“You are insatiable, Simon!”
She did not want to see Simon—not until the memory of what Madam had said about marrying him had faded a little. And certainly not in front of Madam. She turned and was tiptoeing back the way she had come when she heard Simon speak her name, though that was the only word which came clearly to her. But it was enough to arouse her curiosity. She must hear what he was going to say about her! And as so often happens to people who eavesdrop, she heard more than she bargained for.
“Madam, who is Andrea?”
She stifled an exclamation of mystification. Who was she? But what an absurd question! She was Andrea Elizabeth Trevaine, the daughter of Amyas Trevaine—but Madam was speaking again.
“What an astonishing question, Simon! What do you mean?”
There was a faint note of laughter in her voice, but Andrea, used to every inflection in it, knew that Madam was uneasy.
“I think you know what I mean, Madam,” Simon said quietly. “In fact, if what I suspect is true, then you must know.”
“And what do you suspect?”
Yes, without doubt, Madam was fencing. How odd when it was such a simple question that Simon had asked! Andrea ventured a step nearer, the door.
“I suspect—I’m practically certain—that Andrea’s relationship to our family is not what it has been represented to be to me,” Simon said astoundingly.
“She is legitimate,” Madam said coolly.
“The daughter of Amyas and his wife, Andrea Elizabeth?” Simon pursued.
There was silence. Andrea held her breath, bewildered. But of course she was—how could she be anyone else? Why did Madam not say the one word that would silence Simon and his absurd suspicions?
“Madam, listen!” Simon went on. “In the picture gallery there is a portrait of Amyas, but none of his wife. Andrea told me that it was because her grandfather did not approve of the marriage, which took place in London. And that her mother died when she was an infant.”
“Well?”
“I should have accepted that. Only there is no memorial to Andrea’s mother in the church, which is strange, for every other Trevaine, whether they were buried there or not, is remembered. But that’s not all. I have, I think, examined all the family papers that I found in Leo’s safe. They include birth, marriage and death certificates for well over a hundred years. But I could find nothing relating to Amyas’s marriage or Andrea’s birth. Well, Madam?”
“You are quite right,” Madam said in a tired voice, and Andrea felt the blood drain from her heart. “Amyas was not Andrea’s father, although he was married to her mother. She was the girl he had always wanted to marry, but Elizabeth—she was the daughter of our Rector of that time—chose someone else and left St. Finbar to live in London. After she had been gone some time, Amyas went to London as well. As far as I know, he never saw Elizabeth, but I think he expected trouble and he wanted to be at hand if it came—as it did. A year after she was married, Amyas had a letter from her. Her husband had deserted her and she had no idea where he was. Her parents had both been killed in a railway accident and there was a child coming. She was desperate. Amyas went to her. At that time, of course, there could be no question of their being married since, as far as she knew, her husband was still alive. But at any rate, he cared for her. She died when the child was born, but just before that happened, she had definite news of her husband’s death and Amyas married her. So he was Andrea’s stepfather. In addition, to make doubly sure, he adopted her legally and so gave her his name. Then he brought the child—Andrea—here. To us, his family, he told the truth, but he insisted that, where anyone else was concerned, the story was to be that Andrea was his own child. It was quite feasible, of course, and everyone accepted it as the truth. We regarded it as his own business and did not give it another thought.”
“I see,” Simon said slowly. “You said—to make doubly sure, Madam. What did you mean by that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Madam asked scornfully. “Why do you think he put up no memorial plaque to Elizabeth? How could he without practically admitting whose child Andrea really was? It was difficult enough that the child had her mother’s names, but that, I suppose, they would put down to sentimentality on Amyas’s part.”
“I wonder!” Simon said thoughtfully. And then: “There is still one thing you have not told me, Madam. Who was Andrea’s father?”
Andrea put out a hand to steady herself. She was desperately afraid of what was coming. Yet she had to know—
“He was Mark Polwyn.” Madam’s voice was only a thin thread of sound, but in the still room it seemed to Andrea as if the words rang out like a bell. “Old Bess Polwyn’s son. And Luke’s cousin. So you see why Amyas did not want anyone to know who the child really was. Particularly Andrea herself. The less truck she had with them, the less she was likely to be influenced by heredity.” Soundlessly, Andrea crept downstairs. In the hall she met one of the maids.
“Madam ... was not ready for her tea,” she said jerkily. “And it has gone cold. Will you make another pot ... and take it up at once, please?”
“Yes, miss,” the girl said promptly, and wryly Andrea wondered if she would have accepted the order so meekly if she had known just who it was that had given it. Even the other villagers disliked and despised the Polwyns.
She found refuge in a little spinney too near the house to fear that any of the villagers—even Luke—would venture there, but shielded from the house by the thickness of its own trees. She flung herself face downward on the grass, blotting out all the beauty around her. She could feel the heavy thudding of her heart, and dry shuddering sobs shook her from head to foot.
Not a Trevaine—a Polwyn! Horrible, horrible! She remembered how often—and how scornfully—she had declared that all the Polwyns had a bad streak in them. And she was one of them. The granddaughter of that filthy old woman, Bess, who had revolted her badly enough when, as the young lady at the big house, she had taken food to her. Now she knew that she was the same flesh and blood.
“Horrible!” she shuddered again. “Horrible!”
Gradually the tearing sobs quietened and she sat up, her face bleak and bitter. Now she understood. No wonder Leo had passed her over in Simon’s favor! In his place she would have done the same. She could not blame him. And she understood more than that. This was why Leo, in his heart of hearts, had always despised her and never really trusted her. It was natural enough. He knew that she was a Polwyn.
And she was still wearing the ring he had put on her finger. She stared down, fascinated by its flaming eye. It mocked her, and with a feeling of revulsion she tore it off, together with her mother’s ring she wore to guard it. If she wasn’t a Trevaine then she wanted nothing of theirs. Or of her mother’s. She wanted to go—she must go—away from St. Finbar so that she never saw a Trevaine or a Polwyn again.
The thought brought a ray of hope. Perhaps she might find an ally in Simon. No matter what Madam might say about it, surely it was more than likely Simon would be considerably relieved if she were to go away.
She scrambled on hands and knees to where the rings had fallen. The betrothal ring she put in her pocket. The other she left where it had fallen. Then she walked slowly back to the house, planning as she went. She would find Simon and make it clear ... He was in Leo’s study—no, his own study now. She must remember that. He was the master now. She must be careful.
“Come in, Andrea.” He stood up politely as she entered, but then of course he would. He was the sort of man who would do that for any woman, no matter how humble. She was not sure if she despised or respected him for it, “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like you to take this, please.” She held out the ring in the flattened palm of her hand. “This belongs to you now,” she said calmly. “It’s the Trevaine betrothal ring, you know. Not one that Leo bought specially for me.”
He looked at her sharply and then took the ring from her hand and laid it on the desk.
“If
that’s what you wish—”
“It is,” she said shortly. There was a little pause and then, uncertainly, she asked: “Can you spare time to let me talk to you for a little while?”
“Of course,” he said promptly, but she saw that his eyes were wary. “Sit down, won’t you?”
She was glad to do so for, to her annoyance, she was trembling again. Simon looked at her thoughtfully.
“What can I do for you, Andrea?”
“A lot ... if you will.” She drew a deep breath. Better get it over. “I—overheard what Madam told you—about me.”
His face grew bleak—as Leo’s had when he was angry. Perhaps Simon would be angry, too—probably he had fine ideas about eavesdropping being an unpleasant thing to do.
“Oh, but you mustn’t blame me!” she said recklessly. “After all. I’m only a Polwyn. You can’t expect very good manners from me!”
“I’m not blaming you ... I’m blaming myself for not having taken greater care,” Simon said simply. “I’m very sorry, Andrea, that you learned the truth in such a way.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I had to know, sooner or later. And it’s not the sort of thing that can be broken gently. A Polwyn...” Her face twisted with revulsion.
He came over to her and, with a hand on either shoulder, pulled her to her feet. Involuntarily, she swayed toward him.
“Now listen to me, Andrea,” he said sternly. “Polwyn or Trevaine, you are yourself! That’s what matters ... all that matters!”
“Would you like suddenly to discover that you’re a Polwyn?” she demanded bitterly.
“No,” he admitted unhesitatingly. “I shouldn’t. But, if you want to know the honest truth, I’m not at all proud of being a Trevaine.”
Her jaw fell and she stared at him incredulously.
“You’re not ... you’re not...” she stammered. Then the training of so many years, the pride that had been bred in her, ousted all thought of her newer humiliation. “You ... you renegade! You traitor! If I were a man, I would thrash you for that!” she blazed. “Who are you to despise a line of fine, brave men—”
“A line of thieves and murderers,” Simon interrupted, his nostrils flaring. “Is that anything to be proud of? A line of men who, having power, used it to lead those weaker than themselves into evil ways. Is that not far worse than belonging to a family who have been led astray?”
“Then ... then ... you’re not going to—” She stopped abruptly.
“I’m not going to carry on Leo’s work?” he finished for her. “Is that what you were going to say? No, I’m not!”
“But ... but if you don’t, what will happen to our ... to your people?” she demanded. “You must help them—you don’t know how bad things were. There was real need—”
She stopped, because it was clear that she was making no impression at all. Simon, like Leo, was not to be moved from a decision once he had made it.
“I must help them. You’re quite right,” he said sternly. “I must help them to earn a decent livelihood—honestly. And it will not be easy.”
“It will be impossible,” Andrea declared. “I know them!”
“Nonetheless—” he retorted doggedly.
Silence fell between them. Then Simon roused himself from his thoughts.
“But that’s my problem, not yours,” he said gently. “Tell me why you wanted to see me, Andrea.”
“I... no, it’s not of any importance,” she stammered. “I ... I just wanted to know ... what you want me to do now that you know ... about me.”
“What do you want to do yourself?” he asked curiously, and Andrea gave a start of surprise. So far as she could remember, it was the first time in her life that anyone had considered her wishes.
“I don’t know ... I’m not sure,” she muttered. “At first, I thought I wanted to go away—right away. But now, after what you said ... I ... I suppose it would be better to ... to face up to things—” She regarded him secretly through the heavy fringe of her lashes to see how he would take that. But she could not tell. His lean face was utterly expressionless.
“Either course will need courage,” he told her. “Think it over and let me know what you decide. I will do my best to help you ... either way.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, eyes still downcast.
“There is just one more thing.” He opened a drawer in the desk and took out a sheet of paper. “I don’t know how much you know about your own affairs—money affairs, I mean?”
“Nothing—I didn’t even know I had any.”
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“No? Well, you have. Your father left you a considerable sum of money—”
“My father did!” Andrea laughed, mocking herself and him. “My dear father never had two pennies to rub together! He was a wastrel if ever there was one!”
“Your stepfather.” Simon looked annoyed with himself at the slip. “My uncle Amyas left you not a big fortune but sufficient for you to live on quietly—more than enough for you to take any training you would like.”
“Training? What for?” Andrea asked blankly.
“Don’t you think life would be pretty dull without a job that interested you?” Simon asked. “If you leave St. Finbar, how would you pass the time? Your money, as I have said, isn’t enough for you to go in for very much excitement.”
“Oh!” Andrea said blankly. “I ... I’ll think that over, too.” It had simply never occurred to her before that she should earn her living.
“In the meantime,” Simon went on, “I propose to make you a monthly allowance equal to half the amount of your income. I think that will be enough because, of course, you will have nothing but personal expenses to provide for. And I should like you to keep accounts—not for me or anyone else to see, but so that you have some idea where the money goes. Will you?”
“All right,” Andrea promised, and for a moment met his eyes fairly. They puzzled and disconcerted her. They were so utterly unrevealing, and yet ... and yet there was something... “Can I go now?” she asked restlessly.
Simon raised his dark eyebrows.
“Of course. You sought this interview. It’s for you to terminate it. Come to me if there is anything I can do to help you.”
She nodded silently and slid quickly out of the room. Nor did she pause until she had reached the security of her own room. She locked the door and for a moment she leaned back against it, breathless and bewildered.
She had gone to Simon determined to force him to let her leave St. Finbar, and somehow or other he had got around her so that she had promised to think it over.
He’s clever, she thought grudgingly. Madam was right. But he’s a coward too. All that talk about teaching our people to earn an honest living! It’s just that he’s scared to take the risk! And Leo thought he would make a good second in command. It takes a woman to find out what a man is really like!
She went over to the open window and sat on the seat below it, staring out at the estuary unseeingly.
What was Simon like? Certainly not like anyone she had ever known before. But then, really and truly, she had met so few men. There had been Leo. Then a big gulf and then the village men. For the first time in her life it occurred to her that she had led a very narrow existence. She knew why, of course. She could believe that the man who adopted her had done it out of love for her mother. And she could believe, too, that he had truly loved her. But the rest of them—Madam, Leo’s father and Leo himself—had never loved her. They had simply seen in her someone who would serve their purpose.
She brooded over the injustice that had been done to her. If only Simon had never come to England! No one, she was convinced, knew that she was not Amyas’s daughter. No matter how hard and carefully she thought, she could not remember any incident which would suggest that the St. Finbar people knew she was not a Trevaine. Luke? He had become very familiar and daring, but on the other hand, had he known, he would not have been so determined to consolidate
his own position by marrying her. No, he had no idea that she was a Polwyn. He would not have been able to help taunting her about it.
Then if nobody knew—except, of course, Madam and Simon, and they, she thought, would not be likely to speak of it—to all intents and purposes, she was a Trevaine. Then why, since Simon was going to fail them, shouldn’t she be their leader after all?
She thought hard, her forehead wrinkled with the effort. Something had gone wrong that last time, and up to the time of his death Leo had not discovered what it was. It might, of course, have been something serious. The police on the other side might have found out. If so, then that would be the end of it. There would be nothing that she could do about it. But if it had been some minor mishap—engine trouble, perhaps, or something like that—then sooner or later a letter would come from Holland which would make fresh arrangements. Ostensibly it would come from a firm of bulb exporters, but it would be easy enough to recognize. Only Simon now had the key of the mailbag and he opened all the letters that came for Leo.
She scowled—Leo’s scowl that she had deliberately copied and cultivated years ago.
Her mind twisted this way and that—there was only one direction in which she would not let it go. Pride, not of family but a woman’s pride, would not let her remember how gentle Simon’s hands had been. Or how instinctively she had swayed toward him.
Simon himself did something which made everything she wanted to do possible. He went up to town, and before he went he handed the key of the mailbag to Madam. So, every morning that he was away, the leather bag was brought to Madam’s room, and because she was feeling more frail and tired than she liked to admit, it was actually Andrea who opened it.
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