Secrets of the Past

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Secrets of the Past Page 8

by Estella McQueen


  ‘What do you know about Queen Caroline?’ Astrid asked.

  ‘As much as you, I’m guessing. George only agreed to marry her in the first place because his father promised to pay off his debts. He loathed her on sight. He got drunk on their wedding night, and spent the whole of it stretched out on the floor with his head in the grate.’

  ‘Not the best start to married life.’

  ‘After they separated she took to wandering the continent, getting herself into all sorts of trouble – with unsuitable men – and all because her husband disdained her so completely. After the divorce trial failed she was barred from his Coronation.

  ‘Harry will find it impossible to get away from London,’ he deduced, ‘no matter what’s going on in his personal life. Picture this: he occasionally visits the country, perhaps to see his own family, but his meetings with Amelia Tunney are few and far between. Eventually he loses the infatuation he has with her – a married woman, pregnant with Tunney’s child – and moves his affection elsewhere. He marries someone suitable, someone in his London circle who is able to be with him openly.’

  ‘That’s your theory?’

  ‘Her love for Harry is driving her mad. But hope alone isn’t enough to keep her going.’

  ‘It would be very cowardly of him to walk away like that,’ Astrid said.

  ‘At the time of writing, he can’t stop thinking about her - and Parliament obviously, and hard piecrusts probably - because he adores her. Yet they both realize that he can’t drop everything to be with her. He’s in the thick of it. He can’t abandon his political career, in order to be with a woman who is married to someone else.’

  Leaving the bulk of the letters in the box in the office, Astrid and Charlie took the last two letters up to the first floor. Winter dark filled the rooms, and although in daylight the worn, faded areas of the tapestry-covered walls were depressingly apparent, the shadowy dusk was more forgiving.

  At the top of the Great Stair, the feeble electric bulbs struggled to illuminate the entire length of the landing. Together, they cautiously made their way towards Amelia’s Taffeta bedroom. Charlie went through the door and was immediately swallowed in darkness. Astrid flicked a switch and it wasn’t long before a pair of imitation candelabra wall lights reluctantly glimmered awake. The deep red outline of the embroidered bed hangings on the four-poster came slowly to life.

  The single heavy chair, squatting comfortably at a slight angle to the bed, wasn’t suitable for use, and there was nowhere else to sit. Amelia’s quilted coverlet on the bed was far too old and fragile to lean against.

  They remained standing, facing one another. Astrid’s eyes appeared very dark, the shadow from her nose falling straight across her cheek.

  Had Amelia slept beneath these covers, beneath this canopy? Had Harry undressed her, pulled her clothes from her shoulders? How many times had she found herself in his arms?

  Astrid guessed his thoughts. ‘It would have been too dangerous, surely?’

  ‘They might have done it in the summerhouse at midnight, who knows? But it wasn’t a chaste relationship. It was a proper, physical one. Ok.’ Charlie opened Harry’s last letter. The ink shone in the yellow glow from the wall lights; the paper appeared parchment-like in the gloom. ‘Ready for this? These, as far as we know, are Harry’s last known words to Amelia Tunney.’

  ‘My darling, I am come to the end of my work at last, the case is judged to have ended in Her Majesty’s favour. Although you can never be fully apprised of the details, the scurrilous nature of the hearsay has overtaken anything approaching veracity. The Queen’s affairs have been commented on far and wide. It has been an interminable business, the calling of witnesses, the interrogation of these people, the nonsense they have spoken – and even those of us who consider ourselves men of the world have heard tales to make our hair stand on end. No one could agree on anything, which is hardly unusual, but very wearing. Some exceedingly unpleasant and disquieting stories have been related in order to make the Queen appear at fault, and to determine her guilt - when we all of us know her husband has been guilty of the same, if not worse! At times like these one has to question one’s own motivations and conscience. My mind has been much exercised of late; perhaps you can understand what I mean. For days now I have heard the relentless sound of windows smashing, as the public vent their fury at the injustice of trying their beloved Queen. Fascinating though it is, my Poppy knows naught of such tittle tattle or scandal, unless she has been reading the London papers? Nor is my Poppy ever likely to hear of it direct from me. It is all quite vile and unpleasant. Be relieved, my dear girl, that it is not for a genteel lady’s eyes and ears in any case. You need not waste your time wondering what I am up to. I have reached the end of my patience. I understand that you wish to put your family’s considerations before mine. How can it be otherwise? Be assured that it is my intention that I shall not write to you in this manner again. Yours Harry’

  There was an awful finality about his words. ‘That’s it?’ said Astrid. ‘That’s the last letter he wrote?’

  Charlie read it again as though he might tease out some hidden nuance he had missed first time round. In the meantime, Astrid held Amelia’s letter close to her face. ‘My turn. This is Amelia’s last letter to Harry, the last time she speaks to him.’

  ‘Go on,’ Charlie said. ‘I have an inkling what’s in it.’

  ‘Dearest one,

  It is as I suspect. You have simply grown tired of me. I bother you, I annoy you. I have written so many letters to you, and you have ignored them all. I must admit it to myself at last. You no longer love me, and when at last you are free of me, you will be happy. For many weeks I have been writing and writing, and waiting for your reply, only to be frustrated time and time again. When I put my faith in you, a long time ago – perhaps at the very beginning of our acquaintance, I did not realize the extent to which I would one day rely on it. Over the years I came to accept that your affection was the only love I would ever feel, or ever need, and although I knew in my head it was impossible, I knew in my heart that it was anything but. I hoped that it would be more than enough to sustain me. When we came to our understanding, I truly thought this was a new beginning for me. Now I know the painful truth. It is not to be. It is not the start of my beginning. It is the end. Farewell my darling. Be happy.’

  Neither of them knew how to break the silence that followed. What were they supposed to think? Harry’s last message had been a hurt, pained reproof, while Amelia’s was a weary conclusion, a regretful surrender. She had fallen short, but he had failed her, too. And now it was all ended, finished, gone. There were no more letters, there was no more diary.

  ‘The end of my beginning,’ Astrid said. ‘How tragic that sounds.’

  They forgot all about the delicate embroidery and the fragile material of the quilted coverlet, and perched themselves against the edge of the mattress, drained and at a loss. Astrid wrapped her arm around the bed post. ‘You were right. It ended badly.’

  ‘How could it have been otherwise? How can you have a relationship with someone who never speaks to you? How can you maintain an intimacy with someone you never see? Love needs nourishing, it cannot exist unsupported.’

  ‘I can’t believe they gave up like that.’

  ‘They had no choice,’ Charlie said very softly, ‘Don’t be sad, we both knew it was going to end this way. Why else would Mary Ellen have hidden away the evidence? There was to be no relationship between them, she made sure of it.’

  ‘So why didn’t she destroy the evidence? Why keep it? And why didn’t they work out the letters were going astray?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He was busy, that was all. If only she’d waited, tried another avenue…,’

  ‘How? She had no one to trust. Amelia’s job was to be a dutiful wife and to provide Tunney with an heir. Harry, up and coming MP, or whatever he was, must have been wary of a domestic scandal. His only course was to put aside his feelin
gs and concentrate on his work. An absence of letters told him that she was getting on with her life, shutting him out, the way he was with her.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. She might have gone to London and lived as his mistress.’

  ‘And how would she have done that? Run into Addleston village one day, knocked on a few doors and gone, ‘Can you help me? I need a lift to London. Anyone going that way in the next half hour? Oh, and don’t tell hubby!’

  ‘Harry’s in his prime,’ said Astrid, ‘he’ll find a suitable wife in London. He’ll be happy again. But what happens to Amelia? Does she pine away and die?’

  The embroidered fabric rustled beneath Astrid’s legs. She was in danger of slipping off the side of the high bed. Instinctively, Charlie grasped hold of her arm to pull her upright, but in the confusion of limbs, she slithered backwards, pulling him with her. Her eyes appeared very black in the dim light, small points of light glowing in each one.

  ‘You know none of this is new,’ she said, ‘and they weren’t the first people to -’

  ‘Fall for each other?’ he finished.

  He was keenly aware of the dark at the window, their isolated situation, the fact that he was nudging against her knees. It wouldn’t be difficult for a lonely, neglected woman to respond to intimacy such as this. A woman with urges, dying to be kissed, touched, held, would feel compelled to allow it.

  ‘You do realize,’ she said, ‘that this quilt is two hundred years old. We really shouldn’t be leaning against it.’

  He reached past her and ran his fingers across the textured surface, the evenly spaced flowers, undulating their way across the bed and underneath his body. He located the smooth unfinished area in the middle of the embroidery, wondering anew at the significance of leaving a part of the decoration undone. Had Amelia been hindered in some way? Or was it intentional? Was she waiting for a propitious time to finish it? Perhaps when Harry came back to her?

  ‘Amelia made this herself. It would have taken months.’ It was the very embroidery she’d been working on when Tunney ripped it from her arms and tore it to bits. Perhaps she’d subtly taken it up again and set to work repairing it, diligently and determinedly, never allowing him to get the better of her. ‘Hours and hours,’ he said, ‘days and days.’

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  He didn’t know. At this point, he honestly didn’t know.

  Astrid took hold of his hand, entwining his long fingers with hers. She was very still, waiting, whispering her reserve until he sensed it had all but ebbed away. He heard the breath catch in her throat and then his arms came right around her waist and in one effortless movement he rolled her over onto her back, and was lying on top of her. He could feel the bones of her pelvis pressed right up against his. This time she wasn’t drunk. As his mouth hovered over hers, he conjectured quite calmly that not only was it the right thing to do, it was the only thing to do.

  Expecting his lips to find hers, he sensed the yearning for the soft contact – but instead he let go of her, pushed himself up off the mattress and stood up again. He regarded her in silence, lying flat on the bed.

  She lifted her head. ‘What’s wrong? What did I do?’

  He was already halfway across the room.

  The slippery bedspread came away with her as she rolled over and onto her feet. Anxiously she tried to straighten it, smoothing the creases and restoring it to its former neat state.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Bring the letters,’ he said. ‘We’ll take them back to the office. We’ll lock the box, we’ll stow them away safely until they can be read by an expert, someone who knows what they’re dealing with.’

  He opened the door and waited for her to exit before he switched off the lights. It was darker than ever, he could hardly see her outline. He groped along the wall for another light switch, but before the top of the staircase became properly visible, she overtook him and barred the way. ‘What did I do? What have I got wrong? Or is it just that I repulse you?’

  He stood for a moment.

  ‘Oh God!’ she said. ‘It wasn’t you back there, was it?’

  ‘Of course it was!’ He was flummoxed. ‘I wasn’t channelling anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s not how it works. I’m not a vessel through which they pass! I wasn’t being Harry!’

  ‘No?’ she said.

  ‘No!’

  But there was no moment of tenderness, no conclusion to what they’d already started; he pushed roughly past, leaving her rocking at the top of the stairs like a skittle. He galloped down the first flight, his feet pounding out a rapid staccato of noise on the stone treads.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she panted. ‘You can’t make love to me if it’s not me you’re making love with? Is that it?’ She scampered after him as he reached the bottom and strode across the stone floor of the entrance hall. The stucco panels radiated their white shapes against the grey background. ‘Charlie!’ she said. ‘Explain!’

  All right, he thought. She wants an explanation. I’ll give her one. ‘You know that feeling,’ he said, ‘when you’re reading a book that’s been recommended to you by half the population - who tell you it’s brilliant and you’ll love it - but you’re thinking, I hate it! Have I missed something? Should I go back to the start and try again? Or a film that everyone raves about, and you watch it and you think to yourself, but it’s woodenly directed, badly acted, and has absolutely no heart, or depth, or meaning? And you start to doubt your own judgment? Am I wrong, and everyone else is right? In fact, is everything I do wrong? Am I living wrong? You know that feeling? That’s how I feel, Astrid. All the bloody time. There! Does that explain?’

  He was heading for the office. It was even darker down here, but like some nocturnal creature sniffing out his route, he confidently navigated his way through the gloom. Until, that is, they reached the steps to the lower ground floor, and he stopped so abruptly she almost ran into him. ‘There’s a light,’ he said, ‘underneath the door. Can you see it?’

  A thick strip of yellow glowed against the black of the floor.

  ‘Someone’s in my office,’ Astrid said, appalled. ‘Who the fuck is in my office at this time of night?’

  Chapter Ten

  Charlie slowly and noiselessly turned the door handle. Astrid really didn’t think it was wise. ‘Shouldn’t you call the police?’

  ‘No need,’ he said, flinging wide the door.

  And there in Astrid’s chair sat Mrs Toon, the rosewood casket open in front of her, the rest of the letters and Mary Ellen’s diary spread out across the desk, illuminated by the harsh glow from the desk lamp.

  She didn’t seem at all perturbed to see them.

  ‘Oh, hello there Astrid. How are you this evening? Mr Gilchrist,’ she added rather less effusively. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘Good evening Mrs Toon,’ said Astrid. ‘You don’t usually avail yourself of my office when you’re on duty, do you?’

  Mrs Toon responded amiably. ‘No, not usually, but how else was I going to gain access to the letters? I mean, you can’t keep them to yourselves forever.’ She gathered the documents towards her like drowned kittens rescued from a river, but Charlie still had the last two letters in his hand. In the darkness, in the shadow, he held them behind his back, the folded papers discreetly hidden.

  ‘They will be available for public consumption,’ said Astrid. ‘When Charlie and I have finished with them.’

  Mrs Toon curled her lips outwards in disapproving fashion. ‘You know very well that that is not proper procedure. There are conditions to be observed, precautions to be taken. You shouldn’t have let them leave the premises, for a start.’

  ‘They went as far as the cottage,’ said Astrid. ‘They didn’t leave the estate.’

  ‘But that is so typical of your behaviour, Astrid. Act first, explain later.’

  ‘My behaviour? What about yours? I could sack you on the spot.’

  Mrs Toon refused to capitulate. ‘And why should this
person,’ she jabbed her finger threateningly in Charlie’s direction, ‘be allowed access to this material in any case?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s any of your business, Mrs Toon,’ Astrid said, ‘how I apportion jobs and tasks amongst my staff.’

  She guffawed loudly. ‘Your staff! You forget we are all working for the good of the organisation; we are not working for you. We are here to promote the preservation of this country’s great houses and its artefacts and property! These letters belong to the nation.’

  ‘They belong to Harry and Amelia,’ said Charlie.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Astrid. ‘I know what Mrs Toon is getting at, she disapproves of the way I run the place, but while I’m still Addleston House’s general manager, she has to abide by my decisions.’

  Mrs Toon gave a high pitched hoot. ‘Give me a break! Who does all the work around here? Me, Gareth, Victoria -’ she rolled her eyes, ‘even Megs up to a point - while all you do is ponce about the place, full of your own importance, chasing every bloke you can get your hands on! Ooh yes, you poor dupe,’ she said to Charlie, ‘you’re not the first.’

  ‘Ignore her,’ Astrid said, ‘she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

  Please put the letters back in the box, Mrs Toon. We’ll discuss this on Monday. I’ll call a meeting.’

  ‘Too late,’ she said. ‘It’s been done. I’ve contacted the London office.’

  Astrid’s face was drawn, hollow cheeked in the harsh glow. ‘You’ve done what?’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman gloated. ‘I’ve told them what’s been happening. They agree with me. You’ve not handled the situation appropriately. You’ve behaved recklessly.’

  ‘Recklessly?’ Charlie interrupted. ‘They’re a bunch of letters, they’re not gold bullion. It’s not the proceeds from a heist!’

  Mrs Toon ignored the outburst. ‘You and I both know that you are on very shaky ground, Astrid. Very shaky ground indeed.’

  Expecting Astrid to switch on the charm and mollify the over excited woman, Charlie waited for her to do what she was good at: show off her people skills.

 

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