Harry moved into Rose’s room in the small terraced house but he was worried that the marriage was not legal and the daughter Rose bore would be a bastard because the name he had given was not his so, a month after their wedding in the chapel, he took her to Cardiff where he told her what she already knew, that his name was Henry Lacey, and they married again by special licence.
Their daughter, Rowan, was born healthy in March 1914 and for a short while they were happy.
*
He had been away nearly three years when he returned to The Lodge. War was imminent and there were things he had to do.
Before approaching the front door, guarded by what he now thought of as his grandfather’s tree, Henry stopped on the bench by the door to the chapel in the woods.
“Mr Lacey.”
“Good day Wickens.”
“I thought it was you on Newport dock this morning. You’ve come back, then.”
“So that I may leave again.”
“To go to war.” It was not a question.
Henry nodded. “I have to go, but I go with a heavy heart because I leave a wife and daughter behind.” And Henry told Wickens of his life as Harry Oliver.
“You must write their names in your family Bible.”
“I didn’t know we had a family Bible.”
“My father told me of it. Mr Olivierre, that’s your grandmother’s father, he wrote the details of his children who died. That’s what he said. Mr Olivierre would sit on this bench and talk to my grandfather of his children that he had never known whose remains are in this chapel. You must find that Bible and record the existence of your dead son and your wife and your daughter, then whatever happens to you someone sometime will know of what they mean to you.”
“I will do that. Thank you Wickens.”
“God speed Mr Henry. We will meet again on your safe return.”
*
“I am Henry,” he said to the butler he did not recognise. “Henry Lacey. Where is my mother?”
He was left at the door while the butler sought William to see what should be done.
“What are you doing here Henry?” William said imperiously. He had no intention of giving his brother an easy time. “What have you come home for? Tail between your legs, eh? Where have you been all this time? Three years without so much as a note to me or our mother.”
“I have lived and survived and I have been happy. Besides I was given the very clear impression I was neither wanted nor needed here. Ever since that day in the attic you have been our parents’ only son.”
“That doesn’t say where you have been.”
“I have been living my life as I wish.” It was all he was going to say.
That evening, after his brother and mother had retired to their rooms, Henry slipped into the library and eventually found the family Bible on the north wall, on the third shelf, three feet from the central pillar. If someone had been trying to hide it, Henry thought, they could not have done a better job.
He placed the heavily bound book on the table and opened it to the flyleaves where were recorded the marriages, the births and the deaths of the Lacey and Olivierre families.
He hurriedly wrote his three entries.
To Henry Oliver Llewellyn Lacey (Harry) and Rose Jones, an unnamed son, born seventh day of June 1912, New Castle, Monmouth, died the same day having lived no time at all on this earth.
Henry Oliver Llewellyn Lacey (Harry Oliver) married to Rose Jones on the fifteenth day of June 1913 and again on the seventeenth day of July 1913.
To Henry and Rose Lacey a daughter, Rowan Rose, born on the sixth day of March 1914.
When he had finished he looked back over the generations recorded on the page.
His father’s birth was recorded Bernard Claude Oliver Lacey, born seventeenth day of March 1852 but there had been no entry made since then. The only reason Henry could think of was that no one in the family had known of the Bible’s existence and he wondered why that would be.
He looked back up the lines which recorded the important events in the lives of his ancestors. William Bernard Lacey married Josephine Marie Olivierre, ninth day of July 1851. Josephine, he recognised the name and remembered the portrait he had seen in the attic on the day no detail of which he could ever forget.
Henry looked back through the generations, recognising some of the other names Wickens had mentioned. The writing grew faint towards the top of the page, the top line was barely decipherable, the writing, in ink turned brown with age, was tiny. Josephine Marie Olivierre, born sixth day of of June 1820. Praise be to God, she is a healthy child.
As Harry struggled to read that line he noticed that the thin sheet of paper appeared to be stuck to the binding of the cover of the book. He gently teased the paper away from the card and was rewarded with the discovery of more, even older, entries.
There were several which he found difficult to read. They were the records of the births and deaths of babies and he thought of his own boy, born and dead in a day and whose existence he had just recorded.
He looked at the second entry. Fourth day of april 1816, Patience Shaw married Claude Olivierre and above that Claude Olivierre, born Napoleone Buonaparte; Ajaccio, Corse, fifteenth day of august in the year seventeen hundred and sixty-nine.
He sat back looking at the entry, blinking to make sure he had not read the words incorrectly.
He had no time to wonder what it might mean as he heard footsteps in the corridor. He closed the Bible and carefully placed it back on the shelf. After the footsteps had passed he left the library and headed up the stairs to his mother’s dressing room.
He would be leaving Rose to go to war and he wanted to give her something pretty and of value in case he never returned. He looked at the items in his mother’s jewellery box. There were heavy gold rings, too heavy for Rose’s hand, and showy diamond earrings that she could never wear. In the bottom layer of the box he found a diamond ring, a gold band and a delicate gold pendant.
The pendant would be perfect for Rose and he knew his mother would never notice it was missing. It was not the sort of jewellery she wore.
Chapter 16
1914 to 1928
“There’s going to be a war, Rosie,” he said quietly. “And I have to be in it.”
“But you’re a miner. You don’t have to go.”
“I’m not a miner Rosie, you know that, I am a Lacey and I do have to go.” As he hung the pendant around her neck he bent to kiss her. “I will come back. One day. I promise. And then we will live as we should, you and me and Rowan, all together as a family again. And I will get you away from the valleys. We will live where it is healthy, where there isn’t smoke and dust in the air and where our children will grow up as they should.”
“But you don’t have to go.”
He reached up to tenderly stroke the faded scar on his cheek.
“I do, Rose, and you know I can’t go as Harry Oliver in a Pals’ Brigade with the others from the village. There will be checks and they’ll know there is no such person. I have to go as Henry Lacey. I’ll be off in the morning.”
“So we’ve one more night together?”
He waited until she was asleep, her hand clasped around the pendant he had placed around her neck, before he slipped out of their bed.
Nearly ten years passed before Rose Lacey saw her husband again.
*
As the war entered its sixth month William sat with his father and mother in the drawing room in The Lodge.
“I wish I could have joined up.”
“Why?” his mother asked. She had never understood the fever to enlist that had overtaken the country.
“To fight for my King and Country?” There was no sign in his voice that he had any real determination to do that.
“I do not see why you feel you need to do that,” she argued, not hearing her son’s lack of sincerity. She did not want her son to leave.
“We are at war. I am young and if I was fit I would be rarin
g to go.” He knew that mention of his disability would allow him to be persuaded to stay at home.
“But you are not fit.”
“Everyone is joining up, I feel like I should do something.”
“You have a perfectly good reason not to go. The injuries you sustained in your accident preclude active service.”
“I have yet another reason to despise what my brother has done to my life.” William took every opportunity to perpetuate the myth that he had been the unwilling participant in the escapade in the attic.
“No one would criticise you, William. Your place is here. With the war the mines, the farms, the bank, all the businesses that will be so important to the national effort. No one will accuse you of not doing your bit. You cannot throw all that away by going to France.”
“You must stay. Your responsibilities lie here.” His father, who had no wish to involve himself in the day-to-day running of the businesses, agreed firmly.
“Henry has joined up.”
A letter had been received at The Lodge earlier that week.
“Of course. Henry is going. I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up in Newport if neither of my sons was in France.” Bernard could be as hypocritical as any man.
But Henry did not go to France.
He had not wanted to join the Isle of Wight Rifles, it seemed too close to The Lodge, nor could he join one of the many Pals’ Regiments being formed in the valleys of South Wales so when he had left Rose he had taken the train north to Shrewsbury and had signed up with the Fourth Territorial Battalion of the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry and was sent to the Far East where he spent the next three years enjoying the safety and routine of colonial life in Rangoon, Singapore and Hong Kong.
It was not the war he had left Rose and the valleys for but after years of hardship in the valley’s mines he enjoyed the luxuries of the life more than his fellow officers could have imagined.
*
In the autumn of 1917 the world changed for both brothers.
Henry’s battalion returned from its sinecure in the Far East to be pitched, totally unprepared for the horrors of trench warfare, straight into the Third Battle of Ypres at Passchendaele.
And on the third of November Sir Augustus Albert Lacey was killed in a motor accident, completely changing William’s expectations in life.
*
“Mr William, a Mr Iain McFarlane has called for Mr Lacey but he is not well,” the butler announced to William. “Perhaps you can see him, sir?”
“Is it Henry? Finally deceased in the service of his country?” William asked with an undeniable hint of hope in his voice.
“I don’t believe so, sir. That news is invariably delivered by telegram.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“He said he was from London and it was important family business.”
“You’d better show him into the library then.”
Iain McFarlane was determined not to be influenced by his fondness for Gussie, Bertie and Lady Lucille as he prepared for the unwelcome meeting.
“Good afternoon. Mr William Lacey?” He tried to use his tone to indicate he was this man’s social equal.
“Yes? Who are you and what do you want?”
“I was hoping to meet with your father.”
“My father is unwell. You will deal with me.”
Iain was unprepared for the arrogance displayed by such a young man.
“Sir Albert—”
“Who?” William interrupted, he had been expecting news of his brother despite what the butler had said.
“Sir Albert Lacey. You know of him?”
“Never heard of him in my life.”
“Ah, Sir Albert? Yes. Cousin Albert.” Catherine Lacey walked into the room and sat down. Ever since her marriage she had known of the connection but as the years had passed she had given up hope of gaining any advantage from it.
“Sir Albert?” repeated William.
“Your grandfather was a younger son, William. The title went down the elder brother’s line.”
“Title?” William’s interest was complete, though he wondered why he had never been told of any connection the family may have had with a title.
“You were saying about Sir Albert?” Catherine asked the visitor.
“Sir Albert has, most unfortunately and unexpectedly, died at the young age of thirty-four.”
Catherine had already decided she knew where the conversation was heading and smiled. “Unexpectedly? This is wartime. Many young men are dying every hour.”
“Sir Albert was attached to a military department based in London. He was run over by a motorcar.”
“How unfortunate.” Catherine failed to sound in any way distressed. “What of his wife? Lady Lacey?” she asked the question loaded with significance.
“Sir Augustus was unmarried.”
That was the answer she had hoped for.
“Ah.” Catherine smiled and only Iain McFarlane knew why.
“Would someone let me know what is going on here?” William asked tetchily.
“Sir Bernard, the first baronet, had two sons—”
“Yes, I know, Henry and William,” Catherine interrupted, showing rather too much enthusiasm.
“Sir Henry, the elder and second baronet, had a son, Gussie—”
“The third baronet.” Catherine was unable to stop herself from smiling.
“And a very good friend of mine.” Iain disliked the anticipation on the woman’s face. To his mind it smacked of naked greed.
“Gussie died very young, leaving a son, also named Augustus but always known as Bertie.”
“The fourth baronet.”
“Indeed.” Iain found it difficult to maintain his patience as he saw the anticipation in the woman’s eyes.
“Who is now deceased.”
“So…” William was having difficulty keeping up with the family tree as he had had a lot to drink over luncheon, but he had become aware of the implications. “My father is now the fifth baronet?”
“Indeed. Because Sir Bertie died without issue the title and the estate reverts back up to the line of the first baronet, Sir Bernard’s younger son, William, whose son is—”
“My father.”
“Indeed, who now inherits the title and all the estates of the Laceys and the Swanns.”
“The Swanns?”
“Lucille, Lady Lacey, that is Sir Bertie’s mother, was an only daughter and inherited all the estates of her father. These passed to Bertie and now to you.”
“All of the estates that came from not only his father but his mother’s family too?”
“Indeed. This situation is the highly unfortunate result of the married women’s property laws of the time.”
“Unfortunate?” Catherine picked up on Iain McFarlane’s bias.
“I understand it is complicated but I assure you it is the case. Your father inherits everything from his young cousin.”
“And what does Lady Lacey think of all this?”
“Lucille, Lady Lacey does not yet know.”
“Awkward.”
“Indeed.”
“My husband cannot deal with this. He has become increasingly confused as the years pass and he never leaves this estate. He has never been, shall we say, the brightest…” She tailed off. Although she was telling nothing but the truth, she did not wish to appear disloyal to her husband in front of this confident stranger.
“If you wish I will deal with your son.”
“Please do.” And Catherine, fully aware she was now Lady Catherine, left the room.
“Will you visit the bereaved mother?” Iain asked William.
“And tell her that she has nothing and is dependent on our generosity?”
“Indeed.”
“Can you give me an idea of, shall we say, the scale of the inheritance?”
“There is a substantial manor house in parkland in Berkshire. If you are unfamiliar with that part of the country I can assure you it
is a most satisfactory location, within easy reach of the capital. There is approximately one hundred thousand pounds in secure government investments and a further two hundred thousand—”
“I believe I have the picture,” William said, unable to hide from the lawyer his delight.
“The net sum will be considerable even after the unfortunate matter of Estate Duty which is currently set at the rate of forty percent on an estate of this magnitude.
“Shall I have to offer much to the elderly mother?”
“Lady Lacey is not an old woman. Without being ungallant I can say she has not yet reached three score years. May I suggest an offer to purchase a small property and also an annuity, sufficient for her to maintain a standard of living fitting for a member of this family?”
“We would not need to be over-generous?”
“Anything that your father offers will be because he understands her situation, not because he is obliged in law to offer a penny.”
Iain McFarlane had answered the questions honestly but as he left the house he felt that he had let Lady Lucille down. Sir Bernard, at the behest of his wife and son, would offer the very minimum they felt they could.
The Lodge was not an insubstantial estate and Iain had done his homework about the de Burgh connection. The family was not in need of the additional injection of wealth and he wondered, not for the first time, why it was that those with wealth always wanted more.
He took some malicious pleasure in the thought that, since Sir Bernard was ailing, another set of Estate Duties would undoubtedly be due shortly, and on the entire combined estates.
*
William sat back in his father’s chair in the drawing room of The Lodge, his hands clasped together under his chin as he realised just how his life had changed.
His father could not last much longer, he was weak and getting weaker by the month. So, in the not-too-distant future, he would not only be Sir William Lacey Baronet, he would also be rich beyond anything he could have imagined. The four estates, the two branches of the Laceys, the Swanns and the de Burghs would be joined together and had to be worth, he calculated roughly in his head, in excess of three million pounds.
A Set of Lies Page 30