Arnold steered her away but at the post office more people gathered to gape at her.
Thomasina bustled around with an air of importance. ‘Give us some peace.’ She shooed people out. ‘She’s come to visit me and my family.’
Alice noticed how there were pin cushions and hair ribbons on sale claiming to be made from ‘bits of the heroine’s frock’. She recognised the material from Thomasina’s dress with the lace collar that had caused such friction between them the previous year.
Alice and her father made a fuss over the children, Arnold giving William a toy boat that Sam had made him while Alice picked up baby Lucy.
She smiled and tickled the baby’s chin. ‘You’re a bonny one.’ Lucy gurgled and grabbed Alice’s cheek.
‘Have you brought anything for her?’ Thomasina asked.
‘Sorry, no,’ said Alice. ‘But Mother sends her love.’
Thomasina looked annoyed. ‘I hear you’re getting a fortune from that subscription they’re raising for you and Sam. Going to be a ceremony with the Duke of Northumberland handing it over. Mr Gillveray’s inviting all the posh folk.’
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ Alice said, embarrassed. ‘I haven’t been to see Mr Gillveray yet.’
‘Hundreds of pounds, we’ve heard,’ Thomasina said, her eyes gleaming. ‘I hope you’ll be sharing it with your family.’
‘It’s up to Alice how she chooses to spend her money,’ Arnold said in irritation. ‘But I know she will be wise with it.’
‘Danny deserves that money as much as her or Sam,’ Thomasina said, bristling. ‘For all them years working the light.’
Arnold snorted. ‘Sam and Alice work twice as hard as Daniel ever did.’
Alice intervened. ‘Of course I’ll share whatever I get. I’d like to give the bairns something.’
‘It’s only fair that you do,’ Thomasina said. ‘You took what was rightfully Danny’s. He runs the lifeboat and should have had the chance to pick up the shipwrecked, not you and Sam. I think it was selfish of you, Alice—’
‘How dare you!’ Arnold stood up. ‘The only selfish woman round here is you. Selfish and greedy. Alice doesn’t have to give you anything.’
‘Father . . .’
‘We have business to attend to,’ he snapped, ‘and can’t stay.’ He marched to the door.
‘Can I go with you, Grandpa?’ said William.
‘No, you can’t.’ Thomasina grabbed him and held him back. He squealed in protest.
In dismay, Alice put Lucy back in her crib. ‘I’ll call again soon.’ She hesitated. ‘Are there any letters for me?’
Thomasina gave her a resentful look. ‘I gave them to Danny. He’ll bring them out to the island – not that he’ll get any thanks for all his efforts.’
‘Thank you.’ Alice’s hopes rose to think there might be one from John among the other unwanted correspondence.
Outside, hurrying down a back lane, Alice remonstrated with her father. ‘Weren’t you a bit hard on the lass? She’s just sticking up for Danny and her bairns.’
‘Mark my words,’ said Arnold, ‘she’s the one behind all this money-making of Danny’s – we haven’t had a minute’s peace since he brought that journalist to the lighthouse, and we won’t hear the end of it till she’s got every last penny out of you.’
Alice was shocked by her father’s bitterness.
‘She can have it,’ Alice said, dispirited. ‘I didn’t look for any of this.’
Arnold stopped. Suddenly his anger collapsed. He looked inexpressibly sad as he touched her cheek. ‘Dear daughter; I know you didn’t.’
Things were strained between Danny and his parents when he next came to the island, bringing the first of the spring visitors to gaze at the lighthouse and its heroine. While they roamed the island, a row broke out in the lighthouse kitchen.
‘Don’t you bring any more boatloads!’ Arnold barked. ‘Your mother can’t cope with it. She’s bad with her nerves. I won’t have you hounding her to an early grave just so you can line your pockets.’
Effie said nothing as she huddled by the black range. She had hardly been outdoors since the previous autumn.
‘I’m helping with the family’s prosperity,’ Danny defended. ‘Thanks to me, William and Lucy have new clothes and toys and good food. You should be praising me for that, not telling me off like a bairn.’
‘You can make a decent living as Gillveray’s boatman not exploiting people’s curiosity at your sister’s expense.’ Arnold was contemptuous.
‘Alice doesn’t mind,’ said Danny. ‘Do you, Alice?’
‘Aye, I do,’ Alice said, sick of the wrangling and downcast that there had been no letter from John in the pile of post. ‘I hate all this.’
‘You’ve done very nicely out of it, thanks to me.’
‘I don’t want it,’ Alice cried. ‘I just want things to go back to how they were before – when we were just an ordinary family, not a freak show.’
Danny gave her a strange look, his mouth twisting in a mocking smile. ‘There’s nothing ordinary about you, Alice,’ he said. ‘Is there, Father? Mother? We all know how Alice is different from the rest of us.’
Abruptly the room went quiet. Alice felt the tension in the air and saw the look of fear on her mother’s face. She was baffled by her brother’s words – not only what he said but also the menacing tone. Her father’s face was rigid with fury – or was it alarm?
Before anyone spoke, a cry came up from below. ‘Hello, Mr Brown? Can we come up now? It’s beginning to rain and we really would like to meet your sister before we go.’
Danny threw Alice a look of appeal. She hesitated, still unnerved by the strained atmosphere.
‘I’ll come down and meet them,’ she relented. ‘But you are never to bring folk into the lighthouse again or cause any bother to our parents. Do you agree?’
Annoyance flashed across his face and then he smiled. ‘Agreed. Come on then and act the heroine for your adoring public.’
It was mid-summer when an invitation came from George Gillveray for Alice and her parents to visit Black Harbour House. There had been weeks of blissful peace on the island since Danny’s trips had stopped. Sam would go ashore for supplies but Alice and her parents had kept to the island and out of the public eye. Amorous letters still arrived from Alice’s admirers but they were dwindling in number. Finally, the fever of interest in her appeared to be on the wane.
Yet how she still pined for John! Why had he raised her hopes so high to then dash them to the ground so callously? The least he could have done would have been to write and thank her parents. But he had not even done that. What was it about John Sinclair that had so captured her heart? She thought again with yearning of his dark good looks and laughing green eyes, his muscular body and the vitality for life that had helped him recover from being gravely ill. But it was more than physical attraction. She had found everything about him fascinating, from his tragic childhood and life as a chief’s son to his friendly enthusiasm and dreams of adventure.
Yet she was forced to admit that he had most probably forgotten her, caught up in his new life and perhaps a new love. She had never been more to him than a pleasant diversion during his forced stay on the island. He might have meant his proposal in the intensity of the moment – in his relief at still being alive – but the feeling had not lasted once he had re-joined the world beyond Black Harbour.
‘What does Mr Gillveray want with us?’ Effie asked in alarm.
‘Most likely to arrange for the subscription to be handed over,’ said Arnold.
‘Then why is Sam not invited?’
‘Mr Gillveray will know that someone has to stay and man the light in case we don’t get back in the day.’
This seemed to settle her mother’s agitation but Alice worried that the trip would be too much for Effie. It took so little to make her fearful these days. She felt a familiar pang of guilt that she had brought such strain on her poor mother.
; ‘Once this money is handed over,’ Alice reassured, ‘then we need not talk of the shipwreck or the publicity ever again.’
Alice had not seen George since the previous year. With her father so riled by Thomasina’s behaviour on their spring trip, he had hurried her home having loaded up with provisions, giving her no time to visit Black Harbour House. Her admirers had sent her books and periodicals so she had not missed Gillveray’s library so much. She was embarrassed that she had not made more of an effort to see him and thank him for his kindness for starting the subscription in honour of her and Sam.
George greeted them cordially but she detected a reserve in his manner. They were dressed in their best, though Alice’s frock was frayed at the cuffs and the bodice was too tight; it had fitted her at fifteen but her figure had filled out and was now that of a woman’s. She had knotted a shawl over her chest in modesty.
‘You look very well, my dear,’ said George distractedly. ‘I had hoped to offer my congratulations at your brave deeds sooner than this, but you have been much in demand.’
Alice felt rebuked. ‘I’m sorry, I meant to call – was on my way—’
‘No need to apologise,’ he said with a wave of his hand.
‘Are there many folk here, sir?’ Effie asked. ‘I’m not used to a crowd – would rather sit quietly out of the way.’
George gave her a puzzled look. ‘No crowds at all, Mrs Brown. There is just one gentleman here who wishes a private word. He was most insistent on coming to see you but wanted to do so without drawing attention.’
For a wild hopeful moment, Alice wondered if it might be John returned to recompense her parents and to ask permission to marry in person. George led them into the library. A thickset, craggy-faced man of middle age with a shock of grey hair and bushy sideburns stood up. Disappointment gripped her.
He strode towards Alice, fixing her with a sharp-eyed look.
‘Alice?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She bobbed a curtsy. If this was another wretched suitor she would tell him to his face to go home, no matter how grand or rich he was.
‘I knew it! You look the image of your mother.’
Alice was bemused. She was nothing like Effie in looks.
‘This is Colonel Fairchild,’ George introduced him, ‘from Tolland Park near Newcastle.’
Beside her, Effie gave a stifled cry. ‘Please, no—’ Effie clamped a hand to her mouth.
Arnold gripped his wife’s arm to steady her.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ George asked, alarmed at Effie’s shocked, pale face. He ushered her into a chair.
‘I’m very sorry, dear lady,’ the colonel said. ‘I know how this must be a shock to you – as it was for me when I learnt of the existence of Alice from a newspaper reporter called Moxon. He came with information about my wife, Charlotte.’ He turned to Alice. ‘I wasn’t sure I believed him and was in two minds about whether to seek you out. But the desire to meet you was too strong.’ His eyes glistened with emotion. ‘And now I can see such a marked resemblance to my Charlotte. Alice, you are the child I thought I would never have.’
‘Colonel Fairchild, how can that be?’ Alice gasped. ‘I’m not your child.’
And yet seeing her mother so upset, a new dread was clawing at her stomach. This man was no suitor. He was claiming to be her father!
George seemed just as perplexed. ‘I think you should explain yourself, Colonel. I did not know you were going to make such a claim. I thought you wished to reward the Browns in some way.’
‘I will give them anything they want for looking after Alice all these years,’ replied the Colonel. ‘It was heartless of Charlotte to abandon her – as she abandoned me – but I want nothing more than to be a good father and offer Alice the home that is rightfully hers.’
Effie let out a wail of distress. Alice looked between them, dumbstruck.
‘We do not want your money,’ Arnold said, a hand gripping his wife’s shaking shoulder. ‘We have brought Alice up as our own and love her like our own daughter.’
‘But I am your daughter,’ Alice said, panic rising in her throat.
‘Please,’ George intervened, ‘someone must explain. You are frightening Alice.’ He took her by the elbow and sat her down next to him on the sofa.
‘My dear, you are the daughter of Charlotte Fairchild,’ said the colonel. ‘My wife gave birth to you at the lighthouse and then left you in the care of these good people. No doubt she intended to return for you—’
‘She did not!’ Effie cried. ‘She was a selfish woman who couldn’t wait to be free of her baby and run off with that Danish sea captain who fathered Alice.’
‘Don’t, Effie,’ Arnold pleaded.
‘Alice is ours – you’ve no right to take her from us. You must know that she isn’t your flesh and blood – any more than she’s ours. You were away at the war while your wife was having a dalliance with the captain.’
The colonel’s face coloured but he kept his temper. ‘I am quite aware of that,’ he said. ‘Yet Alice is Charlotte’s daughter and I would have brought her up as mine. I loved Charlotte and would have taken her back. I believe she would have come back in time – and claimed baby Alice – but she died abroad and never had the chance.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Arnold. ‘We never knew.’
‘Captain Nielsen wrote and told me; I must at least give him credit for that. Later, I read about his ship going down in the North Sea with no survivors,’ said the colonel.
Alice was stunned. Her heart thudded painfully. She could make no sense of what they were telling her. How could she be the daughter of some stranger of whom she had never heard? She looked at her parents – dearly familiar – and yet it would seem they were not her mother and father at all.
‘So,’ Alice said in a shaky voice, ‘you were forced to care for me because my own mother – this Charlotte woman – didn’t want me?’
‘Not forced,’ Effie insisted. ‘I wanted a wee lass with all my heart. I’d lost three before Sam. Mrs Fairchild knew I was desperate for a daughter – Danny had told her – and that’s why she left you. She knew I would love you like my own – the way she couldn’t.’ Her look was pleading. ‘I helped you come into the world, lassie. You must believe that I loved you from the day you were born.’
Alice felt a new stab of pain in her heart at her mother’s tender words. Effie was never one to speak of love or her feelings.
‘It’s Danny who has done this, isn’t it?’ Arnold was suddenly riled. ‘I bet Moxon has paid him a pretty penny for this story about Alice and her high-born mother.’
‘Why should Danny do such a thing?’ George asked. ‘He was just a boy when it all happened.’
‘He was ten years old,’ said Arnold.
‘He used to talk about the lady with the baby,’ Effie said in distress. ‘Mrs Fairchild made such a fuss of him. I used to tell him not to speak of her and thought he’d forgotten about it long ago till . . .’
‘Till what?’ George pressed.
‘He started making wee comments about Alice being different – ever since all the attention over the shipwreck – letting us know that he hadn’t forgotten.’
‘He’s jealous of her,’ said Arnold, ‘and has been doing his best to make money out of her since the—’
‘Stop it!’ Alice cried. ‘Don’t go blaming Danny for telling the truth – no matter that he’s been paid for it. It’s you who have lied to me all these years! Why couldn’t you have told me?’
‘Oh, lassie,’ said Effie, on the brink of tears, ‘perhaps we should have but when Mrs Fairchild didn’t return we didn’t think we needed to. To us, you were always one of the family.’
‘Didn’t you think I should have been told too?’ the colonel reproved gently.
George cleared his throat. ‘That might have been exceedingly awkward, Colonel Fairchild. You can’t have expected the Browns to run the risk of your rejecting Alice; it would have caused Alice unnecessary distress.’
‘That is a fair point,’ the colonel conceded. ‘I can see how very difficult this is for everyone. But I cannot but rejoice that I have gained a daughter. Mr Brown, you and your wife are good people – that is very obvious to me – but you were only ever foster parents to Alice. You must accept that it is her birthright to come and live at Tolland Park.’
‘I see that,’ Arnold said, looking wretched.
Effie stifled a sob as tears ran down her cheeks.
‘I can give Alice the life of a gentlewoman,’ the colonel enthused. ‘I hear you are an avid reader, my dear.’ He smiled at Alice. ‘I have over a thousand books in my library. Possibly more than in Gillveray’s impressive collection.’ He waved his hand at the bookcases around them. ‘And you can have music lessons and learn to ride and have as many dresses as you could wish for. I have lived alone at Tolland for too many years without anyone to spoil. I can give you anything you want.’
‘No, you can’t,’ Alice answered. ‘If you think all I care about are possessions and living an idle life, then you don’t know me.’ She looked at him fiercely. ‘You sweep in here like a whirlwind and turn our lives upside down. We all know what you want, Colonel Fairchild, but not once have you asked what I want.’
‘Alice,’ George chided, ‘don’t be ungrateful.’
‘Why should I be grateful?’ she protested. ‘I don’t know this man from Adam and, from what I hear, I don’t care for this Charlotte Fairchild either.’
She saw Arnold and Effie staring at her, aghast at her outspokenness. But she couldn’t stop. ‘You gentry always think we common folk should be forever grateful for the titbits you throw us from your table. Well, sometimes we just want to be left to make our own way in the world and not to be beholden to anyone.’
She stood up and went to stand by Effie and Arnold. ‘These are my parents – my people – not you, Colonel. I’m plain Alice Brown, the lighthouse-keeper’s daughter.’
In the Far Pashmina Mountains Page 11