*
It wasn’t revenge that had kept Elizabeth awake for hours, but guilt. Guilt that she had caused her young brother to suffer such drastic punishment, guilt that she was leaving him and their mother to face Joshua’s ire. Even guilt for the betrayal she was about to visit on her father. He was not an easy man, but for her entire life he had loved her as well as he was able.
That love, though, was no longer a shield. He had known Eddie’s death was deliberate and he must have deduced, as she had, where the responsibility lay. Yet he had done nothing to bring the culprit to justice. On the contrary, he had covered up the crime and persuaded his men to do the same. She wondered if he’d also realised the true nature of the attacks on William. And if he had, why he’d chosen to look away. Why, when he hated Henry Fitzroy, he had become complicit in his brother-in-law’s wickedness. For an hour or so, she had wanted to march into the smoking room and demand an explanation, but she knew she would not get one. Her father had decided on a course and he would not be deflected.
It seemed incredible that such a highly intelligent man could refuse to acknowledge the truth, but in his own way, Joshua was as obsessive as her uncle, and the lure of marrying her into an old family must have taken possession of his mind. This was his chance to become part of a world that for so long he’d craved to join, and he would do nothing to jeopardise it. He was horribly mistaken. Any marriage that Henry sponsored would ostracise him even further. Once she was married into the Fitzroy family, her uncle would find a way of cutting all ties with Summerhayes, and Joshua would lose his daughter for ever. But she would never be able to convince her father of that.
When she looked in on William and his friend, she felt vindicated. She was doing the right thing. It was early still and they were both sleeping, their faces innocent and unguarded. She walked quietly over to her brother’s bed and bent over him. With the utmost gentleness, she stroked a soft finger down one side of his cheek. She would make sure that he reached maturity unmolested, untroubled by threats he could barely understand. Quietly, she closed the door on the sleeping boys, and stole down the oak staircase, golden in the sunlight that poured itself into every corner of the hall. She would breakfast early and hope to avoid her father. The memory of William’s howls of pain was still too raw.
But Joshua had been another early riser and, when she walked through the dining room door, he was already filling a plate from the silver serving dishes lining the top of the sideboard. A quick glance in her direction and a gruff ‘Good day’ was all he offered. The brittle silence spoke more loudly than any words and she longed to turn around and flee back to her room. But she was trapped and would have to make at least a show of eating. They sat at either end of the long dining table, she toying with a piece of toast and her father chewing his way through eggs, sausages and devilled kidneys. The ticking of the large mahogany clock seemed to grow louder with every minute.
She was mentally concocting an excuse, any excuse, to leave – a spurious errand for her mother perhaps – when the door to the dining room was flung back with such violence that it struck the panelling behind. Mr Harris stood on the threshold. Her father looked up from his half-eaten breakfast, annoyance flickering across his face. ‘Harris? What the devil is the matter, man?’
The head gardener was a man of few words and even fewer emotions. She saw with surprise that his hands were shaking and that he was kneading the cap he carried with an almost frenzied force. Seeing him so oddly agitated was unnerving.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ he began, ‘but I had to come up to the house straight away.’
‘Obviously you did.’ Joshua was terse. ‘But why? What has happened to throw you into such a pucker?’
Mr Harris shook his head dumbly, unable to find the words he needed. ‘Speak up, man,’ Joshua commanded. The master of the house was not in the habit of having his breakfast interrupted and was losing whatever patience he had. ‘What has happened?’ he asked again.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘You must come, sir,’ Harris managed to say at last. ‘You must come and see.’
The man’s voice echoed around the room, dull and defeated, as though emptied of all vitality. It was that, more than his words, that made Joshua take notice. She could see gradual foreboding taking hold of her father’s face. Without another word, he rose from the table and followed Harris from the room. She went to follow, for uneasiness had given way to alarm. But her father stayed her and she had no choice but to do as he commanded.
For nearly an hour she waited in the drawing room. Its glass doors gave on to the terrace and she had a clear view of a considerable length of the garden. She had almost given up when she saw their two figures emerging from the rose arbour and stopping halfway across the lawn. They were talking, her father giving his gardener some kind of instruction. But it was Joshua’s face that smote her. It was ghastly, as though painted from nightmare. She ran out on to the terrace and met him coming up the steps. His feet dragged on every piece of paving, and she wondered if he would ever reach the top.
‘Whatever is the matter, Papa?’
The furrows in his face were carved deep and there seemed to be tears in his eyes. She looked again and was sure of it. She had never before seen her father cry. ‘What is it?’ she asked, genuinely panicked.
‘The Italian Garden is ruined.’ The words fell lifelessly from his lips.
‘But how can that be?’
He took her arm and leant heavily on it. She could feel the weight of him dragging her down, but she tried to hold firm, too shaken to know what else to do.
‘Every plant has been destroyed, scythed to the ground.’ The shock of his announcement jabbed at her heart, but now he had begun his tale, he couldn’t stop. ‘The ornamental paving has been cracked into a thousand pieces. It is ruined, completely ruined. And the summerhouse roof has been so badly attacked that the building is likely to fall to the ground at any minute.’
Her heart went out to him. She had wanted to punish him for his attack on William but this was too much. Who would do such a thing?
‘Who would do such a thing?’ she said aloud.
‘Who indeed?’ Still leaning on her, he began to shake his head slowly from side to side. He was like some bewildered and tormented beast, and it made her feel ill to see it.
‘Amberley?’ she dared to whisper.
He straightened up then and splayed his legs wide, as though in that way he might find a secure footing. ‘Not Amberley, no one from Amberley. It can’t be. Cornford has built a spiked barrier to ring the entire estate and he told me just yesterday that he’d had the stonemason block an old rear entrance.’
‘It’s possible that someone dismantled a part of the barrier, or perhaps climbed over it. Someone who was very determined.’ The same determined someone, her thoughts were saying, who’d come the night Eddie was murdered.
‘Certainly determined,’ her father said bitterly. ‘But a person from Summerhayes.’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘That can’t be.’
He’d begun to shake his head again in the dumb fashion she found terrifying. She tried coaxing him to walk towards the drawing room doors, but he seemed unable to move. Instead, he stood, legs still splayed, looking blankly ahead. She’d given up any hope that he might speak again when he said, ‘Harris tells me the scythe from the tool shed has been used.’ The words were jerked out of him. ‘The boy cleaned it last night – it was the last job he did before retiring – but this morning it is green with plant juice.’
The implications of Harris’s discovery were appalling. A person who was known to her, someone close at hand, had deliberately destroyed her father’s dream, destroyed his life even. She could not bear to think it, and instead delved for what comfort she could find.
‘The garden can be put back again. If it can be built once, it can be built again.’
‘It cannot. It will never be the same.’
She could see that the ideal he carried in his
heart had been vandalised as thoroughly as the garden itself, tainted to such a degree that he would walk away from what had been his greatest desire. For his own salvation, she must try to make him see differently.
‘Not the same, perhaps, but a new garden can be as beautiful. Give it time, Papa.’
There was a bitter twist to his face. ‘Time is not mine to give. Look below.’ He gestured towards the kitchen garden, way in the distance. She could just make out the group of small figures, and it seemed to her that, despite it being Sunday, every gardener on the estate was gathered there. They had collected their tools and as she watched, each man, one by one, laid down the implements they carried.
‘Even if I wanted to rebuild, I couldn’t. It’s men I’d need and it’s men I won’t have.’
Mr Harris had reappeared at the bottom of the terrace steps. ‘They’re going then, Harris?’ her father asked.
‘Yes, sir. Every man jack of them.’
‘Going where?’ This morning had left her struggling.
‘Morning, Miss Elizabeth.’ Harris appeared to have regained his customary calm. He doffed his cap to her as though he were seeing her for the first time that day. ‘The men are off to Worthing,’ he explained. ‘The army’s recruiting there and they’re walking in to enlist. I did hear as there was going to be a Southdown battalion, part of the Royal Sussex. A pals’ regiment or some such.’ Harris’s tone suggested that joining the battalion would be akin to entertainment, a fun day by the seaside. He passed up a leather-bound volume. ‘I’ve brought you the day book, sir. I thought that mebbe you should have it from now on.’
She glanced across at the open page. The last heading was Saturday, 8 August, 1914, and a thick black line had been drawn beneath the list of completed tasks. From now on, it seemed, the day book would remain blank.
Her father half turned to her. ‘You see, my dear, it can’t be put right. The dream is over.’
He began to shake so violently then that his whole body dissolved into spasms and was in danger of toppling to the ground. She was not strong enough to support his bulk and, seeing this, Mr Harris leapt up the steps with an alacrity that belied his fifty years, and took hold of his master’s arm. He guided Joshua through the open doors into the drawing room.
‘Call your mistress immediately,’ he said to the maid zealously polishing the fluted arches of a mirror. ‘The master is in need of her.’
*
After his destructive revel, Oliver had fallen into a heavy sleep, and William had to tug at his arm before he could wake him.
‘Are you all right, Olly?’ He looked anxiously down at his friend. ‘It’s not like you to sleep so late.’
Oliver half opened his eyes, then yawned and gave himself a long, lazy stretch.‘I’m fine. In fact, more than fine.’
There was a note of euphoria in his voice that seemed odd, but William ignored it and stepped away from the bed to walk to the window. ‘Come here and look. The men are all lined up on the lawn.’
Oliver hung back and that was a trifle odd, too. He would have thought him nervous if that wasn’t so silly, and he beckoned to him again, this time more urgently. His friend eventually shuffled over to join him and together they watched as the gardeners moved off, walking two by two, back across the lawn and out to the side gate that led to the road and the village.
‘What do you make of that?’ William asked.
‘No idea, old chap. Perhaps they got wind of your beating and they’re walking out in protest.’
He was astonished. ‘Why ever would they do that? What happens in the house is nothing to do with them, and in any case I deserved the beating.’
Olly stared at him. ‘That’s rubbish,’ he said hotly. ‘How could you possibly deserve to be hurt in that way?’
‘I carried a message when I knew it was wrong. I deliberately deceived my parents. Papa was right when he said I was guilty of the worst kind of behaviour.’
Without thinking, it seemed, Olly put out his hands and gave him a rough shake. ‘I don’t want ever to hear you say that.’ William winced at the contact. ‘Sorry,’ his friend muttered. ‘But see, you’re still in pain from what he did to you. How can you excuse him? It was barbaric and I’m glad his precious garden is destroyed.’
‘What do you mean, destroyed?’ Fear pinched at him. Something bad had happened and Olly was at its centre.
‘The Italian Garden he dotes on. It’s destroyed.’
He stared at his friend unseeingly. Then backed several steps away. ‘What have you done?’
‘I just took a few tools to it, but enough to make the garden a sorry sight.’
He tottered across the room and slumped back onto his bed, ‘How could you, Olly? How could you do that? It was my father’s dream.’
‘Exactly. That’s why. He hurt the one thing I love so I decided that I’d hurt the one thing he loved. And I must say I was spectacularly successful.’ He couldn’t quite restrain a grin.
William hardly noticed. His gaze was fixed on the faded Persian rug, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the misery he carried. ‘It’s a most terrible thing that you’ve done.’
‘It was a terrible thing that he hurt you.’ Olly sounded impatient. ‘Why can’t you see how badly he treated you?’
‘It was my own fault that I got a beating. You must know that. I did a bad thing and I deserved to be punished.’ He looked up then, his eyes heavy with resignation. ‘Whatever he did, he’s my father and I owe him my loyalty.’
‘Then you’re mad.’
‘I’m his son,’ he said stubbornly. ‘What you’ve done is unforgivable. My wounds will heal, my father’s won’t.’
‘I hope they don’t. And when you’ve had the chance to mull it over, you’ll hope so too. So mull away after I’ve gone.’
William did not reply, retreating into a world where his friend couldn’t follow. Would never again follow. Oliver turned back from the window and came to stand in front of him. ‘I’m leaving today, remember? Pa is coming at midday to collect me.’ He sounded a little uncertain. ‘But we’ll be back at school in a few weeks and we’ll meet up then.’
But they wouldn’t. The ground had shifted and nothing would be the same again. He would see Oliver, but it would be from afar. They would no longer meet as friends, as dear friends, and somehow he must endure school without him. The boy he had loved had gone.
‘I bet by the time I see you, you’ll be singing my praises!’ Oliver’s rousing tone emerged flat.
He braced himself to say what he must. ‘I won’t, Olly. And going back to school will make no difference.’ He got to his feet. He was standing inches from his companion and looking directly into his face. ‘We can’t be friends, not any longer.’ His eyes brimmed with unshed tears. ‘We can’t be with each other any more.’
‘What! That’s crazy, Wills. I know you’re angry with me but I acted out of love for you. You’ve got to understand that. You’ve got to forgive.’
‘I can’t and I can’t be friends with someone who has hurt my father so badly.’ He spoke from a well of unhappiness. ‘I love him and I have to be loyal.’
For several minutes, Oliver stood immobile, as though pinned to the floor by invisible bonds. Then he found his voice, dull and stupefied. ‘You’re saying we’re not to be friends any more? You can’t mean that.’
‘But I do,’ and the sadness of the world was in his words.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Two hours after Oliver’s departure, the hot weather broke. It had been building for a storm from early afternoon and towards evening the sky mushroomed into a dark, smothering blanket, and the first drops of rain began to patter against the studio window. Elizabeth had been sitting at her easel ever since she’d waved goodbye to the boy and his father. It had been a sad leave-taking, with William nowhere in sight and Olly uncharacteristically withdrawn. Whatever William had said to him had robbed his friend of all spirit.
But it wasn’t Oliver and his troubles
that were preoccupying her. It was her own. The fear of what lay ahead. When she was with Aiden, the strength of his love sent fear chasing into the shadows. It was when she was alone that it took hold and grew. She found herself unable to work, unable even to place a brushstroke of paint on the canvas. Her small valise was packed and hidden deep in the sandalwood wardrobe, far from inquisitive eyes. Not that there were many. Only Ivy, once more in attendance on her, was likely to discover the bag, but the girl was listless and uncomprehending, a ghost of her former self. Her duties as a lady’s maid were carried out as well as ever, but now in mechanical fashion. It would be many months, many years maybe, before she recovered from the tragedy visited on her.
She longed to take the maid into her confidence, to say a proper goodbye, but she dared not. Ivy would never betray her, but the last thing she wanted was for the girl to be subjected to Joshua’s savage questioning. The maid must have no knowledge of the mistress’s plan. But when it was over and Ivy left in need of a new post, she was confident one would be waiting. Her mother would welcome the girl with open arms. Alice’s maid was elderly and would have retired already but for her mistress’s unhappiness at having a new woman wait on her. Ivy would fill the role perfectly. The girl had shared most of her life with the family and now had shared with them this most dreadful of summers.
She’d resolved she would keep strictly to a familiar routine and allow no clue to escape of what she intended, but when Ivy came to dress her for the last time, she could not stop herself marking the moment in some small way. ‘I’d like you to have this.’ She handed her maid the pearl necklace she had been given when presented at court the previous year. In future, she would have no need of such expensive baubles, but it might one day benefit the girl, even if only to sell it.
Ivy gasped. ‘I can’t take that, miss. It was your father’s gift. It was your presentation necklace, that and the earrings.’
‘I know,’ she answered tranquilly. ‘I still have the earrings but as for the necklace – I’d like it to go to someone I care for.’
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