‘I’m only trying to find out who she is,’ Ruth had protested, ‘and even if I do, I’ll maybe never pluck up courage to go and tell her who I am.’
‘What’s the point of finding out, then?’ Gladys had sneered. ‘Are you hoping she married into money so you can claim a share of it when she pops off?’
That, Ruth mused, had stuck in her craw. Money had nothing to do with it. Suppose her mother had married the richest man in Scotland – in Britain – she wasn’t looking for any hand-outs. All she wanted was to see the woman who had borne her and keep a picture of her in her mind’s eye, not to make herself known. She didn’t blame her mother for abandoning a young infant – the poor thing had probably been forced into it by a pitiless mother whose only thought was to avoid scandal.
The following morning, Ruth received a letter.
Dear Mrs Laverton,
Mr Rennie sends his compliments and begs your forbearance for a few days, because he is not at liberty to divulge anything without first consulting the other parties concerned. He will, however, contact you as soon as possible to arrange a meeting.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret Leslie
Ruth returned the headed notepaper to the envelope with trembling fingers. The old solicitor must have got a shock when he learned that she was looking for her mother. Ruth’s stomach gave a sudden lurch. But how could he have known who she was? She had given only her married name to Miss Leslie, no Christian name, so how could he have connected her with Ruth Bruce, which had been her name at the time she was born? He couldn’t even have known of her as Ruth Brown, let alone Mrs Laverton.
There was something most peculiar about this … unless Mr Rennie was senile. If Miss Leslie had spoken to him on the telephone and was quoting his exact words, they could have been phrases he’d recalled using years ago, meaningless now, in which case there would be little point in keeping any meeting he arranged. Yet there was something still niggling at her about the wording of the letter. ‘… not at liberty to divulge anything without first consulting the other parties concerned.’ It fitted too well to be accidental. The other parties would be her mother and … her father – whose permission would be essential before he could give out any information.
After turning it over and over in her mind, Ruth concluded that Mr Rennie must still have all his faculties. He had let her know in a roundabout way that he was aware of who she was – though heaven knew how he knew – and had given her a modicum of hope that he would tell her everything in a few days.
With the second post, however, another letter arrived, addressed in the angular and somewhat shaky hand of an older person. On opening it, Ruth was surprised to read that Mr Rennie himself had written to say that he would come to see her that very afternoon at three o’clock. Wondering why he had changed his mind, she set about vacuuming and dusting her already spotless living room.
The tall stranger doffed his homburg as she opened the door. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Laverton,’ he said, ‘I am Andrew Rennie.’
His smile lit up his whole face, she thought, also finding herself smiling light-heartedly, although she was as tense as a wound spring. ‘I guessed you must be. Come in, please.’
He sat down at the table and laid his hat down in front of him. ‘I am sorry about the change of plan,’ he began, ‘but I decided that I should meet you in person before I –’
‘You wanted to find out if I really was who I claimed to be,’ she interrupted. ‘Or maybe if I was the kind of person my mother would want me to be?’
His grey eyes twinkled at her. ‘I plead guilty on both counts.’
‘Tell me, Mr Rennie, how did you know who I was?’
‘Shall we leave that for the moment? Suffice it to say that as soon as Miss Leslie told me that you had asked for me specifically and said that no one else could help you, I knew who you were. Well, I was almost sure who you were, but one look at you has cleared any doubt from my mind. You are so like your grandmother.’
Ruth did not know what to say to this, but her heart beat all the faster at the thought of the grandmother she had never known, and in all likelihood would never know, since she must be dead by this time.
As if reading her thoughts, the old solicitor went on, ‘She is still alive, you know …’ He paused for a moment, with a faraway look in his eyes, then continued, more briskly than before. ‘But enough of that. Tell me, how did you find out that you were …?’
‘My mother – the woman I always believed was my mother told me on her deathbed that I’d been fostered, and when I looked in the old handbag she kept all her important papers in, I found letters from a home for unmarried mothers about my fostering.’
Andrew Rennie nodded. ‘Ah, yes. Brightfield.’
‘I did think of going there to see if they would tell me who my mother was, but I guessed it would have been useless. It was thirty-six years ago and –’
‘The present matron would have had no difficulty in tracing the details of your birth, but she would not have been at liberty to reveal them to you – not as the law stands – so you were quite right not to go there.’ His long, tapering fingers raked through the thick silver hair. ‘And is that all you know? That you were born in Brightfield?’
‘That’s all.’ Her palms were sweating now, with the certainty that she was in for another huge disappointment. This old man wouldn’t tell her anything more. He, too, would be bound by the law, and had probably just wanted to see how much she had found out herself.
But Ruth was off the mark, and when the solicitor started to speak again, it was as if his mind had gone back over the years. ‘I always felt that Marianne was wrong in what she did.’ He looked mournfully at her. ‘She was your father’s mother, and what she asked me to do was purely to save scandal. Even today, people ostracize unmarried girls who have children, and it was far worse then. Not only had she Melda’s good name to protect, she also had her own family name to save. And no one ever knew. She left it to me to attend to everything, registering the births …’
Ruth’s body jerked up. ‘The births? More than one, you mean? At the same time, or …’
A flicker of wry amusement crossed the man’s serious face. ‘At the same time. You were one of twins. As I was saying, I had to register the births, and I found a good man and woman to adopt – but, sadly, they only took the boy.’
Ruth watched him as his mind went back to a time when he’d had to put his ingenuity to such a use as never before, nor since. His eyes were fixed on a point behind her head, perhaps on the Dinah bank her father had bought her when she was very small – the metal bust of a black ‘mammy’ with a hand out in front waiting for someone to put a penny into it then press the lever on her shoulder to lift it to her mouth. But Mr Rennie wasn’t consciously looking at Dinah, he was remembering, and he could probably recall the events of long ago more clearly than what had happened yesterday. Even at his age – and he must be nearly eighty – he was a nice-looking man, and he must have been quite handsome when he was young. Engrossed in her own thoughts, Ruth jumped at the sound of his soft voice.
‘Marianne was desperate to stop the Bruce-Lyall name from being tarnished. Her family meant everything to her, and I had hoped that she would never know what I did … that it would not come out until after we had both passed on.’
He raised his eyes and gave a start as they met Ruth’s. ‘Dear me, I am talking to myself again, am I? That is what comes of living alone for so long.’
She heaved a sigh of agreement to this. ‘I’ve been a widow for eight years, and I sometimes speak to myself, as well.’
‘You will have gathered that I do not want your grandmother to meet you and your brother, who was studying for the ministry the last I heard. It is this last, more than anything else, that I pray she never finds out, although I cannot explain my reason for that. I can only beseech you not to muddy the calm waters of the life she has left to her. Once she has gone, I will tell you all you want to know, your real name, t
he address of the castle, so that you may contact your mother, who, I am positive, will be extremely glad to make your acquaintance. Now, I feel rather tired, so I will take my leave of you, Mrs Laverton.’
Ruth had passed a restless night and she felt no better the following morning. Her mind was spinning like a top with what she had learned the previous day. Despite Mr Rennie’s determination not to tell her anything, he had inadvertently revealed that her mother’s name was Melda and that she came of a family called Bruce-Lyall, who lived in a castle somewhere, but he had asked her not to try to find them and she would have to wait until her grandmother died before she could do anything.
Having existed for hours on cups of tea, she scrambled some eggs at half-past five, and had made some toast and filled the teapot when someone knocked on her door. Dragging herself through to answer the summons, she was astonished to see Bob Mennie, her brother-in-law.
‘Is something wrong with Gladys?’ she asked in alarm.
‘Not a thing.’ He gave her a teasing smile. ‘I just came to see how you were, Ruthie. You said you were trying to find out about your mother, and I wondered …’
‘I’ve learned quite a lot,’ she smiled, pleased to be able to tell somebody.
He accepted the tea she poured for him and listened gravely until she mentioned that the Bruce-Lyalls had a castle. ‘My God, Ruthie!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s Lord Glendarril’s place … I’d to make a delivery there once.’ He leaned back in his chair and regarded her with interest. ‘Don’t tell me you’re related to them? The Bruce-Lyalls are aristocracy, and if one of them’s your mother, you haven’t half landed on your feet. Gladys’ll be jealous as hell.’
‘Don’t tell her,’ Ruth pleaded. ‘I’m not going near them yet. The solicitor asked me not to try to find them.’
‘Did you promise him you wouldn’t?’
‘He didn’t ask me to promise.’
‘There you are, then. My God, I don’t know how you can sit there so calmly when you could be living the life of Riley in a castle.’
‘Oh, Bob, they won’t want a working-class widow turning up on their doorstep. They’ll think I’m begging for money.’
He leaned across and patted her hand. ‘If what Mr Rennie said’s true, and I can’t see anybody making up a story like that, you’re entitled to some of their money. Look, Ruthie, I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow’s Saturday, my half-day, so I’ll drive you there. I finish work at twelve, so I’ll have a quick wash and a bite to eat and I’ll come for you about half-past one – it’s not much more than thirty miles, so it won’t take us long.’
‘What’ll Gladys say?’ Ruth asked apprehensively.
‘What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her,’ he grinned. ‘I’ll say there’s a schoolboy match at Pittodrie. I’d normally get home from the football round about quarter to six, so we’ve plenty of time.’ He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘I’d better be going, before she starts wondering why I’m so late home from work. I don’t want her to begin suspecting anything. Half-past one, remember.’
She made fresh tea when he went out. She had always thought of Bob Mennie as a selfish brute, but since her mother died, he couldn’t have been nicer to her. And there was nothing nasty behind it; he’d never tried anything or said anything out of place. He was more than likely making up to her for the way Gladys was treating her.
Looking at the clock as she took the dirty dishes to the sink, she thought that this time tomorrow … she would either be jumping for joy at being accepted into the Bruce-Lyall fold, or more likely, weeping the bitter tears of rejection.
Chapter Thirty
It was unforgiveable of Andrew, Marianne fumed. If he hadn’t let the cat out of the bag, she could have carried the secret with her to the grave, and would never have had to meet … Confronting the woman who had turned up yesterday had been like coming face to face with a part of the past she’d believed to be buried beyond recall, most upsetting. Thankfully, she’d succeeded in fooling the creature, though no doubt she’d be back demanding to be told the truth, and Ruairidh and his wife might not be so conveniently away next time.
Wait, though! Ruth Laverton, as she had called herself, could only have been wanting to get her hands on some of the Bruce-Lyall money, though she hadn’t mentioned blackmail, so it might be a good idea to offer her some, to pay her to keep her mouth shut. It would have to be enough to do the trick, Marianne decided, which would be a bit of a problem since there was no cash in the coffers. The end of the war had been a blow for the mill. It was the end of the Ministry of Defence orders, and Fair Isle garments had gone out of fashion, so the mill was struggling and Ruairidh had ploughed all his resources into trying to get it back on its feet. The family, once so wealthy, was now in debt.
‘With Dorothea gone,’ he had said sadly, ‘I have nobody to leave my money to, anyway.’
Marianne could feel the old tightness in her throat, the heaviness in her heart. Losing her dear Hamish had been almost unbearable, and Dorothea’s death so soon after she’d gone to London had almost finished her. In a truly vulnerable state now, she toyed with the idea of publicly acknowledging Ruth Laverton as her granddaughter, and it took several minutes for her to discard it. She could not resurrect her son’s illegitimate child and be the cause of endless scandal for him. Nor could she submit to blackmail, not that the woman had mentioned such a thing.
From the very start, when she’d first learned that Ruairidh and Melda had done something they shouldn’t, her only thought had been to save the fact coming out. She had lied about the infant dying soon after birth, but only to save the family name from being besmirched. The family name, and all it encompassed, meant everything to her, more than it did to Ruairidh, more than it had to Hamish really, and she hadn’t even been born into it.
Her daughter-in-law, of course, didn’t care tuppence that they’d soon have to open the castle as an ancient monument and allow members of the public to roam through the place … except for the west wing, because Ruairidh had put his foot down about that. The family had to have some privacy, after all. But Melda would happily live in poverty as long as Ruairidh was with her. She had been devastated by Dorothea’s death, and it had made her hard, fortifying her against any other tragedies that may befall her, but how would she react when, if, she learned that at least one of her first two children was still alive? She might erupt with the force of a long-dormant volcano … with the fire directed at the person who had tricked her into believing there had been only one child – which had died.
And yet, Marianne mused, her luck had held good so far. When that female had turned up like a nasty insect crawling out of the woodwork to disrupt her tranquillity, she had been alone in the house except for a recently engaged maid, who didn’t count – it was difficult to get staff since the war; nobody wanted to go into service – and her bluff had worked. Ruth Laverton had gone away, perhaps not convinced that she was on the wrong track but surely a bit doubtful that Melda was her mother. She hadn’t mentioned her sister, and she, Marianne, had not let on that she knew there was a twin, but Andrew knew and he’d likely insist on tying things up so that they’d be sure of getting their fair share of any money when their father passed on.
Sitting down at the old desk – her mind so occupied that it did not occur to her that this antique item alone would fetch a fortune if it were sold – Marianne left a message on the telephone with Andrew’s housekeeper, asking him to come to see her the next afternoon – more of an order than an invitation, really. Ruairidh and Melda would not be back from the exhibition they’d gone to see in London until Monday, and Bessie always took all day Sunday off. She had to get Andrew on his own. He was older than she was, and had been very frail the last time she saw him, so it shouldn’t be difficult to browbeat him into telling the woman, and the other twin, if she turned up, they were not who they thought they were. She could quite easily convince the fortune-hunters that some mistake had been made, that they were not Melda’s
children, that she, Lady Glendarril, had actually been there when those two doomed infants died.
Having told her solicitor which train to take, Marianne sent Gilchrist to meet him in the Bentley, and was delighted to see how doddery Andrew was when her chauffeur helped him out of the car and up the steps.
She kissed her old friend on the cheek, and was inwardly amused to see the roguish twinkle in his rheumy eyes when he slid his arm round her waist. Silly old fool! Surely he didn’t still think she wanted him to … no, that was absurd. He hardly had the strength to put one foot past the other, never mind anything else. ‘It’s so good to see you, Andrew,’ she murmured, squeezing his hand.
Completely under her spell already, he followed her into the large drawing room. ‘D’you know, Marianne,’ he said, taking a seat by the window, ‘I can remember sitting here so many times over the years, talking to Hamish and wishing that I had never brought the two of you together. He took the only girl I ever loved.’
She decided to spread the jam on thickly. ‘I wish that, too. I was beginning to love you, Andrew, but he was so charming … and I was so young …’
Andrew was not quite so gullible as she had thought. ‘But not so naïve as you are trying to make out. You knew what you were doing when you married him.’
‘He told me he just wanted me so he could have sons, but I was blinded by the prospect of the wealth he would fall heir to, the idea of being a titled lady in a castle. I admit that, but I did discover that there is more to life than wordly possessions.’
He nodded gravely. ‘Yes, there is, Marianne. There is compassion for your fellow men or women, and honesty, and abiding by the rules, all of which you have totally disregarded throughout your life.’
Stung by criticism from a man she had believed loved her without question, she snapped, ‘And where was your compassion for me when you spun that vile story to that awful Ruth Laverton?’
The House of Lyall Page 41