This was my house now, I’d left Hethering behind. Could I accept my new home? Would it accept me?
“You were Mr. Dane’s nurse?” I asked Thérèse.
“He was a rowdy boy,” she said, her hand on the shape of a rocking horse shrouded in a dust sheet. “Many fragile objéts had to be protected from his merriment.”
“And what of Mr. Rutherford Dane?” I asked. “Surely he too was — er, boisterous?”
“He lived in London with his parents. Monsieur Edward was much younger, an afterthought, I believe. They spared him little interest.” Her dark eyes flashed with the memory.
“The two of you lived here alone — with other servants.”
“Yes,” she said. “When he went to school, I was dismissed.”
“But — how?”
“When Mr. Edward inherited this property, he found me and I became his housekeeper. His last charge was to keep this home safe for you. But if you prefer another servant, he made arrangements for a tenancy in the cottage at the edge of the property.”
“Oh, no. Mr. Dane’s wishes must be carried out.”
I pulled another dustcover from a small chair and sat down on it. “Will you help me Thérèse ? Will you help me put things back where they belong?”
She didn’t answer and nervous words poured from my mouth.
“I didn’t know Mr. Dane. He died shortly after I was born, and I, well, I —”
“I know the circumstances of your birth, Mademoiselle.”
I waited a moment longer for her next words. “I will help you.”
The last room I saw was on the same level as the bedchambers, tucked behind two others. It was small with three windows to the north, filled with a glowing pearly light. A plain table and chair stood in the center, facing the windows. Behind them was a wall fitted with large and small cabinets and drawers. I opened them all. They were empty, but smelled of linseed oil.
For the first time I saw uncertainty and a wish to please on Thérèse’s face.
“This will do,” I said with warm praise in my voice and was rewarded with a pinking of her pale cheeks. “I’ll send to London for supplies.”
“There are many artists in St. Ives, Mademoiselle. You will find what you need in the village.”
During the next few weeks, we worked together to bring the house back to its former glory. I filled the cubbies of my workroom with a rainbow of paints and myriad papers and brushes. I explored the quaint garden, walled to protect its plantings from the sea. I looked for ghosts without success, but from time to time I felt their eyes watching me.
I settled into my new home, lonely, but happy in my work. I finished a set of illustrations that pleased my publisher who requested only a few thoughtful changes. Thérèse and I rattled along together. It was an odd arrangement, a mistress so young with one elderly servant, but bit by bit we negotiated our relationship.
One morning I sat in the sunny lady’s parlor, a cozy room adjacent to the formal salon with its stiff backed furniture. I stitched away at a floral pillow cover, the first of many planned for my new home. The sound of the door knocker startled me. Thérèse and I lived a quiet life.
She came to find me. “Mr. Rutherford Dane,” she said and pursed her mouth.
“Bring him to the salon.” I was apprehensive, but I smoothed my skirt and greeted him with courtesy. I asked him to sit down. He refused refreshment.
“You are settled here?”
I jumped a bit at of his loud voice and said yes.
“Have you made peace with the staff?”
I looked at him, puzzled. He laughed. “Madame has no liking for me.”
I said nothing.
“Don’t look down your nose, few people like me.”
His nose was the twin of mine. In better circumstances he would be my uncle.
“I’m your uncle, you know. Show some respect.” His ability to read my thoughts was disconcerting. As I bristled at his brusque command, I realized his words were meant as a joke.
“Why are you here, Mr. Dane?”
He nodded his approval at my directness. “I’ve no heirs, Miss Marchmont. I’ve buried two wives and have no children. You’re it, I’m afraid.”
“You might marry again.”
“I’ve no talent for it. Women find me charmless.”
Charmless and deafening. “Your brother left me wealthy. You need not add to my circumstances.”
“But I might choose to.”
“As you wish.”
“Of course it’s my wish!” I managed to remain upright in the gale of his roar. “I might wish to visit again. Will you admit me?”
“I might.”
His eyes twinkled. “More side than I gave you credit for. I’ll come again.”
I’d need ear muffs. I rang a little bell Thérèse left by my side. “Mr. Dane is leaving.”
She showed him to the door, then brought tea to my parlor where I had resumed stitching. “Gone for good, Mademoiselle?”
“Sadly no.”
*
The next day, another visitor. Henry Putnam’s solid form followed Thérèse into the salon. He did want tea.
“You were surprised I fled London?” I stirred three spoons of sugar into his cup.
“I met your cousin, Jeremy, at an embassy reception. He asked after your health.”
“Did you give him my direction?” For a moment the light in the room faded. I blinked and stiffened my spine.”
“I did not. If you left so soon, without warning, you had a very good reason.”
I relaxed and sipped my tea.
“Miss Marchmont, Clarissa, is there no other way I can assist you?” His eyes, so kind, held an element of longing that I recognized because I felt it too.
“I’m so sorry, there is nothing.” I longed for Jeremy.
Henry left after tea, but forgot his walking stick. I answered the hasty knock myself. “Did you forget —?”
Jeremy stood at my door, his head bowed, his dark eyes filled with hope and fear.
Chapter Eighteen
I jumped past him onto the stone steps and shut the door behind me. “Come with me.” I led him into the walled garden and I closed the gate with a bang.
“How did you find me?”
“I’ve diplomatic access to shipping records,” he said. “You don’t want me in your home?”
“I can’t bear to have a memory of you there.” The truth was hard to say and he flinched to hear it. “Leave me in peace, Jeremy.”
“Are you in peace?” His voice broke on that last word.
“I’m trying.”
He turned and walked away from me toward the hard breaking waves of the November sea, then at once he was back, blocking my escape. He seized my cold hands in his warm ones, they were always warm, and he dropped to his knees in front of me.
“Jemmy, don’t.” What was he about? He didn’t dare propose marriage. He was trapped with Caroline.
“Clarry, I beg your forgiveness for every wrong I have done you. I should never have listened to your father, I should have heard your voice only.”
He’d spoken first with his head bowed, but now he looked up into my eyes. “I should never have married, should never have made anyone but you my wife.”
He held my gaze with pleading eyes and stood up. He was so close to me, only our clasped hands separated our yearning bodies.
“Far worse, Clarry, I stole from you, I stole a wealth of love I didn’t deserve, and left you to suffer.”
“Can you ever forgive me?” He d braced his body for my rejection, but I’d forgiven him as he spoke, forgiven him without the interference of my conscious mind. I didn’t dare tell him that. I had to send him away. I gathered the strength to see him off, but something deep within me rebelled.
“Damn you, Jeremy.” There was anger and grief and undying love in my gritted words. I loved him before, I loved him now. I would always, always love him.
“You despise me.”
“I love you.” There was no softness in my declaration.
“But you will cast me off. Don’t do it, Clarry. We belong to each other. We can’t be apart. Not forever. Don’t say forever.”
“Come.” I took his hand and led him to a salt stained wooden bench. I gave him my handkerchief.
“I need your forgiveness, Clarry.”
“I forgive you,” I said, “But—”
“I don’t know how to go on,” he said. “You decide for us. I’ve made a fatal mess of our lives. I’ll do what you want.”
“I want you to honor your marriage,” I said. “I’ll live here. We’ll be apart.”
“But I will never stop wanting you,” he whispered.
The wind had risen fierce around us, though we sat in a circle of pale sunlight.
“I can never stop loving you,” I said at last, and a kind of peace came into his eyes.
He drew my head down against his shoulder and we sat together for a time that must last us through our separate lives.
“This is well kept land,” Jeremy mused, his arm still tight around my shoulders. “Is there room for a folly?”
“Follies belong at Hethering,” I said. “I hadn’t thought to make one here.”
“I’ve made my follies.” His laugh was short with bitterness. “Listening to your father, leaving you, marrying Caroline, giving in to our love before I was free, hiding the reason I couldn’t make it right. Five follies. Mad Madison has nothing on me.”
“Geneva was not a folly,” I said, my voice trembling.
“Chasing you to ground here. Is that folly?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But I feel better somehow, though nothing has changed.”
“But we’re right with each other? At least we have that?”
“Yes,” I said, and felt his body relax against me.
“You won’t return to London?”
“I’m content here. This can be my home.”
“It’s yours then? Not leased.”
“Part of my mother’s estate, mine when I turned twenty-one.” I would not tell him that Richard Marchmont was not my father, that we had been free to make a life together. Jeremy’s volatile nature would take us down paths of misery and dishonor.
“I see it can be a refuge for you. But what of Hethering?”
“Hethering is a sad place for me without you.”
“And when I’m there I only look for you.” He bent his head, his face so near to mine.
“Clarry, please,” he said. “Don’t let this place be your refuge. I beg you, let it be me.”
“And I yours?” From a small boy, he could talk me into anything.
“And you mine, please God. If I know I can count on you at the last, and I know you will summon me when you must, then I can face this life I am left.”
I nodded, and our foreheads came to rest one against the other.
“If you need me, if you need anything, you will send for me — promise me Clarry.” His lips brushed mine as he spoke my name.
“You promise too.”
He took off his signet ring, the ring Richard Marchmont gave him when he made Jeremy heir to Hethering. Jemmy put the ring in my left hand and closed my fingers around it.
He left soon after, without entering my home. We both knew it was best. When I came back to warm my chilled hands at the fire in the salon hearth, Thérèse approached me.
“Mr. Putnam returned for his cane,” she said. I wondered if he had seen me with Jeremy in the garden. “Will you want your supper at the usual hour?” she said.
“Just tea and toast.”
“The gentleman in the garden, you sent him away?”
“I had to,” I said, my lips crimped.
Her eyes softened. “I’ll make an omelette aux fines herbes as well,” she said in a voice that did not invite argument. “You need your strength.”
*****
Days passed one by one from the moment Jeremy left my walled garden, each one shorter than the one before. Darkness came earlier each night. It was only right. My mood grew darker too.
It was different than before. When I was running from Jeremy, our situation still contained possibilities. Would he come after me? Would he find me? What would happen next? Now I knew how my life would be. It would never change, or so I believed.
Thérèse saw my growing depression. Every day after tea she tempted me back to life by bringing down another box or trunk from the attic. As we unpacked each carefully wrapped ornament she described its place in the house and why it belonged there. I began to understand Edward Dane’s brief life.
I turned the pages of his sketchbooks, so faithfully preserved by Thérèse, and saw his world through his eyes. We made a special shelf for them in the studio. They deserved to come home.
One Sunday after church service Thérèse took me to see his gravestone at the furthest corner of the churchyard. I put a small bouquet of hothouse flowers beneath his name and dates, their petals touching the inscription “He was dearly loved”.
“Your mother ordered his headstone,” Thérèse told me, “though she never saw it.”
*
Two days later I had a letter from Amalia Pickety.
“Your father is ill,” she wrote. “He won’t discuss it with me, nor does he ask for your direction, but he comes to tea every few days and gives such speaking looks. Mr. Pickety has made confidential enquiries. It’s believed that your father suffers from congestive heart failure.”
Heart failure, I considered on a cold day in early December. I sat on the same garden bench I’d shared with Jeremy. His heart is failing him too. Mrs. Pickety had not asked anything of me, but I began to consider a journey I never thought to make again: a journey back to Hethering.
Within the week a messenger boy on his bicycle brought a wire from my former governess.
“Your father is dying,” it read. “If you will come, come now.”
*
I remember less of my journey to Hethering than I do the troubled look in Thérèse’s eyes as she bid me au revoir. She believed I might not return to St. Ives, though I assured her I would.
Our butler, Henry, opened the door for me. The house was just the same, so unchanged I believed a young Jemmy or Clarry might run past me shrieking in a childish game.
“Is Mr. Jeremy here?” I couldn’t stop my words.
“Been and gone, Miss. The Master dismissed him. He’s waiting for you.” Henry crimped his lips into a firm line, but there were tears in his eyes.
I climbed the stairs and entered Richard Marchmont’s bedchamber. He lay back against his pillows, his eyes sunken, his complexion so pale it appeared blue in the firelight. His breath labored and rattled.
His eyes opened when I closed the door behind me.
“Father,” I said, and took his hand.
His eyes opened slowly and he blinked at me. “Marissa?” He called me by my mother’s name. “Have you come for me?”
“It’s Clarissa, Father.”
He opened his eyes wider. “Of course, Clarissa. I was dreaming. So you’ve come home to Hethering.”
“Mrs. Pickety wrote to tell me you were ill.”
“Where have you been?”
“In London for a time, then Cornwall. I have a property there.”
“From Edward Dane.”
My stomach plummeted. “You knew,” I whispered when I wanted to scream it. “You always knew.”
“I would do anything to make your mother happy.” His thin thread of a voice was quieter still.
“But you parted me from Jeremy, even when you knew there was no danger.”
“Perception is everything.” He paused to draw in a painful wheezy breath. “Hethering’s heir must be without question.”
“You broke my heart for perception?” I had known that attending Richard Marchmont’s death bed would cause me pain, but this was excruciating.
“There was still the slight connection through your mother.”
I turned
and left the room. Henry stood just outside the door so I could not bang it shut behind me.
“He drifts, Miss,” he said. “From year to year, from the past to now. Don’t take his words to heart.”
But I did. Father had known about my mother and Edward Dane, about Cornwall. He knew he wasn’t my natural father. He knew there was little impediment for Jemmy and me to wed. He sacrificed our happiness for Hethering. I hated him.
Yet I couldn’t leave, not yet. Richard Marchmont raised me as his own child. He’d allowed my mother great happiness at his own expense. I didn’t know the man who could make such a sacrifice. I only knew the cold hearted shell that survived my mother’s death.
For a week’s time I remained at Hethering. I slept in my girlhood bedroom. I walked the old paths in the park, the plantings and trees stripped of any comfort in the death throes of the year. I spent hours alone in my mother’s sitting room. I played her music on her piano.
I looked in on my father every day when I knew he slept. What possible conversation could we have now?
“He knows you’re here, Miss,” Henry told me. I think Henry believed I was disappointed never to find the Master awake.
On the last day of the year, the doctor came to find me.
“Not much longer now,” he said.
I went to my father’s bedside. His eyes opened. “Will you play for me, Marissa?” I nodded and went to fetch music from my mother’s piano. All through that long winter’s afternoon I sat at the piano in the hall and played Für Elise, over and over again. Father’s bedroom door was kept open so that he might hear.
Near dusk, Henry came to me. “It’s over,” he said. I saw tears in his eyes and realized that Father would have one true mourner. It wasn’t until I left the house for the blessed comfort of a walk that I felt the biting wind freeze the wetness on my face.
*****
Jeremy and I sat one foot apart from each other in the family pew at Father’s funeral service, our eyes fixed on the vicar. Carolyn was in London awaiting her baby’s birth. Daisy and her mother and her brothers sat behind us. People from the village came, largely out of respect, though I did see one or two black handkerchiefs employed. The servants huddled together at the back of the church. Their grief was genuine.
Susan Speers Page 9