“Did Mrs. Peel go with him?” she asked.
“No. She doesn’t have to go until it’s all ready to sign. But... well, she isn’t terribly well.”
“Where is she—in bed?”
“No. She was all right until…Well, to be quite honest, I upset her. I gave her a shock.”
Claire walked slowly into the drawing-room.
“What kind of shock?” she asked.
Lotty hesitated. She was wearing a pale-green cotton dress and white sandals and looked nineteen and virginal. And she had loved, and it was Paul, and not Geoffrey Summerhill, who had been in Richard’s mind when he had spoken of her love and of her loss. Paul, father of another Paul...
“I suppose you know that I’m going to marry Ronnie?” Claire heard her asking.
“Yes.”
“Well, before I said I’d marry him, I told him . . . But perhaps you’ll get a terrible shock and feel ill, like Mrs. Peel. I don’t see that it matters any more if a few people—people like her and you and Grant—know the truth now. I told her that Paul wasn’t Geoffrey Summerhill’s son. He was the son of a man I loved in Paris. A man who died before we could marry. Geoff knew, and now Ronnie knows. But Mrs. Peel…I suppose she felt I shouldn’t have deceived Mrs. Tennant for all those years. I wouldn’t have done if Geoff hadn’t insisted on saying nothing. Perhaps he knew he wasn’t going to live long. Some people do know about dying. I think I’ll know, when the time comes. I knew about Paul’s father. I think Geoff must have known about himself, and he wanted to make sure that Mrs. Tennant would look after us. He wasn’t frightened of her, like Grant; he wouldn’t have been afraid to tell her—but it was too great a risk, he said. ‘She loves Paul, and it would be cruel to tell her the truth.’ So I didn’t.”
“Where is Mrs. Peel?”
“In the kitchen.”
Mrs. Peel was experiencing what must have been a deep emotional crisis—but when Claire found her, she was standing at the sink peeling potatoes. Work had to go on; food had to be prepared; Mrs. Tennant was dead and there was time enough to worry about what this piece of news would have done to her …
But Claire was unprepared for the ravaged face that was turned to hers when she entered.
“Oh—Claire.” Mrs. Peel reached absently for a towel and, having dried her hands, held it as if uncertain what to do with it. Claire took it from her and hung it up, and then dragged a chair nearer.
“Sit down,” she said. “You look ill.”
Mrs. Peel waved the chair aside and raised a haggard face. “You saw Lotty?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t by any chance tell you—what she told me?” Claire hesitated.
“Look, couldn’t I bring you a drink? You—”
“You’ve got something to tell me.”
“Yes. But—”
“I can stand it. After Lotty’s little piece of information, I can stand anything. Seven years—nearly eight. Dear Lord, if Grant’s mother had known—”
“She did know.”
Silence fell. After what seemed an age, Mrs. Peel took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders.
“Go on,” she said hardily. “Tell me. You say she knew. How did she know and how do you know that she knew?”
“Lotty lost a letter. It was a letter written by Paul’s father just after Lotty had written to tell him she was to have his child. He came over to England, but he was killed in a road accident before he got to Spenders. Lotty kept the letter, but just before Mrs. Tennant died, she must have found it. She sent it to Lotty’s old nurse, with a covering letter saying that it was clear that everybody in the house had known the truth—except herself and Grant. She was going to turn you all out, but she died before she could come back to the house and do it. She—”
“How do you know this?”
“I’ve just come from the hospital. Lotty’s old nurse—Corinne—is dead. She died this morning,”
“And the letter…”
“Richard has the letter.”
Mrs. Peel stared at her.
“Richard? How does—”
“My stepmother told me that there was an old woman in the hospital who seemed to have some connection with him—who seemed to be afraid of him. The hospital staff had orders not to let him in if he went to see her. He didn’t know, at first, that she was there—but he did know that Lotty had lost a letter that would have told Mrs. Tennant the truth about Paul; he knew that you had seen Mrs. Tennant with a letter. When he found that the woman in the hospital was his and Lotty’s old nurse, when he learned that she had a letter she was anxious to hide, he…he guessed it must be Lotty’s letter. He went to see her once, but they wouldn’t let him in.”
“Richard . . . went to the hospital?”
“Yes. Once unsuccessfully—and again last night.”
“Last night? He . . .”
“He went to the hospital between half past seven and eight, when there was only a doorman on duty. He sent him away to fetch a nurse, and then he… ” She closed her eyes for a moment to shut out agonizing memories—“and then he went into her room and they heard her screaming…but they didn’t see Richard.”
“Then how—”
“He gave the doorman his name. I went to the hospital this morning. He was there with my stepmother. He had the letter—Lotty’s letter . . . just a thin blue sheet of paper. I read it, and—”
She stopped. Mrs. Peel had put out a hand and caught her arm in a tight, painful grip.
“Claire, I…”
Her voice was hoarse; her face was so deathly white that Claire led her to the chair, placed her on it and went swiftly to the drawing-room, returning with a glass in her hand.
“Drink this.” She held it to Mrs. Peel’s lips until the last drop was finished. "Would you like me to take you upstairs? You look very ill.”
“I—yes, I’m ill. I’ve got to be by myself for a little while. I’ve got to…I can’t stand any more. I’m not young, and I can’t. . . I’ve had enough shocks.” She put her hands to her head and gave a low moan. “I’ve . . . I’ve got to think. I must think. I ... oh, Claire, don’t tell Grant! Promise me you won’t tell him?”
“I promised Richard I wouldn’t tell him,” Claire said, and found Mrs. Peel staring at her with an almost wild gaze.
“He asked you . . . Richard asked you not to—”
“He didn’t want Grant to know, and I promised not to tell him. At any rate, not yet.”
There was a long silence. Mrs. Peel got heavily to her feet, and the younger woman looked at her anxiously.
“Let me go up with you and—”
“No. Will you”—her hand made a vague gesture indicating the preparations for lunch—“will you take over for a while?”
“Yes. Can I bring you up something?”
“I don’t want food or drink. I want to be by myself. I want to be left absolutely alone.”
“You were going this afternoon—”
“To the lawyers. They can wait. If I don’t lie down, I shall break down. I only ask you, for God’s sake, not to tell Grant what you’ve just told me…”
“I’ve told you I won’t.”
“Thank you.” She turned from the door and looked back at Claire with a curiously pitying look. “You’ve had a bad time through it all,” she said. “Right from the start, you’ve been in it.”
“Yes. But it’s over.”
Mrs. Peel made no reply; she closed the door behind her and Claire heard her going upstairs. She took off her coat, put on an apron, and was busy at the stove when Grant came in.
“Mrs. Peel isn’t feeling well,” she said, before he could speak. “You needn’t be worried about lunch—I can cook.”
Her voice—she listened to it in amazement—was calm and untroubled. He did not answer, and she went up to him and put her arms round him and laid her head on his shoulder.
“You look tired,” she said.
“I saw Lotty. She said she’d told you—and told
Mrs. Peel.”
“Yes.”
“No wonder”—his voice was bitter—“no wonder she feels ill. Claire—”
“You needn’t say it,” she said gently. “You’ve had enough, and so have I. We’ve both had enough. If you want to marry me, I’ll marry you on one condition, and that is that you take me to Canada as soon as we can get married and go.”
She could not see his face. She could only feel the deep, long breath that spoke of his relief, of the easing of tension, of a dawning hope for the future.
“I love you,” he said unsteadily. “But—”
“Not today,” she begged. “Say it again—and leave it at that.”
“I love you,” he said.
Chapter 9
Corinne Remington’s funeral took place two days later, in the cemetery at Gisborough. Claire’s stepmother, leaving the house on what seemed to be a normal morning’s shopping, said nothing until her return of the real reason for her absence; then she told Claire quietly in the drawing-room.
Talking to Claire since the morning of Corinne’s death had not been an easy matter; Mrs. Marston could not even be sure if she heard what was being said. There had been, between them, no exchanges beyond those relating to household matters; after dinner, Claire had gone straight to bed. She spoke to her now without any hope of arousing any sign of interest.
“Lotty’s old nurse was buried today.”
“I imagined,” Claire said, “that that’s where you’d gone.”
“My black suit?”
“And the feeling that you’d go to the funeral.”
“There were only two cars. Richard and Lotty and Pierre were in the first. I followed with Ronnie Pierce.”
There was a flicker of surprise, but Claire said nothing.
“No questions?” her stepmother asked.
“No. I told you—it’s over. What’s the use of remembering any of it? I can’t quite see why Ronnie Pierce should have been there.”
“He was married to Lotty yesterday, in London.”
“I see. I hope they’ll be happy.”
Her stepmother’s eyes rested on the pale, tired face and she spoke abruptly.
“I’m not concerned about their happiness,” she said. “I’m only concerned about yours. I can’t bear to see you like this.”
Something in her voice—an affection deeper than Claire had realized—brought the colour into her cheeks.
“I told you,” she said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Everything isn’t, Claire. Nothing can be right when you’re marrying a man you don’t love.”
And there it was, Mrs. Marston thought with relief and satisfaction. It was said. Out loud. She had been longing to say it, but had lacked the courage to give it voice. Now she had brought it out; she had said it openly and baldly, though not in the way she had planned to say it as she had lain awake for the past two nights, worrying about her stepdaughter, worrying about her own authority, or lack of it.
She had married Claire’s father and had promised to love and look after him; there was nothing in the contract that gave her the right to forbid his daughter to do what-ever she wanted to do. Especially to forbid her to marry a man she had decided to marry.
She did not love him. But where—Mrs. Marston looked hopefully, longingly round the drawing-room—where was the man she did love? Where was the man who had declared quietly, dispassionately to her two mornings ago that he loved and longed for Claire?
He was in Paris. Or if not actually there, would be there before long. If he wouldn’t speak, how could others speak for him?
They couldn’t speak for him—but they could speak the truth, as she had spoken it to Claire a few moments ago. She had thrown out a challenge: a man you don’t love. A man from whom you will never get the support you need. A man who failed you and who will fail you again—and again. A man who—
“You shouldn’t,” she heard Claire saying, “make too much of a moment’s stupidity. Richard Tennant would be able to explain exactly how he managed to . . . upset me. He could explain the system; he’s an expert.”
“He loves you.”
“So he told me. It wasn’t, in the circumstances, much of a compliment.”
“You love him.”
Claire gave a brief, scornful smile.
“I’ll get over it.”
“Couldn’t you wait? Couldn’t you let Grant go to Canada and—and follow him later, if you wanted to?”
“Haven’t I waited long enough? I’m grateful to you, but it’s no good. When Grant hands Spenders over to Mrs. Peel, we—”
“She isn’t there.’’
Claire stared at her.
“Isn’t where?”
“Mrs. Peel isn’t at Spenders. She hasn’t been there for the past three days.”
Three days. . . .
“Where is she?”
“She came up to London.”
“Who told you this?”
“Richard, this morning after the funeral.”
Claire sat very still, her thoughts racing. Grant had gone down to Spenders to complete the formalities of handing over the house to Mrs. Peel. She had imagined that they were still there. But Mrs. Peel was in London, and Grant— “You and Richard,” she said slowly, “seem to know more—”
“—of what’s going on than you do? Perhaps I ought to have told you before that he sent for me the other morning. From the hospital.”
“You mean,” Claire said after consideration, “that he found he couldn’t get in to see her—and so he asked you to help him.”
“Yes.”
“And you…you let him into her room?”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence.
“I don’t understand,” Claire said at last. “You told me that he was at all costs to be kept away. He had got in once—by a trick. And you…”
“He sent for me. She was dying. I told him, when I got to the hospital, that I would keep him out at all costs. He didn’t say anything except to ask me if I would go in to her and ask her if she wanted to see him.”
“Wanted to see him? And you went!”
“Yes. I went in and I took her hand and I asked her in the way he’d asked me to ask her. I asked her if she remembered the grotto and the bats and the chair on the terrace and the lilies of the valley. It didn’t make any sense to me, but I said it as he had asked me to say it. She began to tremble, and she caught my hands, and said: ‘Go and ask him what initials were on the tree, and what tree it was.’ I asked him and he said it was a willow and the initials on it were L.A. When I told her, she raised herself on her pillows and began to call out in a terrible croaking voice.”
“Call out?”
“She called out his name, and he went in.”
She had called out his name and he had gone in. He had not broken in, forced his way in. He had sent her a message that she understood, and then another—and then she had called him and he had gone in.
And Mrs. Peel was not at Spenders’ taking over the house. She was in London. And Lotty was married and was at Ronnie Pierce’s farm, and Richard…
Richard had gone.
She came back to herself to find the door opening. A maid had come to say that a lady wished to see them. “To see which of them?” Mrs. Marston inquired. “To see either,” was the reply. “And the lady’s name?”
“Mrs. Peel.”
For a moment, as she entered the room, shock kept Claire rigid. The thin legs had always looked as though they belonged to someone else—but now it seemed to her that, like the paper figures in some childish game, a face had been put on to the wrong body—a face sunken and white and pinched.
The visitor spoke quietly to Mrs. Marston.
“Don’t go, please.”
Claire scarcely recognized the voice, but there was authority in it. Mrs. Marston drew forward a chair; the three women sat down and looked at one another.
“You’re ill,” Mrs. Marston said. “Yo
u must let me send for—”
“No. I’m ill, but I don’t want anything, thank you. I came here to say something that has to be said. When I’ve said it, I shall go away.”
Mrs. Marston was not listening; she was pouring out a drink.
“When you’ve drunk that,” she said, handing it to Mrs. Peel, “we’ll listen to whatever you want to say. But not before.”
They waited in silence until Mrs. Peel had drunk and handed back the glass.
“Now,” Mrs. Marston said.
“I’ve been in London for three days—thinking.” Her eyes rested on Claire. “You came down to Spenders three days ago, and I went up to my room—but when I got there, I knew I had to get out of the house. I packed some things for the night—and I went up to London. When I got there, I didn’t know where to go. Yes” — she corrected herself—“I knew where I had to go, but I sat on a bench at the station all the afternoon, all the evening, thinking there might be some other way. Then a … a woman policeman came up and spoke to me. I told her I was ill. She asked me if I had anywhere to go, and I said yes, and I got up and she put me into a taxi and I drove to Richard’s hotel.”
Silence fell, and lengthened, and at last the tired, lost voice took up the story.
“He wasn’t there. He came back later and told me that he had been with Ronnie Pierce, arranging about a licence for Lotty’s wedding. Then he said he would put me on the train and send me home. I said he didn’t know why I’d come and he said yes, he did know. He said it was no use. He said talking wouldn’t make things better, but worse. He said it was better to leave things as they were, straight and cleared up and no more tangles. For a little while, I believed him. For a little while, I told myself that perhaps he was right. And then…I knew he wasn’t. You can’t build a life on lies. You can’t. You think you can, but you can’t. But I didn’t tell him that. I asked if he would let me stay there for a day or two, and he said he’d arrange it. He said he’d come back—but he didn’t come back. He sent a letter and I got it this morning; he said that when I read it, Lotty would be married and safe, and he himself would be in Paris, and you . . . and you and Grant would marry and go away and everything would be forgotten. I read the letter—and then I came here. Because”—she stared at Claire as though seeing her for the first time—“I realized that it all depended on you. All I had to do was tell you, and because you loved him, you would understand. It would be up to you. That’s what it all came down to, in the end: you.”
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