The Lynmara Legacy

by Catherine Gaskin

  The Lynmara Legacy

  Catherine Gaskin

  Copyright © The Estate of Catherine Gaskin 2015

  This edition first published 2015 by Corazon Books

  (Wyndham Media Ltd)

  27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX

  First published 1975

  www.greatstorieswithheart.com

  The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Other titles available by Catherine Gaskin

  The Property of a Gentleman

  Sara Dane

  Coming in March 2015

  Corporation Wife

  For Violet

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE: ANNA

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  PART TWO: NICOLE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  PART THREE: LYNMARA

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Epilogue

  Preview: The Property of A Gentleman

  Preview: Sara Dane

  Preview: Chasing Shadows

  Preview: Lily’s Daughter

  Preview: Hardacre

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The skeleton ‒ the bare bones ‒ of this story was published nearly thirty years ago under the title of This Other Eden. When I wrote it, I was, literally, a schoolgirl, living in Australia, with no factual experience or knowledge of the world I wrote about. Over the past few years the feeling has grown in me that I would like to revise it. When, in fact, I began the task I quickly realized that a simple revision was not enough.

  The characters expanded and developed; they demanded true motivations for their lives and actions; I no longer saw them with the eyes of a schoolgirl, but with the experience of thirty years in between, and the knowledge of the varied places I have lived in, and visited, during that time. When finally I presented what had grown into a long narrative story, with a much larger canvas than the original, the opinion of my publishers was that it was not so much a revision of an earlier story as a new book. It was as a new book that I gave it the title, The Lynmara Legacy.

  C.G.

  Prologue

  FEBRUARY 28TH, 1974

  The woman looked towards the house, and then at her watch. They would soon be coming. Although the days were lengthening at this dead end of winter, this day had been overcast and showery: the dusk was drawing in. She had come, dressed in a raincoat and wellingtons, to take her usual afternoon walk. It looked as if the rain would be on her again before she reached the house.

  It had been rotten weather for an election, she thought. A week of mild, spring-like weather, and now this sudden return to winter. And what a winter it had been. The rumble of discontent in the nation’s throat had been an audible thing ‒ the endless strikes, the picketing, the scarcities, the unheated rooms; even the television sets, which the people had come to rely on to soothe and sedate them, had, for a time, been blackened early. And then the politicians had realized that that move had been the most unpopular of all, and had hastily cancelled it. Politicians didn’t change much, the woman thought. It had been, quite certainly, the winter of England’s discontent. She was in a mess, but unlike all the other messes she had been in, there seemed this time no will to get out of it. No one seemed to know the way.

  The woman moved briskly across the sodden grass. She didn’t intend to see any of her children until the drink period before dinner, when she would be changed and ready to face them. She had decided what she would wear, and it would be her most becoming. She would even wear some jewels. They would come, her children, and they’d sit up most of the night, first watching the returns on TV, and then when that closed down, they’d sit with the radio on, half-asleep until some new result was flashed, and there would be pleasure or gloom, depending on which of her children it was. They’d probably drink quite a lot, and arguments would start. Between two of them, at least, insults would be traded, as one day, she expected, they would trade professional insults across the aisle of the House of Commons. This election had come just too soon for either of them to have been adopted as a candidate for any Constituency. By next election, she guessed, they’d be in the thick of it, each fighting for a seat, and each scorning and hating the political philosophy of the other. The others would go about their various businesses, making the most of whatever came their way, even profiting from times as black as these because they had an eye for the main chance, and they might even pick up fortunes in their time. Her only daughter, Judith, with a First in Economics from Cambridge, was potential Cabinet material, someone had told her, even though she had yet to fight her first election. ‘Brilliant and beautiful women in politics are a rare combination,’ was what had been said. And this one had been born with battle in her blood.

  Well, they would all be there, growling at one another tomorrow because they’d had too little sleep, and because they were divided about what to do about Mother and the house. This weekend had been arranged as if it had been happenstance, and because it was her birthday; and yet she knew it was the result of much telephoning among them. It had been some time since they had all been there together. They had sounded too casual as they’d each telephoned saying they’d like to come this weekend. ‘… dying for a break in the country after all this electioneering, Mother …’ But whichever way the election swung, there was a sense of an end and a beginning. Things could not go on as they had been going with the country. It seemed to be much their idea that things also had to change with their mother and with the house. The woman smiled to herself with a touch of grimness. Well, they would have a few shocks before the weekend was out. They were beginning to understand the state of the family trusts, and they feared that the trusts were not going to support the house any longer ‒ not with death duties to pay. She, their mother, would be settled comfortably, and they would take care of it all; but their care didn’t extend to the house. ‘An anachronism,’ Judith called it. ‘I’m ashamed to say I’ve ever lived here.’ The others were less blunt because they weren’t Socialists, and they weren’t ashamed of ever having lived here. But they were worried about those interlocking trusts, and how their own pockets were affected; they might try to close ranks to see that no more money went into the endless sump-hole of the house. But what wasn’t in the family trusts, wasn’t theirs to order. They knew nothing about the other money. They thought they could order and arrange it all, and between them, they represented a formidable array ‒ the Establishment itself, yes, even Judith with her dogmatic espousal of Socialism was part of the Establishment. Among them they represented the Army, banking, law, the Church, and all with strong political leanings ‒ this had always been a political house. She had bred a brilliant clutch of children, and she had bred them for this house. Well, they were going to have a job to shift her from here. And for the first time in their lives, they were going to hear why she wouldn’t be shifted, and how the money was there to make sure she could bargain.

&nbs
p; Election Day in the winter of Britain’s discontent. Well, she’d lived through other times when it had seemed Britain could never make it, when things like this house were to go for ever ‒ bombed, or simply taken over by the conqueror, or taxed out of existence. She remembered very well those other times. They had once stood on the very edge, almost plunged into the blackness of defeat. It hadn’t happened then; she couldn’t believe it would now.

  The rain started to fall again, and the woman quickened her step. Then she saw that the first of the cars had arrived, and she frowned. She hadn’t meant to be caught in a raincoat and old headscarf. She didn’t want to look like an ageing woman, which she was. They were going to hear some surprising things, these children of hers, and she planned to make the maximum effect on them. She had made a special effort with the food for this long weekend. Even brought down extra help from London so that everything should function as smoothly as possible; the way it had once been ‒ in the days before the war. The way they never remembered it. And she had brought out her jewellery from the bank, so that she would outshine the wives, dazzle them perhaps, while she told them where the money was coming from, the money that would keep this house and its treasures intact.

  She had had two great passions in her life. One had been for one man only, and the other for this house. The house still remained, and with it, a part of England. So long as she could fight to prevent it, she’d be damned if she’d see it dismantled, taken from her.

  PART ONE

  ANNA

  Chapter One

  FEBRUARY 28TH, 1931

  It was raining. A venomous wind tore at the tattered awning of the drugstore and rattled a loose trash-can lid. Piles of dirty snow still lay around from the last fall, and in the gutters the rain was turning it into freezing slush. Nicole Rainard paused on the steps leading from the subway and looked out into the dimness about her. The rain, blown in gusts, swept the sidewalks, and showed itself in slanting torrents against the light from the street lamps.

  Nicole glanced down at her shoes. They’d get soaked, and perhaps ruined; the walk to Mrs Burnley’s was a long one. She shrugged, and decided she couldn’t wait here. Fastening the collar of her coat high about her throat, she bent her head against the driving rain and stepped out from the half-shelter of the subway entrance. As she turned the corner at the end of the block, she was shielded from the wind, and the rain seemed to slacken. She quickened her pace a little. It was getting late. Anna would be annoyed with her for being on the street at this time. Anna was particular about things like that. Glancing up at the dingy buildings that lined the street, most of them showing lights through an assortment of curtains like eyes in an ageing battered face, she reflected that this part of Brooklyn, shuttered against the rain, with newspaper and rubbish-mixed in the heaps of soot-laden snow, was one of the ugliest places she knew. At the best of times it was never a beauty spot, but in bad weather, she thought contemptuously, it was like the end of the earth. She sighed, hoping that Anna would be reasonable about her good news. If she was, there was a chance to leave this behind ‒ they could get away from it. Yet, at the back of her mind she was doubtful. Anna was not an easy person to reason with, nor was she easily swayed. Nicole knew it would be difficult to make her understand that it was time she left school behind her and began to make her own way in the world. Tomorrow was her sixteenth birthday, and at that age most girls who lived in this neighbourhood were already working. Anna had been unmoved by this observation last time they had talked of it. She told her tersely not to worry about what anyone else did. While the school fees could be paid, she must think nothing about a job; her education was only halfway through. It made Nicole uneasy. Anna seemed to expect so much from her, demanding to know, and to have demonstrated, what Nicole had achieved at the end of each term. She was hard on poor results, and only partly satisfied with good ones. She would often ask Nicole to read aloud to her in English or French. Anna could speak and read French fluently herself, though with an accent. Her English was correct, though here also the accent was obvious, and even after all these years away from Russia, she still listened to English carefully, and attempted to correct her own mistakes of pronunciation. For Anna, language was like music, and to hear it badly executed was painful to her ears. So she listened to her own voice, and listened to Nicole’s, and she was savage with any trace of the Brooklyn accent which might creep in. For some reason she refused ever to teach Nicole any Russian. ‘That’s all finished ‒ a long time ago. You’ll never go to Russia. Forget it.’

  Nicole’s shoes were wet through and she was cold when she reached the narrow, shabby brownstone which was rented in small apartments by the owner, Mrs Burnley. There was no one in the dingy front hall. She remembered that most of the tenants played poker together in the Lynches’ apartment on Friday nights. She could hear the murmur of voices as the door closed behind her, and the sound of the wind was muted. As Nicole mounted the stairs, she noticed that there were three broken steps now; there had been two when she had been home for a few days at Christmas. This area was fringing Bedford-Stuyvesant and going down steadily in the world. Mrs Burnley either couldn’t or wouldn’t spend money on repairs. She reached the second floor and knocked on the door of the rear apartment. After a while when there was no answer and no sounds from inside, she tried the handle. It was, of course, locked.

  ‘You lookin’ for your mom?’

  Nicole swung around. Mrs Burnley stood at the foot of the stairs. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Well, she ain’t here.’ Mrs Burnley smoothed the front of her soiled dress delicately. Nicole recognized the gesture. It was one Mrs Burnley used when she was trying to draw information.

  Nicole thought of the locked door. Anna might not be back for hours. She did not relish the thought of sitting on the stairs waiting for her. ‘D’you know where my mother is, Mrs Burnley?’

  ‘Sure. She’s at Lucky Nolan’s this time of night.’

  ‘Lucky Nolan’s?’

  ‘Sure; the joint where she works.’

  Nicole winced, and hoped it didn’t show. She came to the head of the stairs. ‘Have you any idea when she’ll be back?’ she asked quietly.

  The woman shrugged. ‘Who knows if she’ll come? These days she usually only comes Sundays.’

  ‘Sundays …?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Don’t know why she bothers to keep this place on. Must have something closer to Lucky Nolan’s, I’d guess. Them nightclubs don’t close until all hours, y’know. Like I said, she only uses this place Sundays and when you’re around.’

  Nicole gripped the banister. The words seemed to spin around in her brain. Anna in a nightclub! It was ridiculous. The old fool didn’t know what she was talking about. Yet Mrs Burnley had a nose for information, and it seldom proved wrong. But Anna in a nightclub. Why? ‒ she had a perfectly good job as a receptionist with a law firm, with some overtime when they needed extra help with routine filing. But Nicole felt an uneasy sense of having been fooled by this façade of a receptionist’s job. The woman standing below her had no need to fabricate such lies; they were too easily denied. Suddenly Nicole realized that it might be time to question what she had never questioned before ‒ things like her mother’s reluctance ever to talk about her job. ‘It’s boring and dead-end, Nicole. There’s nothing to talk about’; and the fact that she had given strict instructions that she must never be called there except in a case of extreme urgency. ‘They don’t like personal telephone calls.’ Nicole realized that while she had a telephone number, she didn’t know the name of the firm for which Anna worked, nor the address. ‘A Wall Street firm,’ was all Anna had ever said. She wondered if the nightclub job was something extra ‒ extra to make more money. But that didn’t make sense. No one could work all day and half the night as well. Mrs Burnley was watching her closely. If she was waiting for her to express surprise, Nicole decided that she was going to be disappointed. ‘Do you know where this Lucky Nolan’s place is, Mrs Burnley?’ she a
sked casually.

  ‘You ain’t figgerin’ on goin’ there, are you?’

  Nicole nodded.

  Mrs Burnley shook her untidy head slowly. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you, kid. Your mom might get kinda upset if you was to turn up sudden-like. If I hunt around, I’ll probably find that telephone number she gave me to call if anything was wrong. I could call from the drugstore. Then she’d be sure to come home if she knew you was here.’ Her tone grew a little more expansive. ‘You can sleep in Spike’s bed if you want. Ain’t seen him for near two weeks now, so it ain’t likely he’ll come strollin’ in tonight.’

  Nicole eyed her with distaste. She had only seen the roving Spike once or twice, and she had no intention of sleeping in his bed. ‘No, thank you. I want to find my mother. Do you know where this place is?’

  ‘Sure I know where it is. But I don’t reckon you should go there. It’s gettin’ late.’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘You’re sure anxious to see your mom, aren’t you? Reckon it must be somethin’ mighty important to bring you all the way down from that school.’

  ‘Yes, it is important.’ Nicole held her tone even. She mustn’t insult this woman, but she wouldn’t tell her what she wanted to know.

  ‘You could tell me what it is. I’d see your mom got the message.’

  ‘I must see my mother myself.’

  Mrs Burnley shrugged her fat shoulders. ‘I guess it’s not much use arguin’ with you. Got a mind of your own. Don’t say I didn’t warn you if your mom’s all upset with you.’ She dragged a greasy lock of hair back and tried to tuck it into her knot at the back of her head, jabbing aggressively with a large hairpin. Nicole thought Mrs Burnley would have liked to jab her. ‘Well ‒ you take the subway from Rafferty’s corner. The B train. That’ll get you straight across to Manhattan. Get off at Times Square. Then ask someone ‒ better ask a cop ‒ where the Arthur Keenan Theatre is. It’s somewhere about 44th-45th Street. Lucky Nolan’s is the same block. You won’t miss it. It’s a big place.’