by Jane Jackson
As Henry glanced through the envelopes one caught his attention. Slitting it open he extracted the thick sheet, picked up his cup, and settled back to read.
His violent start slopped coffee over his hand and onto the polished table. He clattered the bone china cup clumsily onto its saucer, scalded fingers clutching his napkin as he stared at the copperplate script. His heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears. His skin tingled. Shock drained the blood from his face and everything went black. He gasped, shaking his head to clear it.
His gaze flew back to the top of the page and he read the short paragraphs again, shock eclipsed by galvanising terror. Hurling his napkin onto the table he hurried from the room, the letter crushed in his fist.
‘Patrick!’
The butler appeared in the doorway leading to the servants’ quarters and kitchen. ‘Sir?’
‘My horse, at once.’
‘Not the gig, Sir?’
Henry tried to think. Which was more important this morning? Speed, or maintaining the façade of wealth and success? Speed won.
‘No. My horse. Immediately.’
With a brief nod, Patrick vanished again.
‘Good morning, Papa.’
Glancing up Henry saw Grace’s smile fade.
‘Is everything –?’
‘Not now.’ Cutting her short he strode towards the front door, stuffing the letter into his jacket pocket as Patrick hurried forward with his hat.
He took every possible shortcut through the back lanes. The forced pace thoroughly unsettled his normally placid mount. Soon Henry’s wrists and shoulders ached from trying to control the tossing head as the cob fought the metal bit.
Where there was no alternative to the main roads, common sense forced him down to a steady trot on stretches busy with other traffic. The last thing he wanted was to excite gossip. Even as it occurred, the thought provoked a harsh, desperate laugh. For if the letter were not the result of some foolish misunderstanding, the gossips would soon be feasting like carrion crows on the corpse of his life’s work.
Sweating as much from fear as from exertion he was racked by convulsive shivers. He would not accept that. It must be a mistake. It had to be. He couldn’t even consider the alternative.
As the door opened he held his breath, only releasing it as the manservant took a step back inviting him to enter. So intense was his relief that nausea rose in his throat and he had to swallow repeatedly. His legs felt weak and shaky. He removed his hat with trembling fingers.
He would find out what had happened and ensure that the person responsible received a reprimand of such severity it would never, ever, be forgotten.
He was shown into the drawing room. The manservant withdrew without offering to take his hat. Henry barely noticed this omission. Too tense and anxious to relax he remained standing. Vases of roses and sweet peas scented the air. Polished wood gleamed, rugs and carpet had been freshly brushed.
The room looked exactly as it had on his last visit. He knew Mary to be methodical and organised but he would have expected some small sign of disruption as she set aside the items she would be bringing with her to Damerel House.
The door opened, jerking him from that train of thought and back to his reason for coming.
As Mary closed the door and turned towards him, neat and elegant in dove-grey, he started forward. But she lifted her hand to stop him. There was no smile of greeting. Her face was alabaster pale except for her eyes. These were pink-rimmed and slightly swollen.
‘I know why you’re here, Henry,’ she said before he could speak. ‘If you need confirmation from my own lips, then yes, it’s true.’ Her gaze flicked to the crumpled letter he had extracted from his pocket. ‘I have instructed Mr Bartlett not to proceed with the transfer. I will not fund you. Nor will I marry you. Please don’t insult my intelligence any further by asking why.’
‘Mary, listen, I don’t know what’s happened. But whatever it is we can –’
‘I’ll tell you what happened, shall I, Henry? Three days ago I received a visit from a close – no, let us not be coy – an intimate friend of yours, Mrs Dorcas Renowden. Need I go on?’
This wasn’t happening. Henry knew he should stay calm, defuse the situation with cool detachment. But his voice emerged ragged with fear and desperation. ‘Please, I can explain –’
She continued as if he had not spoken. ‘The day you proposed to me, Henry, I told you that all I asked of you was honesty. Do you remember?’
Stunned, he stared at her. He could hear her saying it. He had thought she meant honesty about his financial troubles. It had never occurred to him – In any case it hadn’t seemed important, not in the greater scheme of things, not with so much else to consider and plan and arrange.
‘Yes, I remember.’ He did now. ‘But, Mary, I haven’t lied to you.’ The look in her eyes made him shrivel inside. Suddenly anger surged through him. She had no right to do this.
‘Not only did you omit even to mention your long-standing relationship with Mrs Renowden, it appears you intended to continue that relationship after we were married.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘You really believed you could get away with it. I find such monstrous arrogance almost impossible to comprehend.’
Guilt fuelled his rage against her. ‘You were getting what you wanted, weren’t you? It was a fair bargain.’
‘It was. But you broke the agreement, Henry.’ A spasm tightened her face, and she raised one hand, pressing her fingers to her forehead. It was the first crack in the façade, the first sign of weakness she had shown. Though she immediately regained control and lifted her chin he felt a rush of hope.
‘Mary, please, I’ll never see Dorcas again. I give you my solemn promise.’
‘You are willing to abandon the woman who bore your first son and was loyal to you for thirty years? The woman who clearly believed that after your wife died you would propose marriage to her?’
Too anxious, too reckless, he clutched at the perceived straw. ‘Yes, yes. Whatever you want.’ Immediately he realised he’d made a terrible mistake. Her expression made him feel small and ashamed. He hated her for that.
‘Do as you choose, Henry. It is no longer any concern of mine.’
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Fear welled up again. It dried his throat and filled his mouth with the hot taste of tin. ‘Maybe you would prefer not to be reminded, but you were the one who wanted this marriage.’
A painful flush stained her face as she recognised in his tone the implication that she had blackmailed him. It drained away almost at once, leaving her ashen. She had aged visibly since their last meeting. Yet as she met his challenging gaze her dignity was awesome. ‘True. However that was when I trusted you and considered you a friend.’ She crossed the room and tugged the bell cord beside the fireplace.
He started towards her. ‘Mary, please, I shouldn’t have said – I’ve done so many things wrong. I know I have. But you cannot imagine the strain –’
Neatly avoiding him she returned to the door. ‘We have nothing further to say to each other.’
He rubbed sweating palms together. She didn’t mean it. ‘No, not now. You’re upset. I can understand that. In a week or so, when you’ve had time –’
‘Not ever. I’m going away for a while.’
‘How long –?’
‘Indefinitely.’ The door opened. She inclined her head in the perfectly judged politeness her breeding demanded, now and forever a stranger. ‘Goodbye, Henry.’ She turned to the manservant who stood waiting. ‘Mr Damerel is leaving.’
Henry watched, helpless, as she walked out of his life.
Grace’s breakfast grew cold as she read then reread the two letters. By chance she opened Mary’s first. Brief, formal, it stated that she would not now be marrying Grace’s father and would be away from home for the foreseeable future. The hurt embodied in those few lines was almost palpable. Even as Grace wondered why, the answer came instant and appalling. Dorcas.
Sa
dness welled up as she recalled Mary’s pleasure, the glow of happiness that had brought colour to her cheeks, brightened her eyes and imbued her manner with new warmth. Grace had ignored Granny Hester’s spiteful warnings, sensing that Mary’s transformation had nothing whatever to do with arrogance or a desire to take over the household. Despite her undoubted intelligence, charm and kind nature Mary had needed a proposal of marriage to validate her as a woman.
The second letter was from Dorcas and hoped Grace would understand why she had told Mary. She wished Grace richly deserved happiness, and ended by saying that by the time the letter was delivered she would have left the village for good.
Grace turned towards the window without seeing the blue sky. Despite confusion and unease about Dorcas’s relationship with her father she had liked Dorcas as a person: finding her company both relaxing and stimulating. She had always left the cottage feeling better than when she arrived. Did that make her disloyal to her mother? She rubbed her forehead. Relationships were more complicated and emotionally confusing than she had ever imagined.
The dining room door opened and Kate came in.
‘All right if I clear away, Miss?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Lovely day for it,’ Kate beamed.
‘What?’ Grace looked blank.
‘The regatta. Going are you, Miss?’
‘I hadn’t – I’m not quite –’
Rising from the table Grace picked up her letters, her thoughts racing. Her parents had regularly attended chapel while hiding secrets that eventually poisoned both their lives. Richard was blissfully happy with Sophie and had quickly settled back into work at Polwellan. Bryce had changed during his years away. Returning with eyes full of shadows he had retreated behind an impenetrable wall. Only in the last few days since his announcement that he was returning to India had his air of strain begun to dissolve.
Then there was Zoe. Beautiful, talented, feted and admired, yet restless and dissatisfied. And herself, striving to win approval by fulfilling other people’s wishes, but lonely and unhappy with her enforced role.
She thought about what might have happened if Lewis’s activities had not been discovered, if he had not died. Edwin would still be in India. She would not have met the first man she had ever loved. A man she admired above all others for his courage and honesty. He had confessed to her his darkest secret and laid his heart at her feet. All her self-doubt suddenly evaporated. If Edwin loved her she must be worth loving. Edwin loved her.
‘Yes, I’m going.’ She felt warm and quivery with excitement. ‘There’s someone I want to see.’
Henry remounted his horse. Chilling fear gripped his bowels. Mary had cut off his lifeline, his future. What now? Dorcas. Slamming his heels into his horse’s sides, he retraced his route. This time he kept up a breakneck speed all the way. So what if he was seen? People could think what they liked. He stood to lose everything he cared about. Compared to that, other people’s opinions counted for nothing.
By the time he reached Dorcas’s cottage his horse was lathered with sweat. Sliding off, his legs trembling from unaccustomed effort, he looped the reins over the gatepost. The hinges squealed as he opened the gate and stumbled down the path.
As he rounded the corner he saw the charred and sodden remains of a bonfire on a patch of grass between the flowerbeds.
Too intent on his purpose to wonder why it was there, he hurried on towards the closed door. Normally she only closed it when he was there or when she went out. He turned the knob. The door was locked. She probably didn’t want to see any callers. But she had to be in there. She had to. He rapped briskly then hammered with his fist, rehearsing apologies and promises.
After a minute he pressed his ear to the wood listening for a sound, any sound, to indicate a presence. There was nothing. If she wasn’t inside where in God’s name was she? He ran towards the orchard then searched the rest of the garden, peering into the shed and the wood store. He couldn’t leave without seeing her. He would have to wait until she got back.
The key: he knew she never took it with her as she was afraid of mislaying it. He looked for the flowerpot. Tipping it, he snatched up the key and fumbled it into the lock.
As he stepped over the threshold he paused. The cottage was different. There was no smell of bread baking, no tang of apple wood burning on the fire. The living room was tidier than he’d ever seen it. The usual clutter of books and papers, the vases of flowers, bits of painting paraphernalia, the faded emerald and crimson paisley shawl she sometimes wore against the morning and evening chill were all gone.
He walked quickly through to the kitchen. It was equally tidy and spotless. He raced up the narrow staircase and into the bedroom that was as familiar to him as his own. The bed had been stripped. Blankets and quilt lay neatly folded below the pillows on the bare mattress. The dressing table was bare. In dread he wrenched open the doors of the old oak wardrobe. It was empty. The room spun, blackness yawning in front of him. He staggered backwards and sank onto the bed clutching the brass rail at its foot.
He sucked in breaths, willing the faintness away. Icy perspiration soaked his clothing, beaded his forehead and dampened his palms. He pulled himself up and walked unsteadily down the stairs.
A letter: there had to be a letter. He searched: scanning every surface, opening every drawer and cupboard. All right so she was angry. But she wouldn’t have gone without a word. Thirty years had to count for something. For God’s sake it was almost a lifetime. She wouldn’t just leave. Not after all this time. Not after all they had meant to each other. Not Dorcas. But she had.
Chapter Twenty Three
After another restless night Edwin forced down some breakfast and left the manse at seven-thirty. Sleep would have been impossible anyway because of the noise. Preparations started early on Regatta Day.
In the village’s main street he held ladders while men tacked up red, white and blue bunting that zigzagged all the way from the top to the bottom of the road. On the open ground in front of the carpenters’ workshop he helped lay boards over the saw pit, then carried trestles and planks to form a makeshift stage for part of the afternoon’s entertainment.
At midmorning he returned to the manse, dragged a folding table out to the front gate, filled every cup and glass he could find with lemonade, and called to the sweating thirsty men. They gulped down the tart liquid with more mockery and banter than thanks as they wiped their mouths on brawny hands. He grinned, recognising approval and acceptance as they stomped away to the next task.
Down on Williams’s field where stalls were being set up he carried benches into the tea tent. Along one side of the field wagons of different sizes were being decorated with flowers and greenery ready for the carnival procession later in the afternoon. He pinned swags of dark blue cloth around the platform where the band would play and unloaded wooden chairs from the schoolroom off a cart.
At one o’clock, having worked off some of the physical tension generated by increasing anxiety, he returned to the manse to freshen up and eat cold ham and fried potatoes.
It was he who had told Grace she needed to rest and recover. It had been his idea she took time to think about what he had told her. He hadn’t realised how hard the waiting would be.
By two he was out in the street again. People were pouring in from all parts of the village. Most came on foot. But the occasional farm trailer creaked past drawn by a huge carthorse with fringed hooves the size of dinner plates and crammed with laughing youngsters perched on straw bales.
Edwin remained near the manse gate, making himself available to those who attended village functions seeking comfort and company. Most were regulars at chapel and he had come to know them well.
As usual he learned more than he wished to about various ailments, and nodded sympathetically at the latest developments in family feuds and fallings out with neighbours. While he listened, responding to the cheerful greetings of passers-by with a nod, a smile or a wave, he co
uld not resist glancing up the street. That was the direction from which she would come, if she came. Please let her come. Then for a moment he was alone.
‘All right, Reverend?’
He turned. Pushing an elderly perambulator, Martha Tamblin was crossing the road from Miner’s Row. She had changed her normal working clothes for a full-sleeved cream pintucked blouse and dark green skirt. A straw boater with a faded red band shaded her eyes from the sun.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Tamblin.’ As she drew level he looked into the pram. Baby Mark was asleep at the top end; Daniel sat at the bottom, his chubby legs dangling from the calf-length trousers of an over-large sailor suit. Walking beside Martha, Polly held her younger sister’s hand. Both girls wore frilled white pinafores over pink cotton dresses and had ribbons in their hair.
‘Hello,’ Edwin smiled. ‘You’re both looking very pretty this afternoon.’
‘We’re going to see the ‘gatta,’ Meg beamed.
‘I hope you have a lovely time.’ Digging a hand into his pocket and swiftly sorting the coins by touch, he withdrew a shilling. Looking to Martha for permission –granted with a nod and a grateful smile –he handed it to Polly. Her eyes widened and her pale cheeks turned rosy with pleasure.
‘Can I have one?’ Meg demanded.
‘Sshhh.’ Polly tugged her sister’s hand, darting a shy glance at Edwin. ‘It’s for all of us.’
‘There’s a sweet stall down on the quay,’ Edwin said. ‘Mr Benny is there with his barrow selling paper windmills.’
‘Dan’l want a windmill,’ Meg announced.
‘What do you say, Poll?’ Martha prompted gently.
‘Thank you, Mr Philpotts.’ Polly’s cheeks dimpled briefly. It was the first time Edwin had seen her smile.
‘It’s a pleasure, Polly.’
‘Bless you, Reverend,’ Martha murmured.