by Mary Mackie
His young bride Bessy made her home with her aunt and uncle Rudd and they were the first to learn that she was pregnant with Jabez’s child – Lily’s grandchild, Jess thought. It didn’t seem possible.
That summer, while the bloody war still raged, an unexpected reminder of Lily came in a parcel from a firm of solicitors who were dealing with Miss Peartree’s estate. The old lady had lived well into her nineties and left most of her belongings to the faithful Dolly Gooden. To Jess, though, Oriana Peartree bequeathed what were probably her most precious, private keepsakes – Lily Clare’s journals and papers. Whether Miss Peartree had read them, Jess never knew. In many ways, once she had read them herself, she hoped she had not.
It took her several weeks to get through the journals – some of the scribbled writing was hard to decipher. At times she felt she was prying, so raw and honest were the emotions expressed, but at last she began to understand Lily a little better. The puzzle remained, though, right at the end: the last entry had been written the night before Lily set off for the big house, when she had still been entirely confident of her welcome.
So what had happened between her and Richard? Why had she said that he must never, ever be allowed to have his son?
The enigma fled from her mind on a bleak day in November, 1918, with the arrival of a telegram which told them Jabez had lost his wager with fate. He had been killed in the trenches during the final week of that long and bloody war. The shock sent Bessy into labour, and Jess was there with her when her child was born, as she had been with Lily when Jabez was born. Now she held Jabez’s son in her arms – Matthew Henefer, the third to bear that name.
What would become of this dear little scrap? she asked herself. No father, no real grandparents…
Subconscious angers and memories must have been working in her. That was why, when she saw in the newspaper that Sir Richard had lost his only legitimate grandson, she felt compelled to write to him, for Little Matty’s sake. And he eventually replied, inviting her to come…
Twenty-Nine
So here she was, returning to Hewinghall after twenty-two long years, bringing Lily Clare’s grandson to the place where he belonged. She’d never have done it if Bella had lived, or her child, but they were gone; there was no one left but the old man himself.
Maybe old Bathsheba’s curse had found its mark.
Unable to stop herself, she bent and tweaked a weed from the crack in the front step, tossing it down by the pram. Little Matty was still sleeping, bless his heart, and the sight of him made her smile, feeling fierce and soft all at the same time. She wanted him to understand, to know that his grandmother had been, not a bad woman, but a driven woman. Driven by hopes and dreams and desires, always searching for something she was destined never to find – a ‘real’ father, a true love, a place to belong…
Reading those journals had made Jess see that what Lily had been searching for were roots to hold her secure, an identity of her own. Jess didn’t want that uncertainty to plague Little Matty. She wanted him to know the truth.
When the door of the big house creaked open again her heart stepped up its pace and she knew she was nervous. ‘Sir Richard will see you,’ Longman grunted. ‘Follow me.’
‘Hold you hard.’
She made him wait while she took the sleeping baby from the pram and wrapped him in his blanket. His dark hair lifted slightly on the breeze as he stirred, but he settled again when she nestled him in the crook of her arm. He was going to be tall, as his father Jabez had been – as all the Fynchams were. At seven months old he was a boy any man ought to be proud to own as his kin. Surely Sir Richard would see that.
Following Longman into the gloomy lobby, Jess peered around, curious to see how much had changed. She remembered those wonderful balls, all the glitter of diamonds and silks and candlelight. Now, the big house was dark, with most of the shutters closed. Even in the June heat the place felt cold and smelled vaguely musty, its furniture shrouded in dust sheets that loomed pale amid shadows. Stray gleams of light showed up dust on wooden floors, and drapes of gossamer cobwebs in corners. Mrs Roberts would have grieved to see it.
She wondered what had become of Mrs Roberts and the rest. Some of them she’d had word of, over the years: Eliza Potts had married a Martham man and gone off to Yarmouth to work with the seamen’s mission – something of her ‘conversion’ must have stuck; Jim Potts had made his fortune out of black-market dealing during the war; Sal Gooden was now married to one of the Pratts and had half a dozen grandchildren; and old ‘Obi’ Joybell was still working at Hewinghall – keepering had gone by the board during the war, but Sir Richard had kept the old boy on as his woodsman. Bob Gooden had joined the Flying Corps, become a pilot and come home covered in glory. He and Obi reckoned there’d be a fine lot of game birds ready, ’time things got back to normal.
If they ever did. Somehow Jess felt sure that nothing would ever be quite the same. The war had destroyed too much.
As she followed Longman up the broad sweep of the main stairs, she marvelled at finding herself there, where she’d never dared tread before. She’d always used the back stairs, occasionally the family stairs, but never the grand main stairs. They curled up through a hallway that lifted to the full height of the house, lit by a great ornate skylight way above. Down the centre of the well hung a long chandelier, its crystal dulled by dust and decked with cobwebs. And there in the corner was the panel which hid the door to the gallery where she’d sat to watch the ‘Belladay’ ball, when Lily’s hopes of Ash had been dashed. Memories caused a catch in her throat as she gained the upper landing and was ushered into the library.
It faced south, bright with sunlight on that day. Before her eyes could adjust, she heard a quiet voice say, ‘Thank you, Longman. Now go down and wait for Mr Sanders.’
He was standing against the backdrop of a press full of leather-bound books: Sir Richard Baines Fyncham, in his sixties now, still tall, but thinner than she remembered, his shoulders more stooped. His once-receding hair had lost its battle and given way to a shining pate with a fringe of white hair hanging unkempt over his ears, but fine bones ensured that he was still a good-looking man despite the wear and tear of the years, the fine lines, the deep hollows. As she walked towards him she saw that his eyes were just as clear and compelling, pure light grey with a darker rim to the iris. Perceptive eyes, that saw much but gave little away.
Those eyes regarded her with calm interest, perhaps even with respect. ‘Jess Sharp,’ he said softly. ‘Or should I say Jessamy Henefer? Isn’t that the name you threw at Longman? As a reprimand for me?’
Jess almost smiled. He’d read her right: she had meant to remind him of her brother Matty. ‘It’s Jessie Rudd,’ she replied. ‘Mrs Reuben Rudd. And this,’ pulling back the blanket to let him see the baby’s face more clearly, ‘is my great-nephew, Matthew Henry Henefer.’
‘Henry?’ His interest quickened and he stepped forward to look at the baby, staring down at the small sleeping form, his own face working with emotion. When he spoke again his voice was hoarse. ‘My first son was named Henry.’
‘So was this little ’un’s maternal grandfather. Henry Fysher. They called him “Sprat”. He was my sister Fanny’s husband.’
‘Was?’
‘He’s dead, and so is my sister. Little Matty have no one, except his mother – and me, and Reuben. Like I told you in my letter, Jabez – the boy Lily had – the boy Reuben and me brought up as our own – he… he was killed, last November, before his son here was even born.’
‘Yes.’ He was staring at the child. The light glinted on a trickle of wetness under his eye that he didn’t try to hide – that, or the crack in his voice. ‘Yes, you said. You also said he was a fine young man. I wish I could have known him. Did you ever tell him—’
‘No, we didn’t,’ Jess interrupted. ‘There wasn’t any point in that. As far as Jabez knew, my brother Matty was his father. He was happy enough in Fisher’s End. That’s where he believed he
belonged, where Henefers have been for years. If we’d told him he wasn’t a Henefer it would only have made him restless. He might have wanted to come here, to Hewinghall. You wouldn’t have wanted that.’
‘No.’ His mouth made a wry curve. ‘No, that would not have helped anything. Certainly not while Bella was alive. Now… even her son is gone. I am left with no one.’ He was talking mostly to himself, watching the baby. Little Matty was waking, stretching his arms and hands, wanting to sit up. As Jess propped him on her arm, Sir Richard offered a bony finger and smiled as the small fist closed round it.
Jess saw the baby looking up at the old man with his great blue eyes, and smiling, smiling. Blessed, friendly, placid little man. How she loved him! All at once she wanted to hug him to her and run away; she didn’t want to lose him. But she and Reuben had talked through all that. They had agreed – and so had his mother, young Bessy – that Little Matty deserved a chance to reach for the inheritance which had been denied to his father.
For a moment more the squire continued to watch the child, then he looked at Jess, saying, ‘I suppose you hate me.’
Hate him? She thought about it. No, she didn’t hate him. Not any more. If anything, she felt sorry for him. He was an old man with nothing left but a mouldering old house and no one to leave it to. She could see that he hadn’t escaped the suffering – he’d been through his own kind of hell. Well, maybe he deserved it. She was in no position to judge. But the fact remained that he had abandoned Lily, and Jabez her son – his son. Whatever his reasons, that had been wholly wrong.
‘Your brother found out the truth, you know,’ he said. ‘He knew the child was mine.’
Jess narrowed her eyes, trying to read his inscrutable face. ‘How?’
‘Lily told him – yes!’ he added swiftly as she drew breath to protest. ‘She did, though unintentionally. Matty thought she was still seeing Ash Haverleigh and that Ash was the father of her child. He threatened to go and see him, to do him harm, and Lily panicked and let slip that he had the wrong man. Somehow he guessed that I was her lover, and so he came here and… he tried to blackmail me.’ Seeing how this news dismayed her, he said gently, ‘I’m sorry, Jess. This is hard for me, too. Yes, sit down. There’s much more to tell.’
Sinking into the nearest seat, a low armchair in green leather, Jess fumbled one-handed with the fastening of her fox stole and threw it off, suddenly stifled. This felt like a dream. It was here she had sat when Rudd told her how he’d found Matty. In this same chair. Now she sat here holding Little Matty on her knee, and all at once she wondered if she had done wrong to bring him. Maybe it was best for him not to know who he was.
Sir Richard had moved across to the window, gazing out across his park, back into the past, to a bitter winter’s night. ‘You remember there was talk of a burglar breaking in?’
‘Yes. George the footman said…’ She stopped, realising with cold ants on her scalp: ‘That was Matty?’
He nodded. ‘He broke in through the garden door. I was in here, in the library, working on some papers, when he burst in. He was drunk, I’m sorry to say. I think he expected me to deny what he accused me of, but I was so taken by surprise I didn’t think of it. He demanded a thousand pounds as recompense and payment for his silence. Naturally, I refused. I only pointed out what harm he would do – to my wife, my daughter, to Lily and the child, and to himself – by repeating such a story. He came at me, but he was incapable. He fell across the desk and ended up on his knees on the floor, weeping. I went to look for one of the men to put him out, but by the time I returned he’d gone. He’d ransacked my desk, swept a shelf of books on to the floor, emptied cupboards…’
‘I see.’ Jess was staring at nothing, imagining Matty drunk and desperate in this room, tearing open drawers in the hope of finding something – anything – to help him get back at the man he hated.
‘I didn’t know he’d taken the gun,’ Sir Richard said.
Jess looked up sharply. ‘The gun?’ She felt her eyes widen with horror. ‘Is that where it came from – from here?’
‘It belonged to my wife.’ Moving slowly, as if his joints ached, he walked to the desk and picked up an object which had been hidden under a piece of paper. It was a small double-barrelled pistol, a beautiful thing inlaid with mother-of-pearl. ‘This gun.’
The sight of the gun raised all manner of dreadful doubts in her mind. She couldn’t find words.
‘I didn’t even know Maud had left it in the desk until she informed me it was missing,’ Sir Richard said. ‘We couldn’t tell the police about it, of course – that would have led to too many embarrassing questions. Maud, you know, thought that I had shot Matty.’ Shaking his head, he weighed the gun thoughtfully in his hand. ‘Strange. Lily thought so too, at first.’ His clear eyes met Jess’s frankly across the room. ‘My wife had suspected I was having an affair with Lily. She was convinced of it after they found Matty – that was why she killed herself. That note she left… it told about my involvement with Lily, and about the gun. I couldn’t let the police see it, could I? She knew I had been unfaithful and she believed me to be a murderer because of it. Poor Maud.’
What was he saying? Had he, after all, been the one who shot Matty? Feeling as if she had walked into a trap, she glanced at the door, wondering if she should run.
Sir Richard’s mouth twisted into a travesty of a smile. ‘No, Jess. God knows I am, and have been, many things that I now regret and despise, but, whatever else I may be, I am not a murderer. Matty must have found the gun, but then he vanished into the night. I never saw him again. Believe me, if I had known he had taken this pistol with him I’d have organised a search for him. I’d have sent for the police.’
‘Why?’ Her bitterness showed, but she didn’t stop. ‘You never cared about Matty.’
‘He might have used the gun on Lily.’
Of course. Lily. ‘Then who did shoot my brother?’
Wearily, Richard Fyncham sat down behind his desk, still examining the gun as if it might provide answers. ‘I don’t know. I suspect that it was probably as Jim Potts said – that it was Ashton Haverleigh who actually fired the shot. We found the pistol when we cleaned out the ice-house, the year the old king died. Nineteen ten, wasn’t it? That’s right. Bella turned eighteen, I remember. I gave her a phaeton.’ Realising that he was digressing, he sent a rueful glance at Jess. ‘Forgive me. Rambling is a sign of old age. You know, of course, that Ashton Haverleigh is dead? Influenza. His widow, Clemency, married Lord Wycherley’s son. He’s a diplomat. Went out to India. And Dickon Clare died a hero, at Verdun. All of them gone. So many of them…’ His face was bleak, suddenly old, lined, tired. ‘What were we talking about?’
‘You were saying about the gun. They found it in the ice-house.’
‘Where it had been thrown, after the murder. Yes.’ He opened a drawer in the desk and laid the pistol there, shutting it away; then he sat rubbing his eyes as if they ached. ‘It’s all so very long ago, Jess. And yet, sometimes…’
‘It en’t finished yet,’ Jess said. ‘There was Jabez. And now there’s this little ’un, his son – your grandson. You can’t put them away in a drawer and forget about them.’
He regarded her with infinite sadness. ‘Is that what you think I want to do? Good God…’ Wrenching himself to his feet, still lanky and tall despite his bent shoulders, he turned his back on her. ‘Good God, if I’d had my way I’d have claimed that boy as my own. Proudly. It was what I intended doing. I had made up my mind. But when it came to it… I couldn’t do it without telling Lily the truth. She had to know, too. She had to accept, as I did. I couldn’t mislead her. Oh, fool. Fool!’ His fist slammed down on the window board.
The sound made the baby jump and Jess held him closer, reassuring him, getting to her feet as she instinctively prepared to leave. She was sure now that she ought not to have come.
But she wanted to know the final answers. What had made Lily abandon her baby and run into the sea?
‘That was my mistake,’ Sir Richard said hoarsely. ‘I should not have told her…’
‘Told her what?’
He looked over his shoulder, frowning as if he had forgotten she was there; then, ‘Come,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I have something to show you.’ He walked unhurriedly over to a corner of the room, pressed a catch and swung part of the bookshelves back into a cavity in the wall, beyond which lay another door. Looking back at Jess with hooded eyes, he said, ‘There’s nothing to fear, Jess. Now that you’re here, before we finally settle this matter, you might as well know it all. Come…’
The further door gave into a big bedroom – his room, by the look of it, cluttered and untidy, shoes scattered on the floor, clothes on the bed, brushes haphazard on the dresser. Ignoring the mess, Sir Richard drew Jess’s attention to two portraits which flanked the chimney breast – his children: Harry with the dogs; Bella with the cat, and in the background, demure and yet strikingly beautiful in her governess grey, was Lily.
‘I had them put in here,’ Sir Richard said. ‘I wanted them with me, the ones I loved best in all the world. The children, and Lily. Here, give me the boy.’
Before Jess could prevent him, he had scooped Matty away from her and was taking him to show him the portrait of Bella: ‘Look at the cat. See the cat there? And this pretty lady in the corner? She was your grandmother. Your… most dear and beautiful…’ Overcome, he held the baby tighter, pressing the little head to his shoulder.