She heard male voices in the hall outside the drawing room and started up, listening. Carson! She flew to the door and threw it open. The butler was helping him out of his coat and, behind him, beginning to divest himself, was Jean Parterre.
Both men turned as the door opened and momentarily they all gazed at one another, expressions frozen.
“Any ...” Eliza began but as soon as she opened her mouth she knew the answer.
“No news,” Carson shook his head, and went over to kiss his aunt. “We can’t find a sign of them. It was a wasted trip.” They went into the drawing room, followed by Jean Parterre, who closed the door behind them.
“We scoured the whole of Cornwall,” Jean cried, flinging up his arms in despair. “It is such a quiet time of the year that someone should have noticed a young couple without a home, or perhaps seeking lodgings.”
“We think we went in the wrong direction.” Carson threw himself into a chair in front of the fire, and then leaned forward to warm his hands at the blaze.
“We thought perhaps Michael might have a home and had taken her there.” Jean knelt in front of the fire towards which he too stretched his hands. “In that case it could be in any part of the country.” He paused shaking his head. “I feel so guilty.”
“But there is no need for you to feel guilty.” In an effort to reassure him Eliza knelt by his side, just restraining herself from putting an arm round his waist, he looked so desolate. “It is not your fault. No one could possibly blame you.”
“I employed the man. I should have found out more about him. It is a lesson to me, one I shall never forget. I shall always, always take names, addresses of next of kin ...”
“They could always lie to you.” Carson extracted a cigarette from a packet in his pocket and lit it with a spool from the hearth.
“True.”
“But to feel guilty is absurd.” Eliza was anxious to put his mind at rest. “You might as well blame Hubert for having the belfry repaired.”
“Or God for putting the church there,” Carson added, looking round, “By the way, where are the girls?”
“Out walking. I thought they might have seen you arrive. Well, you’ve done all you can ...”
Eliza paused as the door opened and Dora rushed into the room, followed by Connie. Dora ran straight over to Carson and flung her arms round his neck. “We saw you arrive.” She stood back, her eyes closely studying his face.
“No news,” he shook his head. “None at all. We drew a blank.” Carson looked over to Connie who was shutting the door.
She stood for a moment as if she was not quite sure what to do. Then she came over to him and, rather stiffly, held out her hand. “I’m so sorry,” she said as Carson, rising, took her hand and shook it with a formality that seemed strange between people who were so well acquainted. He then leaned forward impulsively and kissed her on the cheek.
Connie shook hands with Jean Parterre and then sat on the arm of the chair Dora occupied, next to her mother. “Tell us about the search.”
While the men told their story the butler brought coffee and Eliza ordered the numbers to be extended for lunch.
“Well, you did all you could,” Dora said when they had concluded. “What about the police?”
“We have not really been able to interest the police very much.” Carson shook his head. “They think it is a case of elopement. They have no reason to think a crime has been committed. If a person disappears voluntarily there isn’t much you can do about it.”
“But Debbie is under age!” Eliza exclaimed angrily. “She might have been abducted.”
“Well they’re not doing very much except going through the motions.”
“I’m going back anyway,” Jean Parterre said firmly.
“But where will you go?”
“I will scour England, if necessary. If it takes years I will find out what happened to Debbie. Whatever you say I feel a responsibility. Michael Stansgate was my man.”
“And Carson will you go?” Eliza looked anxiously at him. Carson shook his head.
“If I’m away any longer I’m afraid the management of the estate will become impossible. There is so much to do and without Jean it’s hard enough. I understand why Jean is doing what he thinks best, but anyway frankly I think it’s pretty hopeless. He doesn’t drive.”
“I’ll take you,” Dora said suddenly and everyone looked at her.
“But you can’t,” Eliza began.
“Why not?” Dora stared at her mother, her expression of stubbornness one with which Eliza was familiar.
“Well ...” Eliza, lost for words, looked at Carson for help. “Can she Carson?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“No, I would never dream –” Jean Parterre began.
“Look!” Dora said, “Debbie is my cousin. I love her. I want to find her. I have nothing to do and I have a car. We can get round the country much more quickly and follow clues. Besides,” she smiled easily around at the rather startled group, “I’d like it.”
Eliza felt far from happy, but Dora was no child and, knowing her, she would do as she pleased. However, it was like Dora to offer and it was a task she would enjoy and do well.
“When do we start?” Dora’s eyes gleamed with excitement as she looked across at Jean, who seemed nonplussed.
“Well, if you’re sure ...”
“You’re not frightened of me are you?” She smiled wickedly at him.
“Of course not,” he said indignantly.
“I mean we don’t have to talk to each other if we don’t want to. You can regard me simply as the driver, oh and I shall also enjoy the role of playing the detective too.”
Jean Parterre suddenly smiled and his tired, worn expression relaxed.
“I think I’d rather enjoy it myself,” he said. “At least I know I shan’t be bored.”
“When do we start?” Dora jumped up excitedly. “Oh I would so love to be the one to find Debbie.”
“I have to get clean clothes, maybe a night’s good sleep,” Jean said, rubbing his eyes. “Is tomorrow all right?”
“Tomorrow’s absolutely fine,” Dora said. “I’ll pick you up about nine.”
Jean merely smiled, as if bemused.
After luncheon Dora took Jean over to report to Sophie, promising to come back for Carson. Julius went into his study and Eliza upstairs for a nap. She slept so badly at night that she rested in the afternoon.
Somewhat to their consternation Carson and Connie found themselves alone together in the drawing room drinking coffee. Carson lay back on the sofa, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his face pale and his eyes half closed.
“Carson, you look so tired.” Connie, sitting opposite him, leaned forward in her chair, hands linked in front of her.
“I am tired. I don’t think I’ve been as tired as this since the war, but then there was a different kind of danger.”
“But this wasn’t dangerous.”
“Yes it was.” He looked up at her and flicked ash into the ashtray beside the chair. “You don’t understand. I feel desolate about Debbie, about her fate, thinking we may have been near her but not found her. We took off into the dark, and maybe it was rather absurd, but we felt we had to do it. Just as Dora does now.”
“Do you think she’s alive?” Connie’s tone was subdued.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what has happened to her.” He stubbed out his cigarette and closed his eyes. “God, I could sleep for a week. Do you think Jean Parterre and Dora will be okay together?” He opened one eye and looked at her.
“Why shouldn’t they be? They’re both grown up.”
“Quite. Both stubborn people too.” Carson closed his eyes again and looked as though he was falling asleep. Surreptitiously Connie studied his face. She felt there was a curious mood of intimacy between them, as pleasant as it was unexpected. She wanted to stretch out her hand and touch him, stroke his brow, but she didn’t dare. There, in the silence of the room
, a silence broken only by the crackle of logs in the grate, she realised that she loved Carson and always had. She loved him when she was a small, gauche, awkward girl and he was a heroic young Lochinvar character, a daredevil who everyone told stories about, up to no good. She worshipped him and he was kind to her, escorted her home from church, praised her singing. He was so kind to her that she thought, in fact, that he did love her even though it seemed impossible.
For a few heady months, believe it she did. It was nearly ten years ago, and all that had changed. They had changed. Yet they still knew each other very well. They were at ease with each other.
Carson, eyes still closed, lifted his hand and beckoned to her. Connie remained where she was.
Carson opened his eyes.
“Come here,” he said. “Come and sit beside me.”
She did as he asked but kept a distance between them on the sofa. She was suddenly that shy, timid little mouse again, almost paralysed with fright.
He moved his hand towards hers and clasped it. She didn’t resist.
“I missed you,” he said.
Still she didn’t speak.
“I thought of you all the time. I have ever since you’ve been here, and you avoid me.”
“I ...” her mouth was dry. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You avoid me because Aunt Agnes says I’m after your money”
Connie’s face flushed. She felt as though the old Connie had returned: shy, retiring Connie, and she tried to withdraw her hand, but Carson hung on to it.
“Also that I am a womaniser.”
She tried once more to drag her hand away but he gripped it even harder.
Suddenly he opened his eyes and sat up, turned towards her.
“Connie I would never touch a penny of your money. It is a great disadvantage for a man to marry a wealthy woman. If such a thing were to come to pass the money that you have I want you to keep. I want no part of it. Besides for us things are beginning to turn. The estate is viable. I have no need of your money, none at all.”
Connie took a deep breath and the vision of that timid little mouse of yesteryear faded.
“And if such a thing were to come about,” she said cautiously, “it is a great, a very great disadvantage for a woman even to consider marrying someone to whom she was once engaged, and to be certain that he loved her.”
“But you loved me?”
“Yes. Then.”
“I love you now. If I didn’t love you then, or maybe I did but didn’t realise it, now I know I do. I used to like the company of women when I was a gauche youth, but now I only want the company of one woman. Aunt Agnes is a mischief maker, and always has been. She is now a bitter, cantankerous old bitch ...”
“A very sad person,” Connie gently interrupted him. “She has been completely changed by what has happened to Debbie.”
“Aunt Agnes will never change. Once this crisis is over she will revert. Connie?”
“Yes?”
“Well? What do you say?”
She remembered the last time he’d proposed. She had been playing the organ in church and he sat at the back waiting for her. He offered to see her home. Having been propelled by his father and her guardian his manner was understandably awkward and his expression unhappy. She asked him if he had a cold coming on. He asked her to marry him. She couldn’t believe it, and she couldn’t believe it now. She’d told him in those far off days that she could never imagine that he loved her. But now?
She looked into his eyes and saw that they were smiling. They were very blue and beautiful. He was beautiful. He pulled her towards him and she found herself in his arms. He caressed her gently, his lips closing on hers. The first time he proposed his kiss had been so very chaste, a peck on the cheek, nothing more.
This time it was deeply passionate, filled with all his longing to be part of her.
Chapter Twelve
Leaning against the bonnet of the car, Dora carefully studied the map that she’d spread out in front of her. Behind her stood Jean Parterre, coat collar turned up, hands in his pockets, shivering on account of the icy wind that blew through the valley. Behind them rose Bowness and, below them, the clear waters of Lake Ennerdale glistened in the pale spring sunshine. As it had forty years before, a thin layer of snow covered the earth freezing the new-born lambs and stunting the growth of spring flowers.
“Here!” Dora exclaimed, keeping one finger on the map as she turned to beckon to Jean with another. “I’m sure this is the farm where my parents stayed. Come see.” She looked up at him with excitement and he took her place, inspecting the position she’d indicated on the map. Raising her binoculars Dora’s eyes fastened on a spot about a couple of miles away. This was a large farmhouse with outbuildings tucked into the side of the fell bordering on Lake Ennerdale, one of the most remote in Lakeland.
“I’m sure that’s it,” Dora said over her shoulder, “and there,” she pointed at a white speck in the distance, “that, I’m convinced, is the cottage where my parents lived. Mother said it was on the shores of the lake, near the farm.”
She handed the glasses to Jean, who peered through them, carefully studying the terrain below him. Finally he turned to her, shaking his head. “It’s an incredibly lonely spot. How long were they here for?”
“I think about six months.” Dora thoughtfully screwed up her nose. “I’m not sure. The farmer who owned it was a horrible man and they hated him. His name was Frith. My mother had her first baby here. It was a boy. My father buried him at night in the field next to the cottage.” She paused and looked gravely at her companion. “It’s hard to believe isn’t it? How primitive conditions were then. It must have been a terrible time for them both.”
“Terrible,” Jean Parterre murmured. “What do you want to do now, Dora?”
“Well, seeing that we’re here, I’d like to go and have a look at the farm. Tell Mother we’ve been. Take some snaps. The point is,” she looked at the narrow road ahead of them, “how do we get there?”
“There must be a track.” Jean studied the Ordnance Map once more. “Yes, see. There must be a gate along the road which turns off down to the left. I hope the farmer won’t be as unpleasant with us as he was with your parents. Supposing it’s the same family?”
Dora laughed and, folding the map, opened the door of the car by the driver’s seat and stuffed it into the glove compartment. Then she slid into the seat and, putting hands to the wheel, looked at Jean. “Hop in.”
Once he was seated she started the car, and drove very slowly along the road on the lookout for the gate that she hoped would take them to the farm. “If it is the same family, and it’s not unlikely, well they can’t do anything to us. Fortunately we are not in the same position as my poor parents. They had no money and my mother was only nineteen. But later on my father returned for the horse they’d had to leave behind and, as well as the horse, he brought home with him Beth, who has been a servant and family friend to us ever since. She stayed at Riversmead with my brother and sister-in-law when my mother remarried. I believe that by way of a ‘goodbye’ my father also toppled Farmer Frith head-first into a barrel of water, so let’s hope he isn’t still there!”
“He needn’t know who you are,” Jean Parterre said laughing.
“If it’s Farmer Frith, be sure I’ll keep it quiet.”
Jean looked fondly at Dora who, intent on the road, was oblivious to his admiring glance. The search for Debbie had proved an impossible task. It literally was like looking for a needle in a haystack, with no clues to go on as to which direction they should take, or where to start. But she was a good companion and he liked being with her.
It was Dora who recalled her parents’ epic journey on horseback to Lakeland in that autumn and winter of 1880, a story that she had heard many times from her mother as soon as she and her brothers had been old enough to understand and appreciate what their parents had been through.
It was a hunch of Dora’s to go north in case Debb
ie had heard the same story from her great-aunt and, maybe, had been tempted to go there too. Debbie was a romantic and Dora knew how influenced she was by these tales of the past, how fascinated she had been by Agnes’s adventurous life. Dora was not sure that Debbie knew the story of the elopement, but it was not beyond the bounds of possibility to imagine that she might have done, and been tempted to flee there with her lover.
“Look there’s a gate,” Jean Parterre shouted and peered forward to try and see the name on the gatepost. “Hunter’s Hill farm,” he read out.
“That’s it!” Dora cried braking suddenly. And, as the car came to a standstill, Jean opened the door and jumped out, looking over the gate towards the farm at the bottom.
“There’s a track,” he said on returning “It’s very uneven and slippery. Frankly, I think we should leave the car here.”
“Right,” Dora said and, after manoeuvring the car to the side of the road, jumped out and locked the doors. She wore a leather sheepskin coat over a tweed skirt and jersey and had a stout pair of boots on her feet. She stood beside Jean and gazed towards the farm. It had started to snow again, the sun had gone in, and a thick mist was advancing across the valley, obscuring everything in its path.
Jean opened the gate and closed it carefully after Dora had come through. Then, hands in their pockets, heads lowered against the elements, they trudged along the track, deeply conscious of the significance of the occasion, but having little doubt that, yet again, it would end in disappointment. It didn’t seem possible that Debbie and Michael Stansgate could have ended up in this remote spot so far from home, unless they had the same intention as Eliza and Ryder all those years ago: to be married next to the anvil by the blacksmith in Gretna Green. They were now in the sixth week of their quest, criss-crossing the country, and it had been a time of surprises, not the least being how well they got on.
In This Quiet Earth (Part Three of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 19