‘And would he have given it?’
Charles sighed. ‘I doubt it, not at first anyway. Dr Bryan had been attending him for several months, but my grandfather never had as much faith in him as he’d had in old Dr Marshall. Maybe, if Sophie had persisted in her choice, he would have given in eventually.’
‘Did Dr Bryan know Miss Ross was to inherit?’
‘I don’t think so. The perceived wisdom was that I was the heir.’
‘Yes, I realize that,’ said Mr Staunton, ‘but it was Dr Bryan who witnessed Mr Penvarrow’s signature on the will.’
‘But surely he had no sight of the content?’
‘No, indeed, nor even the certainty that it was a will that Mr Penvarrow was signing, but he may well have guessed, and if he did, he may have also guessed the main beneficiary.’
Charles looked troubled at this. ‘And since then,’ he remarked, ‘Dr Bryan has been a constant caller on Miss Ross.’ He told the solicitor of Nicholas’s attendance on Sophie in London, where he had called without the knowledge of any of the family, including Thomas.
‘He asked a pertinent question on Friday,’ Mr Staunton said.
‘On her behalf or on his own?’ wondered Charles. ‘Perhaps he was simply trying to clarify the situation so that he could explain it to Sophie should she not grasp it herself.’
‘If I may speak plainly and without prejudice, Mr Leroy,’ said Mr Staunton, ‘I think you are being too charitable. I think that young man wanted to know exactly what Miss Ross could and could not do without the sanction of her trustees. I think it is exactly for protection from such people that the Trust was set up. Remind me when Miss Ross will come of age.’
‘On the twenty-fifth of March this year,’ replied Charles.
‘Then you have two months to keep watch. After that, with regard to her marriage, she will be her own mistress.’
‘Suppose I simply leave the trusteeship to you?’
‘I should carry it out as necessary, but I hope you will not. Miss Ross may have great need of you.’
‘You believe that Dr Bryan is...’ Charles’s voice trailed off as he tried to find the words.
‘He may be nothing more than a young man who has fallen in love with a beautiful young woman and wishes to marry her,’ said the solicitor. ‘Who am I to judge? But I would treat him with caution. Something tells me he is not quite as he seems.’ Mr Staunton gave Charles a brief smile. ‘With regard to the other clauses of the Trust, it would also be much better and easier all round for you to continue as a trustee.’
Charles nodded. ‘If that is your advice, Mr Staunton, I will take it.’
The solicitor stood and reached his hand across the desk. ‘Thank you, Mr Leroy. I am sure we shall be able to work together most amicably. Now, about the estate itself. Do you think Miss Ross will want to concern herself with that?’
‘We should certainly ask her,’ Charles said.
‘Very well,’ agreed the solicitor, ‘let us discuss ideas and put them to her.’ Pulling a pad towards him, he sat down again and reached for a pen to make notes.
By the time Charles returned to Trescadinnick, dusk had fallen and a chill sea mist was creeping across the cliff. As he approached Trescadinnick he could see the lights of the house, hazy haloes of warmth shining through the mist. It was the only home he remembered and the place where he’d thought he would spend the rest of his life. As he looked across at the house now, he thought again about what the lawyer had said.
‘If Miss Ross does marry her doctor in the near future, perhaps you and your family should be looking for somewhere else to live. I assume Miss Ross will want to live at Trescadinnick, and if asked I would have to agree that was fair enough, but I don’t imagine any of you will be very comfortable living with a newly married couple.’
Charles had already given this consideration and agreed, but he wasn’t looking forward to telling his mother that they should be looking for another home. However, he’d decided he would say nothing on the subject yet; sufficient unto the day. When the time came, he hoped he would have found a suitable house for the three of them, and he could present the move as a change for the better.
How he wished he could turn back the clock to Sophie’s arrival at Trescadinnick, before Thomas had started dictating their future together. He had grown to know Sophie and without noticing, had grown to love her; but now it was too late. Despite their partial reconciliation in London, the harsh things he’d said still stood between them. He’d recognized the proprietary expression on Nicholas’s face as he’d stood beside Sophie in the church and his heart ached as he realized exactly what he had lost.
He left Hector in the safe hands of Ned and walked into the house. Sophie was just coming downstairs and she greeted him with such a smile of welcome, he could feel tears pricking his eyes.
‘Hallo, Charles,’ she said, ‘you’re back. It’s very cold out there, but there’s a fire lit in both the drawing room and the library, so take your pick.’
‘Where are you sitting?’ Charles asked as he shed his coat and hat.
‘Your mother is in the drawing room,’ she replied. ‘I was about to join her.’
‘You’re very brave, Sophie. Mama is not at her best these days.’
‘She’s disappointed for you,’ Sophie said. ‘I’m sure she’ll understand in time.’ She moved towards the drawing-room door and Charles put a hand on her arm to stay her for a moment.
‘I have just been to see Mr Staunton,’ he said. ‘He is anxious the three of us should sit down together and discuss how things will be best arranged with regard to the Trust. Your income, what we should be doing with the estate. I assume you want to learn what goes on and not simply leave it to us.’
‘Indeed I do,’ Sophie answered. ‘I can’t run the estate, that’s men’s business, but I do want to know exactly what our business interests are and to be kept informed and consulted on any major decisions.’
Charles smiled and nodded. ‘Thought so,’ he said. ‘It’s what I told Staunton. We’ll get him to call and discuss everything.’ Then he stood aside and together they went into the drawing room. Louisa was sitting by the fire and looked up as they came in. For the first time in several days she addressed herself to Sophie.
‘Sophie,’ she said, ‘I told Mrs Paxton we’d eat in the morning room this evening. It’s much cosier for just the three of us.’
‘A very good idea, Aunt,’ Sophie said, taking a seat on the opposite side of the fireplace. ‘Perhaps we should take all our meals in there for the time being. The dining room is very cold just now.’
Dinner progressed amicably enough, but after the meal all three of them went their separate ways, Charles to his study, Louisa to her own room and Sophie into the drawing room. She sat down at the piano and after a few scales to loosen the fingers, began to play some of her favourite pieces. As always, the music soothed her, and even as she played she relaxed and let her mind wander over the happenings of the last few days. She was not stupid. She knew why her grandfather had tied up Trescadinnick and its funds, but she was not worried by this. She was certain that once she and Nicholas were married and it was clear to everyone, and to Charles and Mr Staunton in particular, that Nicholas had no designs on her inheritance, they would wind up the Trust, or at least release some of her capital.
She wondered, as she played, why Nicholas had needed to go back to London. He had never explained what had brought him to London the first time, and she, delighted by his visit, hadn’t pressed him. She wondered how his patients were managing without him, people like old Mrs Slater, but she supposed he was only going to be away for three days.
From the study, Charles could hear the music drifting through from the drawing room, and he found himself hoping that AliceAnne would continue with her piano lessons and perhaps learn to play as well as Sophie. He hadn’t noticed the lack of music in the house after Anne had died, but he’d missed Sophie’s playing the minute she’d gone back to London.
> Later, when Sophie had gone to her own room and was ready for bed, she reached for the bundle of letters she had brought with her and spread them out on the bed. She picked up and read each one again, and it was then that the name leaped out at her. Nan Slater.
Nan Slater! How could she have missed it before? She could hear Aunt Matty saying, ‘Nan Slater? Is she still alive?’ Aunt Matty had referred to old Mrs Slater as Nan. Could she be the Nan Slater who had helped Jocelyn and Cassie keep in touch? Surely she must be; she would be about the right age, the age that Jocelyn would be if he were still alive. She had known him, certainly, because she had remarked on how like him Sophie was. She had hinted that he had got some girl ‘into trouble’. But was she simply repeating the rumour of the time, or did she actually know? Had she known both the girl and Jocelyn and acted as their go-between?
Mrs Slater had asked Sophie to visit her again and having made this possible connection, Sophie decided that it was exactly what she should do. No one needed her in the house, and so, if the mist cleared and the weather proved fine, in the morning she would ride over to Tremose and talk to the old woman again. She gathered up the letters, tied them back into their bundle and placed them on the top shelf of the wardrobe.
29
When Sophie awoke the next morning and threw back her curtains she found herself looking at a brilliant January day. Gone was the damp, creeping fog. The sky was a cloudless blue and the polished pewter of the sea, gleaming in the sunlight, reached to a horizon marked with the faintest fluff of white. Sophie went down to the morning room, but found it empty and breakfasted alone. She saw no one as she returned to her bedroom, and changed into her riding habit. She had made her decision; she would ride out to Tremose and visit Mrs Slater. When she was dressed she tucked the letters into her pocket. She didn’t know if Nan Slater could read, but she wanted to have something with her to demonstrate her right to some answers.
Not wishing to encounter Charles or answer any questions as to where she was going, Sophie went out through the back door to the stable yard. As she passed through the kitchen, she asked for a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese to take with her. Mrs Paxton packed them into a basket, and then added a pottery jar with a cork lid.
‘Broth,’ she said, ‘if you’re going visiting. Only made this morning.’
Sophie smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Paxton,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Mrs Slater will enjoy that broth. It smells delicious.’
Sophie took the basket and went out into the yard, where she asked Ned to saddle up Millie.
‘Are you riding out alone, Miss Sophie?’ he asked anxiously as he led the horse to the mounting block.
‘Indeed I am, Ned,’ replied Sophie sharply as she handed him the basket to hold while she mounted, ‘if it’s any concern of yours.’
Ned accepted the rebuke and said no more, simply placing the basket in her saddlebag, but when Sophie had ridden out of the yard and up onto the lane, he went and knocked on the study door to tell Charles.
‘Thank you, Ned,’ Charles said, ‘but I don’t think you need to worry about Miss Sophie. I’m sure she’s only riding out for some fresh air and exercise and won’t go far.’
He tried to sound unconcerned, but Charles himself was worried. Was she going out to meet Nicholas Bryan? As far as he knew the doctor had not called on Sophie since the reading of the will, and Charles tried to tell himself that anyway, it was no business of his if he had. It was no business of his if they had an assignation, but he did worry about Sophie riding out alone. The sea mist which had covered the cliff the previous night had dispersed and the weather looked fair, but he had seen the fluff of low cloud on the horizon. Though he and Sophie had ridden out together on several occasions, he wondered if she would know her way home if the mist returned.
Entirely unaware of Charles’s concern, Sophie followed the track across the cliff top and then took the lane they had followed on the day she had driven to Tremose with Nicholas. Once or twice she stopped to get her bearings, but it wasn’t long before she recognized the little hamlet, its few houses clustered round the inn. She dismounted outside Mrs Slater’s cottage and hitched Millie’s reins to the stone wall. She looked about her, but there was no one in sight, the dust-covered village street was empty, so she took her basket from the saddlebag and walked up to the heavy wooden front door.
At first there was no reply to her knock and she was about to knock again, more loudly, when she heard a croaky voice from inside. ‘Come in. It’s on the latch.’
Sophie pushed open the door and stepped inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of the kitchen, but as they did she saw Mrs Slater sitting in her rocking chair at the fireside. She was wrapped in a shawl, wearing fingerless mittens and a crocheted cap set on her thinning grey hair. The room was cold, the fire in the grate little more than a flicker of warmth, and Sophie closed the door quickly behind her to keep in what heat there was.
‘Mrs Slater,’ she said. ‘It’s me, Sophie Ross. I visited you before with Dr Bryan.’
‘I know who you are,’ wheezed the old woman. ‘You said you’d come back again.’
‘I did,’ agreed Sophie, coming further in to the room, ‘and here I am. I’ve brought you some things for your larder.’ She moved to the table and unpacked the basket. ‘Mrs Paxton sent you a pot of broth. Would you like some now?’
Mrs Slater smiled her gappy smile. ‘Is it hot?’ she asked eagerly.
‘Still quite warm,’ Sophie said.
‘Then I will have a drop,’ said Mrs Slater. ‘Just a drop, mind, I’ll keep the rest for tomorrow.’ She started to haul herself to her feet, but Sophie put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t get up, Mrs Slater. I’ll pour you some.’
The old woman pointed to a bowl on the shelf. Reaching it down, Sophie uncorked the crock, poured a little of the broth into the bowl and passed it across. Mrs Slater grasped it with both hands and tilted it to her mouth.
When she’d finished, she handed the bowl back to Sophie. ‘More?’ Sophie asked.
Mrs Slater shook her head. ‘Saving it,’ she said. ‘Sit you down.’ She waved to the chair at the kitchen table and Sophie drew it towards the fire and sat.
At first neither of them knew what to say, but as Sophie, feeling she must introduce the subject of Jocelyn and Cassie carefully, was about to ask a general question about Jocelyn, Mrs Slater said, ‘I thank you for the food you’ve brought. It was kind of you.’ She fixed Sophie with a gimlet eye and added, ‘Now, tell me really why you’ve come after so long.’
‘I would have come before,’ Sophie said a little mendaciously, ‘but I went back to London for a while and only returned to Cornwall just before Christmas.’ She sighed. ‘And a lot’s happened since then.’
‘I heard about your granfer,’ said Mrs Slater, ‘passing on Christmas Day.’
‘Did you? Word gets about, I suppose.’
‘My son, Edmund, is still away at sea or he’d have come to the funeral,’ Mrs Slater said. ‘To show respect. Church was full, so I heard. So,’ she looked across at Sophie with decidedly sharp eyes, ‘why you come a-visiting when there’s so much to trouble you at home?’
Sophie took a deep breath and putting her hand in her pocket, drew out the bundle of letters and put them on the table.
Mrs Slater eyed them suspiciously. ‘What’s all that then?’
‘Letters,’ replied Sophie. ‘Letters from Jocelyn to my mother, in London.’
‘Letters?’
‘Letters I found in my mother’s bureau. In one of them Jocelyn mentions you.’
‘Me?’ Mrs Slater sounded shocked. ‘Why would Jocelyn Penvarrow mention me in a letter to your mother? I hardly knew the man.’
‘Didn’t you?’ Sophie let the question hang in the air, but when the old woman didn’t reply she went on, ‘I think you knew him very well. I think you knew Cassie well too. Probably far better than you knew Joss.’
‘Cassie? Cassie, who’s that then?’
>
‘Cassie Drew,’ said Sophie, ‘and I’m sure she was your friend. Let me read you something.’ She picked up the letter from Joss to her mother and finding the place, read: ‘Cassie’s sister and her husband have taken Cassie in and though her brother-in-law is not happy with the situation, her sister, Henrietta, has talked him round. Poor Cassie is shut away and allowed no contact with me, but we have managed to correspond through her friend Nan Slater, so she knows that I haven’t abandoned her.’
Sophie tilted her head interrogatively. ‘That’s you, Nan, isn’t it? You passed letters from my Uncle Jocelyn to his Cassie.’
Nan Slater looked at Sophie for a long minute and then said, ‘More than one Nan Slater.’
‘I’m sure there is, but I think this one is you. You knew Jocelyn; you told me so. When Cassie found she was expecting and was thrown out by her father, she took refuge with her sister, Henrietta, in Truro. That’s not far from here. You,’ Sophie went on, ‘were Cassie’s friend, so you agreed to carry letters between them. You must have known they planned to marry and to marry well before the baby was due to be born.’ Still Nan Slater made no response and after a pause, Sophie went on, ‘What happened, Nan? What happened that Jocelyn gave up all his plans and committed suicide?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Nan said.
‘Oh, I think you do. You were Cassie’s confidante and their go-between. Something must have happened for Joss to throw himself over that cliff. What was it, Nan? Did Cassie change her mind about marrying him?’ And then, answering her own question, Sophie went on, ‘No, he’d never have done that. So, Nan, if it wasn’t suicide and it wasn’t an accident, what was it?’
For a long moment, Nan didn’t answer. Then she said, ‘I don’t know.’ She spoke firmly, but Sophie felt certain that she did know, just wasn’t prepared to tell. She left those questions for now and went back to the letters.
‘But it was you who carried the letters between them, wasn’t it? You were Cassie’s friend and Henrietta was sorry for her, shut away in their house. She let you visit because she didn’t realize you knew Joss as well. Poor Cassie, not allowed to leave the house, made to stay upstairs when anyone called.’
Miss Mary’s Daughter Page 29