James held Alice’s hand until she was finally uncovered, and as they lifted her body down, he cradled the doll in his arms and cried.
Chapter 29
For Sale
‘Shall I take it?’ asked Lucy.
James looked at her blankly and handed the doll to his mother.
‘I loved Alice,’ he said sadly. ‘But I never knew how much till now.’
‘I know,’ she said.
‘But why did she have to die?’ he said. ‘Like that – alone – afraid – and under all those flames?’
Grace put her arms around him and led him inside. ‘There’s nothing more you can do here. Come away.’
Early the following morning Lucy and Cyril drove the fifteen miles to Ilkley. Lucy hardly spoke in the car. There were so many things going around in her head. How would she break the news to Pansy of her daughter’s death? And what would become of Rachel now she was an orphan?
As soon as she opened the door and saw the expression on Lucy’s face, Pansy sensed something was wrong.
‘It’s Rachel, isn’t it? Something terrible has happened to Rachel!’
‘No Pansy, it’s Alice.’
Pansy took the news quietly and appeared composed as Lucy told her what had happened. While the women talked, Cyril busied himself making tea and was pleased Miss Pugh was in good spirits and able to help him.
Pansy didn’t touch her drink but waited until the others had finished before asking them to take her back to Horsforth. She was anxious to see where her daughter had died and the damage the fire had caused to the cottage she had lived in for many years.
On leaving the house, Pansy instructed her aunt to stay inside, lock the door and not let anyone in.
Old Miss Pugh hugged Pansy and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘This war can’t go on forever,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about me and the house. I’ll make sure the door is locked. I’ll be all right.’
No one spoke during the journey. In the back seat, Pansy stared blankly out of the window. Her eyes were glazed but her face showed no evidence of tears. Lucy wondered if, because she had lost her husband and young Timothy, she had developed an inner strength and was able to maintain her self-control. But when the car stopped at the cottages and Rachel ran into her arms, Pansy wept out loud.
Lucy and Cyril walked quietly away leaving the pair to grieve together and Lucy felt confident the little girl would be well cared for. And Rachel would be happy to resume her life with her grandmother, Pansy and the poor demented Miss Pugh.
Less than a week later a telegram arrived from Pansy.
Desperately need your help. Rachel missing.
Lucy and Cyril set off immediately, calling in at the farm on the way. James was out in the truck, but Grace said she was sure he would follow them as soon as he got back. Despite Lucy’s concern, Grace insisted the farm could manage without him for a while.
When Lucy and Cyril arrived at the tall Victorian house in Ilkley, Pansy was in a state of near collapse. She had neither slept nor eaten since the previous day and had spent the night walking the streets searching for her granddaughter. Her feet were wet and dirty, her clothes damp, but she refused either to change or go to bed.
‘She went out to play yesterday morning,’ said Pansy, ‘to the park. It’s only a hundred yards away, so I thought nothing of it. She often went there on her own, but she always came back after an hour.’ Pansy raked her fingers through her hair. ‘When she wasn’t home by dinner-time, I went out to find her. I looked everywhere. By tea-time, I was at my wits’ end and went to the police station. The sergeant was on his own and said he couldn’t leave, but he told me a constable would call around later.’
Pansy said she was out all that evening but presumed an officer had visited the house, as Miss Pugh told her a soldier had called during the night.
‘I sent the telegram this morning. I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve searched everywhere. The only other places I can think to look are the moors and the river-bank, the places we used to go walking with Alice.’
It was some time before Pansy calmed down but when she eventually relaxed a little, her eyes quickly closed. Lucy didn’t try to move her from the chair, instead she pulled a blanket over her and left her to sleep by the fire.
Though Miss Pugh appeared quite lucid and was worried about her niece, she was confused. She thought Lucy was her sister and, because so many people had called in to visit, believed it was Christmas Day. Her main concern was that she had made no preparations for the meal and could not remember where she had hidden the presents.
James arrived two hours later. After hearing what had happened, he and Cyril decided they should immediately set off across the moors from Heber’s Ghyll to the Cow and Calf rocks. If their search was unsuccessful, the following day they would take the path which followed the river.
About four o’clock in the afternoon the two men found Rachel. She was huddled amongst a pile of fallen rocks at the base of the Cow rock, asleep. Apart from being cold and hungry and her legs scratched by the heather, she was all right. She couldn’t remember walking over the open moors or why she had made her way to the Cow and Calf. She didn’t know how long she had been there, but told them she was waiting for her grandmother to collect her.
When they got back to the house, Rachel ran inside to Pansy’s arms. As the pair held each other, Lucy could not hide her tears. Cyril excused himself, saying he would drive to the police station and give them the news.
The following day James arranged for a bulldozer to demolish what remained of the end cottage. After the pile of rubble had been cleared, James and Cyril chopped down the burnt-out trunk of the chestnut tree and, after dragging the branches into the meadow, they set them alight.
Because the wood was green, the bonfire smouldered for four days. James kept an almost constant watch and was not satisfied until every bough and branch had disappeared and all that remained of the spreading tree was a pile of ash.
Later that week, James told his mother that he and Grace had decided to leave the cottage and move back into the Fothergill farmhouse.
‘Do you want to make the two cottages into one?’ he asked his mother.
Lucy shook her head. ‘I don’t really want to live here any more,’ she said. ‘It’s never going to be the same.’
That evening Lucy and Cyril agreed. They would move to Cyril’s house in Kent. The two remaining cottages could then be put up for sale.
Cyril helped James move his furniture to the farm. After emptying his own cottage, James took some of his mother’s things. There was little Lucy wanted to take with her to Kent.
The next morning, Cyril drove Lucy to Skipton where she paid a final visit to Proctor and Armitage, the solicitors who had served her well. Apart from instructing the firm to handle the sale of the Honeysuckle Cottages, she wanted to arrange for the money she would received to be added to the trust she had set up for Rachel. She wanted to ensure there would be ample funds for Alice’s daughter to attend a good girls’ school and, if she desired, to take private lessons in ballet or singing. Also, if Rachel proved to be as bright as Alice had been, there would be enough funds to support her through college.
Before returning to Horsforth, the pair stopped at a musical instrument shop and purchased a piano. Lucy arranged for it to be delivered to Miss Pugh’s house in Ilkley.
‘I hope Rachel’s lessons won’t drive the old dear crazy,’ Lucy said, with a wry smile.
Lucy and Cyril spent their final day with James, Grace and Mr Fothergill at the farmhouse. Before they left, James gave his mother the ebony box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl which had belonged to Edward Carrington – the one he had found in the attic. He also insisted she select some of Edward’s fine china and ornaments from the glass cabinet.
‘Take Constance too,’ he said, handing her the old doll. ‘I remember the day Alice gave her that name. We never did discover where it came from, did we?’
Lucy shook her head and lo
oked down at the doll in her hands. The dress was torn and dirty, the strip of goat skin, now almost bald, was peeling from the head. It was nothing like the French doll she had first admired at Heaton Hall.
‘Are you sure?’ she said.
‘She’s yours,’ he said.
Lucy took it and wondered.
When the Armstrong Siddeley drove down the lane, the cottages looked bare. There was no lace at the windows. No smoke curling from the chimneys. No sound of children’s laughter echoing from inside. And no tree. The only addition was a wooden sign, planted beside the gate in the front garden. Painted in bold letters across the top were the words: FOR SALE.
Lucy glanced at it for a moment as Cyril drove slowly past, then she wound up the car’s window and turned her eyes back to the road.
Chapter 30
The Doll
The letter from Proctor and Armitage arrived only two weeks after Lucy had settled into Cyril’s house in Kent. It detailed an offer on her cottage which the solicitors advised she should accept. Lucy replied by return mail. She wanted to close her affairs in Horsforth as soon as possible.
A week later she received a letter from Pansy.
My dear Lucy
I do not know how to thank you for what you have done for me and Rachel. We will be forever in your debt.
What a surprise it was when a lorry arrived with a piano. Rachel was delighted and is keen to start taking lessons.
You will be surprised when I tell you my dear Aunt sat down and tried to play. I think, as a young woman, she may have played the church organ, as she knows a few hymns. Her fingers are not agile and do not work in time, but we can recognize the music. Rachel is encouraging her and they are enjoying each other’s company.
As for Rachel, she has settled down far quicker than I could have expected. She never talks about the fire or her mother but at times I see her looking at the photograph of Alice on the mantelshelf.
The last few lines of the letter were smudged and hard to read. Lucy suspected her friend had cried a little when writing them.
Despite writing to James three times, Lucy had to wait several weeks before she got a reply from him. He apologized for not writing earlier, saying he had been too busy but adding that the family had quickly settled in at the farmhouse. In particular, Mr Fothergill was happy to be home.
With the sale of his cottage already going through, James had arranged for some improvements to the house and the installation of a telephone. He said that on the farm the season was going well and that financially it would be their best year yet.
He finished his letter by saying Andrew and little Amelia Rose were well and added that Grace was expecting again. He sent his love and best wishes to them both. At the bottom of the page Grace added a few words of her own.
Lucy stood at the window watching a summer shower. She knew it wouldn’t last long. Already the sun was breaking through forming a perfect rainbow across the sky. She admired the raindrops running down the pane. They were smooth and round like beads of quicksilver. A small bird splashed and fluttered its wings, on the wet grass, bathing itself.
How lovely the summer is in England, Lucy thought.
Though Lucy had travelled across London from one railway station to another, she had never visited any of the famous places. Cyril, however, having spent many years at the Stock Exchange, knew the City well and was pleased to show her the sights.
They watched the boats from Westminster Bridge and wandered slowly through the Abbey. After feeding the birds in St James’s Park they strolled down The Mall and by the time they reached Trafalgar Square, Lucy’s legs ached. It was a long time since she had walked so far.
‘Seen enough?’ Cyril asked, as they gazed up at Lord Nelson, the paving around their feet swirling in a sea of grey pigeons.
‘Enough for one day,’ Lucy said.
Cyril suggested they find a place which served tea and cakes before the drive home.
Heading down a narrow lane to a small café, Lucy was attracted by a display in a shop window. A tall doll, dressed in a nurse’s uniform, was standing beside a miniature bed. Lying on the bed, covered in a sheet, was another doll. The sign suspended above the display was printed in bold red letters. It read: DOLLS HOSPITAL.
Cyril was happy to wait outside, while Lucy went into the shop and spoke with the proprietor. When she came out, she looked pleased.
‘The man said he would be interested to see that old doll of mine. He thinks, from my description I gave, it may be a French Bru and says he doesn’t see many of them. Usually only from private collections. But he added it could be quite valuable if properly restored.’
As they strolled together, arm in arm, Lucy was silent.
‘Are you thinking about that doll?’ Cyril asked.
Lucy nodded. ‘Next time we are in London, I will bring it with me.’
Not wanting to spend the winter in England, Cyril and Lucy booked a passage on a steamer sailing from Southampton. The ship was calling at Madeira en route for the West Indies. Having heard the island offered a pleasant climate, they planned to disembark there and if they liked the place, they would stay until the worst of the English winter was over.
Three weeks prior to sailing, Lucy wrote to Captain Wainwright asking if they could visit him and stay for a few nights in Tunbridge Wells. She explained that she had business to attend to nearby. Wainwright replied by return mail. He said he would be happy to accommodate them and once again asked to be invited to join them on board, to take afternoon tea with them before the ship sailed.
The first evening with Wainwright was very pleasant. Because Cyril had travelled extensively, he and the captain had much to converse about. They stayed up late talking about ships and foreign ports. Lucy was happy to listen and delighted the two men got on so well.
The following morning they breakfasted early. Lucy had planned the day’s outing well in advance. She and Cyril would drive down to Hastings, have an early lunch in the old town, then follow the coast road to Bexhill. If time permitted they would continue on to Eastbourne, arriving back in Tunbridge Wells before dark.
Wainwright declined the invitation to accompany them saying he was looking forward to visiting Southampton docks the following day. Lucy heard him whisper to Cyril about having some shopping to attend to. Something about purchasing a bottle of champagne.
The sprawling house, perched on the cliff top near Bexhill-on-Sea, looked out across the English Channel. The azure sky reflected on the sea, its surface unbroken except for the white sails of passing yachts which dotted the water like wandering gulls. The breeze blowing from the land was light. It was not cold for the time of year.
From the main gate, guarded by a pair of reclining stone lions, the driveway to the house was bordered on both sides by tall young poplars whose autumn leaves littered the gravel. On the east side of the house was a close-mown croquet lawn and on the grass beyond, a set of swings, a see-saw and a child’s wooden play-house. On the cliff edge, a steep path with a hand-rail sloped down to the beach below. In front of the house, the driveway encircled a gold-fish pond and ornamental fountain.
As the car tyres crunched to a stop, Lord Farnley came down the steps to meet his guests. He greeted Lucy with a kiss on the cheek.
‘My husband, Cyril Street,’ she said.
After shaking hands, Archibald Farnley invited them inside. Cyril collected a cardboard box from the boot of the car and carried it under his arm.
As the housekeeper served tea, Lord Farnley turned to Lucy, ‘I was intrigued by your letter, wondering what it is you wanted to see me about.’
Lucy took the parcel and handed it to him. ‘This is for you,’ she said softly. ‘Would you care to open it?’
Lord Farnley looked from her to Cyril before untying the string. Laying the box flat on the mahogany table, he lifted the lid and pulled back the sheets of tissue paper.
‘My goodness!’ he said. ‘What a handsome doll!’
‘Please ta
ke it out.’
Gingerly Lord Farnley lifted the doll to an upright position. As he did, the long eyelashes rolled back and a pair of luminous blue eyes gazed out at him.
‘It’s French,’ said Lucy. ‘Made in the 1890s. That’s why her face has some fine lines. Like me, she is beginning to show signs of age.’
The doll’s cape was folded at the back. Lucy reached out and smoothed it down. The velvet, in a rich shade of burgundy, was as soft as the strip of ermine which edged it. Beneath the cape, the spun-silk dress, trimmed with a yoke of Swiss lace, was decorated with tiny pearls. The pale grey wig shone with the lustre of pure mohair and was set into soft bouncing ringlets which fell to the doll’s shoulders. The hat sported three pheasant feathers.
In one lace-gloved hand the doll held a turned wooden walking stick, its handle and ferrule tipped with silver. The kidskin shoes bore the original silver buckles, polished to a fine mirror finish. A tiny gold brooch decorated the neck.
‘I thought perhaps your granddaughter might like it,’ said Lucy.
Lord Farnley sat down. His face was pale.
‘Are you all right?’ Lucy asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, staring at the doll. ‘There is something about it which reminds me of a doll I bought many years ago.’
Lucy paused. ‘Did it have a velvet cape of peacock blue?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How did you know?’
‘This is the same doll,’ she said kindly. ‘You do not remember me. I was a maid at Heaton Hall. I was with your daughter when she died.’
Lord Farnley shook his head.
Lucy continued. ‘Your housekeeper, Mrs Gresham, gave the doll to me and told me to burn it. But I couldn’t. I burned the clothes but kept the doll.’
‘And you’ve had it all these years?’
Through Glass Eyes Page 23