The Lynmara Legacy

by Catherine Gaskin

  ‘I’ve a few more,’ Richard said.

  John was shaking his head. ‘What’s the use? My being there can’t do anything. Either they can save it, or they can’t. Beggs said the equipment from Hawkinge is helping the local fire brigade.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ Nicole cried out at him, shaking him again. ‘Lynmara is burning! You at least owe it to the people on the estate to be there. You owe it to your family ‒!’ She stopped. There was no family.

  He was looking at her. ‘You’ll come?’

  ‘Of course I’ll come. I’ll be down in five minutes.’

  Wilks was already padding back towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll prepare some sandwiches …’ They might have been making plans for a picnic, Nicole thought as she pulled on her clothes.

  Her own sense of urgency seemed at last to have communicated itself to John Manstone. He was waiting with the motor running when she took the passenger seat, Wilks’s hastily bundled-up pack of sandwiches in her hand. They spoke very little during the journey; he seemed to give all his concentration to the road, driving fast in the dark and narrow lanes of the countryside, with only the tiny slit beams of the black-out headlamps to light their way. It occurred to her how well he did it; how much in control he seemed now, once the action had been decided on. He seemed to know his way along all the back roads. Only once or twice did he pause and hesitate at a road junction; there was little in the way of signposting left after the invasion threat of last autumn. They moved quickly across east Sussex and into Kent.

  She thought about it as they drove. She thought about the house, how beautiful it had been, even in its great size. She wondered how much would survive. Would the great hammer-beam roof of the hall go to the flames? ‒ would the Grinling Gibbons staircase go? ‒ the famous panelling in the Long Room? And the precious silk-lined rooms, the Red Room and the Green Room? Would the beautiful carved alabaster chimney-pieces of the Long Room go crashing down through the burning floor? There was a light wind which moved the boughs of the leafless trees above them as they drove. Which way was it blowing? ‒ how strong was it? The night was cold; a light cloud moved before the wind. Sometimes she could see the stars. A plane ‒ what plane? Whose plane?

  Sooner than she thought they topped a rise in the downs and saw the glow in the sky. It was faint, as if a small village, lighted as in pre-war days, was tucked in the hollow down there. The sight of it seemed to galvanize John. His foot went down hard on the accelerator. They rocketed at a dangerous speed along the last of the roads that led to the big main gate she remembered. He screeched to a halt at the lodge. A faint light came from a window where a black-out curtain had been left partly open. He shouted something to a woman who came to the door, and then they were racing along the drive between the bare oaks and beeches of her memory. And there was the house.

  The sight of it seemed to destroy his sense of urgency. The car slowed almost to a crawl as their eyes probed the scene. They knew what they were looking for. The glow was there, but the front of the house was dark ‒ silhouetted against the light that came from behind. For the moment their straining eyes could not see whether they looked at a building still intact, or a dark and gutted ruin. The chimneys stood out against the glow. The line of the roof seemed still to be there.

  ‘Its the North Wing,’ he said. ‘The Georgian part …’

  They had reached the first of the lorries which had come from Hawkinge Air Base. John pulled off on to the verge of the drive. They walked the rest of the way, up the stairs to the terrace, along the whole lovely South Front, around the West Wing. There was fire equipment pulled up on the terrace itself, and firemen worked with hoses playing water on the roofs. Windows were broken to allow the streams of water to get in. There was a continuing sound of chopping, as firemen used their axes. There was the deadening smell of smouldering wood.

  They stood and looked at the North Wing. Here the roof was gone, and the fire still burned. They could see all the interior as if someone had placed a light at each window. But the worst of the fire was gone, its force spent. The water continued to pour in from the hoses, but it played on wood that was giving up its dance with death. It was charred and blackened, and in parts it only smouldered.

  At first no one recognized Manstone. He and Nicole were just part of the onlookers who had gathered. The hoses were tangled everywhere. An irritated fireman ordered them to stand back. Finally, a man in the clothes of a farm-worker saw Manstone.

  ‘It’s you, m’lord. Wondered if you’d get here.’ He put his fingers to his lips and gave a loud whistle. ‘Hey, Billy ‒ fetch Beggs, will you? Here’s Lord Manstone.’

  They were surrounded very soon. Beggs was there, trying to tumble out the story of what had happened. Then there was a Wing Commander who had used the bedroom which Manstone himself had used. ‘Bad luck,’ he said. ‘Rotten bad luck. Plane came from bloody well nowhere. Small plane ‒ German. Must have been wildly off course. I’ve had reports from the batteries at Dover and Folkestone that a German plane came over very low. They don’t think they got a hit, though. Can’t say what brought it down. There are a few bodies in there, somewhere. Look, there on the other side you can just about make out the fuselage. I think we lost about three of our chaps. We’ve done a roll-call, and unless they’re out without permission, then they’re dead. It was pretty hot here a few hours ago. Well, I suppose you’re lucky. If it had happened when there was a raid on Hawkinge, or any of the towns around here, you wouldn’t have had all this equipment available. At least they’ve saved the older part of the house. It’s pretty wet, though. Hard to see how bad the damage is until it’s light.’ Nicole watched the Wing Commander’s face in the last of the glow from the fire. He had a clipped little moustache, and a scar which ran through one eyebrow. He was wearing his uniform over pyjamas, his cap with insignia pulled firmly on his head. He was puzzled by Nicole’s identity, and since Manstone had not introduced her, he gave his report directly to John, avoiding her gaze. He was attempting to make a military assessment of what had happened, and trying to conceal that he was itching for the dawn himself to see what of his own possessions had escaped those penetrating, destroying jets of water. ‘Damn lucky the river’s so near. The boys had the pumps down there within minutes. Without that full pressure of water the whole house would have gone. At least the best parts are still standing …’

  At intervals during this John had murmured, ‘Yes … yes … They’ve done a wonderful job. Very good of them. Very good …’

  The Wing Commander concluded, ‘Look, I’m ducking over to Hawkinge. They’ll billet us there temporarily. You can get a bite of breakfast there, if you want … I’d just leave it to the fire chaps now, if I were you. They’ll stay here until the very last of it’s out. Can’t take a chance on a spark blowing on to the other roofs … I’ve sent off all the men who were here. I expect they’ll be back later to see if there’s any of their gear they can salvage. Just as well it was that wing … the rest would have gone like tinder. That old panelling … dry as a haystack. We would have lost more men … You all right, Lord Manstone? Look, why don’t you both come over to Hawkinge right now? I expect you could use a drink …’

  ‘Very kind of you,’ John said, as if he really hadn’t heard what was said. ‘Very kind … But I think I’ll hang about a bit. A few people here I know. I’d like to say hallo to them. They wouldn’t understand it if I left.’

  ‘Yes … yes … of course. Naturally. Well, come over when you’re ready. I’ll tell them to expect you. Bennett’s my name. Awfully sorry, again. Rotten luck …’

  They sat finally on the steps of the chapel and ate Wilks’s sandwiches. There had been a dozen offers of breakfast from various people, none of which registered with John Manstone. He had thanked them all, and had forgotten them. He had, however, remembered to ask for the key of the chapel from Beggs. They sat on the steps with Wilks’s sandwiches, and the finest brandy the torch they carried could discover.

  The glow h
ad died and gone. In its place was the slow blanching of the winter sky which heralded the dawn. Above them, once again silhouetted against the eastern sky, the outline of Lynmara began to take form and substance.

  ‘Well, there it is,’ John said. He passed the bottle of brandy to Nicole; they had no glasses or cups. ‘The life and death of a house. I suppose it was worthwhile to be in at the end … but since it was death, I don’t really know why I came.’

  ‘It’s not dead.’ She took a long pull at the brandy bottle, and then set it carefully down on the steps between them. ‘It’s damaged. Wounded … if you want to call it that. It’s far from dead. One wing is gone … for ever. Perhaps no one regrets that. It was the least beautiful part of Lynmara. It can be dispensed with. The rest … it will need repairs. It will cost ferocious sums of money to repair the damage the water did. The pictures are safe, the carpets, the tapestries. They say the panelling is still intact, except where the firemen chopped through. The staircase is still standing. What is needed is will and energy to put it all back in place again.’

  He shrugged, and reached for the bottle again. ‘And why? Why should I? This house has taken a high price from my whole life. Why should I give the last years to it? For whom? For some cousin I’ve never seen? I have no son ‒ I have no grandson. It would be only for me ‒ for my own satisfaction. And I can’t find any satisfaction in doing it for myself.’

  She turned and took his arm firmly, so that he was forced to shift his gaze away from the dark pile on the skyline which grew more distinct with the advancing light.

  ‘Then I have a proposition to make. A proposal. Marry me. I’ll give you sons to build for. I’ll give you a reason for building. Remember you once dreamed of the sons my mother would have given you? ‒ the young Tartars to run the corridors of Lynmara? Well ‒ I’ll give them to you. You want a reason for going on? I’ll give it to you.’

  ‘You …? You!’

  ‘Why not? Have you any better plans? I haven’t any. One thing … you do know I don’t love you? That is clearly understood. I’ve only loved one man. I still love him. But he is dead, and I am not. I have something to do with my life. So do you. For one reason …’ She nodded towards the pile on the skyline, where the rosy brick was beginning to emerge in the grey of the dawn. ‘For that. Good enough? I will give you all of my devotion and energy, and whatever skill I have. I will give it to you and your children. I will expect the same from you. Everything … everything. Is that a kind of love? Perhaps it is … Both of us could do worse.’

  They sat there and ate the sandwiches and drank the brandy. The low cloud gave way before the light wind, and Lynmara was revealed in the first light of a winter sunrise.

  Epilogue

  FEBRUARY 28TH, 1974

  Nicole came up by the back stairs, and so avoided seeing any of her children until she was dressed and ready for them. The back stairs were very convenient. She and John had never rebuilt the North Wing, the one so badly damaged on the night the German plane had almost destroyed Lynmara. The space made by demolishing the North Wing had allowed such things as new kitchens and staff rooms, and these stairs, to be built. Lynmara was easier to run than in the old days, and it needed to be. She used to smile when she listened to John trying to count up how many staff his mother had employed.

  She carefully creamed her face, and took a long time soaking in her bath. She needed the hot water to help relax the arthritic stiffness of her hands and knees. It had been one of the bitterest things to accept, this attack on her hands. When she found that she no longer could play the piano well, she stopped playing altogether. ‘Music was not meant to be played badly ‒ for exercise,’ she had snapped at the doctor who had urged it on her. She knew she was often bad-tempered these days, especially since John had died. She even wondered if she seemed, in some people’s eyes, to resemble that formidable old woman she had so much disliked, John’s mother. If the arthritis grew much worse, she would have a stick to walk with, and the resemblance might be greater.

  She applied her make-up carefully. Her skin was still white, and comparatively unlined. There was still the foundation of blackness under the streaks of pure silver in her hair. She twisted it into the French knot she always wore. That task also was growing more difficult.

  Her skirt was black, of finest French velvet, and with it she wore a black silk blouse, high at the throat. Then she sat with her jewel case open before her, making a careful selection of what she would wear.

  The pieces represented milestones of her life. The important jewels, among them the Manstone sapphires, had gone to the wife of Thomas, the eldest son of her marriage to John, after John had died. She still found it hard to think of herself in the role of the dowager Countess of Manstone ‒ that another, a much younger woman, held the title. The emerald ring represented John’s gift to her at Thomas’s birth. There had been emerald earrings when Peter had been born, an emerald and diamond cluster for George’s birth, and when at last there had been that lively, precocious girl, Judith, a necklace of emeralds and diamonds. The Barrington trusts, she thought, had provided for many things that perhaps Lord Barrington had never intended. In the jewel case were also the pearls that Iris had once given her, and which had been given back, the sapphire and diamond brooch which had been meant as Iris’s wedding present. These she had been given by Charles when she had married. It had eased her sense of guilt a little to know that Iris had never sold the jewels that represented that one summer of her niece’s rise and fall in London society. Among the jewels were Lloyd’s wedding ring and the single diamond he had given her from the small Sussex jeweller. These now were never worn. There were the garnets which perversely she loved best of all. And there was the little gold horseshoe on the thin gold chain. Good luck. Lucky.

  It was strange to think that none of her children, the children she had promised to John, had actually been born at Lynmara, except Judith. Lynmara had not been handed back to them until after the war, when the long work of restoration had begun. How she and John had worked at it ‒ living uncomfortably in various parts of the house while the work went on around them. But at last it was done, the damaged woodwork restored, the floors strengthened, the chimneys rebuilt, an enormous central-heating system installed and disguised behind grilles. They had brought workmen from Italy and France, they had combed Europe for restorers for the painted ceilings; the silk for the walls and hangings had been woven in Lyons. The day had come when the pictures had come back from storage, then had come the summer night of the first great party at Lynmara. There had been those who told the story of how this present Countess of Manstone had almost married her husband’s son. But it hadn’t mattered very much. It was not the scandal it might have been. The world had changed very much, and people had admired Lynmara, and wondered how long it could survive.

  It had been a surprisingly serene marriage. She and John had united in this one great project, and while they had argued about the details, they had never been unsure of the purpose. To Lynmara, to John and his children she gave an unstinting devotion and energy, and her reward was the solidity of accomplishment. Her two Fenton children had become almost John’s children, though she had never allowed him formally to adopt them. ‘Their name must remain Fenton,’ she told him, and he had conceded her point. ‘I will advise them,’ she said, ‘when the time comes, to keep their American citizenship.’ To reinforce that, she had taken all six children for many summers to the ramshackle house on Cape Cod. She had seen Uncle Pete once more before he died. Her children had played with their Fenton cousins, and the Ashleighs had mixed with supreme ease. During adolescence and their early twenties there had always been one or two Fentons at Lynmara ‒ Fentons attending school or university in England, Fentons taking postgraduate courses. All of her children, on completing Cambridge, had spent a year at Harvard. They all now wore a smooth, international look; they knew the world they had inherited, and its changes. They made their way surely.

  ‘And where are the li
ttle Tartars you promised me?’ John had once teased her. ‘My only complaint about all our children is that at times they’re just too well behaved.’

  ‘They’ve all got guts,’ Nicole had retorted. ‘They’re just too clever to let anyone know when they’re angry.’

  So she had shared the life and the house of John Manstone, and it had been a successful partnership. Their children had given them a great party at Lynmara for John’s seventy-fifth birthday. His face was glowing as the house had come splendidly to life, his spirits had matched its radiance. ‘It’s as I’ve always wanted to see it,’ he said to Nicole as they waited for their guests. ‘It’s a happy house, filled with our children. It’s now what it never was when I was growing up, or in David’s time. I’ve almost forgotten how sad and lonely it often seemed. How beautifully you’ve managed it all …’ And then he had tucked a stray curl back around her ear, and used the excuse to kiss her. ‘But then you always were a managing little minx.’

  He had died serenely seated in a chair on the south terrace on an autumn afternoon last year while she had dead-headed roses in the beds below. He had been eighty-one years old. And so, last year, Thomas had become Lord Manstone, and technically the house now belonged to him. She had made some vague offer to move, so that he and his wife could have it, but she knew she had no intention of moving. Let them put up with an arthritic old lady because without her there would have been no house to inherit. But they seemed in no hurry to take up residence. They liked their London house, and their retreat in Scotland. They continued to treat Lynmara as a convenience for weekends. But she knew they were planning something. They were all too quiet, her children.

  Then the letter had reached her from Los Angeles. She had said nothing of it to Thomas, or to Dan or Timothy, the ones she confided in most. She had merely said she was going on a visit to the Boston Fentons, and that had been partly true. From Boston she had flown to Los Angeles, and had been met by one of the senior representatives of an eminent law firm.