by Dawn Harris
Julia said, ‘Good, that’s you two settled. Now we need to find the right man for Drusilla.’
Groaning, I protested. ‘You know perfectly well I don’t mean to marry.’
‘Nonsense. You don’t want to end up a little wizened old maid, do you?’
‘Little?’ I gasped. ‘It may have escaped your notice Julia, but I have to duck my head every time I come into this room.’
A small giggle escaped her. ‘Well, all right, you may be not little, but----’
‘I don’t much care for wizened either, I might tell you.’
‘That’s because you’re only twenty-six and cannot imagine yourself at seventy. If you had a husband, you’d take good care not to stoop. With you being so tall, you might easily allow yourself to do so, you know, and end up like that poor woman I saw in Portsmouth last month. Bent double she was, and had to use two sticks to get about. All she saw was the ground - she couldn’t look up, poor soul. Never saw the sun unless she was sitting down.’
None of us believed in this woman’s existence, for Julia had a vivid imagination, which she used to great effect whenever it suited her. We were all laughing so much, we barely noticed Tom bringing Edward back, until Edward, clutching his new boat to his chest, announced blissfully, ‘I’se all wet.’ In fact, he was soaked from head to toe
Julia closed her eyes as Tom explained sheepishly, ‘He couldn’t quite reach the boat you see, and before I could—’
‘Don’t apologise Tom, please,’ Julia sighed. ‘I know exactly how it was. My son’s chief aim in life is to see how many sets of clothes he can ruin in a day.’
Lucie exclaimed, ‘Tom, you’re wet too. Look at your shoes and stockings-------’
He glanced down at the waterline half way up his calf, acquired when he jumped into the pond to get Edward out. ‘Honestly, it’s nothing.’
‘Oh Tom,’ Julia burst out, instantly contrite. ‘I’m so sorry. Come upstairs - I’m sure Richard’s stockings will fit you. And we’ll get your shoes dried in the kitchen.’ Lucie offered to take Edward off to his nursery to be attended to, and I heard Julia say playfully, ‘Now you can see what you’re letting yourself in for.’
While they were out of the room, Giles told me he’d heard from his friends in Normandy. ‘I’m afraid they know nothing of your uncle’s circumstances.’
Finally understanding the sadness in Lucie’s eyes, I said in dismay, ‘I did so hope---’
‘So did I, Drusilla. But all is not lost yet. They have promised to try to find out. Only it doesn’t pay to be too inquisitive in France these days, so we must be patient.’
I nodded, asking rather despairingly, ‘What did my aunt say?’
‘She thinks, rightly I believe, that the Normandy estate is lost. She fears too that your uncle may already be dead. In which case, she insists the wedding must go ahead. She wants to see Lucie settled.’ I saw the sense of that, and my aunt was a practical woman. Giles’s friends might not learn anything, yet I found myself pinning all my hopes on this slender chance.
Staying calm was far from easy, and the weather didn’t help. Twice in the next week great forks of lightning lit up the night sky, and violent crashes of thunder kept the entire household awake until the early dawn, leaving us all tired and irritable. My aunt fared worse than the rest of us, the lack of sleep heightening her fears for my uncle’s safety.
‘It’s just this aw--awful uncertainty, Drusilla,’ she burst out one morning, her voice breaking.
Gently I reminded her, ‘Giles did say we must be patient.’
‘I know,’ she said in a choked voice, looking out at the torrential rain. She took a deep breath, forced back her tears, and began talking of her plans for her new bedchamber. Whatever her faults, I admired the courage with which she faced her uncertain future.
When the weather began to improve at the start of the last week in July, Giles called to say he was spending a few days with Mr Reevers. He kept his own small yacht moored on the Yar, often visiting his cousin, who lived on the mainland, near Lymington.
‘He’s finding life very difficult at present and he needs a friend.’ As I opened my mouth, he shook his head at me. ‘I can’t explain. Better that he tells you himself. Besides, I’m beset with enough problems of my own. Like persuading Mama that Norton House cannot accommodate her entire wardrobe. She informs me nothing can be dispensed with, and we move next month.’ He eyed me helplessly from under his long lashes. ‘Will you talk to her, Drusilla? But for you she’d still have five bandboxes of old letters.’
‘I’ll try,’ I said, guiltily refraining from mentioning I had not reduced the number of letters.
‘I’ll be back the day before our outing to Carisbrooke.’ Lucie having expressed a desire to see the castle, Giles had arranged it, inviting my aunt and myself to join them.
When I called on Marguerite the next day she told me indignantly that Thomas had taken young Tom off sailing for a few days. ‘Just as if he had no responsibilities at all. And he shows me no consideration whatsoever. He knew Giles was visiting Mr Reevers and I would be left on my own.’
‘You have a house full of servants,’ I reminded her gently.
‘What use is that when I have no-one to talk to.’
‘Well, I’m here now,’ I said cheerfully. ‘And I’ve promised to help you sort out your wardrobe while Giles is away.’
In the event I visited her every day, often accompanied by Lucie, but we failed to persuade her to throw away any of her clothes. She insisted, ‘I might need them one day.’
Thinking of all the gowns that would never fit her again, I pointed out kindly, ‘But you won’t have space at Norton House for it all.’ Tears filled her eyes, and she grew so distressed that Lucie suggested if all the items she no longer wore regularly were packed into trunks, she would find a place for them.
At which, Marguerite threw her arms round Lucie’s neck. ‘I knew you would understand. I can’t bear to be parted from them, you see.’
On our way home, I asked Lucie where she would store these trunks. ‘She’ll need half a dozen at least.’
‘I know,’ she admitted cheerfully. ‘But she was so upset I couldn’t help myself. Perhaps they will go in the attic, and once the clothes are out of sight, she’ll forget all about them.’
The day before Giles was due back, I was alone with Marguerite in her sitting room, trying to cheer her with the offer of some fine new roses, grown at Westfleet, which would be ready for planting at Norton House in the autumn.
She turned to me, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘I know you mean it kindly Drusilla, and truly I am most grateful, but I cannot bear the thought of leaving my beautiful home.’ Silent teardrops began to roll down her cheeks, and as she dabbed at them with a handkerchief, her butler came in with the day’s post.
She turned her face to the window and I took the single letter from the salver, thanking him with a smile. He bowed and left the room again, apparently obviously to Marguerite’s tears. The direction on the letter was inscribed in large flamboyant writing. A hand I had seen fairly recently, although I could not immediately recollect where.
Marguerite quickly dried her tears, for she loved to receive letters, especially from her London friends who kept her up to date with all the latest scandals, fads and fashions. When I handed her the letter, she commented eagerly, ‘Now who can this be from? The writing looks familiar, but I can’t think who-----’
‘You could try opening it,’ I suggested amiably.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind? I own I should like to.’ Eagerly she broke the seal and opened the single sheet. Glancing first at the signature at the bottom, her eyes widened and a startled exclamation escaped her. Blood drained from her face, and she fell back against the cushions in a swoon, the missive fluttering from her grasp on to the floor.
Seizing the smelling salts from the table where she kept her medicines, I waved it vigorously under her nose. As she began to recover her senses, I bent to pick up the letter. The si
gnature was one I had seen before, and I saw then why my godmother had fainted.
For the letter came from a dead man. Or to be precise, from a man my godmother had for some twenty years believed to be dead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When Marguerite opened her eyes and saw the letter in my hand, she shuddered, and the greyness of her face made me say, ‘I’ll ring for some brandy.’
As I reached for the bell-pull, she grasped my wrist. ‘Please don’t. It would choke me.’ She pulled her shawl tightly round her shoulders as if cold. ‘I don’t suppose I imagined it, did I?’ she whispered in forlorn hope. ‘The signature I mean.’
I shook my head, for the writing was perfectly legible. Handwriting I had seen when helping Marguerite sort out her five bandboxes of letters. Those signed ‘Vincent’ were from Cuthbert’s brother.
‘I thought you said Vincent was--------’
‘Dead?’ She shivered. ‘He was, Drusilla, I swear. Cuthbert told me so. And he couldn’t be wrong about such a thing, could he?’
‘It would seem he must be,’ I murmured dryly.
She fell back against the cushions and wailed, ‘Whatever am I to do?’
‘You could read the letter,’ I suggested in an encouraging tone.
‘Must I? He’s bound to want something. He always did.’ She begged, ‘You read it, Drusilla.’ She reached for her smelling salts in readiness. Already this year, she had lost her husband, and would soon lose the home she loved. To her, this letter, from so unexpected a source, could only mean bad news.
The letter had been written from a hotel in New York, and was dated 7th June 1793. The sevens being crossed in the French style. Flattening the sheet, I read it to her.
My dear Marguerite,
I cannot tell you how deeply saddened I was to hear of my brother’s unfortunate accident. A friend in London supposing, rightly, that I would wish to be informed of this unhappy event, sent me the cutting from the ‘Morning Post,’ and I have thought of little else since. Believe me, I cannot adequately express to you my deep sense of shock and bereavement.
When I took up my pen to offer you my most sincere condolences, I found myself thinking of Ledstone for the first time in years. The house holds so many happy childhood memories for me, that I was suddenly overwhelmed by a longing to see my old home once more before I die. For I am no longer young, my dear Marguerite, and there cannot be many years left to me. As for the quarrel that estranged me from my family, that ceased to be of consequence long ago.
I am a widower now alas, but my son Piers gives me great joy. For the past year we have been travelling together in America, an unforgettable adventure that ends on the first of July when we sail home on the ‘Carolina.’ This being the most modern and comfortable ship we can find, for Piers suffers badly from sea sickness. God willing, we should arrive in England some time in August. After our long absence abroad, some urgent matters require my personal attention in London, but we hope to make a short stay on the Island in September, before returning to our villa in Italy.
I will write again when we reach London, but we shan’t impose on the family at Ledstone, being quite content to put up at the George in Yarmouth. My kind regards to Thomas, whom I understand has a young son, and to your own dear Giles.
Vincent had signed his name with a flourish, and folding the sheet, I gave it to Marguerite. ‘It is a very proper letter, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, but he shouldn’t be writing to me when I thought he was dead.’
Laughter rose in my throat. ‘He obviously doesn’t know you believed that.’
‘Well, he should have known,’ she insisted resentfully, without explaining why. Unfurling a pretty French fan Giles had brought back from his travels, she began to employ it absently.
Deeply curious about the family quarrel Vincent spoke of in his letter, I asked if she knew what had caused it. Snapping the fan shut, she leaned forward, eagerly confiding, ‘It was all rather dreadful really, Drusilla. He eloped with an actress.’
That, I agreed, did make her totally ineligible. ‘Was she very pretty?’
Marguerite considered, her head to one side. ‘I only saw her once. Her face was red and blotchy from crying, which made it difficult to tell, but she did have the most beautiful honey coloured hair. Cuthbert described her as ravishing, and I imagine she must have been, or Vincent would not have run off with her. But Cuthbert was furious with Vincent for bringing a woman of her class to Ledstone.’
I could picture the scene all too easily. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Twenty-six years ago. I remember particularly, as Giles was only a few weeks old. When Vincent announced his intention of marrying the girl, Cuthbert warned that such a marriage meant exile, for a woman of that class would find herself ostracised by Island society. Nor could he expect financial assistance if he was determined to ruin himself. But Vincent wouldn’t listen, he was in love, he said. The arguments made my head ache so abominably, I was forced to retire to my room. In the morning, Vincent and the girl had gone,’ she declared with remembered relief, ‘And Cuthbert said we were never to speak of his brother again.’
I saw how that had come about, but one thing still puzzled me. ‘I don’t understand why you thought Vincent was dead.’
‘Well, despite Cuthbert saying he wouldn’t help his brother, about a year later Vincent wrote asking for a loan. There was a child then----’
‘Piers?’
‘Yes. They were living in the most squalid lodgings, but Cuthbert said Vincent only had himself to blame.’ She shivered, thinking of freezing rooms. ‘I persuaded Cuthbert to send money for the baby’s sake. But Vincent kept asking for more. Then, after about five years, the letters suddenly stopped. When another year passed without a letter, Cuthbert said Vincent must be dead.’
‘I see why he thought that,’ I admitted. ‘But what of the child?’
‘Cuthbert said the boy was better off with his mother, and by then we had no idea where Piers was living, and nothing to recognise him by except a lock of his hair.’ She pointed to the two bandboxes full of her old letters, which stood in a corner ready for the move to Norton House. ‘I expect it will still be in there somewhere.’
We searched the bandboxes and she found the right letter, removing the blond lock. ‘How soft it is,’ she sighed, holding the hair against her cheek. ‘I have a lock of Giles’s hair that is very similar.’ And instantly justified her hoarding instincts. ‘Now do you see why I wanted to keep my letters? Whenever Cuthbert persuaded me to throw something away, I always found a need for it the very next day.’
The lock of hair was cut on the boy’s fourth birthday, according to the accompanying letter which Marguerite gave me to read. Vincent had written that Piers had a fever, and the doctor advised the boy needed decent food and lodgings free from damp, neither of which Vincent could afford. He wrote,
‘I beg of you to help me Cuthbert, for Piers is as much a Saxborough as your own son, but with none of his privileges. I wonder how long your sickly Giles would survive in the conditions in which we live. Piers, at four years of age, bears a remarkable resemblance to the portrait of your good self that hangs in the gallery at Ledstone. The one Mama had done when you were five. His hair, as you can see from the lock I have enclosed, is blond, like so many of our ancestors. He is fortunate in having his mother’s beautiful eyes and charming nature, being a prettily behaved child who can recite any number of nursery rhymes.
This, inevitably, was followed by a request for funds. Marguerite encouraged me to peruse the letters, and I found many such requests, along with appeals to be given a house on the Ledstone estates. Cuthbert had sent money to please Marguerite, who would have been greatly upset by the truth of Vincent’s barbed remark that Giles would not survive the conditions Piers was forced to endure. Besides, financial help could be kept secret. Allowing Vincent to return to Ledstone meant Cuthbert’s public acceptance of Vincent’s marriage, which he would never have agreed to.
‘Cuthbert said the girl was merely an actress, and very likely couldn’t write.’ It wasn’t an unreasonable assessment, but I suspected Cuthbert wanted to believe his brother was dead. Well, plainly, Vincent was very much alive. But, why had he given up this easy source of income when, according to his last letter, he’d couldn’t pay the doctor treating his son’s fever?
Marguerite suggested, ‘Perhaps he had a run of good luck. Vincent was a gambler, and Cuthbert used to say fortunes were won and lost at the gaming tables.’
I shook my head. ‘I cannot believe it’s that simple.’ And suggested light-heartedly, ‘Perhaps he will tell us.’
‘Well, I intend to ask him,’ she stated with unusual resolution. ‘If Vincent means to show his face at Ledstone after all these years, I think I’m entitled to an explanation.’
‘They may not bother you at all. You’ll be at Norton House long before they arrive.’ Her mood instantly brightened. ‘So I shall. I hadn’t thought of that.’
It was the first favourable reason she had found for moving, and I made the most of it. ‘It will be for Thomas to invite them to Ledstone. You and Giles need do no more than hold a dinner party.’
She eyed me speculatively. ‘Do you really think so, Drusilla?’ But the gloom soon descended again. ‘Very likely Thomas will be off sailing somewhere, and then Giles and I will be forced to entertain them at Norton House. And I do so detest tripping over unwanted guests at every corner of the house. But we cannot allow them to stay at the George. Think how people would gossip. Still, at least Vincent is a widower now. After all, no-one would expect me to entertain a common actress.’
Nevertheless, I couldn’t help wondering what Giles and Thomas would make of it when they returned home. Would they object to a visit from the black sheep of the family?
On riding home Mudd told me his father believed Smith was involved with a vicious gang of smugglers from Guernsey, but he didn’t know their names. I said, ‘Don’t worry, John. Smith will tell us fast enough when he’s arrested. He won’t take all the blame himself.’ A day I prayed wasn’t too far away.