The Cuckoo's Child

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘I’ll bring her again, Mother,’ Tom said. ‘That’s a promise.’

  On the following day, the lamps were already lit by mid-afternoon when Jessie brought a tray of tea into the library, with a request from Mr Gideon that when she had drunk it, would Laura kindly join him and Miss Una in Mr Beaumont’s study.

  ‘He’s not down at the mill today, then?’

  ‘No. They’ve been with Mr Broomhead, the solicitor, all day. Tom Illingworth’s with them now, as well.’

  She set the tray down and left. Laura sipped her tea as the rain rattled on the window. That halcyon day yesterday on the moors looked as though it might have marked the ending of the fine weather. All day, the wind had swept heavy rain in sheets, inhibiting any wish to venture out into that boggy expanse. The view from the window was dismal indeed, obscuring the town. She drank her tea quickly, and then went to the study.

  ‘Thank you, Laura, do sit down. You, too, if you please,’ Gideon added to Tom, who had pulled a chair forward for Laura, touched her arm briefly, then moved away, to stand with his hands in his pockets, looking out of the window, seemingly absorbed in the prospect of the bleak landscape.

  Gideon introduced their family solicitor, Richard Broomhead, father of Emmie, a balding, middle-aged man with a portly stomach and a rich, fruity voice, which he used as if he had forgotten he wasn’t reading the lesson in church.

  The twins arranged themselves either side of him behind their grandfather’s desk, giving an impression of confrontation. A disagreeable feeling in the room made Laura feel very glad Tom was there. He now sat on the wide sill, his back to the window, and offered her an encouraging nod which gave nothing away.

  Gideon came straight to the point. ‘We have a copy of Grandpa’s will here. It’s a new one, made only last week. Mr Broomhead, will you . . . ?’

  Broomhead’s mouth was a sour, disapproving curve. He addressed himself to Tom and Laura: this will Mr Beaumont had left superseded the one dated some five years previously, which document had been lodged with Broomhead’s firm of solicitors – who, he emphasized even more disapprovingly, had dealt with all the business for every Beaumont, and for Cross Ings Mill, for decades. It was, of course, quite within Mr Beaumont’s rights to have appointed another firm to draw up this new will. ‘Though I have no idea why he should have gone to such lengths,’ he added shortly, with more than a hint of umbrage in his tone.

  ‘Didn’t want all Wainthorpe to know what he was up to,’ remarked Gideon carelessly.

  A short, icy silence followed. ‘That was uncalled for, Gideon.’

  ‘Oh Lord, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean—’ Gideon could have bitten his tongue out. In a few thoughtless words, he had just maligned the professional integrity of the man who had acted for Beaumont’s for as long as he could remember. He wouldn’t easily be forgiven for it, though in actual fact it was a well known fact that little remained secret for long in Wainthorpe, even professional secrets. It would have been better not said, though. To cap all, the man was pretty Emmie’s father. ‘Please forgive me, Mr Broomhead,’ was really all there was to say.

  The solicitor inclined his head and after a while went on, stiff-faced.

  ‘There is no need for me to read it out, verbatim. Suffice it to say that equal shares in his business and what is left of his private fortune after certain bequests, are to go to his grandchildren – Una and Gideon that is. There is an annuity to their mother. Also a legacy to his bookkeeper, Whiteley Hirst, and a sum of money to Sarah Illingworth, plus the house she now lives in.’ Tom folded his arms.

  ‘And,’ he then read out, holding up his hand in expectation of interruptions and turning to where Tom sat, ‘“the same sum of money I lent him, disregarding the fact that he has now repaid it, I leave to her son, Thomas Henry Illingworth”.’

  Tom laughed shortly, seemingly not very surprised. ‘Which I shall not take.’

  ‘That’s up to you of course, Tom,’ Gideon said quickly, ‘though I don’t know if you can refuse it.’

  ‘Of course I can, and I will. I cannot speak for my mother.’ They looked at one another, Tom adamant, Gideon troubled.

  ‘Take it, Tom, he would have wanted you to have it.’

  Again, Gideon had said the wrong thing. ‘What has what he wanted got to do with it?’ Tom asked, suddenly cold. ‘And why leave money to my mother? Did he think he had need to make up for what he did? I tell you, she has reason to be thankful for that. She married my father, and a better man there never was. She has never repined over what might have been. Anything else she did for him—’ He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, forgive the display of temper. I had better go before I say more.’

  ‘We haven’t finished yet,’ Una said. ‘Go on, Mr Broomhead, please.’

  ‘“And to Laura Harcourt, of London,”’ Broomhead read, ‘“fifteen thousand pounds.”’

  Laura felt herself turning rigid with shock in the silence that followed. ‘Is . . . this some sort of practical joke?’

  ‘Wills are not subjects of practical jokes, Miss Harcourt. This one was drawn up by some London lawyer who,’ the solicitor added with some distaste, ‘has apparently advised him before.’

  ‘London? What is the name of this firm?’ Laura asked tightly. She was trembling – and not only with the shock of what she had just heard. Her cheeks flamed.

  ‘They are no doubt a perfectly respectable firm—’ began Broomhead, backtracking a little.

  ‘What firm?’ Laura insisted, getting to her feet.

  ‘One by the name of Carfax, Arroway and Carfax.’

  ‘I might have known! But why? Does he not say why he has left me this money?’

  ‘We thought you might know,’ Una said coolly. Laura’s cheeks burned even deeper.

  ‘He did not say,’ replied Broomhead. ‘Perhaps these other solicitors have been told.’

  ‘Thank you. If you will all excuse me, then,’ Laura said in a choked voice, and all but ran out of the room and into the hall.

  She had scarcely put a foot on the first stair, when the study door crashed open, and then shut, and Tom was there behind her, his hand on her arm. ‘Stop, Laura. Listen to me. I think I know, I can guess—’

  ‘I’m sure you can! No, Tom.’ She put her hands to her ears as he tried to speak again. ‘Please.’

  ‘You must not let this upset you.’

  ‘I am not upset. I am furious.’

  ‘I can see that,’ he said, his mouth twitching despite himself. Her colour was still high, her eyes sparkling with rage. The pins were coming loose in her slippery hair and a rebellious lock had slipped over one ear. ‘But who with? Not me, I hope?’

  ‘With everyone. I have been made a fool of for too long.’

  The amusement left his face. ‘I would never make a fool of you, Laura. Just please listen to me and let’s talk it over calmly.’

  She was too stirred up to think of being calm. All she wanted, for the moment, was to be alone. She shook him off and ran up the stairs, her footsteps loud on the bare treads. This time he did not attempt to detain her.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Mr Samuel Tewson, chief clerk at Carfax, Arroway and Carfax, ‘that Mr Philip has already left, Miss Harcourt. He’s taking an early lunch, then I believe he meant to go on to the Saturday exhibition at the Academy. Mr William is still here, however, fully recovered now, I am happy to say. If you would like to see him, instead?’

  ‘No, thank you Mr Tewson, it’s Mr Philip I want to see. Do you know where he’s lunching? And is he alone?’

  Having made this precipitate journey to London, Laura was not to be put off. Saying nothing to anyone, simply leaving a note, she had, early this morning, walked down Syke Beck Lane, taken the electric tram to Huddersfield and caught the first available train, sustained by the fury she had felt ever since she had heard of the astounding bequest to her. Making her way independently down here, she had felt more truly alive than she had since first going to Wainthorpe, propelled by he
r own actions, rather than submitting meekly to the unexplained whim of someone else.

  ‘Yes, he is lunching alone,’ Tewson replied cautiously. He liked Miss Harcourt. She had often come along here to the office with Mr Philip and Miss Eva, when they were all children. A pretty child, and what a handsome young lady she’d turned out to be! But very forceful, very determined, like all of them, nowadays, it seemed. Looking at her sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, he had a plunging feeling of trouble ahead. Not only for Mr Philip, but without a doubt for Samuel Tewson as well.

  For weeks now, he hadn’t slept well, not slept well at all. Besieged by doubts and covered in shame. Feeling that not only had he let his employer down, he had let himself down, too. He couldn’t think what had come over him, that day when the letter had arrived, during that time when Mr William had been unfortunately absent, struck down by the gout and temporarily residing in Bath. A letter from Mr Ainsley Beaumont, it had been, a client whose business with them was limited – although, such as it was, it reimbursed them handsomely, it had to be admitted. And now he, Tewson, was about to compound his guilt by leading Miss Harcourt, a young lady who clearly wasn’t going to take no for an answer, to Mr Philip.

  On that day during his father’s absence, that day which had lodged so particularly in Mr Tewson’s mind, Philip had read the letter with its extraordinary request which had come from Ainsley Beaumont. He had previously met this gentleman, shaken hands with him, but any dealings with him had been his father’s province, as was the correspondence between them; their meetings, always arranged for when the old man came to London to deal with wool business, had been conducted in private with Mr Carfax senior. But Philip, in his father’s absence, was responsible for the firm’s business and must therefore deal with this request.

  The letter was straightforward enough, requesting that a certain proposition be put before Miss Laura Harcourt. The writer, Mr Beaumont, was quite specific as to her name, but as he had not deemed it necessary to give any more particulars, it was obvious that there were certain matters regarding Miss Harcourt to which Mr Carfax senior was privy. In the normal course of events, Philip would have waited until he could refer the matter to his father, but this was not something he was prepared to do after that name had jumped out from the page at him. Laura? Why Laura? What had Mr Ainsley Beaumont to do with her? And why the secrecy regarding the terms of her employment?

  Clearly, he needed to inform himself about the background, beginning with all the correspondence between Mr Beaumont and the firm, which was kept in a small bank of drawers lodged in the outer office.

  ‘Do you have the keys for these drawers, Mr Tewson?’

  ‘I do, Mr Philip.’

  ‘Pass them over, will you?’

  ‘Those drawers, Mr Philip, are private to your father. He never allows anyone to open them but himself.’ As you well know, his severe look said.

  ‘Dash it, don’t be obtuse. How can I carry on the business without access to all the proper information? Give me the keys, there’s a good chap.’

  The old clerk began to look agitated. ‘I’m sorry, you know, but I can’t. It would be as much as my job’s worth.’

  Philip tried to stare him out. ‘Are you refusing, Tewsey?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Philip. Not without your father’s say-so.’

  Tewson had been with the firm since before Philip was born. He kept humbugs in his pocket for the children when they came to see their father. He wasn’t far from the age when he would retire, and he was obviously ill-at-ease with this conversation, but he remained adamant. He knew the business inside out, his loyalty was paramount, and as far as Philip knew he had never breached a confidence or done a single untoward thing in his hitherto unblemished career with the firm. On the other hand, when he had opened the post that morning, as he customarily did, he must have seen the letter which had come from Ainsley Beaumont, and so must be well aware what Philip wanted.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said, adamant.

  Philip cogitated. He had no doubt Tewson was as familiar with the background to all this as his father was. Drafting letters, wills, agreements, conveyances and all the rest in his fine copperplate handwriting, he necessarily knew everything that went on in the office. Philip doubted he would tell him what he wanted to know. The old codger was stubborn as the devil when he wanted to be, but Philip liked him and had no wish to antagonize him, or to force him to do something against his own will and the orders of William Carfax. He could not blame Tewson. His father was a martinet, as Philip had good reason to know and be wary of.

  ‘Very well, then, I must wait until I get my father’s permission.’ He was by no means certain of the outcome in his parent’s present irascible state of health and temper, which gout was apt to inflict on a person, but for the moment he could not think of anything else he could do.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Philip.’

  The morning routine wore on. An hour or so later, Tewson, famous in the firm for never forgetting the slightest thing, came into the office to make certain, he said, that he had got right something he had clearly understood perfectly well barely an hour ago. ‘You see, I’m having to be very careful, nowadays,’ he admitted, looking exceedingly uncomfortable at having to make this unexpected and rather shamefaced admission. ‘My memory isn’t what it was, I’m afraid. Dear me, I worry sometimes that I might even find myself forgetting to lock up properly.’

  ‘Well, it comes to us all, I suppose.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Philip.’

  When lunchtime arrived, the clerk announced with equal unexpectedness that he would go into the park to eat the sandwiches Mrs Tewson had packed for him, and which he usually ate at his desk. ‘Such a beautiful day. A pity to waste it indoors.’

  Philip waited until five minutes after he and the other clerks had gone, then tried the drawers. The top one, the lock of which controlled the others, opened straight away. He grinned. Good old Tewsey! Nevertheless, it was the guiltiest moment in Philip’s otherwise blameless life as he extracted the papers he wanted.

  When Tewson came back he was sitting with his feet up on his father’s desk, reading the newspaper. But his thoughtful expression wasn’t due to the fluctuations of the stock market, or the sensational report of a more than usually alarming eruption of Mount Etna and a warning that further possible eruptions could result in a disaster on the scale of Pompeii; or even the sensational report of passengers being flown across the Channel to Paris in under four hours. He was endeavouring to accommodate the staggering implications of what he had read in that correspondence, and running over in his mind the consequences of doing what Mr Ainsley Beaumont had suggested.

  Well, he had done what his conscience told him to do, his father was now back in harness, his temper and gout temporarily assuaged by the curative waters of Bath, and it did not seem to have occurred to him yet to ask why Philip, without needing any more explanations, had so easily agreed to Mr Beaumont’s odd request to put that proposition before Laura. Then, last week, Mr Beaumont himself had come into the office and Philip had been requested to add his signature to a new will he had made. Followed by the shock of that telephone message, yesterday, telling them that the old man was dead. Had the old boy had some inkling of his impending death? Had Laura’s arrival at Farr Clough House anything to do with it?

  This, he thought, was what came of dissembling, even if only a little, of not revealing to Laura that Mr Beaumont had specifically asked for her, but letting her believe the request for someone to deal with his library had been a general one. Philip was left with an uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach.

  He had just rounded off his lunch with a generous portion of the jam roly-poly and custard that was a speciality of the little chop-house where he liked to eat, and wondering if he ought to have given in to the soporific temptation in view of his proposed dutiful visit to the Academy, when he looked up and saw Laura herself threading her way between the crowded tables towards him. At the sight of her face, her colour
high and her sharp little chin raised, his heart felt as heavy as his stomach.

  He stood up and kissed her cheek. ‘Laura! This is an unexpected pleasure! What are you doing here? How did you find me?’

  ‘It seems your plans for the afternoon were well known in the office.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Yes, of course, I did mention them to Tewson. My, you’re looking well,’ he added nervously. ‘Yorkshire must suit you. I’ve just finished my lunch, but may I offer you some – or some coffee – while you tell me all about it?’

  ‘Never mind Yorkshire, Philip. Or rather, we must mind it – that’s what we have to talk about, don’t we? I don’t want any coffee, thanks, so let’s go somewhere else, where you can tell me just what is going on. Somewhere private.’

  Eleven

  It had turned very warm for the time of year and the heat rose from the pavements in the stuffy London streets. All over the city, the parks were blossoming, and on the Embankment the planes with their silvery flaking bark were thrusting out new green leaves. Everyone was rushing and hurrying along as usual, as if they had a train to catch, even though it was Saturday, but there were smiles on people’s faces, somewhere an organ grinder played and the flower sellers were doing a brisk trade in bunches of tulips and mimosa.

  Laura felt hot and bothered in the saxe-blue tweed travelling costume, and the brown velour-felt hat was anathema to her amongst all the frothy spring hats other women were wearing. Despite this, she was fully attuned to what she had to do. Philip was destined for an acutely uncomfortable half-hour, if she had anything to do with it.

  ‘Now, Philip,’ she began in a very severe voice, as they reached an empty seat on the Embankment. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Philip sat down beside her and looked across the river. A Thames steamer hooted, trams clanged behind them, a sandwich-board man advertised boots for four shillings a pair. ‘What do you want to know, Laura?’