‘Oh, come on, Rebecca. Don’t be mysterious. I overheard Mrs Wright talking to the farm boy who delivered the eggs this morning. He wanted to know if we’d been told about the ghost and Mrs Wright told him off quite roundly for mentioning it. So there must be something in it for the woman to let off so much steam.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you really. You can’t get anyone to talk about it, especially the older folk. All they say is that it’s better for people not to know. Of course it’s common knowledge that Mr Roland Trevallion, he was Captain Miles’s grandfather, hanged himself here about sixty years ago, and it must have something to do with him. It’s probably just old rumours.’ Rebecca didn’t want anything to put the Fiennes off the house. ‘I don’t think there is a ghost.’
‘A hanging? How interesting. I didn’t know anything of that sort had happened here. I bet Alex knows about it but of course he wouldn’t mention it. What happened to Roland Trevallion to make him hang himself? A broken love affair?’
‘As far as I know it’s said he was afraid of being ruined in the mining slump, he couldn’t take the shame and hanged himself.’
‘Where?’
‘In the cellar.’
‘How divine. Let’s go at once and ask Alex for the keys.’
‘But Mrs Fiennes, it’s cold, dark and dusty down there.’ Abigail wouldn’t be put off. ‘Who cares about a few old spiders? Anyway, we can change our clothes,’ and she went off in search of Alex. She tried a couple of rooms before she found him in Miles Trevallion’s study.
Alex was sitting at the desk, leafing through papers and writing in a notebook. He looked annoyed at Abigail’s interruption.
‘We need the keys, Alex,’ she said, grasping the bunch of keys sitting on the desk.
Alex closed his big hand over hers and snatched them away ungraciously. ‘All the doors in the house are unlocked,’ he grunted.
‘Even the cellar?’ Abigail purred.
‘I’m not having you groping about down there in the dark.’
‘But Rebecca and I want to go ghost-hunting.’
‘I’m sure Miss Allen doesn’t want to do anything so useless and foolish, Abigail.’
Certain that the Major wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed, Rebecca had only peeped round the door and at the sound of his impatience she retreated out of sight. She heard Alex continue crossly, ‘Look upstairs then walk back to the gatehouse or down to the creek and leave me to get on with some work in peace.’
‘Crosspatch,’ Abigail grumbled. ‘Why can’t I drive back?’
‘Because you’re a terrible driver and the walk will do you good.’
As Abigail turned to go, she noticed the portrait of Harriet Bosanko. She walked over to it and gasped in wonder. ‘How beautiful. Is this the woman your cousin was engaged to?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘Just once. Miles brought her up to Carsham Hall. I fell in love with her, like every man who ever set eyes on her.’
‘Really?’ Abigail stared at her brother-in-law. ‘Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you admit such a thing, Alex.’
Alex banged the desk with a clenched fist. ‘If you please, Abigail, I want to get on!’
Out in the corridor Rebecca jumped as Alex’s fist hit the desk. The Major was obviously angry with himself for dropping his guard. Abigail slammed the study door.
‘There,’ she said angrily to Rebecca, ‘perhaps he will get on better if he feels shut off from the rest of the world. Goodness knows that’s how he’s lived since the war.’
She rallied almost at once and linking her arm through Rebecca’s led her towards the curving stairway. ‘How tragic, the story of Harriet Bosanko and Miles Trevallion, but how wonderful to be remembered as a woman whom every man fell in love with,’ she said as their shoes tapped over each step. When they reached the top of the stairs, Abigail looked at Rebecca closely. ‘Are you walking out with anyone, Rebecca?’
Rebecca thought of Joe and blushed. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Why “of course not”? You’re very attractive.’
‘Am I?’ Rebecca headed for the nearest bedroom. No one had told her so before. Her father had never said anything of the sort, nor Loveday. The creek women had given her only the usual teasing a single girl received, and Joe, most important of all, had only ever complimented her on her hair.
Abigail tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Have you no idea yourself how you look?’
Rebecca tried not to show her irritation. She was unused to people touching her or asking her personal questions. ‘Young men don’t exactly beat a path to the creek to see me, Mrs Fiennes.’
‘And I can tell you why. Turn round.’
Rebecca obeyed, feeling embarrassed and vexed. Why couldn’t they just get on with looking over the house? Abigail stroked her cheek and tilted her chin and gazed into her eyes.
‘You look far too serious. It puts up a barrier and I’m sure many a young man interested in you is put off from asking you out.’
‘I have been asked out,’ Rebecca said defensively.
‘How many times?’
‘Lots, by Royston Jenkins from the creek, one of the local farm hands and,’ Rebecca couldn’t help saying rather proudly, ‘even Mr Neville Faull, solicitor and trustee of the estate.’
‘That wolf! You mustn’t go out with him, Rebecca, whatever you do. He came up to Carsham Hall to suggest to Alex he could get a good price for Trevallion if he chose to sell it. I had a terrible time keeping him away from the maids and he even propositioned me. You just put a smile on your face and keep to the local young men.’
Abigail wanted to move on, afraid the girl’s clear eyes would see through her pretence that Neville Faull’s proposition had failed. In fact she had been a willing participant in the flirtation and seduction; Faull had not had to try too hard. She was sure he would be discreet about their affair, particularly if he wanted to persuade Alex to sell this little estate. She hoped so; she couldn’t afford to upset Alex. At least with Alex making it plain to the solicitors that he didn’t want to talk about estate business for several days she wouldn’t have to face Neville Faull for a while.
Abigail had more reasons than Rebecca to hope Alex would keep the estate, not for himself, but for her and Stephen, to give Stephen an inheritance. When Ralph had died he’d left her nothing, only gambling debts, which, thankfully, Alex had paid off. Since then she had lived at Carsham Hall on a generous allowance from Alex. The ideal solution would be to marry him; she couldn’t have any more children and Stephen would be heir to a vast manufacturing fortune and several properties, in Berkshire, London and overseas. But Alex wasn’t interested. She had asked him point-blank and he had turned her down in a similar manner. If he wanted a wife he wouldn’t choose a woman with a reputation, colourful, wanton and untrue.
Abigail had enjoyed herself rather too much during the war. Unfortunately for her a jealous wife had made it public, then others had climbed out of the woodwork to point an outraged finger. Ralph Fiennes might have been a gambler but he was away fighting for king and country and his wife had brought public disgrace on herself and his name. She had found herself ostracised by the social circles she moved in. Her only hope now was to gain Trevallion for herself and her son, to have this out-of-the-way estate to play the lady in, her own domain, no matter how small. She wanted Alex to agree to this then go back to Berkshire and leave her to it; she would work hard to make sure that Stephen never learnt of the stain she had brought on the Fiennes name.
Abigail was impressed by the bedrooms, marking out one for herself and one for Stephen. The bathrooms she found satisfactory, though she would have to have something done to make hers more feminine. In one of the attic rooms with a skylight Miles Trevallion had installed a giant telescope for star-gazing but Abigail gave it only cursory attention. Rebecca next showed her the servants’ quarters and there the tour ended. Abigail refused to go to the kitchens, sayi
ng she made it a policy never to visit one.
Rebecca was encouraged that Abigail liked the house so much. When they parted, Abigail back to the gatehouse and she to Allen Cottage to make a meal for her father, her hopes were lifted high to see Trease still working hard in the gardens, now tackling the azaleas. The study door remained closed.
* * *
Alex had been reading the entries in a little booklet he’d found in Miles’s desk when Abigail had interrupted him. The booklet contained Miles’s hopes for the estate when he got back from the war and the poignancy of them had torn his heart. He couldn’t concentrate now. Trust Abigail to turn her opportunity to look over the house into some sort of silly adventure. He intended to look over the house himself but wouldn’t do so until his sister-in-law left.
He got up and looked at Miles’s portrait. Miles had loved Trevallion; he wouldn’t have wanted a silly female tripping all over it, exclaiming dramatically at this and that, making pretentious plans for it and not taking it at all seriously. Alex hadn’t looked over much of the house yet but he could sense its appeal. There was nothing grand about it, in the way of the big mansions which were built purely for show. It was a family house, a home, built on simple lines for one generation to follow another, a place where its children could enjoy the quiet and picturesque setting as they grew up, a place to look forward to coming home to from wherever they roamed. Miles had been part of the Trevallion line, part of its continuity. He had belonged here. Alex was his cousin but he felt like an interloper here.
Damn it, why was life so cruel! Miles had known exactly what he’d wanted to do with his property. He’d been making plans for a boatbuilding yard along its shores. Now that would never be – unless Alex himself took up the idea. He felt a stab of pain in his temples and rubbed his head. Was that what Miles would have wanted him to do? Was he up to it? He had barely taken an interest in his own business concerns since coming home after hostilities had ceased.
For a long unnerving moment Miles’s face in the picture seemed to be glaring at him. The cold clammy feeling Alex had come to fear, a sort of numbness that made him feel he wasn’t part of his surroundings or the world of the living, swept over his body, invading every cell, vein and nerve. It felt hot and stuffy in here. He began to sweat profusely. His legs were trembling. He couldn’t breathe. He had to get some air. He groaned as the heavy gloom settled over him like a huge suffocating black cloud. He tore across the room and rushed out of the house.
* * *
Rebecca was surprised to come across the Major down by the creek. He was standing on the bank, his hat pulled down over his face, his back stiff, his head sunk down on his chest. Rebecca would have left him alone but she noticed there was blood on his hand. She moved up to him and looked under his hat brim.
‘Major,’ she said softly.
He looked up but did not realise she was there. He stared straight ahead as though into the past, seeing haunted memories. He was muttering to himself. She listened. She couldn’t make out what he was saying at first. Then it became apparent that he wasn’t speaking to himself but to someone he couldn’t see. His voice rose.
‘No, no, you mustn’t go.’ He shook his head and his words became anguished. ‘It’s not safe. You won’t come back.’ He was trembling all over and Rebecca was alarmed.
‘Major, are you all right?’ She touched his arm, shook it, but he had no notion she was there.
‘My God, don’t!’
The hand that was bleeding shot out and gripped a hazel bush. He squeezed it tightly and ran his hand up and down it, moaning, tearing off the leaves and damaging his hand further.
Rebecca caught his arm and tried to wrench his hand away. His eyes were glazed over and she thought he was in a drunken fit.
‘No! No! You mustn’t go! Come back! You’ll all be killed! We’ll all be—’
‘Major, stop it! Wake up! What are you doing?’ Rebecca cried desperately.
He came out of his living nightmare with a start. ‘What? Oh, Rebecca, I… I’m sorry.’ His face was deathly white, his eyes seemed too big for his face as he came fully to and realised where he was.
‘You’re bleeding,’ she said gently. She was quite used to dealing with Trease after a drinking bout, although she was sure now that this man had not touched a drop. He had been terrified and full of despair. ‘Come to the cottage and I’ll bathe your hand.’
She tried to lead him but he wouldn’t move and stared with horror at his hand. ‘No, no. I’ll see to it. I’m sorry. Please,’ he appealed to her, ‘don’t say anything.’
Then he rushed past her, leaving her alone on the bank.
Chapter 7
Alex didn’t appear for lunch or come down to dinner that night. After collecting a bowl of hot water, a bottle of antiseptic and a bandage, he locked himself away in his room. He pulled off his shirt and sat bare to the waist, gazing sightlessly out of the window, not taking in the scenery of trees, hedges and sheep quietly grazing in a patchwork of fields. He cried out when he put his torn hand in the hot water, made a cloudy white by the antiseptic, the steam rising and filling the room with its sharp clinical smell. It was agony, but he welcomed it; it was only right that he should suffer. He deserved it.
He had no right to be alive, to be fit, strong and healthy, to have all his limbs, his full sight, his hearing. He should have died with his men, the men he had ordered over the top of the trenches. The order had come via the field telephone: it was the turn of his unit to go. He had passed on the order even though he knew, and his men knew, it was certain death, but not one of them had dreamt of disobeying.
Alex, Georgie Gilbert, Jimmy Clark and Cyril Dawkins had reached the machine-gun post. Alex had looked at Georgie and nodded. Georgie took out a hand grenade, pulled the pin and counted to four. Then he threw it into the enemy’s nest and the men hit the ground with their hands over their ears for the explosion. They were on their feet before the screams within had died away, Alex putting his gun through the slit and emptying it.
Alex and Georgie grinned grimly at each other but the next instant they saw that young Jimmy Clark was lying in a bloody heap behind them. Alex went to him but Georgie grabbed his arm. He shouted above the din, ‘Leave him sir, he’s dead!’
A quick glance round and Alex could see all his men were down. Cyril Dawkins’ head was buried in the thick, black, oozing mud. There was just him and Georgie Gilbert left. Then Georgie took a bullet in his back.
He keeled over onto a solitary leafless bush that had withstood the barrage. Alex cried out in anguish. He grabbed Georgie’s gun and turned back to face the battle, running, the gun blazing, shouting, cursing, promising Hell to those who had killed his men. A shell exploded in front of him and he was tossed into the air.
It was his turn now, he would join his men, perhaps see them somewhere in the next world. They had all done their duty, and blessed oblivion was their reward. No more pain of bursting lungs as he ran charging the enemy, no more grisly sights of those who had once been. He was to be one of them now, dead, gone, another casualty, one more among the many millions dead. Gone now, to be mourned, honoured and remembered like the others for giving the ultimate sacrifice.
But he had woken up. In a tent, a field hospital, with a big bandage round his head. His head thumped, gave him no peace, kept him awake to listen to the moans and agony of others. When they took the bandage off he expected to find half his head blown away but there was just a bad cut and swelling.
‘You were lucky, Major. Just a shell passing too close, knocked you off your feet, shocked you.’
‘Where are my men?’
‘I’m very sorry, they didn’t make it, only you. You were lucky.’
‘But I should be dead!’
‘You brought a man in with you but sadly he died. Never mind. You did your best.’ Alex couldn’t remember picking up Georgie Gilbert. After the explosion he must have come to and noticed Georgie was still alive. Somehow he’d got them to safety but
Georgie had still died. And Alex wished he had died.
He went back to the war and took over a new unit, but his behaviour was erratic and foolhardy. He was considered a danger to the men, and on medical grounds was quickly pulled back from the front line and put in an office job. He ranted and raved about it but his superiors would not change their minds. He was sick to the gut at being bound to a desk while Sir Douglas Haig, the commander-in-chief of the British forces, was delivering a message to all ranks: ‘Every position must be held to the last man… each of us must fight to the end.’ Alex was ashamed, despite being battle-honoured, and he hated to be continually told he had ‘done his bit’, that ‘you’d be allowed to fight, sir, if you were fit’. He wasn’t fit to command but he felt he was fit to fight. His superiors did not see it that way. Any man in the noncommissioned ranks would have had to fight, would have been expected to fight whatever their condition. Alex hadn’t wanted a damned medal. He’d wanted to fight again and die.
He snatched his hand out of the bowl of water, knocking it to the floor and breaking the thick glass. He watched the growing puddle, the water spreading across the rug, seeping over onto the linoleum like the bloodied black mud of the killing fields.
‘I should be dead,’ he groaned in despair.
Ralph, his brother, had been shot down in his aeroplane. He had died in the same horrible way as his men. If only he could change places with his brother. Ralph had been something of a wastrel but he had been a family man. He should be here now, looking after his family, instead of Alex.
He held up his torn hand, made white and puffy by prolonged immersion in the bowl of water. It was numb for a while then began to sting. He flexed it and it began to bleed. He watched the droplets form and grow till they ran in tiny rivers, gathering at his wrist, and dripped, very slowly, one full red drop at a time, onto the floor, mingling with the water, turning a strange pink.
Trevallion Page 8