'No. I only said he'd gone away on business. I thought if I waited a month it might give Piotr more of a chance to forget him.'
But several months went by before Carolyn plucked up the courage to tell Piotr he would never see his father again, and when she did, she was amazed at his reaction.
'You mean I'm an orphan?'
'I'm afraid so, darling.'
Piotr dropped the engine he was holding and darted across the room. 'I'm an orphan,' he shouted happily. 'An orphan, an orphan!'
But later that night, going past his room to her own, she heard him crying and went in to comfort him.
'I want my papa.' The little boy's tears were warm against her neck. 'Why won't he come back?'
'Because he's gone to heaven, darling.'
'But I want to talk Polish with him.'
'You can talk it with me.'
'You don't know how.' The tears fell faster.
'Then you must teach me.'
'I can't. Oh, Caro, I don't want to be an orphan!'
'You're not, darling.' She bent closer. 'Would you like to hear a secret?'
'What is it?'
'Well, you're really my little boy. You belong to me, and no one is an orphan if they belong to someone else.'
Piotr considered this. 'Are you my mother?'
'Not your mother, honey, a kind of aunt.' She helped him snuggle under the clothes. 'But you mustn't tell anyone else. Promise?'
'Yes.' He gave her a final hug. 'I won't tell anyone. If I did, they'd want you to be their aunt as well—and you're only mine!'
As the days passed, reference to his father slowly disappeared from Piotr's conversation, and by Christmas he was never mentioned at all. It was only when he became older, Carolyn knew, that the child would realise his loss and strive to bring back every single memory of the dark-browed man he had loved.
It was this realisation that prompted her to telephone Leonard Wrightman.
'It's Peter's belongings,' she explained. 'I'd like to have them for Piotr.'
He gave an exclamation. 'What a fool I was not to think of it myself. Would you like me to take you to his rooms?'
'If it isn't a bother.'
'It'll be a pleasure to see you again,' he answered. 'Just tell me when you're free.'
Her second meeting with Leonard Wrightman brought Peter so vividly to mind that depression made it difficult for her to talk, and sensing the reason for her silence, the young Canadian made no effort at conversation as they left Bellingwood and drove through the suburbs of the city.
It was not until Carolyn herself began to speak that he told her how disturbed he was that Imperial Chemicals had not considered themselves responsible for Peter's death.
'I was so furious when I first heard it that I went to see the Chairman. But he said there was nothing he could do.'
'He told me the same thing,' she replied.
'How will you manage? You can't take on the responsibility of a child. You weren't even in love with Peter!'
'That's got nothing to do with it. I promised to look after Piotr, and I will.'
'You must be some throwback to a Puritan English ancestor,' Leonard said ruefully.
'My grandparents were English,' she conceded, 'but I was born here. There must be something in inheritance though.'
He grinned. 'I'm a prairie boy myself. And chemistry's a far cry from sowing wheat!'
He offered her a cigarette, but she shook her head. 'Did you know Peter long?' she asked.
'Only since he came from Vancouver. He had a wonderful job out there, but he gave it up when the Company amalgamated with Tyssen's.'
'Tyssen's,' she echoed. 'The English chemical firm?'
'English, European, Canadian,' he shrugged. 'You name it— they own itl What I could never understand was why Peter had such a fixation against them.'
'His mother and sister were killed in an air raid during the war when the Germans were trying to destroy one of the Tyssen plants.'
'So that's the reason!'
As he spoke, Leonard stopped the car and Carolyn looked through the window at a narrow, tree-lined road, the clapboard houses shiny new, the gardens still uncultivated.
'This is where Peter lived,' he explained, and led the way up a narrow path to a green front door.
A woman opened it so quickly that Carolyn guessed she had been peeping at them from behind the front window curtains.
'You got here earlier than I thought,' she greeted them. 'You'll have to excuse the mess. I'm trying to fix the living- room curtains. Bobby rode into them with his tricycle and pulled them down over his head!' She pointed to a portrait on the mantelpiece. 'That's him—five next birthday and driving me crazy!' She smoothed a cotton dress down over her hips. 'Anyone care for a drink?' I'm making one myself.'
'I'd like a Coke,' Carolyn said.
'Same here,' Leonard agreed.
'C'mon into the kitchen. It's the coolest place in the house.'
They walked into the brightly papered kitchen and Carolyn looked admiringly at the huge refrigerator, dish-washer and washing machine.
'I've a deep-freeze out back too,' the woman said proudly. 'That's how I spent the rent money I got from your husband.' She poured the Cokes. 'I was terribly sorry to hear about the way he died. He was a real gentleman.'
Carolyn picked up her glass and wished the hour ahead of her was already in the past. 'I'd like to collect his things at once, if you don't mind.'
'I understand. I've left his room exactly as it was. My husband's been on the road the past three months but as soon as he gets back he wants to clean it up. That's why I'm glad you're taking everything away.'
With the iced drink in her hand Carolyn followed Mrs. Macfarrers up the stairs to a small room overlooking the back garden.
'I'm sure you'd rather be on your own,' the woman said. 'C'mon down when you're ready.'
Left alone, Carolyn set her glass on the dressing table and looked around her. Everything was painfully new and cheap, from the narrow divan bed to the white-wood dressing table and wardrobe. Hurriedly she opened the doors and stared at the few suits, then determinedly keeping her mind a blank, she packed them into the leather suitcase she found under the bed.
There were no personal photographs in the room and it was not until she started to open the drawers and take out shirts and ties that she discovered a large colour print of an elfin-faced girl with laughing dark eyes and thick, glossy hair. Gently she placed the photograph between two pieces of tissue paper and put it on top of the pile of linen; one day she would show it to Piotr.
She locked the case and dragged it across the room, turning at the door for a last look around. It was only then that she noticed a small bureau half hidden by an armchair. She went across and opened it. It was empty except for a metal box and she lifted it out and tugged at the lid. It was firmly locked and she rummaged her hand along the back of the drawer for the key. There was nothing there, and she was just about to put the box in the suitcase when she remembered the pile of oddments she had collected from the pockets of Peter's suits and had bundled haphazardly into her handbag. A small key had been among it, and she took it out and fitted it into the lock. It squeaked back and she lifted the lid. A pile of letters lay before her, and she picked a few out at random and saw they were all postmarked Terring, Sussex. The most recent one was dated eleven months earlier and she smoothed the envelope flat and extracted a thick sheet of notepaper.
'My dearest Rosemary,' it began.
'Today I have made my will. My time here is short and I want you to come back quickly. I have always looked on you as my daughter rather than my niece, which is why I am writing to you instead of your mother. She is quite well and so is Jeffrey, but they are both too much under his influence to ask you to return. But no one can tell me what to do—you know that very well. So come home with your husband. I promise he will be accepted here, no matter what Jeffrey or anyone else says. I am longing to see your son—I cannot bear to think he was bo
rn in England, yet I never had the chance to see him!
'I am old, Rosemary, and want to see you before I die. I do not care a fig for any of the others.'
There was a scrawl and then the words 'Aunt Agatha'. With a hand that shook, Carolyn lifted out the other letters. They were all from the same woman, and the last one had arrived a few weeks after Rosemary's death.
At the bottom of the box were some snapshots of a smiling middle-aged woman and a young, dark-haired man with a weak chin. From the style of dress she guessed the pictures to be recent ones, and wondered whether they had been sent by the woman who signed herself Aunt Agatha. The last snap was of an imposing mansion, so large that Carolyn wondered if it could be real. She turned the photograph over and saw the words 'Royston Manor' written in the same flowing hand.
So Piotr had a family after all! A great-aunt, a grandmother and an uncle. She remembered one of her evenings with Peter when she had asked him about his wife's family. 'They're dead,' he had said. 'All dead.'
She looked at the photographs again. Rosemary's family might have been dead for Peter, but as far as Piotr was concerned they were very much alive.
CHAPTER THREE
The discovery of the letters made Carolyn realise that Peter had not wanted to marry her only to give Piotr a mother, but also to ensure that Rosemary's family would not be able to take control of him.
She could only guess at his animosity towards the family that had ostracised him, but it was sufficient to make her hesitate to write to the unknown Aunt Agatha and tell her not only of Rosemary's death, but also of Peter's and her own guardianship of their son.
'It isn't fair not to tell them,' Miss Williams said. 'They appear to have plenty of money, and they have a responsibility towards Piotr.' She picked up the photograph of the house and glared at it. 'Any one who could afford the upkeep of this could afford to look after a child.'
'Peter must have had good reason not to—— '
'I'm not prepared to judge whether his reasons were valid or not,' Miss Williams interrupted. 'All I know is that he was a man of violent likes and dislikes—you know that as well as I do.' Carolyn conceded the point. 'That's why you must ignore what he said about them and think of them only from Piotr's point of view.'
'That's what I intend doing. If writing to them will give him a happy home, that's all I want.'
'How will you feel about living there?'
Carolyn's green eyes widened. 'Me?'
'You,' Miss Williams said dryly. 'You're Piotr's guardian and you're responsible for him.' The woman looked at the picture of the house again. 'This place should suit you, Carolyn.'
'I hadn't thought of it as my home.'
'Maybe not, but Piotr can't go there without you. Responsibility cuts both ways, you know. You were prepared to take care of the child to the detriment of your own happiness, and now that his family might be able to take care of you, I don't intend letting you ignore them. You must write to them tonight —otherwise I will!'
Knowing Miss Williams would be quite prepared to carry our her threat, Carolyn wrote to Rosemary's aunt that night, and immediately started to count the days till she could receive a reply. Two weeks passed without an answer, and it was not until the end of the third week—when she had all but given up hope of hearing—that one of the nurses came into the dining room waving a blue envelope.
'It's the English letter you've been waiting for—the one that's going to turn you into a duchess!'
Carolyn grinned. 'Right now I feel more like a dustbin.' She pocketed the letter and, trying to look nonchalant, hurried out.
Not until she was alone in her room did she take the letter from her pocket and open it. Immediately her eyes flew to the signature, but the name was that of Helen Nichols and with a throb of disappointment she began to read:
'Your letter came as a great shock to us,' it began without preamble, 'since I had no idea my daughter Rosemary had died or that her husband had remarried. There is no question but that the boy must come here, and I suggest you telegraph us when we can expect you.'
The letter fluttered to the ground and Carolyn retrieved it and sank down on the bed. So much for the warmth Miss Williams had anticipated! 'It would have been better if I hadn't written at all,' she thought, and instantly changed her mind. No matter how aloof and cold Rosemary's mother sounded, once she saw her grandson she would be certain to love him.
'The very least they could have done was send you your air tickets,' Miss Williams said when Carolyn showed her the letter. 'You must write and ask them.'
Carolyn shook her head so violently that her blonde hair swung forward. 'If they haven't got the decency to offer, I've got too much pride to beg. We'll go by the first available boat. It'll take weeks longer, but Mrs. Nichols won't have anyone to blame but herself.'
The excitement of departure, with its flurry of packing and last-minute farewells, left Carolyn with little opportunity to realise she was leaving her own home to make a new one in a foreign country. Not until she was on the boat, watching the shores of her homeland recede, did she become aware of the importance of what she was doing and realise it might be years before she saw Miss Williams and Bellingwood again. Sadness engulfed her and she blinked rapidly to hold back the tears.
A small hand crept into hers and Piotr edged closer against her. 'Why are you crying, Caro?' 'Because I'm sad at leaving my home.'
'I'm not sad.'
'You've no reason to be. You're going to live in a beautiful house with your grandma, your uncle and Aunty Agatha.'
'Will you stay there too, Caro?'
The anxiety in the quesdon made her forget her own sadness and she leaned down and kissed the pointed face. The pale skin was flushed with excitement, and the dark eyes looked shinier and blacker than ever. 'I'll never leave you,' she promised. 'Never.'
The journey across the Atlantic was uneventful, apart from one day of bad weather that kept most of the passengers in their cabins. But Southampton Water was calm as they glided slowly into it at four o'clock on a late January afternoon, and Carolyn and Piotr stood on the top deck and watched the shore glide past. She had dressed Piotr in long navy trousers and a short reefer jacket with a scarlet pullover that matched the twin flags of colour in his cheeks. A sailor beret perched on his head and he kept tugging it forward to stop it from falling off. Carolyn too was dressed for an English winter, though she wished for a longer skirt as she stepped down the gangplank and an icy wind whipped around her knees.
Though she had cabled Mrs. Nichols the time of their arrival she had received no word that anyone was to meet them, and it was not until she had been cleared through Customs that a man in chauffeur's uniform came forward.
'Would you be Mrs. Kolsky?'
'Yes.'
'Good. One of the stewards said you were. I've been waiting under the letter "K" for the last half hour.'
Carolyn gave a gasp of dismay. Though her passport was in her married name she had stupidly queued under her own name. "Small wonder," she thought with irony, for it was impossible to think of herself as a widow when she had never even been a wife.
'Are you Mrs. Nichols' chauffeur?'
'No, madam. I'm from a car hire firm.'
'Is Terring far from here?'
'About an hour and a half.'
He led the way to a small car and soon they were speeding north through narrow country lanes.
'Why didn't Grandma meet us?' Piotr asked.
'She probably thought it would be more fun to meet you for the first time in her own home,' Carolyn lied, and wondered how any woman could have been prevented from travelling a few hours in order to have first sight of her grandchild.
Dusk was stealing long fingers across the sky as they reached the village of Terring and they drove past a single row of houses and a pub and along a winding lane to a pair of imposing wrought-iron gates set into a high brick wall. They bowled up a twisting drive bordered by tall fir trees and not until they were almost upon the house d
id Carolyn get a glimpse of it, so sheltered was it by trees. Faint chinks of light were visible from some of the mullioned windows in the downstairs rooms, but there was no welcoming light above the huge oak door and the chauffeur had deposited their cases on the top step before the door was opened by a young girl in a black dress and white apron.
Even in the hall itself the light was dim, and the curved staircase at one end disappeared into darkness above her head. No one came out to greet her, and Carolyn's sense of foreboding increased, making her long to pick up Piotr and run away from this dark, unfriendly house.
'If you'll follow me, miss,' the maid said, 'the family is in the drawing-room.'
She walked over to a door, knocked loudly and opened it. A stream of light flooded out from a long, narrow room and as Carolyn stepped through, four faces turned to look at her. The intensity of their dislike was so strong that she felt it like a blow, and instinctively drew Piotr close.
A slim figure detached itself from the group and came forward. 'You must be Mrs. Kolsky. I'm Rosemary's mother.'
Hesitantly Carolyn smiled. 'This is your grandson,' she said, and bent her head to Piotr. 'Come on, honey, say hello to your grandma.'
But Piotr, tired by the journey and dismayed by the large room and the unfriendly voices, turned his head into Carolyn's skirt and burst into tears.
Instantly she knelt and gathered him close. 'I'm afraid it's been a long day for him,' she apologised. 'I'd like to put him to bed.'
'Certainly.' Mrs. Nichols signalled to a tall, good-looking young man. 'Jeffrey dear, will you show Mrs. Kolsky to her room?'
Jeffrey came forward, nodded coolly and led the way back into the hall and up the dark stairs. He snapped on lights as they went, but they did little to dissipate the gloom, and the bedroom she was ushered into was as dim and chill as die rest of the house.
'Betty's had the window open to air the room,' he apologised in a light, well-modulated voice, 'and it looks as if she's forgotten to close it' He moved across and did so. 'It'll soon warm up. But if you're very cold I could get you an electric fire.'
'Thanks,' Carolyn said dryly and looked at the double bed. 'Is Piotr supposed to sleep with me or is there another room for him?'
Rachel Lindsay - Mask of Gold Page 3