The Heiresses

by Allison Rushby

  She wondered, vaguely, if it would ever end. If she would ever be able to stop.

  Hestia screamed until she hit the floor and everything went suddenly black.

  Buckinghamshire, 1925

  There was something in the way Mrs. Turner’s eyes flickered over the girls in the classroom, studiously resting on no student in particular, that made Ro forget her geography lesson entirely. She had seen that flickering before. It meant there had been a telegram. Telegrams for the girls of Hayfield Abbey rarely contained good news—there had been a horse-riding accident, a motorcar accident, an elderly relative had choked to death on a buttered crumpet. (Sometimes this was not such terrible news after all and the recipient would return to the classroom with a down-turned expression, but a suspicious lightness in her step.)

  Ro watched Mrs. Turner, fascinated. But it was not until she realized those eyes had not once come to rest upon herself, that her finger slipped off the page it was holding. The book snapped smartly shut on her desk, making her jump in her seat and attracting the attention of several of the girls around her. As Mrs. Turner whispered into the ear of Miss Halliday, the geography mistress, many of the other girls returned to their reading. But not Ro.

  It’s something to do with me, Ro thought to herself.

  Immediately, her thoughts turned to Halesworth Hall, her other “home,” and Uncle Henry. He had been in perfect health the last time she had seen him, which had been at the beginning of Michaelmas term. He had been on his way to London on business and they had spent a short teatime hour together in the local village. Granted, that was some time ago now. She had spent Michaelmas half with her friend Harriet’s family in Cambridgeshire, where they’d had a glorious time roaming the estate and teasing her brothers into dancing with them. Ro loved visiting with Harriet’s family. With six siblings, there was always something exciting going on and someone coming or going, or new people to meet. There were so many of them that Harriet’s mother found it difficult to keep track of them all and, during the holidays, when the children descended from their various boarding schools, they tended to run wild, rather like a pack of wolves.

  It was brilliant.

  However, there were always a few moments during visits with Harriet’s family when Ro found she would retreat within herself. She would be reminded that what Harriet had, she could not have and would never have: a big family, a large, ramshackle estate that was always there and would be there forevermore, and at least several family members ensconced within its walls whenever one felt the need to return home. A feeling of belonging. Then, of course, she would feel terrible for having these thoughts, because she was well provided for, not to mention well loved, by Uncle Henry.

  Ro frowned slightly now, reminding herself she was supposed to be thinking of Uncle Henry. Poor Uncle Henry was a dull old thing, only interested in his botany, but he had always, without fail, done the right thing by her. She was fond of him in the way that she could tell him he was a dull old thing and he could tell her she was a silly young flibbertigibbet. Which was the way things should be, surely, between two people of forty years’ difference. She worried about him immensely since Aunt Charlotte’s death four years ago. Ro sincerely hoped he hadn’t choked to death on one of those buttered crumpets she had been thinking about moments before. It would be just like him if he had—reading some great tome on botany and forgetting to chew his food properly now that there was no one else at home to remind him of the benefits of proper mastication.

  Miss Halliday also glanced around the classroom when Mrs. Turner completed her whispering and overt hand gesturing. She looked uncertain as her eyes fell upon Ro. “Erato Halesworth,” she said, frowning slightly. “Mrs. Turner will escort you to Mrs. Burley’s office immediately.”

  Ro stood up slowly in her seat. Beside her, Harriet looked up, giving her a “what is this?” glance. Ro shrugged slightly in response. She had no idea, but she was really starting to worry about Uncle Henry now. She had no other family to worry about, after all. Ro passed the rows of girls, avoiding their stares, and made her way into the hall, where Mrs. Turner was now waiting.

  As soon as the door was closed behind her, Ro could wait no longer. “Is it my uncle?” The words were blurted out, a little too loudly.

  “There is no need to worry. Your uncle is in perfect health, as you shall see yourself in a moment, in Mrs. Burley’s office.”

  Ro was so shocked by this statement that for several seconds she was unable to move. Uncle Henry had never called upon Mrs. Burley before. In fact, he actively disliked visiting Hayfield Abbey. “All those silly young flibbertigibbets,” he would tease. “Even sillier than you, I’ve no doubt! Go to Hayfield Abbey? No thank you!” When she came to her senses once more, she realized Mrs. Turner had already traveled halfway up the hall and was nearing Mrs. Burley’s study door. She had to run to catch up.

  Running was not something Mrs. Turner approved of. When Ro reached her, Mrs. Turner’s hand was paused in midair, ready to knock on Mrs. Burley’s door. The pause was a significant one, in which Mrs. Turner gave both Ro’s hair and her tunic a pointed look. Ro smoothed her hair and straightened her white blouse and tunic of navy wool. Mrs. Turner reached out and straightened an errant pleat before rapping briskly on the door.

  “Enter!” Mrs. Burley’s voice boomed from inside and Ro’s heart instantly jumped in her chest in the way that your heart does when you are outside a headmistress’s office. Even if you have done nothing wrong.

  Mrs. Turner opened the door and ushered Ro inside. And there was Uncle Henry, as healthy as she had ever seen him, sitting in a high-backed chair on the opposite side of Mrs. Burley’s desk. Ro took a step toward him, relieved. “Goodness, so it is true. You are here. And you haven’t choked on a buttered crumpet after all. I have to say I’m awfully glad!”

  Uncle Henry gave Ro his “silly young flibbertigibbet” look. “As am I, dear Ro. As am I.”

  Mrs. Burley coughed, rather deliberately, Ro thought. “Mrs. Burley,” she said, turning to acknowledge her headmistress with a nod, as Mrs. Turner excused herself and left the three together.

  “Yes, well, Professor Halesworth, perhaps Erato would be best seated for this news?” Mrs. Burley asked. She did not sound altogether pleased by his presence.

  “Hmmm … what? Oh, yes. Yes, do sit down, Ro. There’s a good girl.”

  Ro eased on over into the chair next to her uncle. So there was news? But what on earth could it be?

  Next to her, Uncle Henry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Now, it seems, my dear, that there is some bother. Your aunt paid me a visit this morning. We must go to London for a few days. Perhaps, even, for some time.”

  “London?” Ro frowned. “Whatever for? And for some time? What does that mean? Is Aunt Alice talking to you again?” Aunt Alice was Aunt Charlotte’s sister, who had always detested Uncle Henry and his scholarly ways, which meant he often paid little to no attention to guests, sometimes wandering off midconversation to make a note or two about some project or other he was currently working on.

  “Not your Aunt Alice, Ro. Your Aunt Hestia.”

  “But I don’t have an Aunt Hestia!”

  “I’m afraid you do now,” Uncle Henry said with a sigh.

  “Hestia is a particularly unusual name,” Mrs. Burley piped up. “Do you by any chance mean Hestia Craven?”

  Uncle Henry simply pursed his lips, which Mrs. Burley took as an admission of familial recognition. “Well! I had no idea. Hestia Craven! How very … progressive of you, Professor Halesworth, to have such a relation.”

  Ro’s eyes darted between her headmistress and her uncle. Who on earth was Hestia Craven? And why was Uncle Henry claiming she was her aunt?

  “She is no relation of mine, Madam. Ro, it is about your … other family,” Uncle Henry attempted to explain. His eyes flicked toward Mrs. Burley and Ro knew that he was unwilling to say too much in front of her, which was probably wise. Mrs. Burley was rather prone to gossip and her eyes
had lit up now that she thought some might be on its way. Over the years, and especially since Aunt Charlotte’s death, Uncle Henry had told her dribs and drabs about her other family. She lapped up every piece of information she could, always hoping to hear of even a distant relation of her own age, rather than the five-hundred-year-old great-aunts and third cousins twice removed Uncle Henry always seemed to provide. She had certainly never heard anything about this Aunt Hestia and now Ro found herself clasping her hands firmly together to hold herself back from asking more. Perhaps her Aunt Hestia had children? Even one would do. Ro smiled ruefully at this thought—the truth was, she was so desperate for relations of her own age that she would have been happy with a dog, a cat, or even a flea-ridden orangutan if this Aunt Hestia had been able to provide one. Ro thought of Harriet’s family, allowing herself to imagine, just for a brief moment, what it might be like to have a sister. Even Harriet did not have a sister.

  “Professor Halesworth, despite your famous relation’s call to the city, I must object. This is all very sudden. Erato’s study—”

  Uncle Henry simply waved a hand to interrupt. “She has completed all her examinations and has only a short time left here. I think we all know she has reached the limit of your instruction.”

  “Well, I…” Mrs. Burley opened her mouth in shock at what she’d just heard. But then she closed it again. Everyone in the room knew it to be true. Ro had been reading independently for some time now, guided mostly by her uncle, and was hoping to study medicine at the university after she was finished with her Hayfield Abbey schooling. There was a pause while Mrs. Burley gathered her thoughts. “This is all very sudden,” Mrs. Burley said, finishing with a huff. “Very sudden indeed.”

  “Yes, it is very sudden,” Uncle Henry replied shortly, and Ro knew he had reached the end of his tolerance. “But it is also necessary and would be far easier if you would stop flapping about and making far more fuss of it than need be. I will, of course, pay the remainder of the term’s fees.” He was not the most patient of men and he could not bear dialogue to no effect. Not when he knew he could be otherwise better employed, busy classifying new species of plants, or up to his armpits in a jungle somewhere.

  Mrs. Burley’s hand rose to her throat. “I am sure after the … situation … has passed, Erato will be able to return to her studies. As you know she is an exemplary student and—”

  Uncle Henry rose. “Yes, yes. We shall see. Now, Ro. Go and collect whatever is necessary. You will know what you need. All your silly flibbertigibbet bits and pieces, I expect. Ribbons and kirby grips and so on. Off you toddle.”

  And so, just like that, off Ro toddled. Leaving Hayfield Abbey behind forever.

  Oxfordshire

  “I’m home!” Clio announced as she kicked off her dirtied shoes and entered the warm, inviting, ivy-clad cottage in only her stockinged feet. “You’ll be pleased to hear Mrs. Thrapp’s foot is coming along splendidly. I don’t think it will need bandaging at all next week. She gave us a lovely loaf of bread, but I managed to drop it in a puddle when a motorcar sped past and…” Clio paused now, inside the kitchen. Her mother’s expression was anxious and her face pale as she sat at the table. “Why, whatever’s the matter? Are you feeling sick again? But you looked so well before I left.”

  Her mother shook her head, silently. “It’s not that, Clio dear. There was a visitor. While you were out.”

  “A visitor?” Clio didn’t think much of it. They often had visitors—with a father who was a vicar, this had been a normal occurrence ever since she could remember and had continued even after his death last year, when the pair moved out of the vicarage. Despite the fact that there was a new vicar, people still knew they could always come to the Silsbys’ home for help, or something as simple as a pot of tea and a kind word.

  There was a pause before her mother continued. “You said you saw a motorcar? That was the lady who was here.”

  Clio glanced over at her. “Oh? I’ve seen that car before. Did she know father somehow?”

  Her mother cleared her throat before continuing. “It seems she is your aunt, Clio.” Her mother said the words so softly the girl barely heard them.

  Clio had been fussing about the kitchen, putting bits and pieces away. But now she stopped dead and turned, a saucer in her hand, her mother’s words ringing loud and clear in her head. “My aunt? I have an aunt?” She could only be referring to Clio’s family by birth. Her father’s sister, Clio’s only aunt, had died the year before her father.

  “So it would seem. I did know, vaguely, that you had one. But your father … well, I had no real details to give you..…”

  Clio stepped forward, closer to her mother, and put the saucer carefully down on the wooden kitchen table in front of her lest she drop it. She knew what her mother was referring to. It had always been obvious that she was not her mother and father’s true child. They were both fair and Clio’s dark brown eyes and almost jet-black curls suggested far more exotic origins. Clio knew as much about her real family as her mother did. That there was a baby. The baby needed caring for. A baby was much wanted by the childless couple. And, subsequently, the baby was much loved and cosseted. And that was that. Clio doubted if her mother had asked too many questions. Over the years, Clio had not asked many questions herself. It was not in her nature to be inquiring and she had found it displeased her parents to be reminded of how she had come into their lives.

  Clio paused before asking the obvious question. “What did she want?”

  In front of her, her mother coughed a deep, chesty cough and took a sip of water, the glass shaking slightly in her hand, before continuing. “As it turns out, she would like you to attend a meeting. In London.”

  * * *

  Clio had been worried about one thing or another for almost every second of her train journey. First, there was her mother, who most definitely looked worse this morning than she had for several days after a long, sleepless night spent coughing. Clio had begged to be allowed to stay and nurse her, but her mother would hear nothing of it. This aunt, who Clio had never heard of before, let alone met, had requested her presence in the city and it seemed her mother would have her go, so go she must. In the end, Clio had convinced herself that the journey might be worthwhile, hoping that there might be money on the other end that could buy the services of some sort of fancy city doctor. As it was, they could barely afford to call the local doctor when he was needed.

  It would take two trains to travel to London and Clio was now on the second one. The first train did not take on many passengers and she had shared a carriage with only one older gentleman and two younger gentlemen, which had made her slightly uncomfortable. She needn’t have worried, however. The two younger gentlemen did not acknowledge her presence at all. They spent the entire journey arguing about some man called Scopes. Clio had assumed he was a friend of theirs. Both men had alighted from the train after a few stops, leaving their newspaper behind. When Clio was sure they were gone, she had scooped the newspaper up for herself. What a fool she had felt when she read that Scopes was not a friend of theirs at all, but a man named John Scopes. He had been teaching evolution in a place called Tennessee in America and was now on trial. Clio blushed furiously, feeling as if she had already been found out, even before she had made it to her destination. She was not one for the city and preferred the slower pace of country life. In fact, she had been to London only a very few times before. Flustered by her ignorance, she had folded the newspaper and placed it on the seat beside her. But she could not stop thinking about Scopes and what her father would have had to say about him. Because of her distraction, she had almost missed her stop to change trains.

  Now, as the second train continued to slowly make its way to the city, it became more and more crowded, the seats filling up until every last one was taken.

  With every girl of around her own age that she saw, Clio became more disheartened. The girls here looked so different. At home, no one wore skirts that swished and b
rushed their knees, or had their hair bobbed. Clio had thought she looked smart when she set out this morning, in her best green woolen suit and her black, well-shone shoes with their small heels clicking against the train platform. Anyone in the village could have seen that she was going somewhere special. But now, far away from the hedgerows and thatched cottages she knew so well, she realized she looked all wrong—more like the older women, with all their sensible longer skirts in durable fabrics and dull colors. Any person on this train who glanced at her for even a second would see how hard she had tried, dressing for this outing to the city, and could guess that her usual existence involved much cleaning, washing, and preparing of food. Not like these other fabulous creatures surrounding her, who seemed gay and carefree, chattering away to each other. She was sure they existed only to flit from party to party each evening and to look glamorous behind shop counters and typewriters during the day. As she sat, her head dipped, Clio tried to fool herself into thinking she didn’t really care. What was important now was meeting her aunt and seeing if it might be possible to help her mother’s slowly deteriorating lungs. Not to mention returning home as fast as possible. Hopefully even by this evening.

  * * *

  In Belgravia, Clio placed her small case on the pavement and fished the piece of paper out of her coat pocket for what must have been the five hundredth time. She read the address her mother had written down for her: 32 Belgrave Square. If the directions she had been given were correct, she should only have to cross the next street, turn left, and there Belgrave Square would be. Her heart beating wildly in her chest, she began to worry about her imminent arrival.

  It had been a long walk from Paddington Station—almost an hour—much farther than Clio had thought. Her mother had told her to hail a taxi, but Clio could not find the courage to do so and did not want to waste the money. Twice, she became lost and had no choice but to ask for directions. She had never asked a stranger for directions before. At home, she knew everyone—if she met someone on the street, invariably she would know their mother, father, grandparents, siblings, and all their troubles besides. Here, she knew no one. Everyone moved past her in a blur—they walked so quickly and with such determination. Clio squared her shoulders. She should only have to make one last turn to the left, just up ahead, and she should find herself at Belgrave Square. Clio took a deep breath, picked up her case, and set off once more.