The Ghost of Glendale

by Kleinman, Natalie

  Rupert had been as good as his word and the two were to meet at Cranford. Looking somewhat forbidding, Rushmore was standing by the fireplace as she entered the room with her friend, who then excused himself. Undaunted, Phoebe approached Hugh without constraint, offering her hand in greeting.

  “It was good of you to agree to see me. I can well imagine my father’s sentiments if he knew of this meeting. Yours also, and perhaps you too feel the same,” she said, her voice raised in question.

  He took the proffered hand and though he didn’t quite smile his features softened.

  “It would have been rude of me to refuse your request. In truth I was curious to know how I could be of service to you. I admit to being more than a little surprised.”

  “And who can blame you. The situation between our families is not a happy one. I would choose to change it if I can.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “If for no other reason than it must be uncomfortable for our hosts when we meet in their homes. There is, is there not, always an undercurrent, polite as we are to each other.”

  “I have to admit it had never occurred to me. You are right, of course.” He paused to offer her a chair. “Is there anything else behind your desire for a reconciliation?”

  She smiled broadly, surprising him into responding, for there were few who would not react to Phoebe’s open and friendly countenance.

  “Am I so transparent? I meant what I said about our neighbours, truly I did. But yes, there is more. I have of late taken a greater interest in my own family’s history and find that the feud between the Rushmores and the Marchams dates back some two hundred years. My father is quite hazy about its origin and I was hoping you or your father might be able to shed some light on the matter.”

  Hugh doubted there was any chance of gleaning information from his parent, for if he spoke of the Marchams at all it was always with loathing. He decided honesty was the best policy.

  “The likelihood of my father cooperating in such a venture is small, I fear.”

  “Mine too, I think.”

  “I am happy to search our archives at home to see what I can uncover. It would be good to lay this ghost to rest.”

  Phoebe looked up, startled until she realised the reference was allegorical. They agreed to meet again in a week to see if either had made any progress. Hugh rose and it was he this time who offered his hand.

  “I am grateful to have this opportunity of expanding upon our relationship. I look forward to our next meeting.”

  Phoebe was satisfied. Upon Rushmore’s departure she thanked her friend profusely for his help and returned home to continue her search.

  “I cannot express sufficiently what a treat it is to be once more out of doors. Wiggins has been doing her very best to entertain but much as I admire Lord Byron I can listen no longer to her reading of Childe Harold for it makes me restless.”

  “Well I am delighted you are able to venture out, Aunt, and cannot comprehend why we didn’t think before to obtain a wheelchair for you.”

  “And the doctor has told Mama that she might soon attempt a few steps with the aid of crutches,” Lydia added.

  All three ladies were seated on an area of lawn where a table and chairs had been placed in anticipation of a visit from Rupert and Max. Upon their arrival Sir Edward joined them and tea was served. They had an unobstructed view across the parkland.

  “I hardly know which way to look, I have been confined within the house for so long,” Sophia said without complaint but merely to express her delight. “Your gardeners are very talented, Edward. I particularly admire the way they have shaped those two bushes in the form of a peacock and feel I could pluck one of the feathers to adorn my bonnet, so real do they appear.”

  Sophia Talbot, it seemed, was a changed woman. It might have had something to do with her release from enforced confinement but it was becoming increasingly evident that there was a growing intimacy between herself and Max Brendon. If anything were needed to soften her mama towards Rupert, Lydia conjectured, it was her own attachment to his father. Not that Rupert had declared himself, but Miss Talbot was beginning to hope. Yes, definitely she was beginning to hope.

  Dear Mr Armstrong, Phoebe wrote, for the circumstances of his mother’s illness made it only polite that she respond to Duncan’s letter. It was kind of you to write and apprise me of your circumstances. May I express my deep regret at your mother’s illness and hope she is not greatly suffering. Regardless of your previous sentiments it is to be wished there is yet some affection that can bring comfort to you both.

  I suspect, having observed you at Glendale, that you experienced a good deal of excitement when reviewing your own collection. My search here continues. But of course, you do not know! I have found the goblet! You may well imagine my feelings when I discovered it hidden in a secret compartment in my mother’s desk. Sadly I have made no further progress. You will remember Simon’s poem, I am sure. However, that which is engraved inside the goblet is none other than the family coat of arms! Consider if you would how many times it appears, both within and outside the house. I am in despair of even finding the right location but shall continue as before. Should you ever have the opportunity to return to Glendale, no doubt I shall still be at my quest.

  Phoebe Marcham

  There, she thought, I have left things quite open, though I no longer anticipate his return. That was what she told herself, at least, but it did not preclude hope.

  Duncan’s mother passed away the day before he received Phoebe’s letter. It had been a quiet passing, her sons both with her and each holding her hand. Duncan had very mixed feelings. Though he could never forgive he had, over these two weeks, become accepting. His instinct, upon receipt of the letter, had been to head straight for Somerset. This giant of a man had lost his mother, twice in his opinion, and his twin, always so close, had found happiness in another quarter. Duncan, ever before in control of his destiny, craved the comfort of the woman he loved. Vulnerable as he was he resisted the temptation to pack his things and leave. What if she rejected him? A fine fool he would appear. What chance was there that she might have developed those deepest feelings on such short acquaintance, never mind that he had? He stayed in Scotland. But he remained only with the express purpose of settling his affairs. He and Fergus held the property and land jointly but his brother had his own family now. The estate was large enough and wealthy enough for them to sell, albeit reluctantly, some of the farms and associated assets. He hoped Fergus would be happy to dispose of them to purchase his brother’s share. Kirkleas was no longer large enough to hold him.

  “You cannot mean that,” Fergus had expostulated. “This is your home!”

  “Be honest if you would, Fergus. This hasn’t been my home for many years. Not since I went to university and even before then, since our father’s death, it has never meant as much to me as to you. Why then would I have travelled all these years? No, it is time. Nothing will ever sever the bond between us but if you think I’m going to live under the same roof as you, you may think again. You would forever be playing off your tricks on me, just as you used to,” he said with a broad grin. Fergus smiled back at him. He knew his brother well enough to know there would be no turning him once his mind was made up.

  “Very well. We must get our man of business to sort out what we should sell and what is best retained. It will take some considerable time though, I think. Will you remain here meanwhile?”

  “I said I would no longer live with you. I did not say I wouldn’t visit. Yes, of course. In any case, I need some time to develop my relationship with my nephew. I would not want him to have forgotten me when I return to see you all again.”

  Both men felt lighter once the decision was taken. Harder would be the arranging of their mother’s interment.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I thought I might approach my father first as we were looking at family portraits at the time,” Hugh said when he and Phoebe next met to discuss their
ancestors. “It seems the antipathy between our families stems from the time of the Civil War. Mine were staunch supporters of Cromwell while yours remained loyal to the king. Though there was much bitterness between the warring factions it turns out ours was more personal than that.”

  “You know it to be so?”

  “Yes, for my father led me to a likeness of a young girl. Agnes Rushmore was only fifteen when it was painted and she died the following year. Her death was, and still is, blamed on her association with Simon Marcham.”

  “So we know the origin but not the reason.”

  Hugh smiled, evidently pleased with himself. “Ah, but my conversation with my father was not my only attempt at getting deeper into the background. As promised I began a search of our family archives, and look what I found!” he said triumphantly, bringing forth a volume he had previously held hidden away.

  “What is it?” Phoebe asked excitedly.

  “It is Agnes’s journal!”

  “And it contains information about her and Simon?”

  “Assuredly it does.” Hugh opened it at a page he had previously marked. “See here. These are the first references I found.”

  ‘My family have forbidden me to meet my true love. I shall not heed them. I shall not!’

  ‘This wretched war is driving people apart. They shall not come between me and Simon.’

  ‘Mama has told me I am too young to understand what love is but she was married to my father when she was but sixteen, as I am now.’

  ‘I don’t know how I shall sleep tonight. Simon has asked me to meet him tomorrow in Glendale’s home wood. Dare I go?’

  ‘Our love is true. We carved our names upon a tree. It will forever be our special place.’

  Phoebe judged it to be time to tell Hugh about Simon’s poem and now laid it before him. He read it, looked up at her questioningly then back at the paper.

  “You have searched for this tree?”

  “A few times, when on my morning ride. I think Jester must wonder at my odd behaviour, asking him to stop at the most unlikely places instead of allowing him a good run. The home wood is extensive. The tree may now be covered in ivy. I place little hope of finding it that way. Surely Simon must have left some other clue, or Agnes.”

  “I will carry on searching at home. You must let me tell you, Miss Marcham, that even if our search proves to be fruitless I am glad that between you and me at least the feud is over.”

  “And I, Mr Rushmore, for it has continued far too long.”

  Lydia was beginning to wonder if her heart had led her astray. Rupert was as attentive as ever but no more, so it seemed, than with the other girls. Could she have been mistaken? Was what she had seen as becoming particular in his attentions been merely an extension of their friendship as they became better acquainted? There were times when he looked at her so warmly, but she feared now that she was reading more into it than she ought. She would have been more than reassured had she known Rupert’s feelings.

  Aware that she was for the time being a captive at Glendale, what might happen, he had wondered, if he declared himself and she rejected his offer? How uncomfortable it would be for Lydia if she didn’t return his sentiments and was obliged to see him almost every day. So Mr Brendon was biding his time, having no idea of the pain he was causing the one he loved.

  Lydia resolved to take the problem to her mother.

  “You will have noticed, Mama, that I am less than indifferent to Mr Rupert Brendon,” she said, blushing slightly. “I have no way of knowing however if my sentiments are returned. Do you think I should distance myself a little?”

  Sophia laughed, a trill girlish sound that had been rarely heard in recent years. “By no means, my dear, for I am as certain as I can be that Mr Brendon has every intention of making you an offer if you would but give him a little encouragement.”

  “Encouragement! But I have given him little else!”

  “In your eyes, perhaps, but you are a modest girl and unused to putting yourself forward.”

  “I hope I have behaved only as you have always taught me,” her daughter replied, a little shocked. “And in any case, Mr Brendon seems to show me no particular preference above the other young ladies of his acquaintance.”

  “And indeed how could he? He has been raised as a gentleman. It would be ill mannered of him if he treated them differently. But I have noticed a warmth in his eyes when his gaze falls upon you.”

  “Do you think so, Mama?” Lydia was a little breathless.

  “I have always been truthful with you, Lydia, and it would be unkind of me now to raise your hopes if I believed them to be unfounded.” She paused before continuing. She did not wish to distress her daughter but the time had come for her to unburden herself. “There is only one thing in all your life that I haven’t been entirely honest about. I must tell you that your father and I were never really suited. I was not fortunate enough to have the same understanding with my own mama as I believe you have with me.” She squeezed her daughter’s hand. “When Talbot was presented to me as a suitor I felt it my duty to marry to oblige my family. I had formed an attachment to another but it was not to be. My parents told me in no uncertain terms that the man of my choice did not match their expectations for me. Talbot knew my heart was given elsewhere but he was ambitious. In society’s eyes ours was a good match. You have yourself received two altogether eligible offers but I knew your feelings were not engaged. If I seemed at first to be a little distant towards Mr Brendon it was because I needed to be sure of your sentiments. You must follow your heart, Lydia, for to enter into a loveless marriage is not what I would choose for you.”

  Lydia was stunned. Her father had always been a distant figure but she had had no conception that her parents’ marriage had not been a happy one.

  “I see you understand,” Sophia continued, as Lydia pressed the hand that was holding hers. “It may be that Mr Brendon has never lost his heart before. It is my belief the depth of his affection for you has taken him by surprise and he is uncertain whether or not to proceed.”

  “Do you think so, Mama?” Lydia said again.

  “I am as certain as I can be. Therefore, while I would not wish you to behave in any way that offends your principles, I feel a little less caution on your part might be beneficial.”

  Sophia waited some moments for her words to take hold. She had done all she could. It was up to her daughter now.

  “Be a good girl, will you. Find your cousin and ask her if she has a sketchpad or watercolours I might make use of. Now that I am able to venture into the grounds there are many things I would like to capture if I might.”

  Lydia, her head in a whirl, went off to find Phoebe.

  Duncan was captivated by his nephew and if anything could have held him in Scotland it would have been Malcolm. But his thoughts of Phoebe were paramount. The task involved in cataloguing his collection would be time-consuming but one night, lying sleepless on his back and thinking of Simon Marcham, it occurred to Duncan there was nothing to stop him interrupting the work and going to Glendale for a week or two. The prospective journey was not daunting to one who had spent years travelling in Europe and Rupert, he knew, would accommodate him for his friend had thrust an open invitation upon him. “Any time, old man. You know you’re always welcome here.” For the first time in weeks, Duncan slept through the night.

  “I will return soon. I promise.”

  Fergus chuckled. “It would serve you right if I had the whole lot broken to rubble and used to pave the garden paths.”

  “You are barbaric! These are works of art, not lumps of old stone.”

  “Don’t worry. I shall keep them safe for you.”

  Duncan chose to travel by coach for he had decided to take a small statue with him as a gift for Phoebe. It was of a horse, and the sculptor had captured the flaring mane and tail of a stallion at full speed. Other than professing a desire to see Rupert again it was his feeble excuse for the journey. Taking leave of his fami
ly with some regret, he whiled away the time thinking about his future. He realised he would shortly be homeless and would have to purchase a new property. His reasons were threefold. He had no desire to hire someone else’s house. His collection needed a permanent home, a large home! The overriding factor though, was that he hoped to make Phoebe his wife. Should she accept him they would need somewhere to live and he knew she would not wish to move any great distance from her father. And what of Simon? Their search might continue for many years. No, it would be necessary to remain close to Glendale. With these happy thoughts running through his mind the journey passed otherwise uneventfully, the letter he had sent ahead to Cranford would warn Rupert of his impending arrival. But how he would be received at Glendale exercised his mind considerably. The devil in him had asked his friend to not mention his impending return. He planned, the morning after his arrival, bold as you please to invite Phoebe to ride with him as they had done before.

  Phoebe and Hugh had met once more at Cranford and, while nothing further came to light, each was gaining a better understanding of the protagonists. They met also at a soirée given by Mr and Mrs Fairweather, and Harriet was astonished to see them in close conversation.

  “I have something to show you that I think might be of interest,” Hugh was saying. “Are you able to meet me at Cranford on Wednesday? I have asked Rupert and there can be no objection.”

  “Then of course I shall come. Would the afternoon suit you?”

  “Certainly. Say, at three o’clock?”

  “I shall look forward to it.”