The Cuckoo's Child

by Marjorie Eccles

  ‘Oh,’ said Laura, with a sigh, ‘I just want to know the truth, Philip. Why has Mr Beaumont left me that enormous amount of money?’

  She did not ask him why Ainsley Beaumont had sent for her. That was now quite obvious to her: the work on the library had been a smokescreen, a ridiculous reason for getting her to Wainthorpe and Farr Clough, where no doubt he could look her over and decide whether she was worthy of his bequest. ‘You’ll do, Laura Harcourt,’ he had said. You’ll do. Not to fulfil the non-existent need to catalogue his library, but to be the recipient of his . . . his charity! That was the word which had burned in her brain ever since she had heard the solicitor, Broomhead, read out the will. The word choked her. Charity. But why? Yet she knew where her thoughts were inevitably leading, perhaps towards the answers to questions which had plagued her all her life, though she suspected the truth might not be as palatable as she might have wished.

  Philip was staring down at his gleaming polished boots, looking mightily as if he wished himself elsewhere. Ever since he had dealt with Ainsley Beaumont’s request, he had been only too aware that he might well have overstepped the boundaries of his temporary responsibilities and it had given him uncomfortable moments. But whenever he thought of why he had done it, he had felt better – until yesterday, when it became very evident that he might have made a grave mistake. He was not, however, about to make another. He remained silent until he could find the diplomatic answer to her question. But the truth, not diplomacy, was what she wanted. And who was he to know what that was?

  ‘Laura, I am not the person to tell you.’

  ‘Then who is – your father?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, really, Philip, someone must know!’

  He looked very downcast at the accusing way she was speaking to him, and she began to feel a little guilty, and was glad as she watched him to see a firmer resolution come to him, more like the old Philip. She was sorry that she had hurt his feelings – he had, as usual, meant well.

  ‘I wouldn’t have upset you for the world, you know – you, of all people, Laura.’

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek gently. ‘Forget me, Philip. I’ve told you before, we can never be anything to one another. I mean it.’

  ‘You’ve met someone else,’ he said flatly, sensing a difference in her.

  She couldn’t answer that. Instead, she said, ‘Well, Philip? What’s it all about?’

  ‘Look.’ He felt desperate. ‘I’ll tell you all I know, but I warn you, it isn’t much.’ He reached out for her hand, more to reassure himself than her, and she didn’t draw it away. It was white again now, the oval nails smooth and rounded with delicate half-moons. ‘There’s no compulsion on anyone,’ he began, ‘to give the reasons for why and where they want to leave their money. So . . .’

  Laura’s unexpected arrival home a couple of hours later caused a great stir of excitement in Chetwyn Square. It was five o’clock and Lillian arrived five minutes after Laura, pulling off her light chiffon scarf and wafting waves of Floris ‘Bouquet’. Screaming with delight when she saw Laura, she embraced her with joy and stood back to examine her, with a look on her face that fought not to say ‘I told you so’, which was quickly replaced by one of dismay when she learned that this was to be only a flying visit.

  ‘Are you going out this evening?’ Laura asked, though the question was rhetorical. Lillian considered an evening at home as the mark of social failure.

  ‘Well, the Endicott’s have reserved theatre seats . . . but my dear, it’s Julius Caesar! I must confess I will not be entirely sorry of an excuse to miss that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask, but I have something very particular I want to talk to you and Uncle George about, and I’m going back to Wainthorpe by an early train tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow! Then we certainly cannot forego this evening with you. I’ll see what Mrs Denning can do for us in the way of something nice. I know there’s a chicken . . .’

  ‘Oh, pot luck will do.’

  ‘It won’t do for me, or your uncle. I’ll see about it now.’

  It was good to see him again, her Uncle George, a spare, careful man, deceptively unassuming, and the rock of her childhood. She was grateful that neither he nor her aunt seemed to notice her reticence amidst Lillian’s ceaseless chatter about mutual friends and acquaintances, accounts of the social whirl she lived in, which kept the conversation going throughout dinner, during which she fended off difficult questions about the Beaumont family and her work in the library, and concentrated on telling them about the wonderful scenery of the moors, the air like wine, the water like silk . . .

  George, too, talked about his two latest acquisitions and invited her comments on them: a spare Japanese print he had hung above the copper-tiled fireplace, and the delicate Satsuma porcelain jar with fu-dog handles which now stood on the mantel. But it was not until they were settled in the drawing room with their coffee that he said directly, ‘Now then, what’s all this, Laura? What’s gone wrong, that makes you come back so unexpectedly?’

  It had not occurred to Laura that the flow of conversation might have been covering worry on their part, until she saw the concern with which they were now both regarding her.

  ‘Mr Beaumont is dead. He wasn’t a young man, but he had been told he had a brain tumour and it seems he might have taken his own life, though his grandchildren refuse to believe it was anything other than an accident.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Lillian said, inadequately, adding hurriedly, ‘How shocking! I’m very sorry indeed to hear it. Frightfully difficult for the family, of course, but will you have any need to go back, now?’ Despite herself, she was flushed with pleasure at the possibility and smiled at Laura who was sitting stiffly in her chair.

  ‘I haven’t finished the work I went up there to do, yet.’ Laura bent to put her coffee cup, the thinnest of Japanese eggshell china which you could see right through, carefully on to the low table next to her chair. ‘He has left me fifteen thousand pounds.’

  This time there was a stunned silence.

  ‘Fif– Fifteen thousand pounds! But why?’

  ‘You might well ask, Aunt.’ Laura had not meant to show resentment so plainly, but she had been controlling herself too long and now it welled up inside her. She transferred her gaze from Lillian to George. ‘I think you should have told me long before this what my connections with Mr Beaumont were.’

  ‘Oh, but—’ Lillian began, hands fluttering, patting her hair, smoothing her corded silk skirt, thoughts chasing themselves across her face.

  George hushed her with a touch on her arm. ‘Laura, my dear, we knew of no connection.’

  ‘Well then, of the circumstances of my adoption.’ It sounded too formal and hard, but she could not help it. Then the questions came tumbling out. ‘Why was I never legally adopted, why did I not take your name? Who were my parents? Who were Mr and Mrs Harcourt?’

  George looked as though he might be more comfortable with a desk between them, explaining as if to one of his clients some complicated part of their money affairs. He went to stand with his back to the fire, a hand under his coat tails, looking unusually troubled. ‘You want the truth?’ he asked gravely. ‘The truth, my dear Laura, is that we don’t know. You should ask Philip’s father, you should ask William Carfax. It was he who arranged that you should come to us, and the conditions.’

  ‘Philip has already told me that.’

  George raised his brows. ‘And what else has Philip told you?’

  ‘Only that his father, on the instructions of Ainsley Beaumont, negotiated the adoption of an eighteen-month-old child, and that he was instructed to do no more than to arrange for someone to take her in.’

  Lillian made a little sound of distress. ‘Take you in? Oh, Laura, how can you say that? We so wanted a child, and you were like a gift from God. We didn’t take you in like a bundle of washing! We loved you from the start.’

  ‘I know that. Of course I know! How could I ever have doubted it? But why did you not tell me?’
It was this which hurt her more than she could say . . . that other people had known, while she, the one it concerned most, had been kept in the dark.

  George said, ‘Dear child, that was the agreement. That we should not seek to adopt you legally, that we should not make enquiries as to who your parents were. Would you have been any happier had you known this? William Carfax once let slip to me that your parents were from Yorkshire, but more than that he would not say. I have always believed he did not know more, in any case.’

  ‘That is what Philip believes. But what about me – am I then never to know, either?’

  ‘Is it so important?’ Lillian said in a low voice. She was having difficulty in fending off tears and George went to sit on the sofa beside her.

  ‘It is important to me,’ Laura said, ‘of course it is. Who were they, the man and woman in the photograph? The ones you let me believe were my parents?’

  Lillian’s face crumpled. She bent her head. The soft lamplight struck gleams from her bracelets, the silver in her hair. ‘That was my idea, but it doesn’t signify . . . they were just people I used to know, and they were killed in that train crash. Their name was Harcourt. I thought it better . . .’

  ‘How could you?’

  There seemed nothing more to say, and in the end Laura crossed the room and knelt on the carpet in front of them, taking hold of her aunt’s trembling hands. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so awfully sorry, but don’t you see how much it means to me to know who I am?’ It was she who was on the verge of tears now, she who had determined to remain unemotional throughout.

  ‘You are our daughter, that’s who you are,’ Lillian said, with a barely suppressed sob. ‘Or so we have always regarded you.’

  ‘And I have never wanted anything more. Except to know who I am, where I’ve sprung from.’ She could see their hurt, that they felt it a betrayal she might want to be something other than their beloved daughter, when it wasn’t like that at all. ‘You have to understand that I desperately need to know just what Ainsley Beaumont has to do with me. He must always have known about me, but he left me alone all my life and only sent for me, knowing he had not long to live, wanting to see what sort of person I was, before he left me any money. Why?’

  ‘Oh, money!’ Lillian said, recovering. ‘So easy to give. Is it meant to make up for neglecting you all these years? Well, you don’t need it.’

  ‘No, but I shall take it, all the same. And use it. I know exactly what to do with it.’ She watched her aunt warily.

  George took a cigarette from a box. Lillian closed her eyes. ‘Oh, I might have known! That house in Stepney I suppose.’

  The reaction was what Laura had expected, but her hackles rose. ‘Please don’t try to persuade me otherwise. I’ve made the decision and I don’t change my mind once it’s made up, or not very often.’

  ‘Well, Laura, I haven’t lived with you for nigh on twenty years without learning that!’

  ‘I’m a disappointment to you. I see I should not have opinions of my own.’

  George paused in the act of lighting his cigarette. ‘Now then, you two. If that is how it stands, and Laura’s mind is made up . . . Lillian, my dear, it wouldn’t be our Laura if she contemplated doing anything else with it, would it? Why don’t we take a glass of something to celebrate the Settlement’s good fortune?’

  For a moment neither his wife nor Laura said anything. Lillian sat twisting the little lace handkerchief that was now no more than a damp scrap.

  ‘Oh, George! Oh, Laura!’ she said at last. She rose and tearfully kissed Laura, and then laughed shakily. ‘What am I to do with you both?’

  The tension in the room eased. George held up the brandy. ‘But – see here, Laura – you must not, I repeat not, worry yourself over this situation, do you hear? Leave it with me. I’ll see Carfax and get the truth of it, if there is any truth to be known.’

  Laura shook her head. ‘No, you just told me you’ve always believed he didn’t know any more than he told you, and from what Philip has said, that seems likely. I don’t think there’s anything more to be found there. I’ve gained nothing by rushing down here. The answer to all this lies in Yorkshire, with the Beaumonts.’

  With the Beaumonts, and in their past, she thought. Somehow, who I am, who my parents really were, is all tied up with that past.

  In Wainthorpe, Whiteley Hirst tossed in his bed, bathed in the sweat of a nightmare, consumed by terror. He could smell smoke and hear fire crackling on the other side of his bedroom door. It was shut tight but any moment now the flames would burst through and he would be trapped. Nothing could withstand the inferno that was behind it. He tried to move but his bonds became tighter; he was tied to the bed with an invisible criss-cross of threads, a helpless Gulliver. He made an almighty effort but his limbs refused to obey him. He had to get to the window and smash it, jump out. Too late, the flames were here, roaring in like dragons and tigers, the flames of Hell and retribution. He would burn in Hell. His body was already on fire, his blood boiling . . . he shouted for water, for someone for God’s sake to throw him into the dam and quench the flames . . .

  He woke, and for several minutes lay as motionless as if he had been tied down, totally unable to move. He felt weaker than a kitten. His nightshirt was as soaked as if someone had tried to douse his burning body. He hadn’t had this dream for years.

  Twelve

  Breakfast in the Imrie house was a silent affair the next morning. George immersed himself in his Sunday newspaper, Lillian played with a piece of toast and Laura ate a boiled egg without being aware of what she ate. The restless, uneasy night she’d spent, tossing and turning, tormented by thoughts she had not allowed to surface before had left her with a dull headache.

  ‘More coffee, Laura?’

  ‘No, thank you, Aunt.’

  The doorbell rang. A minute later the starched parlourmaid entered. ‘There’s a Mr Illingworth to see you, Miss Laura.’

  Tom? Laura scraped back her chair and jumped up, almost spilling her coffee. Tom Illingworth, here? She looked round for escape. There was none. Her aunt and uncle were eyeing her strangely. ‘Well then, I suppose you’d better show him in, Nancy.’

  Lillian, caught en dishabille, was in a panic. ‘Who is this?’ she hissed. ‘Not in here, Laura!’

  ‘Oh, he won’t mind.’ He was already halfway through the doorway, looking uncharacteristically spruce and correct in a dark suit and a stiff collared shirt. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, catching her breath.

  ‘I should have been with you yesterday. I should never have let you come alone.’

  ‘Hadn’t you noticed,’ she said tartly, ‘that I managed to get myself here without assistance? No doubt I can get back to Wainthorpe, too, in the same way.’

  ‘Laura!’

  She threw her aunt an imploring glance. She had not intended to be rude, but dared not show more warmth. Not after the thoughts that had come to her during the night. And besides, she did feel annoyed with him, justifiably so, for following her here as if she were not capable of taking a train from Yorkshire to London without male protection. He must have been up since the crack of dawn, to catch the first train – though perhaps he had stayed overnight, she corrected herself, catching sight of the small overnight bag he carried.

  ‘Oh, then you are going back?’ he was saying.

  ‘Of course I am. Today, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Good. Then we can return together.’

  They eyed each other warily.

  ‘Well.’ Lillian’s escape route was blocked by the pair of them in the doorway. There was an awkward silence. ‘Will you take some breakfast, Mr . . . ?’ she asked, pointedly frowning at Laura.

  ‘Thank you, I’ve had breakfast,’ Tom answered, smiling at her. ‘But the coffee smells exceedingly good.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Aunt Lillian, Uncle George, Mr Illingworth.’ Laura made hurried introductions to her aunt and uncle, explaining briefly who Tom was.

  Lil
lian poured coffee, murmured an excuse and fled to make her toilette, leaving George and Laura to entertain this unexpected visitor, returning half an hour later to find her husband and Tom getting along famously and Laura not appearing to be contributing much to the conversation.

  George, being committed to meeting friends for his usual Sunday morning ride in the Park, had to leave. He shook hands warmly with Tom, hoped they would meet again, and Laura followed him to the door to say goodbye. ‘Come back home to us soon, my dear, but promise me you won’t do anything precipitate,’ he said, looking gravely down into her troubled face.

  ‘Do I ever?’ she answered, attempting a joke, and he smiled a little.

  ‘All the same, I feel obliged to put it to you, Laura. You are impulsive and don’t always consider the results of your actions too carefully.’ He hesitated. ‘This young man. He appears to be someone you can trust.’

  It was not a question of trust, but something else entirely which was troubling her, but not even to her uncle could she say what this was.

  When she went back into the dining room, Tom was saying that he and Laura must be leaving shortly too, if they were to catch one of the limited service trains which ran on Sunday.

  ‘Why don’t you stay for a day or two, Mr Illingworth? Laura could show you the London sights,’ Lillian suggested with a brilliant smile, as if Tom were a backwoodsman who had never set a foot further than his own front door.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Illingworth is anxious to get back to Wainthorpe,’ Laura said coolly. ‘Are you not, Mr Illingworth?’

  Lillian looked from one to the other and gave a little sigh. Who was he really, this young man? He was pleasant and had excellent manners, he looked prosperous – his shirt and tie were impeccable – but what did he mean to Laura?

  Sunday morning in Wainthorpe was cold, though sunny. Since the mills were shut down, for once the wind had had the chance to blow away the seemingly permanent cloud of sullen smoke and smuts the Neller valley normally crouched under. It was the morning for a brisk walk, for tackling the steep incline up towards Farr Clough House, Womersley decided, mindful of his wife Kate’s hopeful suggestion, after she had twice had to let out the waistband of his trousers, that he should perhaps take more exercise. ‘First, we need to make a call on Dr Pike.’ He’d been altogether too darned close-mouthed, Womersley explained, merely hinting at those enemies he seemed to think Ainsley Beaumont had. ‘It’s occurred to me since yesterday that he might be less reluctant now he’s had time to think about it.’