from the surly, pious Philip! Yet she could not bring herself to address him in the same friendly vein, so merely nodded in reply.
‘Allow me to escort you through the crush of hopeful passengers,’ he said, offering both arms to the sisters. Telling Timothy to take Kate’s hand and follow them closely, he led them across to where carriages were lined up for hire. Within seconds he had established his position as head of his new family. Charlotte was swept along in a daze induced by more than the noise and bustle of a capital city after the peace of Knightshill.
Once in the carriage, with the children sitting on each side of her, Charlotte’s attention was held by Timothy pointing out sights as they passed and giving informed comments on each. How bright the boy had become in one year! Philip had refused to allow his son to take his place at the preparatory school attended by all Ashleigh boys, and had confined his education, and that of Kate, to religious teachings. Timothy was clearly receptive to each fresh experience.
‘My goodness, is there any building in London about which you are ignorant?’ asked Charlotte with a laugh.
‘Quite a number. But we’ve only been here for two weeks. It’s all so fascinating! The whole world is fascinating,’ he added expansively. ‘I want to see it all
.’
‘An explorer, eh? You always wanted an army career,’ she reminded him.
His eyes danced with zest as he said, ‘I still do, of course. I’ll see the world as a soldier. Father has given me permission to join any regiment I choose, but it will be the West Wilts. I shan’t mind too much being called Daulton because they’ll know I’m an Ashleigh in all but name. I expect Val feels like that, even though he’s known as Martin Havelock. I think he’s tremendously courageous to do what he wanted to do even though he had to be just an ordinary soldier and give up his name.’ His expression was reminiscent of his youthful uncle at his most defiant, as he added, ‘I was determined not to be a missionary, Aunt Lottie. As soon as I was old enough I would have run away and done what Val did.’
‘We will speak of that later, old fellow,’ put in Laurence calmly. ‘Your aunt will be in London for several weeks. It’s not necessary to cram into the first hour every piece of information you wish to impart to her.’
The boy grinned at the man he had willingly accepted as his parent. ‘Sorry, sir. Talking too much as usual.’
‘It used to be Kate who did that,’ Charlotte declared, smiling down at the girl close against her side. ‘But she has not said a word yet.’
Green eyes gazed back at her from a pale face. There was no sign that Kate shared the happiness evident in her mother and brother. Charlotte then grew aware that a curious silence had fallen and glanced up. Margaret’s expression had shadowed; Laurence looked grave.
‘You mentioned seeking medical advice for Kate,’ she ventured. ‘Why, Margaret?’
A Distant Hero Page 5