by Jess Foley
After the funeral Blanche joined Marianne, Harold, Gentry and Edward Harrow and the servants in the library where Mr Baron, Savill’s solicitor, made known to them the terms of Savill’s will. Apart from small bequests to the servants and other individuals, the bulk of the estate went to Marianne, all property to be held in trust for her until her marriage or her coming of age at twenty-one – whichever was first – by Harold Savill, who was appointed her legal guardian. Harold, apart from being suitably rewarded under the terms of Savill’s will, was also, on Marianne’s behalf, to take complete control of the mill and all her other industrial and financial interests.
When the business was done Mr Baron replaced his papers in his briefcase. As he did so the others began to move out of the room. Marianne remained where she was for a moment or two, then, rising, went to the solicitor where he stood behind the desk, and indicated that she wished to speak to him privately. She waited until they were alone in the room and then said:
‘Is that all – in my father’s will? Is that the extent of it?’
He gave a little nod. ‘That’s the essence of the will. I avoided giving it all in strictly legal terminology as –’
Marianne interrupted him: ‘There was nothing about Blanche – Miss Farrar …’
He shook his head. ‘No, nothing. Your father’s will was made many years ago, when you were a very small child.’
‘Yes, I understood that. But there’s nothing about Miss Farrar … ?’
‘No, miss – she’s not mentioned.’ He opened his briefcase. ‘If you wish to examine the document yourself you –’
Marianne waved away the suggestion. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have no reason to doubt your word. It’s just that I always thought that he would make some provision for her. She was – very dear to him.’
Baron said, ‘Well, unfortunately, miss, he didn’t do so. I don’t know whether you’re aware, though, but when he met with his accident he was on his way to Trowbridge to meet me in my office. We had an appointment that afternoon. I don’t know what he wished to see me about, but it is quite possible that it was about the terms of his will.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid now that we shall never know.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Marianne sighed, then smiled at him. ‘I thank you, Mr Baron.’ Then, assuming her unaccustomed role as mistress of the house, she asked him if he would stay to drink a glass of sherry before starting back to Trowbridge. He thanked her, but said he had other pressing business to attend to. With that Marianne showed him from the house.
Later, when the funeral guests had gone, Marianne spoke to Harold alone in the library. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Papa made no provision for Blanche.’
Harold shrugged. ‘So it appears.’
‘But he loved Blanche. You know that. Why would he ignore her in his will?’ She paused. ‘Apparently he was on his way to see Mr Baron when he had his accident. If so, perhaps he intended to take care of the matter then. It’s possible, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, indeed it is.’ Harold spread his hands before her. ‘But he did nothing, in the event. And if he did wish to make any changes in Blanche’s favour we shall never know of them.’
‘He never spoke to you on the matter?’
‘No, never.’
Marianne was silent for some moments then she said:
‘Uncle Harold, I know Papa would have wanted Blanche to benefit at his death. I know that as well as I knew him.’ Briefly she paused, summoning the courage to assert herself. ‘And – I want something to be done.’
He raised his eyebrows; her forthrightness was unexpected. ‘Oh? Exactly what do you have in mind?’
‘I don’t know.’ She gave a helpless little shrug. ‘But something. Some interest in the mill, or some of my capital. Something has to be made over to Blanche, and as soon as possible.’
Harold said nothing. Marianne went on:
‘I’d like you to write to Mr Baron so that we can discuss it and make the best arrangement. Please – will you see to it?’
Harold sighed. ‘Marianne, my dear,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you to think that I’m being unsympathetic, but I’m afraid I can’t allow this to happen. For your own sake I –’
She broke in, forcing herself not to lose her assertiveness: ‘Uncle Harold, it’s – it’s my money, and I can do with it as I please.’
‘It is your money indeed,’ he said, ‘but as for your being able to do with it as you please, I’m afraid that that is not so – and it will not be so while I’m your legal guardian. And I shall be your guardian until you marry or until you’re twenty-one years of age. At the moment you are only nineteen, in addition to which your wedding plans have been postponed. Until the situation changes you must recognize the fact that you do not have control over your inheritance.’
She gazed at him wide-eyed. ‘But – but it is what Papa would have wanted. You know that.’
‘How do we know that, Marianne?’
‘Of course we know it. You know how he loved Blanche. He loved her as a daughter.’
She waited. After a moment he said, a little stiffly:
‘I’m sorry, Marianne. And I’m sorry that this has had to come up on such a sad occasion. But I think later on you’ll understand – that I’m doing what I’m doing for your sake; I’m carrying out your father’s wishes. As I said, when you are independent of my control you may do what you wish with your money and your property, but until then, and I must make it very clear, whatever decisions are made will be entirely up to me.’
He turned and started to the door. As he opened it Marianne said, her voice causing him to halt and turn back to face her:
‘I shall have my way eventually, Uncle Harold. My marriage has been postponed for the present, but it will happen. And even if it should not, in a year and a half I shall be twenty-one. One way or the other I shall have control of what is mine – and when that happens I shall see that Blanche gets what is rightly hers.’
Harold did not answer. With the merest nod he turned and left the room.
Two days went by, days when to Blanche the hours seemed to drag. There was no lightening of the gloom that had prevailed since John Savill’s death, and Blanche observed Marianne, Gentry and Harold Savill each in a different mood of melancholy and preoccupation.
Then, one afternoon when she sat alone in her room, there came a knock at the door and a moment later Marianne entered.
‘Oh, Blanche …’ Marianne came towards her where she sat by the window, mending a stocking.
‘What is it?’
Marianne gave a deep sigh and sat on the edge of Blanche’s bed. She looked on the verge of tears. ‘Tell me,’ Blanche said, ‘– what is it?’
‘Oh, Blanche, Blanche,’ said Marianne wistfully, ‘I don’t know what’s happening any more.’
‘What do you mean?’ Blanche put down the stocking and the needle and thread. After a moment Marianne said:
‘Gentry – he’s thinking of going away.’
‘Back to Sicily? But that’s where his work is, where his home is.’
‘No, not Sicily. To South Africa. He’s talking about going off to fight the Boers.’
Blanche sat up in her chair. ‘D’you think he will?’
‘I don’t know. He’s talking about it – and he won’t let the subject go. He says that the war is dragging on and – and every man should do his part. I told him that it’s not his responsibility, but he said it’s every man’s responsibility. Oh, Blanche, what shall I do if he goes?’
Blanche said nothing. The reports from South Africa were horrifying; the number of deaths from disease seemed to be taking a greater toll of the British forces than was the enemy. And if Gentry should go out there …
‘You must tell him,’ Blanche said, ‘that he’s needed at home.’ She paused. ‘What does his father say?’
‘Oh, Uncle Edward talks against it, but I’m sure a part of him secretly approves. Anyway, whatever he said, it wouldn’t make any differenc
e to Gentry. I’ve discovered that much about him – he always goes his own way.’
Listening to Marianne’s words, and thinking of Gentry’s manner since his arrival she felt somehow that there might be another reason behind his talk of enlisting, a reason apart from any feelings of patriotism and duty – which naturally had their effect upon him. What it was, though, she did not know; she only knew that she had observed in him a restlessness and an unease that was making it difficult for him to settle. Something was on his mind, was preoccupying his thoughts. What it was, though, she could not begin to guess.
They had exchanged very little in the way of conversation since his arrival; in fact there had been a lack of communication to the point where it almost appeared as if Gentry was avoiding contact with her. On first becoming aware of it the knowledge had hurt, and she had nursed the wound in the silence of her room, wondering what was the reason for his ignoring her so – was it guilt over their past association? Later, attempting to come to terms with it, she had tried to behave as if nothing had happened. In time he would be going back to Sicily, and then later Marianne would go to him, for their marriage – and from that time onwards it was possible that he and Blanche would never meet again.
Now, though, he was speaking of going off to South Africa …
‘If he goes,’ Blanche said to Marianne, ‘what will you do? Will you stay here?’
Marianne gave a groan. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t want him to go.’ She got off the bed, moved to Blanche’s side. ‘Blanche, I love him so.’
Blanche said nothing. After a moment she got to her feet, and stood at the window, gazing out. Behind her Marianne turned and said:
‘I can’t bear to think of him being away. I’m so afraid that – that something will happen to him.’
‘You mustn’t talk like that,’ Blanche said, her voice sharp. Then, more gently, she added: ‘It does no good. You must – must think positively about things.’
‘I know that, Blanche, but – oh, what’s the use. I know that if he’s set on it I won’t be able to dissuade him.’
After a moment Blanche said, ‘Perhaps you should go back to Sicily to stay. After all, you like it there.’
Marianne nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I do, and – well, Uncle Edward suggests I do that – if Gentry goes away. And if he does go, then my being in Messina, at his home – it would make it seem that I was a bit – closer to him.’ She remained still for a moment, then gave a little shudder. ‘I know something – I couldn’t stay here alone with Uncle Harold.’
‘Why?’ Blanche turned to her now, looking at her with surprise.
Marianne, thinking of Harold’s recalcitrance over her wish to make provision for Blanche, said, ‘Oh – I’ll tell you one day. But anyway, you know I’ve never really liked him. And I couldn’t bear the thought of having to live in the same house with him for any length of time.’
Marianne stood there for a moment longer, then stepping towards Blanche, reached out and wrapped her in her arms. ‘Oh, Blanche, I’m so glad I’ve got you on my side.’
Blanche gave a little laugh. ‘Marianne, it’s not as bad as that.’
Stepping back, looking at her, Marianne said, ‘Sometimes I feel that it is. Right now – when nothing seems to be going right.’ She sighed. ‘I do miss Papa so. Nothing will ever be the same now – without him.’
Blanche nodded in agreement. ‘I know what you mean, and how you feel. But it will pass, in time. That’s what they say: everything passes.’
‘I suppose so. But it’s waiting for that time for it to pass that can be so painful.’
The following day after luncheon Blanche, with Jacko at her heels, left the house and set off down the road towards the heath. She had asked Marianne to accompany her, but Marianne had an engagement in Trowbridge with Mr Baron, the solicitor.
It was a beautiful, warm day, with the sun shining brightly; against it the remembered atmosphere inside the house seemed dark and constrained. Halfway down Gorse Hill Blanche left the road and took one of the paths that led onto the wild, green acres of the heath. Just before her steps led her in among the dense shrubbery she turned and looked back up the hill, to the hill’s brow where Hallowford House stood. It was good to get away from it; it was a place of such unrest. In contrast the heath was peaceful, and she let her footsteps take her along the paths without thought as to direction, at last coming upon a little glade where she found a soft, grassy spot in the shade. There, while Jacko sniffed around in the undergrowth, she sat down, removed her bonnet and then took from her bag a book. It did not hold her interest, however, and after a while she replaced her bookmark between its pages and set it down at her side. Lying back in the soft grass she was aware of Jacko giving up his exploring and coming to lie down at her side, then she closed her eyes against the bright sunlight that filtered through the leaves of the overhanging oak.
Several minutes later, against the sound of Jacko getting to his feet, there came the sound of a whispered voice, very close.
‘Are you sleeping?’
She knew the sound at once, and opened her eyes to see Gentry standing above her, gazing down at her with a soft, slightly anxious look in his eyes. Quickly she sat up.
‘Hello,’ she said, a false note of brightness in her voice as she straightened her hair; then: ‘What are you doing here?’
He crouched in the grass some feet away while Jacko came to him, thrusting his nose into his hands. ‘It’s not a coincidence,’ he said after a moment. ‘I saw you from the window at the house. I came down after you. I’ve been looking for you.’ He lowered his intense gaze and gave his attention to the dog, stroking him, fondling his ears.
‘Jacko,’ he said, ‘you’re a good old dog.’
As Jacko wagged his tail Blanche said, ‘Oh, yes, he is that.’
‘And loves you a great deal, I’m sure.’
‘Oh, well – yes, he loves me well enough. But I’m afraid I’m no substitute for Ernest.’
‘No?’
‘No. Ernest is his god.’
‘Does he still miss him?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m afraid a little light went out in him the day Ernest went.’
She watched for some moments in silence as Gentry continued to stroke the dog, then she said:
‘Why did you come after me?’
He raised his eyes to hers. ‘I had to see you – before I go.’
‘You’re going, then – to South Africa.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘In the next day or two. If they’ll have me.’
‘Can you doubt it?’
He smiled and gave a little shrug. ‘I suppose not.’
Silence. Blanche said: ‘Why did you want to see me? Since you arrived with your father you’ve hardly exchanged more than a few words with me. And now here you are, seeking me out. I don’t understand.’
Jacko moved away, wandering off into the surrounding shrubbery. Gentry watched him go, then said, ‘It’s taken me a while to understand it myself.’ His hand plucked the blades of grass at his feet. Blanche watched him, taking in the fine lines of his profile, the darkness of his lowered eyes, his black hair, the tan of his hand as it plucked at the grass. Then he said simply, raising his eyes to hers:
‘I keep thinking about you, Blanche.’
At the words she felt her heart lurch in her breast. She sat up straighter, gazing at him. ‘Oh, Gentry …’
A moment later he was crouching at her side, so close. ‘I can’t get you out of my mind,’ he said. ‘I never stopped thinking about you.’
As if coming to, out of a dream, she gave a shake of her head. ‘Gentry – don’t – please. Don’t say this.’ She moved as if she would rise to her feet, but his hand came out and grasped her wrist. ‘Wait, please,’ he said.
She allowed herself to be held there, a willing prisoner, but tore her glance from his to look away. He released her from his grasp.
‘Look at me, Blanche …’
He repeated the words, and after a
moment she turned her face to him. His eyes burned into her own with an intensity that brought back to her the time when they had lain together among the primroses; so long ago …
‘I want you,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said, ‘you love Marianne. You’re going to be married to her.’
He gazed at her. ‘Why do you think I’m going?’
She said nothing. He went on after a moment:
‘I knew, as soon as I saw you again, that I was glad that the wedding had to be postponed. Seeing you, Blanche – after so long – it all came back to me. And I realized that all my thoughts of you in the meantime – they were – were based on what is real.’
‘Gentry …’
‘It was real, Blanche. It is real – what I feel for you. I love you.’
Blanche put her head in her hands. ‘Oh, God …’ She had not even dared to hope that she would ever hear such words. But now he was saying the words and, besides the joy she felt, there was pain.
‘But Marianne,’ she said, ‘– you love her. You must love her.’
‘I love you.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t help it, Blanche. We can’t direct our feelings, can we? In a way I do love Marianne – and I thought that those feelings for her would be enough to see us through, to make things work for us. But seeing you again – it’s made me aware of so many things I tried to put aside, not face up to.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘Do you think I wanted this to happen? Of course I didn’t. How much simpler it would have been – for everyone – if I could feel for Marianne as I should, as I’m expected to. But I had to meet you, to fall in love with you.’
Blanche lifted her head and found him gazing at her. She became dully aware of the sound of the birdsong all around them; the rest of the world going on unmoved by his revelation. Then in their own silence he was suddenly falling to his knees, reaching out and wrapping her in his arms, drawing her to him. When he bent his head to kiss her she made no attempt to draw away, and a moment later his mouth was pressed on hers; and once again, after so long, she knew the feel of his mouth on her own. When he drew back from her and looked at her again he gave the smallest nod. ‘I had no idea,’ he said, ‘that you would still feel the same way. But you do. I know you do.’