by Mary Mackie
When a light tapping of fingernails came on my door, I guessed my visitor might be Frank, but instead Vicky appeared in the doorway, looking both furtive and excited. ‘I saw your light. Can’t you sleep? Neither can I.’ Like a feline, slinking sly, she came in and closed the door behind her, her mouth edged with malice. ‘I can’t help but wonder, Kate, just what you were doing out in the woods so late.’
Oh, not now! I thought wearily. ‘I was walking. I often do.’
‘Don’t lie!’ she hissed. ‘I know what you were up to. I’ve known ever since we buried poor dear Harry. Even at the funeral you couldn’t stay away from your lover. You had to sneak off to meet him at the summerhouse. I saw you, don’t you remember?’
I might have laughed if I hadn’t felt so drained. ‘If you’re talking about Oliver—’
‘I know you’ve been meeting him,’ she broke in. ‘He visits you in London, too, doesn’t he? You might have fooled Mother with those rumours of some college boy, but you never fooled me. Never for a minute, Kate Brand.’ Her lip curled as she added, ‘Or whatever your name should be.’
‘It’s Brand. I gave up being von Wurthe when—’
‘That’s not what I meant!’ Her voice soared with triumph and spite. ‘Clara’s misfortune. Clara’s unhappy mistake. That’s who you are – C.L.B. – Clara’s Little Bastard!’
The words made me flinch. ‘That’s a hateful thing to say.’
‘It’s the truth!’ she flung at me. ‘You’re illegitimate, Kate. Your mother disgraced herself. With a farm labourer!’
I felt only contempt for someone so twisted she could slander her own sister. ‘My mother would never have lowered herself to—’
‘Then why do you think they sent her away in such a hurry?’ she cut me off. ‘Why did old man Brand marry her when he was practically on his deathbed? Oh, they conspired to fudge dates and hope nobody enquired too closely, but in the family it’s an open secret. Why else were they so relieved when Clara went off to Germany, taking her shame with her? Why else did they try to forget she – and you – even existed? Emmet and I were never told the details, but we know now. Do you want to see the evidence?’ She produced a piece of paper which she waved in front of me. ‘I found it among father’s papers, when I was clearing his desk after he died.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ But her insistence bothered me, and so did the sight of that paper in her hand.
‘You can’t shut out the truth,’ she crowed. ‘Oh, you should never have come back to Denes Hill. Father didn’t want it. But Mother was afraid you were going the same way Clara went. Down the slippery slope to sin and shame. And she was right, wasn’t she? Look how you repay her kindness – by defying her, by siding with Saffron against her. By staying out until all hours with Oliver Wells! Well, don’t think he’ll marry you. No decent man will want a fatherless brat who—’
‘I was not with Oliver!’ That, at least, was a lie I could refute.
Mouth open to spit more vitriol, she stopped, her sharp glance darting about my face with a little less confidence than before. ‘Then who were you with? I know you’ve been meeting someone.’
What was the point of prevaricating? I felt incredibly calm. Relieved. Even proud to admit, ‘After what happened tonight, I thought everyone would have guessed: I’ve been seeing Philip Farcroft.’
Vicky caught her breath, her eyes dilating. Philip’s name seemed to strike her dumb. Whatever she had expected, it was not that.
‘And I’m not ashamed of it,’ I added. ‘It so happens I’m in love with him. When I’m of age, next summer, I shall probably marry him.’ I had lived with the dream too long to let it go without a fight.
Vicky’s face changed like autumn skies. The end result was a pallor induced by shock, mouth half open, blue eyes staring into mine with demons of increasing horror spitting in their depth.
‘Philip Farcroft?’ she got out, her voice hardly audible. ‘But Kate… You can’t! Not him. You can’t ever marry him!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s… You… Oh, my God, Kate! Look. This letter. Read it. Read it!’
Finding her horror infectious, I snatched the paper from her hand. It was a page torn from an old account book, the message written in ink that had faded over years. I stared down at it, seeing the words jumble and dance before I forced my brain to take in what my eyes were seeing. It had been written in haste, by an untutored hand, but anger and concern spilled from every damning word.
Dear Sir, Forgive me for taking this liberty of writing to you but I reckon you ort to know as how your girl have been coming here to the farm for some time and make friends with my boy and today I now cort them to gether up in the hay loft and the good Lord only know how long that have been going on but I reckon as how you shd know and put a stop to it as I will do myself with my boy because if that go on only the good Lord know how that might end and we dont want no shame brung on this here house no more don’t you want none in yours Respectfully, Julia Farcroft.
Julia Farcroft…
‘There was only one girl in our family then,’ Vicky said, ‘and that was Clara. And the boy… it was Philip’s older brother, wasn’t it? The one who bled to death under the plough. Clara was caught with him – in the hay loft – doing something so disgraceful that they packed her off to Cumberland, where they found her a man in his dotage to give his name to her child.’
It’s not true, my heart said, but my head was busy thinking, reviewing, frantically seeking to prove she was wrong. ‘Mother was a child when—’
‘She was old enough! Sixteen, seventeen…’
‘It doesn’t say they were actually—’
‘What else could it mean?’
What else, indeed? Hadn’t I always been told that I looked and behaved older than my years? Hadn’t Mother tried desperately to keep me looking younger than I was? And hadn’t I always felt myself a burden to her? Exactly when had she married William Brand? The details had always been vague. ‘Fudging dates’, Vicky had called it. I stared at the letter, trying to make it mean something different. But Mrs Farcroft wouldn’t have written it if she hadn’t been worried witless. Dear God… Was this why Uncle John had kept trying to warn me about Philip?
Vicky must have witnessed the moment when I stopped arguing with myself. Guilt and pity softened her eyes. She laid a hand on my arm and I felt her trembling as she said in conciliatory tones, ‘It explains why Clara was disowned, doesn’t it? And why Father cursed her. You haven’t… you haven’t done the same, have you? You haven’t done “it”? Not with him?’
‘No!’ Wanting neither her sympathy nor her prurient curiosity, I shook free of her touch and turned away, my arms wrapped round myself. No, Philip and I had not become lovers. Not quite. How did I feel? Sick, maybe. Empty, perhaps. Empty, numb, stunned… Nothing. That’s the truth. I felt nothing. Not then. ‘Who else knows about this letter?’ I croaked.
‘No one but me. Father must have discussed it with Mother, before they sent Clara away, but I’m sure she thinks it was destroyed long ago. I won’t say otherwise. You keep it. Burn it, if you like. Kate – honestly – I didn’t intend to hurt you. But it’s as well that you know, isn’t it? I mean to say, you could never have married him. It’s not allowed. You’re – what’s the word? – consanguineous. It’s a proscribed relationship. Kate… I swear I didn’t mean—’
Did she expect forgiveness? ‘Leave me alone, Vicky.’
‘But… what are you going to do? In the morning—’
Would there ever be another bright morning? ‘Please! Just go away. I need to think.’
‘Will you be all right?’
Unable to take her belated concern, I grabbed her arm and propelled her towards the door, flung it open and thrust her out into the hall. ‘Go away, Vicky. Just go away!’
I shut the door and leaned on it, my forehead against the hard wood, my eyes closed. I wanted to scream – with laughter, with rage, or was it despair? As if sleepwalking
, I went to throw the window wide and gulp at the night air, seeing the moon slung low in a glistening net of stars. Not long ago I had lain in Philip’s arms watching those same stars, thinking how beautiful they were. Now, I saw only their indifference.
‘Help me!’ I begged the uncaring sky. But the stars glittered on, aloof and cold. There was no help. For if Michael Farcroft had been my father, then his half-brother was my half-uncle, and if Philip was my half-uncle then we could never marry. Never kiss, never touch, never love…
* * *
I dozed fitfully and, long after dawn, fell into a heavy, dream-haunted sleep from which I woke with an aching head to find someone beside me, shaking my shoulder, saying, ‘Kate, wake up.’ I had not drawn the curtains the previous night; morning brightness stabbed at my eyes, making me throw my hand to shade them as I blinked blearily up at Frank. He looked worried.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, dear girl, but I thought you ought to know what’s happening. I’ve been down to the farm and—’
‘How is he?’ I asked dully.
‘Mad as blazes, but luckily the shot only nicked him.’
‘I meant Tom.’
‘Oh, Tom’s up and about. Couldn’t keep him in bed. Nursing a gorgeous headache, but—’
‘And Philip?’
‘Ah.’ He twitched thoughtfully at his lower lip. ‘Much as you’d expect. Bit of a black eye, bruised pride, standing on his dignity. But he’ll survive. I deduce you were with him last night.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘He said I should ask you. But I’m not a fool, Kate. I heard and saw what went on last night. So did the others. It’s bound to come out.’
I didn’t argue – what was the point? ‘Did he say anything? Send any message?’
Eyes cloudy with sympathy, Frank shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry.’
Feeling as if my brain might explode with the weight of misery it was carrying, I burst out, ‘Uncle Frank, is it true what Vicky told me? Is it true that I’m… that I’m not William Brand’s daughter?’
I saw his face change, and I knew – yes, it was true. He knew. Everyone knew. Everyone but me! Unable to bear it, I turned over and covered my head with my arms.
‘Kate, my dear—’
‘Don’t do that! Don’t fudge. Oh, why didn’t you tell me? I thought you were my friend!’
‘I am. I always shall be. But you are who you are. Whoever your parents were, you can’t change it. It’s hardly relevant at present.’
Hardly relevant! How could he say that? It was the most important thing in the world, for me!
‘I’m more concerned for poor old Tom,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to protect him. Listen, Katie… when you heard those shots… how many times did the gun go off?’
I had to force my mind back to last night: it seemed like a bad dream. ‘Twice.’
‘You’re sure that was all?’
Heaving round to look at him, I said, ‘Wasn’t it enough?’
Frank leaned against the dresser, sighing. ‘Twice too many, I fear. The thing is, old girl, I went to look at the place by daylight and… I found a shotgun lying in the undergrowth.’
‘Mad Jack must have dropped it.’
‘No, he didn’t. It’s one of our guns – one that Garret had charge of. The damn fool knows Tom’s not allowed access to firearms, but he must have left this one lying about. He denies it, of course, but then he would. I’ve put it away and locked up the gun cases securely now, but that’s rather shutting the stable door after the horses are fled. The thing is, Kate, both barrels had been discharged.’
‘Does Tom remember using the gun?’
‘Sadly, yes, though it was dark and he’s not too coherent about it. It looks as though he disturbed Mad Jack, shot at him and hit the dog instead. When Mad Jack went for him, Tom stumbled and his second shot went high as he fell backwards – only a pellet or two found their mark. That’s what the old man swears, and the evidence appears to bear him out. Which is, of course, fearfully bad news for Tom.’
‘You mean…’ I breathed, ‘all Mr Farcroft did was defend himself?’
‘He wasn’t even carrying a gun – he was using snares, he claims. They’re threatening to prosecute, but I reminded them that the old man was trespassing, poaching. He’s been warned more than once…’ He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck and pulling at his long dark-gold locks. ‘I think they may let discretion rule, this time. Meanwhile, regarding you and young Philip… I’m afraid the game’s up. I’m beastly sorry about it, old thing, and I’ll do my best to pour oil on choppy seas, but I think it might be a jolly idea for you to pack your things and get back to London. Stay there until the dust settles. I mean to say, it’s simply not on with you and him, is it?’
‘No,’ I said dully, lying back and letting my arm cover my eyes. ‘I do know right from wrong, Uncle Frank. I’d already decided I would never see Philip again.’
‘Right,’ he murmured. ‘Fine. We’ll say no more about it, then.’
I had forgotten his aversion to awkward subjects – his sister’s disgrace and now his niece’s brush with mortal sin. Of course he hadn’t wanted to tell me the truth before now. How do you tell a child she’s a bastard whose existence shames the whole family?
As he made for the door, I propped myself up, struck by an anomaly. ‘What did you say – about the dog?’
Frank looked round. ‘Dog?’
‘Tom shot the dog, you said. Which dog? Boss?’
‘I didn’t hear its name. It was a bitch. Philip’s dog.’
‘Bess?’ Oh, no! ‘Is she badly hurt?’
‘’Fraid so, old lady. He had to put her down. Did it himself, so he said. She was in pup, too. Bally awful business all round.’ And he departed, leaving me feeling sick and cold. Poor Bess. And oh! Philip…
I wrote to Philip, using up sheafs of paper in aborted starts before I settled for brevity and candour, expressing my sorrow for his loss of Bess and for his father’s injuries, and adding, as gently as I could, that we would be better to forget each other – because of the huge rift between our families. I wished him well, and I signed it, not without a certain ironic bitterness, ‘Catherine Louise Brand’. No, I didn’t tell him the real reason we must part. How could I? His own mother had said nothing, not even to her husband – if Mad Jack had suspected the truth he would surely have said something before now. His wife must have thought she had done enough by parting the young pair. Perhaps she herself had never known what consequence had resulted: the Rhys-Thomases had obviously preferred to keep their shame to themselves rather than admit to having a grandchild in common with their deadliest enemies.
I sent the letter to the farm. No reply ever came.
* * *
After returning to London, I heard that Tom had recovered and apparently taken no real harm, for which I was thankful. No legal proceedings arose from either side: my family were protecting Tom by keeping silent, and Mad Jack had good reason to avoid courts of law. So the feud remained unresolved, quietly simmering its brew of bitterness.
Meanwhile I went about my life: I worked in the museum, compiled charts and attended lectures; and I wrote – articles, speeches, pamphlets – anything to stop me from thinking. But beneath the skin of normality my emotions veered from anger to despair, shame to bitterness. I missed Philip so sorely that I imagined I saw him everywhere – a turn of head, a glimpse of profile, the way a stranger walked… Each time my heart leapt with gladness, then plummeted back into a pit of despair as I realized that, even if the man had been Philip, our meeting would only bring more pain. He was my uncle, I his niece: the half-blood made no difference.
If only Mother had given me some hint about avoiding the Farcrofts! I blamed her for my unhappiness; I blamed Mad Jack; I blamed poor Tom. I even blamed Philip. But most of all I blamed myself. Had I truly loved Philip? Or had I been drawn to him because I was wilful and disobedient, attracted by the excitement of forbidden fruit? With Mother’s e
xample bleak in her mind, Grandmother had had every reason to doubt me, but she had generously accepted my word over Carl-Heinz and given me a chance to prove myself. How cruelly I had repaid her, by betraying her trust, by sneaking out to meet Philip, by telling lies… Perhaps, after all, I was exactly like Mother.
Knowing that I deserved no forgiveness, I wrote Grandmother a difficult letter, confessing my sins of dishonesty but vowing that Philip and I had never been lovers – not that I put it that way: I said something like ‘if ever I do marry, I shall be able to don pure white without qualms’. Well, I was young, and had literary pretensions. Grandmother replied thanking me for my letter. However, ‘words must be exemplified by deeds’. I assured myself I would be blameless, from now on: I would never rebel, never stray from the narrow path, never look twice at another man. Vain hope.
Seeking to change my inner self by altering the outer, I had my hair bobbed and clubbed. The fashion was new – outrageous to some – but I told myself it was more in keeping with my new, ascetic lifestyle: long hair took up too much time; it was a vanity, an irrelevance. Cutting it off was, I suppose, a kind of penance. But I soon came to like it. No more curling tongs, no more pins and padding, no more huge hats – outmoded now, anyway. I took to neat cloche hats and tailored suits. I even wore trousers when I felt especially mutinous.
Eschewing more pleasurable pursuits, I spent my free time in the East End with Sylvia Pankhurst and her followers, including Miss H, in a soup kitchen doling out rations to ragged, half-starved creatures who could still laugh at their own troubles: their fortitude tweaked my conscience. I used their needs as an excuse for not going to Norfolk at Christmas. Grandmother didn’t argue. She probably feared, as I did, that if I went home no power on earth could have kept me from communicating with Philip.
Gentle Win Leeming questioned my motives for undertaking so much social work. When she said Miss H was leading me astray, we quarrelled over it. But Win may have been right. During a heated discussion about the rights and wrongs of arson, Miss H accused me of being ‘damned by your German upbringing. That’s the trouble with that nation. Frightened to go against authority, even when it’s in the wrong! Even if it leads ’em over a cliff, like lemmings. You’re brainwashed, Kate Brand – afraid to stand up and be counted a dissenter.’