‘It does, Joe. We always wondered why he’d bought the plot next to your mother, Miss Charlotte.’
Charlotte had confided in Peggy and Joe that she’d met her mother. They’d been genuinely shocked and Peggy shook her head, saying yet again, ‘I can’t believe she’s been alive all this time. And that wicked old man has kept you apart. Oh, begging your pardon, miss, I know he’s your father, but . . .’
‘Don’t apologize, Peggy,’ Charlotte said grimly.
‘And you say Mary and Edward knew?’
Charlotte nodded.
‘I reckon that shocks me more than anything else. That Mary’s kept quiet all these years. Never told you . . .’
‘Don’t blame her, Peggy. He’s threatened them. She did what she thought was right to protect me. In a way, I’m glad I didn’t know, because if he’d found out she’d told me, he would have dismissed them both and then where would I have been?’
‘I suppose so,’ Peggy agreed reluctantly. ‘But I don’t think I could have carried such a burden all these years.’
‘You,’ Joe teased, ‘keep secrets? That’d be a first.’
He was rewarded by a playful slap from his wife, but everyone smiled.
Joe was thoughtful. ‘Do you reckon if we tell the vicar – unburden him, like – he’d stay?’
‘I think it’s better to let him go,’ Miles said. ‘Like we said, it’s a constant reminder for the poor chap whilst he’s here. And you knowing might embarrass him even further.’
Joe was looking straight at Charlotte. ‘But do you mind him going, miss?’
‘Me?’ Charlotte was startled.
Miles frowned. ‘Why should Miss Charlotte mind?’
Joe and Peggy exchanged a smile.
‘Because,’ Peggy said softly, ‘we always thought Mr Iveson was sweet on our Miss Charlotte. And she’d make a lovely vicar’s wife.’
‘Did you indeed?’ Miles murmured, so softly that only Charlotte, seated next to him heard.
On the way home Miles was quiet and withdrawn. As she alighted from the car, he gave her a cursory nod and drove away at once. Heavy hearted, Charlotte went into the house to find Mary in a state of panic and wringing her hands.
‘Miss Charlotte, thank goodness you’re home. Your aunt and uncle are here. And there’s such a row going on. Your father’s so angry. He’s shouting—’
‘Oh no! She – she hasn’t told him, has she?’
Forty-Six
Flinging open the door of the sitting room, Charlotte stopped to take in the scene before her.
Her father was standing behind his chair, but hanging on to it for support. Euphemia stood before him, her head thrown back, her bosom heaving with righteous indignation. Percy, meanwhile, had withdrawn as far as the front window, keeping out of the argument as much as he was allowed.
‘Aunt Euphemia . . .’ Charlotte moved forward, trying to ignore the raging row, but her father, purple in the face, shook his free fist at her. ‘Keep out of this, girl. Go to your room. This minute.’
She ignored his order and went to his side. Gently, she said, ‘Father, sit down. You’re distressing yourself.’
His whole body was shaking, his eyes bulging, his face puce.
‘Please, do sit down,’ she urged him again. As his handhold slipped, he fell against her and she manoeuvred him into his chair. Then she turned to face her aunt.
‘Please, Aunt, this is not good for him . . .’ She stopped, appalled as she saw the expression on her aunt’s face. It was no longer the kindly, smiling face of the generous woman. Euphemia’s face was twisted in fury with an expression so like her brother’s that Charlotte was deeply shocked. She moved towards her to beg her, too, ‘Please, Aunt, don’t distress yourself. I don’t know what this is about, but—’
‘It’s about you, my dear. You – and your mother.’
Startled, Charlotte gasped. ‘Please – don’t. I beg you – ’ She lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. ‘You haven’t told him, have you? You haven’t told him that—’
Behind them, Charlotte heard a strange gurgling sound and turned to see her father slumped in the chair, his eyes staring, his mouth gagging open.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’
‘Me? I had nothing to do with it. He’s an evil, deceitful man, who turned our father against Percy and me. He doesn’t like to see anyone happy. Not even his own daughter.’
Charlotte was bending over him. ‘Father – Father – ’ She was hardly listening to what her aunt was saying. But instinctively, she turned to Percy for help. ‘Uncle, please fetch Edward.’
‘Where will I find him?’
‘In the kitchen.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘You stay here. I’ll go.’
But she’d hardly turned towards the door before it opened and Edward hurried into the room. He must have been hovering in the hall, listening to the quarrel.
‘The doctor, Edward. We need the doctor. At once. Get Eddie to go for him. And ask Mary to come.’
After Edward had gone, she said, ‘Do you think we should move him? Get him upstairs into bed?’
Euphemia’s mouth twisted. ‘No, leave him be. Let him die where he is. It’s no more than he deserves.’
‘Euphemia . . .’ At this, even the taciturn Percy protested. ‘That’s rather harsh, my dear.’
Charlotte’s mouth hardened. ‘I think you’d better leave, Aunt, if you please.’
‘Oh, I’m going.’ Euphemia was smiling now, but it was a hard, embittered smile. Beckoning imperiously to Percy, she flounced out of the room, her parting words shocking Charlotte. ‘I’ve done what I came to do.’
‘He’s had a stroke,’ the doctor pronounced. ‘A bad one. The next few days will be critical.’
‘Should he go to hospital?’
‘Moving him might do more damage than letting him stay here.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Can you afford a private nurse to live in for a week or so?’
‘Of course. Anything.’
Dr Markham touched her cheek gently. ‘You’re a good girl, Charlotte,’ he murmured. ‘Not many daughters would be so caring after the way you’ve been treated.’
‘He’s still my father,’ she said softly.
‘And you,’ the doctor insisted, ‘are a remarkable young woman.’ He cleared his throat and said more briskly, ‘I’ll make arrangements. She’ll arrive by tonight.’
‘She’ll have to have my bed, Mary. I’ll sleep on the truckle bed. We can screen off one end of the room.’
For the rest of the day, until early evening when the nurse arrived, Charlotte sat by her father’s bedside. There was little she could do for him. She had no nursing knowledge and was afraid of doing more harm than good. She didn’t even sit holding his hand. He was asleep or unconscious – she wasn’t sure which. But her touch was not what her father would have wanted, she thought wryly.
Whilst she sat in the stillness of the sick room, her thoughts wandered over the years and all the events that had occurred in her life. Some, she’d learned so recently, were not what she’d thought they’d been at the time. Like the death of her mother. How could her father have been so vindictive, so vengeful? And how on earth had he managed to get others to join in his deception? Bribery, she thought, or threats. In the case of Harry Warren, she supposed, it had probably been a mixture of the two. A threat that he’d be dismissed if he didn’t carry out Osbert’s wishes and, at the same time, a promise that he and his family would always have work and a home if he went along with his employer’s devious schemes. But, even so, Charlotte could not comprehend Harry agreeing to his wife being buried in someone else’s grave, with no stone to mark her final resting place and nowhere for his family to visit and cherish her memory.
And the vicar? How could any man of the cloth agree to such a terrible deception? The vicar at that time had been an old man. Charlotte remembered him vaguely. Perhaps her father had had some hold over him, too, or he’d promised him a comf
ortable old age in return for his complicity. She sighed. Osbert Crawford was a difficult and complex man with a streak of cruelty. But at this moment she felt desperately sorry for him. Despite his treatment of her, his lack of love, his hatred almost, because she’d been born a girl and not the son he craved, she felt only pity for him. He’d wasted his whole life yearning for something that could not be – was never going to be after he’d treated his young wife so abominably that she’d been forced to flee for her life.
She didn’t blame her mother. Not any more. She wanted – needed – to believe in her. To believe that the reason she’d abandoned her small daughter had been forced upon her. Staying would have endangered her sanity, perhaps even her life. But the last few hours, Charlotte realized, had sadly disillusioned her about her aunt.
Euphemia was little better than her brother. Charlotte suspected that her actions – on the surface, kind and caring – had been for one reason and one reason only. To wreak revenge on the brother who had tried to rule her life and had succeeded in turning their father against her. Deep down, she was as embittered and vengeful as he was. Now Charlotte was sure this was the reason Euphemia had come back to Buckthorn Farm, had pretended affection for her niece, and had reunited her with her mother. It had all been for her own ends. Had she taken Alice in all those years earlier just to spite Osbert? Charlotte wondered, but realized she would probably never know the answer to that. She sighed. At least, her mother had seemed contented. She hoped it was the truth.
Nurse Montgomery – soon nicknamed ‘Monty’ – was in her early thirties. She was round-faced with a jollity that belied a fearsome, protective attitude towards her patient. Charlotte was relieved to hand over the responsibility to the capable woman, remarking only, ‘Please let me know if there’s anything you want.’
‘I most certainly will, Miss Crawford, of that you can be sure.’
Thankfully, Charlotte escaped back to her office.
Nurse Monty took charge, requesting that the truckle bed be moved into Osbert’s large bedroom.
‘I need to be able to listen for him in the night,’ she explained.
‘I’m so sorry we haven’t another proper bed; perhaps—’ Charlotte began, but the nurse waved aside her apologies. ‘I’ve slept on worse, believe you me.’
On the fourth day after his stroke, Osbert was roused out of unconsciousness. There was some paralysis, one side of his face was dragged down and he could not speak, but he could make angry signs that he wanted to write. Nurse Montgomery called for Charlotte to bring a pad and a pen to his bedside and with his unaffected hand he wrote in shaky, but quite legible handwriting, two words: Philip Baxter.
Deciphering it, the nurse asked, ‘Philip Baxter? Who’s he?’
‘It’s two people,’ Charlotte explained. ‘Mr Baxter is his solicitor and Philip is Philip Thornton.’
The nurse eyed her patient, lying back against the pillows, quite exhausted by the effort. ‘Then I think,’ she said quietly, ‘you’d better send for them both.’
‘I’ll send for the solicitor, but Philip’s away at school – ’
Her father waved his good arm angrily and made gurgling noises.
‘I think he wants you to send for him,’ the nurse interpreted.
Charlotte shrugged. ‘I can only ask his father.’
She left the room with Osbert shaking his fist at her.
‘I’ll send Brewster to fetch him.’ Miles glanced at Charlotte, trying to read her expression. ‘If that’s what you want me to do?’
When she nodded, he said, ‘Then I’ll write a note to the headmaster explaining the situation.’
The solicitor arrived that same afternoon and Philip was home by nightfall. The following morning the solicitor visited again, bringing Philip with him. They were closeted with Osbert for over an hour and a half, before summoning the nurse and Edward into the room.
When they all emerged, Mr Baxter looked grim and somewhat shell-shocked, Charlotte fancied, whilst Philip was smiling smugly.
‘Mr Baxter . . . ?’ Charlotte began, but the man merely rammed his hat on to his head, gave her a curt nod, and hurried out of the front door. Meanwhile, Philip stood in the centre of the hall looking around him.
‘There’ll have to be some changes made,’ he muttered before he followed the solicitor from the house, leaving Charlotte staring after them.
‘He’s really done it, hasn’t he? He’s made his will and – and he’s left Buckthorn Farm to Philip Thornton. Just like he threatened he would do.’
Forty-Seven
Charlotte was devastated. Until it was actually in writing, signed, sealed and witnessed, a tiny part of her had still clung to the hope that leaving Buckthorn Farm to Philip had been just another of her father’s threats. He enjoyed playing with people’s lives, manipulating them.
But now it was done. After her father’s death, Buckthorn Farm would no longer belong to a member of the Crawford family.
Contrary to everyone’s expectations – including his own – Osbert did not die. Slowly, he began to recover. He would never regain the full use of one arm but his speech returned, though he slurred his words and became angry and frustrated if people couldn’t understand him.
‘I really thought we were getting rid of the old bugger at last,’ Edward muttered to his wife.
‘Huh! Him? He’ll live to be a hundred and twenty – just to spite us all. It’s that lass I feel sorry for. She’s trapped now for good an’ all. And for what? To hand over the farm to that – that good for nothing when the old man does die.’
Life settled back into much the same routine that had existed before Euphemia’s arrival. Just as before, Osbert never mentioned her and whether or not he’d known that Charlotte had learned the truth about her mother, it wasn’t spoken of between them. But just now and again Charlotte caught a wary look in her father’s eyes. Whenever that happened, he would turn his head away, avoiding her gaze.
At the end of six weeks, just before Christmas, Nurse Montgomery declared that she was no longer needed and Dr Markham agreed. ‘Edward and Mary can manage him between them. He’s regained enough use in his limbs not to be helpless. He just needs a little assistance now and again.’ Then the kindly doctor turned to Charlotte and asked, ‘But what about you, my dear? I – er – ’ He cleared his throat in embarrassment. ‘I understand your father has not left you provided for in his will.’
Charlotte sighed. ‘So it would seem.’
‘Then it’s high time you got on with the rest of your life, whatever you want that to be.’
She smiled thinly and promised, ‘I’ll think about it.’
But what could she do? Whilst she would keep in touch with them – and especially with her mother – she had no desire now to live with her aunt. She’d seen another side to the woman and life under her roof, Charlotte was sure, would be little different to the one she had now. Euphemia would be every bit as domineering as her brother. She wondered why her mother had stayed with them all these years? But perhaps the answer was very simple. She had nowhere else to go.
So Charlotte made her decision. However bleak and dismal her future seemed, she would stay with her father. She would do her duty and continue to run Buckthorn Farm.
She wrote carefully worded letters to her mother and to her aunt, making no direct reference to Euphemia’s recent visit and the catastrophe it had caused. She merely thanked her aunt for her kind offer of a home, but stated that her duty lay with her father. She hoped that they would allow her to visit them, maybe staying a few days so that she might get to know her mother. To her mother, whom she didn’t blame in any way for Euphemia’s outburst, she expressed affection and a hope that they might meet often. She posted the letters and bravely faced her bleak future; a future devoted to caring for a man who didn’t deserve her sacrifice. Her decision had not been made out of fear of him – she was no longer afraid of his anger – but because of her own sense of duty and loyalty.
‘Honour thy f
ather and thy mother,’ was her faith’s teaching. The good book said nothing about ‘only if they should deserve it’.
So Charlotte settled her mind to the future, taking delight in her work. She loved Buckthorn Farm and – for the time being at least – it was still hers in all but name. She revelled in her continuing involvement with the Sunday school, for she loved the children. All of them – even the naughty ones!
And she counted the hours till she might see Miles again.
‘So, another Christmas is upon us,’ Miles said as they walked along the sand, leading their horses.
Their ‘chance’ encounters were not so much by accident now. At least, not on Charlotte’s side. She knew when Miles was likely to be riding Midnight along the beach.
‘I do hope you’ll be able to join us at some time over the festive period. Philip and Ben will be home and – ’ he paused and smiled, ‘Felix is coming to stay with us over Christmas. As you might remember, he has no immediate family and life, even in the hustle and bustle of London, can be very lonely at such times.’
‘How lovely!’ she said and her pleasure was genuine. She’d liked the flamboyant artist.
She felt Miles’s glance upon her as he added quietly, ‘And he’s asked specifically if you will be with us.’
‘Has he?’ She looked at him. ‘How kind.’
‘I don’t think it’s kindness, my dear. He likes your company.’ Very softly, so quietly that she wasn’t sure whether she had heard aright, he added, ‘As do we all.’
Charlotte was invited to the manor to dine with the family and Felix on Boxing Day.
‘Come and see all my presents,’ Georgie greeted her excitedly, dragging her up the stairs to the playroom. ‘I’ve got a train set. A Hornby clockwork one. Ben’s setting it all up for me. It’s got enough track to run all the way round the room. And carriages and even little people.’ He flung open the door with a flourish. ‘Look!’
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