Beatrice’s head came up. ‘Sell the land? Father would never . . .’
‘Shut up!’ Again they were looking at Rosie, unbelieving now, as she went on, ‘Don’t bring up what Father would do and what he wouldn’t do. To my mind and everybody else’s, he’s done more than enough, and he’s hoodwinked us for years. And from what I understand, he led Mother a terrible life.’
Helen now took Rosie by the shoulder and forced her towards the doors. ‘Come along, dear! All right, all right! Be quiet now, be quiet!’
Beatrice’s mouth was again agape. Rosie. How dare she! How dare she! It didn’t matter what Father had done, she had no right to speak to her in public like that. She had no right! She had no right!
As if a voice had yelled at her from inside, Shut up! she suddenly stopped, then sat down heavily.
Her brother-in-law went to her, put a hand on her shoulder, and said, ‘Try not to take it too badly, Beatrice. These things happen. They’ll work out though, you’ll see, they’ll work out. We’ll do what we can.’
She should have raised her head and thanked him, but she couldn’t. He and Helen: he doted on her . . . blatantly. Life was unfair. Oh, how unfair it was.
She got up and left the room without even a nod towards the solicitor. And now Leonard turned to Mr Coulson, saying, ‘It’s a dreadful business. He really was an utter swine. I’ve known it for some time. But you don’t talk about such things, not to womenfolk, especially his daughters. Are things indeed so black?’
‘Well, from my point of view, sir, they could not be worse. What should happen is that the house and land should be sold, and what is left after the bank has been paid, would, I imagine, enable Miss Steel to get a little place of her own. But I can see that it would be quite impossible. Oh, yes, yes.’
Leonard nodded at the man, saying, ‘My wife’s always said that Beatrice had an obsession with this place, which is why she always expects to be addressed as Beatrice Penrose-Steel. Even as a child, it used to be a place for everything and everything in its place. She used to be what they call ‘the little madam’; but now she’s an infuriated woman. And the hardest part for her, I’m sure, will be to accept her father’s revealed character, because, in a way, from the little I have seen of both of them, they were very alike under the skin, except of course, morally.’
‘Yes, of course, except morally. Well now, sir, I will make my way home. The rest of the business will have to be attended to at my office.’
As he rose to his feet and took up his case, he said, ‘It hasn’t been a happy funeral.’
Leonard thought it was a most strange remark to make. But he had to agree that it had not been a happy funeral.
Eight
Turning to Helen who was standing near the foot of the bed, John said, ‘She’ll sleep for a good twelve hours, I hope. What brought this on?’
Helen moved from the bed towards the window and stood looking out into the thinly falling snow before she answered, ‘The disclosure of my father’s misdeeds, principally; that the house is choked with mortgage, with debts to a large number of local tradesmen; also money owing to fellow gamblers and to money-lenders who charge exorbitant interest. And he left no will.’
‘None at all?’
‘Only a letter. Very brief; two lines to Beatrice.’ She did not repeat what the two lines were, because they seemed so incredible in their subtle demand for Beatrice to clear up the impossible situation he had created.
‘And that caused Rosie to become hysterical?’ His tone held a note of incredulity and she turned to him, saying, ‘No, not just that: she seemed to have been aware of all his misdeeds before the solicitor brought them into the open. And it wasn’t just the money alone.’ She walked past him now towards the door and he stopped her opening it by saying quietly, ‘Well, his liaisons were not only public knowledge but food for parlour jokes, so I understand.’ He was standing close behind her now when she swung round to him and, in a low voice, exclaimed, ‘I don’t know how she got to know this. Nor do I understand why we were kept in the dark so long, because, apparently, my mother suffered at his hands, too. Yet, looking back, it seemed to be a happy house. There was always so much gaiety among us girls, and with mother, too . . . Yes, that is strange, for she alone seemed to set the tone of our lives: she kept us happy and it wasn’t until she died that things changed, when one by one we expressed our desire to leave the house; except, that is, for Beatrice. Marion got away at the same time as I did. She’s in India now, you know, with her husband.’
He made no comment but kept his eyes fixed on her face as she went on, ‘And Rosie’s going. She won’t be able to get away quickly enough from now on.’ She moved her hand slightly in order to look towards the bed and, sadly now, she added, ‘She was the happiest of us all. A tomboy, a chatterbox. Never still. But I was amazed at the change I saw in her when we arrived three days ago. She acted strangely, on the point of tears all the time and didn’t want to talk. But now we know the reason why. What is more, she must have been very unhappy for some time. This I gauged from her letters.’
‘Are you happy?’
‘What?’
‘I said, are you happy?’
She returned his deep, piercing look for a moment before she said slowly, ‘Yes, I am very happy. I . . . I have a wonderful husband. He is a lovely man . . . a lovely man.’
‘I’m glad.’
Their look held until the movement she made to turn and open the door caused him to step back. And without further words he followed her out and onto the landing and down the stairs, to where Leonard was waiting for them and said to her, ‘Teddy’s just come. Teddy Golding. He couldn’t get here for the funeral but he felt he had to come and pay his respects. What’s more, he has to be off again this evening . . . How is she? Can he see her for a moment?’
He was now addressing John. And John shook his head and said, ‘I’ve had to sedate her; she was near hysteria. She’ll be all right tomorrow morning, but I’ll have to keep her quiet for a day or two until she gets over the shock.’
‘Where is Teddy?’ Helen asked her husband.
‘Beatrice has him in the drawing room. We’d better go in and see him, dear, to explain things, because I don’t think Beatrice is in a condition to entertain anyone at the moment, unless it is through blurting out her worries and blaming the world for her father’s misfortune.’ He now turned to John, saying, ‘I’m sure you could do with a cup of tea or something before you go out into that’ – he jerked his head back towards the window. ‘It’s getting thicker. Come into the study; there’s a fire there and the girls will bring you a hot drink.’
John hesitated to follow him; in fact he was about to make an excuse that a patient was awaiting him, when he caught Helen’s eye: it was as if she were saying, ‘Please be friendly. He’s a lovely . . . lovely man.’
A few minutes later he was seated in a deep leather chair on the opposite side of the fireplace from Leonard, although he found it impossible to open the conversation. Then there was no need, for the tall, good-looking soldier rose from his chair, saying on a laugh, ‘I asked if you’d like a hot drink, then forgot to ring for it.’ He now pulled a cord to the side of the fireplace before sitting down again and saying, ‘We’ve never really met, have we? What I mean is, we’ve never had the chance to talk. Yet, through Helen I seem to know a lot about you.’
He found himself repeating inanely, ‘Through Helen?’
‘Yes. Yes, she thinks you’re a splendid doctor with the right personality and all that goes to make . . . well, not exactly the bedside manner, but the sort of fellow who gives a patient confidence and assures him he’s not going to die from a tickly cough.’ They both laughed, somewhat embarrassed now.
After a short silence Leonard said, ‘I suppose it’s stupid to ask why you went in for doctoring? No; I take that back, because
I know only too well what some of you go into it for, especially the surgeons; just for the money. Here and there you get one who sees it as a vocation, a duty to mankind. And this is the type we seem to get in the country.’
‘You talk as if you’d had great experience with doctors.’
‘Yes. Yes, I have, unfortunately.’
‘Oh.’ John’s eyebrows moved up slightly. ‘You’ve been ill?’
‘Oh, earlier on, the usual things that one picks up from abroad; malaria, fevers, this and that. But I’ve seen doctors treat men like cattle, while others, through fatigue, have fallen asleep across the foot of a patient’s bed. But I have a good one now.’
‘Oh, how long have you been in the Army?’
‘Since I was eighteen.’
They were laughing together as John said, ‘I take it from that there is a love relationship between you.’
‘Oh, definitely, definitely. Add a little hate here and there and you’d be nearer the truth. I asked you why you went in for doctoring. You didn’t give me a reply. But I wondered if it was the same way I got into the Army, because my father had been in it and you feel you must follow in father’s footsteps. Was your father a doctor?’
‘No. No. He was a stonemason.’
‘A stonemason?’
‘Yes, a stonemason. He should have been called a sculptor because he could do anything with stone. But he never seemed happy unless he was hanging on by his teeth to a church tower, when he was replacing a block of stone or a gargoyle, or adding to a coping in the manner it had been worked two hundred years before.’
As the door opened and Janie Bluett entered the room, Leonard said to her, ‘Do you think we could have a tray of tea, Janie, with a few eats too?’ He asked this in a confidential, loud whisper, and she smiled at him as she said, ‘Of course, Mr Spears, and in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’
The lamb’s tail took five minutes over its shaking, but then Janie brought in a large tray holding a tea service, and behind her, Frances Middleton carried a tray on which was an assortment of scones and biscuits.
After Leonard had thanked them both warmly, John smiled at him as he said, ‘With regard to a bedside manner, I am often accused of being too brusque, as I know I am with lead-swingers.’
Leonard was about to take the cosy from the teapot when he stopped and said, ‘I hated my father at one time for encouraging me into the Army, but the day I got into my uniform he gave me a piece of advice: ‘You’ll see men,’ he said, ‘kicked around from dog to devil by their superiors. The bigger the bully, the louder the mouth, and the more hate they engender. Be firm. Don’t be familiar with men out of your class; that is the way to lose their respect. But when you deal with them, deal with them fairly, remembering they are human beings. Remember that but for my position, and my father’s, and his father’s, you could today be one of them.’ I learnt more from that little speech than from all my years at public school, and from the floggings.’ He now pointed to the tray of food: ‘See what it’s done for us in this case.’
John sat looking at him. He was a likeable fellow; there was no doubt about it. And Helen saw him as a lovely man. It was a term Rosie had a habit of using too; at least she had up to now. He was the kind of man a woman would find very attractive. But did Helen love him? She said she was happy. But it would be a very odd woman who couldn’t be happy with a man like this.
At this point, the door opened again, and when Helen entered, Leonard cried, ‘See! One can’t get five minutes alone.’ But he put down the teapot and went to her and, his arm about her shoulders, he led her to the seat he had vacated near the fire. Then, looking from one to the other, he said, ‘Oh, this is nice. It’s like escaping from the war zone.’
As John observed them he wondered why he was able to sit there and listen to this fellow whom, secretly, he had envied and, indeed, at times hated.
PART TWO
BEATRICE
One
Beatrice sat behind the desk in her study. Spread out before her were papers of all shapes and sizes. She leaned her elbow on the desk and cupped the side of her head in her hand and stared at the glass cabinet opposite, the while telling herself there was nothing for it but to do as the solicitor had advised: she must sell some of the land; perhaps as much as twenty acres. As prices were now it would realise enough to pay the interest on the mortgage and clear the debts that her father had accumulated; or at least the one from the loan company. The gambling debt was questionable; a matter of honour, Mr Coulson had called it. He had also suggested that she cut down her staff by half, but she had stood out firmly against that: the small staff represented prestige, and that was all she had, the house and its prestige, and she was going to hang on to it. Oh, yes; yes, she was.
She began to look through the bills again. Leonard had settled a number of them straight away. But since then, others had come flooding in, all back debts. There were two amongst them that caused her teeth almost to draw blood from her lips, for they were from a fashionable shop in Newcastle. Two separate bills for ladies’ gowns, and they were dated eighteen months previous. Although she knew she had inherited many of her father’s traits, had he been here at this moment she would have done him a physical injury: she could see him standing at yon side of the desk and hear his voice saying, ‘You know, you are rather extravagant regarding the housekeeping bills. You’ll have to learn how to manage better.’
Over the past weeks she had learned a further hard lesson: so-called friends backed discreetly away from the word ‘scandal’ and all that was attached to it. It was now well known in the vicinity that her father had left no will, but instead a mountain of debt. On top of this, what the solicitor was kind enough to call his weaknesses had also been exposed, proof of which had straight away shown itself when Dave Wallace’s wife arrived at the inn in a very dishevelled state and with two rising black eyes.
She now sat back in the chair. The house was very quiet: she was alone; she did not consider the staff as occupying the house.
Rosie had gone into Newcastle, there to meet Edward Golding, who had come up from London to do business. He would be here for two days. Apparently, he had something special to say to Rosie, probably about the post he was hoping to get in Newcastle and where they would live.
Something had happened to Rosie since she had been made aware of the real nature of her father. Although she herself was shocked and sickened by it, it had not affected her to the same extent. But then, of course, Rosie was always childlike and would never face up to real life. Airy-fairy was the word for her. But, nevertheless, Beatrice was glad that when she did marry she would be living near at hand, because without her she would feel isolated altogether. And in spite of her light character, she was fond of her; in fact, she liked her more than she did either Marion or Helen. Oh, yes, Helen got on her nerves, and that doting man of hers too. Yes . . . yes, he had been kind in paying the bills, but then he had plenty of money with which to do so. Yet she had earlier understood he wasn’t a rich man. Oh, there were different degrees of wealth. But Helen herself: oh no, she couldn’t stand Helen, never could. There was that something about her which gave off the impression that she was superior. Perhaps it was just because she was taller and quite good-looking. But, nevertheless, there was something that got under her skin and irritated her every time they met.
There was a tap on the door and she called, ‘Enter!’ and Frances Middleton came in carrying a silver salver and saying, ‘Second post, miss.’
‘Put them there.’ Beatrice pointed to a corner of the desk. She gave the girl no thanks but went on writing.
It was later and with some reluctance that she opened the letters. The first one, she knew, was another bill – bills had special envelopes. She had come to recognise that. But the second envelope she scrutinised more carefully. Before reaching here it had been delivered to two other addresses. She
slit open this envelope and saw immediately, from the heading, that it was from a firm of solicitors. It began:
Dear Colonel Steel,
Swiftly now she looked back at the envelope. It was addressed to Colonel Steel, not to her father, but to her grandfather. She went on reading.
I have to inform you, sir, that your sister, Alice Benton Forester, died on the 17th February, at the amazing age of ninety-eight. We have had difficulty in tracing your address, as the only thing she seemed to have remembered was your name. She left no will, and the annuity that kept her in the home, of course, died with her. Her possessions were few: a bracelet and a pendant, neither of which is of great value. But I will send them on to you, if you so wish.
I met the lady on a few occasions but that was some years ago. She appeared to be a gentle creature, as apparently she did to the nursing home staff, who informed me that her records showed that her illness had changed since she was forty years old, when her previous high spirits and hysterical outbursts, during which her one desire seemed to be to disrobe, and her fits, too, had gradually diminished. Apparently she had been a favourite among the staff.
She is being buried in the local cemetery and, as it is not expected you will be able to attend, I shall follow your orders as to what is to be done with the few trinkets.
I await your reply.
Yours respectfully
Thomas Harding
Her eyes flicked to the top of the page to read: ‘Harding & Bright, Solicitors’. There was a Falmouth address lower down and to the side of the page.
It would be somebody who could leave them only a few trinkets; she thrust the letter away from her in disgust. This was the Aunt Ally of whom the family remembered her grandmother would talk and to whom her grandfather would make the long journey to Cornwall.
The Obsession Page 8