A Bright Young Thing

by Brianne Moore

  “Oh, my dear,” she crooned. “How very, very hard for you! You poor thing.” She sighed. “Though surely you can take all your memories with you? You shall not forget the important things. Tempus fugit, non autem memoria: time flies, but not memory.”

  I smiled weakly. “Could you ever bear to leave your home?”

  She sighed again and was quiet for some time. “I did want to leave, once,” she finally whispered. “Many years ago. I was to go away and study, but it seemed like such a change from what I knew that I panicked. And when my sister became ill, I clung to that as an excuse not to go. But I regret that every day and wonder what my life would have been.” She smiled and shrugged. “I suppose we’ll never know.”

  “Do you resent your sister for holding you back?” I wondered.

  “I held myself back,” she replied. “And though she and I may have our difficulties, she is my sister. Blood is thicker than water.”

  I mulled that over. “Alice, did you know anything about my mother’s and Aunt Elinor’s sister?” I asked.

  Alice shifted uncomfortably. “None of that is for me to say.”

  “Alice, please, I need to know!” I turned her so I was looking her in the face.

  Her eyes darted, and she shook her head. “No, no. We promised Elinor we’d never breathe a word. She was so insistent! The scandal of it! She couldn’t bear any of it, and who could blame her? Poor woman! To have a thing like that happen …” Alice pressed her lips together and shook her head again. “I’m sorry, I can’t say anything else about it.”

  I sighed and turned away, afraid that if I didn’t distract myself I might throttle her. The answers were there—so tantalizingly near, and yet I couldn’t reach them. Would I ever? Did I want to?

  I did.

  I walked into the hall, picked up the telephone, and asked to be connected to Rosedale.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I hardly had time to drop my bag at Wotting Park before I was in a car borrowed from David, motoring down to Dorset.

  I’d had a very illuminating conversation with Miss Kitt, the woman in charge of Rosedale. She had been kind enough to keep me informed about Raymond these last several months, but she’d been surprised when I asked if it would be all right if I visited.

  “Yes, yes of course, Miss Davies!” she’d said. “I’m so happy you’d like to come—so many families don’t visit at all.”

  I felt ashamed of myself for not visiting earlier. I had considered it and broached the topic with Toby.

  “Do as you like, of course,” he’d said, “but isn’t it likely to be distressing for you both? Who knows how he would manage with a complete stranger inserting herself into his life? Perhaps that’s why your father never visited.”

  And so I hadn’t. But I should have asked Miss Kitt instead of Toby.

  I brought Dandy with me. During our conversation, Miss Kitt had mentioned that Raymond loved animals, so I’d asked if it would be all right if Dandy visited as well.

  “Raymond would love that!” she’d said. “Yes, please do, Miss Davies.”

  Dandy barked and wagged his tail, excited to be on an adventure. My own emotions were confused; I couldn’t quite tell if I was apprehensive, upset, or elated. Perhaps all three. But as we drove into West Lulworth, with its squat cottages peering sleepily from beneath their bushy thatched roofs, my heart lifted. I thought of the Cove as I remembered it when Grandfather Carlyle and I would go sailing. Of its bright blue water and encircling rocky arms seeming to embrace us as we set out in the little boat. The echoing caves and romantic stories of dark and daring deeds in those wicked days past. This was always a happy place. No wonder Mother had brought Raymond here.

  Rosedale was a long, low brick building spangled with climbing roses and surrounded by a very tall wrought-iron fence. Inside was bright, the walls cheerful yellows and soft blues. Miss Kitt, a woman with gray streaks in her hair and smile lines around her eyes and mouth, met us in the front hall and bent to pat Dandy on the head.

  “It was so sweet of you to bring him,” she said, gesturing to the dog.

  “Anything to make this easier on everyone,” I replied with a nervous smile.

  “Oh, Miss Davies, there’s no need to be worried. Raymond is a dear boy. I’m sure you’ll love him as much as we all do.”

  My smile strengthened. “I’m sure I will. You’ll excuse me—I know so little about him. How long has he lived here?”

  “Nearly his whole life. He was brought here when he was just a year old.”

  “And when was that?”

  “In September 1908. A very fine autumn, I recall.”

  He was only four months older than I. He couldn’t possibly be my mother’s child.

  “Did my mother tell you he was hers?” I asked.

  “She did. And she certainly treated him as if he was.”

  “That sounds like her,” I murmured, remembering the way she clucked over my friends. Comforting and cajoling and correcting them just as she did me. “Did anyone else ever come to see him? Another woman, perhaps, who looked like Mother?”

  Miss Kitt shook her head. “No, no one else came. But your mother was here as often as she could be. It was difficult, sometimes, for her to get away, but she was always here for Raymond’s birthday, and she sent gifts at Christmas. When she couldn’t visit, she’d write or telephone.”

  Difficult, sometimes, for her to get away. Because she was too busy tending to Father and me, and Hensley. We made it difficult for her to see him as often as she’d have liked. And the secrecy meant I couldn’t contribute visits when I was older.

  “Do you know why his name is Carlyle and not Davies?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. But it’s not unusual for families to want to distance themselves.” Her mouth tightened.

  “And he’s happy here?” I asked hesitantly.

  “He’s quite happy,” Miss Kitt reassured me. “We’re his family. And he keeps quite busy. He likes to go down to the beach when the weather’s fine. And he spends a great deal of time out in the garden. Raymond loves flowers and growing things.”

  I smiled. My mother’s son in spirit, if not by blood.

  “Does he know?” I asked quietly. “About Mother?”

  Miss Kitt nodded solemnly. “He does.”

  “He understands that she’s dead?”

  “Raymond understands death. He’s like a young child in his understanding. He knows simple, basic things. It’s the complex ones that escape him.”

  Well, he certainly wasn’t alone in that.

  “And he knows about me?”

  Miss Kitt smiled and nodded. “Your mother spoke of you often. She said you loved gardening as well. He’s curious about you.”

  I absorbed that in silence. Thought about my mother telling him all about me but telling me nothing at all about him.

  Miss Kitt said, “I’ll take you to him now, if you like.”

  “I would, very much.”

  Dandy and I followed her down a corridor to a corner room washed in sunlight. A young man sat expectantly on the edge of a bed with a lemon-yellow coverlet. He grinned as soon as we appeared and came over to greet us. His gait was jerky and awkward, but the expression on his face was so warm and happy I hardly noticed anything else.

  I stared, unable to help myself. Took him in, this unknown kinsman. He was tall—a little taller than me—and lean, with dark hair like the rest of the family. It wasn’t slicked back, like most men’s, and so fell across his forehead in unruly waves. He managed to brush it back with his palm, chuckling. His eyes must be his mother’s. They were a clear, clear blue, like the water in the Cove.

  Dandy yapped and Raymond looked down at him. His face brightened even more as he dropped to his knees and patted the dog.

  “Da! Da!” Raymond cried, grinning up at Miss Kitt and me while Dandy good-naturedly endured the somewhat heavy-handed petting.

  I laughed and nodded. “Yes, that’s Dandy.” I knelt on the floor with Ra
ymond and found myself telling him all about the dog—how he snored so loudly at night he vibrated the mattress, and when he was happy he spun around and around in a tight circle. Raymond laughed and clapped his hands with delight, then gestured to the wall, where he’d pinned my Christmas card and hung the pastel from Paris.

  “I’m so glad you liked them,” I said to him.

  He pointed to something else and I walked over to look at it. It was a watercolor painting of bluebells the same color as his eyes. I recognized it: undoubtedly my mother’s work. Father’s study had been full of her delicate horticultural paintings.

  “Ma,” he said, joining me at the painting. He smiled for a few moments but then hung his head. “Ma,” he repeated, softly.

  I reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. He looked up at me, and there was a sadness in his eyes that reached in and touched me. Here was someone else who had loved my mother in a way no one left alive had. He understood the pain of losing her. The emptiness it left behind. I quickly blinked away tears and nodded, squeezing his hand a little harder. He patted me sweetly on the head.

  Dandy whimpered, and Raymond’s smile returned. He bent down and scooped up the dog, then gestured wordlessly to the windows.

  “He wants to show you the gardens,” Miss Kitt explained. “He’s very proud of them. He and your mother did quite a lot of work on them.”

  Of course they had.

  “I’d love to see them,” I said to him.

  He led me outside to a beautiful space filled with brilliant color and floral perfumes. There were morning glories around the door, just like at Hensley, and a border of roses and lavender that grew like a hedge. A lilac shaded a bench where another patient worked earnestly at some crochet. Richly colored marigolds turned their sunburst faces upward, examining us as we passed. There were small lemon and orange trees in tubs, brought out to catch the warm sun. Raymond plucked an orange off one of them, held it to his nose, and inhaled deeply before passing it along to me. I, too, smelled it and thought of Christmas mornings, finding one of these in the toe of my stocking.

  Raymond set Dandy down and led me to a privet hedge, gesturing for quiet. We both bent, and he pointed out a nest where three tiny baby robins chirped, flapping helpless wings, wanting food and their mother. Raymond’s face lit up as he watched them.

  “Oh, Raymond, have you done all this?” I asked him, looking back at the garden, a lush paradise, where one would never expect to find it.

  “He had a hand in most of it,” Miss Kitt confirmed. “There wasn’t much here before he and your mother took it in hand. Whenever she visited, they both came out here first, whatever the weather, so he could show her its progress.”

  “This is wonderful,” I told him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Really remarkable.” He blushed a little, then led me to the herb garden.

  I stayed until it was time for him to go rest. As we parted, he threw his arms around me and hugged me tightly. I returned his embrace, promising to write, to telephone, and to visit again soon. As he was led away, I turned back to Miss Kitt.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t come before now,” I said. “He must have felt abandoned.”

  “No, not at all. As I said, we’re a family here.”

  “Well, I promise he won’t lack for my attention from now on.”

  Miss Kitt smiled encouragingly. “That’s good to hear, Miss Davies.”

  “Thank you so much for everything, Miss Kitt,” I said, shaking her hand. “You’ve been very helpful, and it’s clear Raymond is well taken care of here.”

  “We do try, Miss Davies.”

  “You do an excellent job. Thank you again. I’ll be back soon.”

  * * *

  I took Dandy down to the Cove and stripped off my shoes and stockings so I could walk in the surf. Dandy ran up and down the shoreline, barking and scuttling away from the water as it hissed along the sand. I smiled, wishing my life could be so simple.

  But that was adulthood, wasn’t it? A messy, complicated knot that would not come untied no matter what you did. And nothing simplified it. Not having money or good looks or connections. As Jeremy had said, those things just brought their own sets of problems. All we could do was muddle along, let the current take us or fight our way through it so we could keep our course, however difficult it was to hold.

  And my course? What would it be? To retreat to Hensley and wrap myself up in the past? Or move forward?

  The only way to move forward, that I could see, was to sell Hensley. That one thing, which had been so unthinkable only a year ago, was now the only possible choice. I couldn’t keep it and grow the company and make something of myself. I couldn’t build something, with the old place holding me back. I couldn’t take care of Raymond.

  I couldn’t have Jeremy.

  The chilly water tickled my ankles, dragging the sand from under my feet. I watched it wriggle backward toward the sea. It calmed and cleared my mind. It always had. I’d always thrived near the water. I thought of Leicestershire, with its suffocating factories. My past was there, but my life now was very much down south. Here, in Lulworth, and a short distance away, at Midbourne.

  * * *

  I spent a restless night thinking, and an equally restless morning circling the gardens, making plans. I skipped lunch and ducked Joyce, who was overseeing last-minute preparations for the fete the following day. By the time I returned to the house, marquees had popped up like mushrooms across the pristine front lawn, and Joyce looked tired and frazzled, hair escaping combs and falling in wiry waves to her shoulders.

  “Where have you been?” she screeched at me. “I have so much to do and you simply disappeared! Daddy’s arrived, and I don’t have time to entertain him right now. Go make yourself useful and amuse him, will you? He’s in the drawing room.”

  I crossed briskly to the drawing room, where Porter was holed up, reading the newspaper. “Good evening, Mr. Porter,” I greeted him, clear-eyed, my voice crisp. “I hope you enjoyed your time in Cannes. There’s something important we need to discuss.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Porter drummed his fingers on the top of the desk, regarding me, sitting opposite. Sizing me up. I kept my back straight and my chin up and met him look for look. At last, he folded his hands and shook his head. “You’ve changed your tune,” he observed. “Not long ago your lawyer told me you weren’t inclined to sell. What changed your mind?” he smirked. “Has Freddie let you down at last? Surprised it took this long.”

  “Not at all. We’ve recently secured a new client and are thinking of expanding.”

  He fussed with some of the pens on the desk, to hide his surprise.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m coming here with a begging bowl out,” I continued, remembering Joyce telling me how he hated it when people needed something from him. “But as you have expressed interest and we are on friendly terms, I thought it only right to give you first refusal. We British are sporting that way.”

  He pursed his lips. “What sort of price did you have in mind?” he asked. “My original offer was quite generous. It won’t be so again.”

  “That’s all right, because I’m not selling. Not the land anyway. I’ll offer the buildings for sale at a good price. You can”—I swallowed hard—“salvage them and keep all the profits from that. The land will be offered on a ninety-nine-year leasehold.” I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Would it work? Would he storm out of here in a fury?

  “Why on earth would I want that?” he asked. “I want to build there.”

  “And you may. You’ll have every right to do as you please to the property, as long as you pay your rent on time. It’ll be far less of a financial outlay for you than buying outright, and less risk ultimately. If anything should happen to prevent you from completing the project, you won’t be left with a useless plot of land.” I would. But risks need to be taken in business. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  “Why shouldn’t I be able to co
mplete the project?” His eyes flashed as he perceived some unintended threat.

  I refused to be cowed as he clearly expected. “There’s no reason, Mr. Porter. I’m sure you have everything well in hand. But these are uncertain times. None of us know what’s around the next corner. Isn’t it best to protect yourself as much as possible?”

  “As you are? Securing a regular rental income instead of simply a lump sum?”

  “Surely you of all people can see the wisdom in that.”

  He nodded, and I thought I saw the tiniest, most fleeting smile dash across his face. “A leasehold,” he murmured, drumming his fingers again. “Tricky business. Bringing in extra people never simplifies things. Perhaps I’ll go find someone willing to sell up entirely.”

  “You certainly could do that,” I agreed, ignoring my pounding heart, my drying mouth. “But it would take time for you to find another suitable property and to negotiate the sale. Hensley is very well situated, and your interest in it has already brought attention from others. I’m sure I wouldn’t have trouble finding someone else willing to strike a deal.” I hadn’t the faintest idea if there was any interest in Hensley from other buyers. But even if there wasn’t now, if I put the word out that Porter had been sniffing around, surely I’d get another bite. Surely. Hopefully.

  “There’s something else I can offer,” I continued, thinking fast. “I know the people who live there and serve on local councils, issue permits, that sort of thing. They’re a tight-knit bunch and don’t always take kindly to outsiders. You know how these country people can be, especially up north,” I added with a “we’re-in-this-together” sort of smile. “I could help pave the way, to ensure your project runs smoothly from beginning to end.”

  A wry smile from him. “You’d do that? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “No, not at all, sir. This is business. My services in that line would be entirely separate from the leasehold and negotiated accordingly.”