‘Steven, how can I? You don’t know my father!’
‘What can he do to you?’
It wasn’t that she was afraid of him, she told herself, or not all the time, only when he was in one of those cold, unapproachable moods he could fall into, especially since Marianne died. And only she had known why.
She put her free hand over her breast, as if it would still the hammering of her heart, which she would have sworn she could actually hear, then somehow the hand seemed to find its own way towards the door and give a knock.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Amy.’ Her voice came out in a whisper, but it was loud enough for him to hear.
‘Come in, child.’
Encouraged by what sounded to be his approachable tone, she stepped into the room that could still make her feel like a terrified eight-year-old. The musty smell of old books, the absence of anything pretty or interesting to look at, only those shelves crammed with old tomes, and the tatty old brown sofa which had belonged to Reverend Dorkings and which her father refused to have re-covered. The small, meagre fire smouldering in the grate, giving out no heat. She had no idea how to begin, but of course she might have known that in this case there would be no need for her to say anything. His eyes were drawn immediately to the marbled cover of the notebook she was clutching. But he said nothing, simply waited for her to begin.
‘This notebook…’ she began at last. There was a long pause. ‘It’s Marianne’s,’ she explained, unnecessarily. Another pause. He waited before making a reply until the church clock finished sounding eleven, followed, a moment behind, by the fussy little strike of the one on the mantel, then faintly, from the kitchen, more unmusical bongs. The clocks in this house never did synchronise.
‘Where did you find it?’ he said at last. His tone was no longer encouraging.
‘It wasn’t – exactly – lost, Father.’
‘I see. Then where have you been keeping it?’ She stared silently at her shoes, wishing with all her heart that she had never seen the wretched book. ‘Come, Amy, the truth. Why have you kept it hidden, when you knew we were looking for your sister’s books?’
The habit of not lying to her father, the fear, was too strong. ‘Because of what she had written in it.’ There followed another long silence. Queenie, as if sensing the atmosphere, began to pad uneasily from one to the other. Amy put her hand on the dog’s head, taking comfort from the feel of the thick, warm fur as she pushed her fingers through it, until Queenie drew back and went to flop down at Francis’s feet. He finally made a move. Stiffly, he indicated that she might put the book down on his desk. She did so. ‘Where are the other notebooks?’
‘I never had those, Father, but Nella has found them, in the attic. I-I think she has given them to the policeman, to Inspector Reardon.’
His frown darkened. ‘Indeed. Then will you please go and find Nella and your grandmother and ask them to come in here? You will not say anything of what has passed between us, do you understand? Leave the notebook with me.’
She fled.
‘Bless you, child, what’s the matter?’ said Mrs Villiers, taking Amy by the shoulders and looking anxiously into her white face. ‘Are you ill?’
Amy thought she very well might be. She had imagined she would feel better, after getting rid of the notebook which had lain like an unexploded bomb, facing her every time she opened the drawer for a clean pair of stockings. But she felt worse now, certain that the bomb was about to blow up in her face. All she could say was that Father wanted to see them all directly, in his study.
Nella asked sharply, ‘Why?’ But Amy, mindful of that cold command, dare not say.
He was standing in typical pose, looking out of the window, his back to the room, his hands clasped behind his back, when they all three went into his study, but the notebook was not in the same place on the desk where she had left it and Amy knew he had opened it and read what was written there.
He turned when they came in and said, quite gently, ‘Perhaps we should all sit down.’ He took his own seat in the chair before his desk; the only other chair was piled high with a dangerous tower of books and pamphlets, and since there were no other seats than the lumpy sofa, they were all three compelled to sit on it. The cushions were covered in a corded brown velvet so old and thin it had grown bald in patches; there were hairs where Queenie had illicitly curled herself when no one else was in the room, and Mrs Villiers took her seat with distaste. Nella perched on the very edge, her eyes riveted on the desk.
‘It seems that we have something of a family problem to resolve.’ Francis indicated the exercise book. ‘The nature of which will be made clear when Amy reads to us what is written there.’
‘Father, no! Oh no, I couldn’t.’ Amy went white, her freckles standing out like stains.
‘Since you are obviously familiar with the contents, I don’t see that as an impossible task.’ He smiled. Amy was not the only one who was frightened by it.
‘No! Please don’t make me.’ She began to shake.
‘What is this, Francis? Why are you intimidating your daughter in this way?’
‘Read it to us, Amy.’
Nella could bear it no longer. She suddenly stood up and marched to the desk. ‘I’ll read it, whatever it is.’ She picked up the exercise book and glanced inside. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much, anyway.’
‘Stop!’ cried Mrs Villiers, also standing up and snatching the book from her in a most uncharacteristic way. ‘There is no need for anyone to read it aloud. If it contains what I think it does…’ She turned the cover back, skimmed over what was written in Marianne’s large, schoolgirl handwriting on the first page. ‘I thought so.’ Her direct glance met that of Francis. ‘Read it, Nella – to yourself – then we shall all know what we are talking about, without all this unnecessary melodrama.’ Thrusting the book at Nella, she sat back on the sofa, scarcely noticing the lumps in the cushions this time.
So, it had come at last. The fear that had remained tight within her all this time, that eventually would come to light what had happened during that strained time between her daughter Dorothea and Francis. Those three years immediately after Dorothea’s near brush with death at William’s birth, when she had been terrified of having another child. The numerous times when Francis had left his wife alone to join the famous shooting parties at Oaklands. Eleanor had at first been pleased that he had found a way of getting rid of his frustrations by way of these sporting weekends, in the sort of male company which did not encourage introspection and guilt feelings, until she had found out that Sybil had been present at most of them, too.
She blamed herself for not taking more notice of what was happening years later, also, during that summer before the war. Marianne had looked radiant, she should have known it was the glow of a girl in love. But it was not until the night of her own seventieth birthday party, when she had seen them together at the piano, Marianne and Grev, that Eleanor had even suspected. And after Marianne’s death, become convinced. Many things had still puzzled her, even so, and it was only now, after that quick glance she had given to those few damning words Marianne had written, that she realised exactly what had happened that night, how it explained everything: Grev’s abrupt departure, Marianne’s drowning.
She had only needed to give that first page of the notebook one quick glance. The image of all that was written there had burnt itself on to her retina, so that it danced before her eyes: Marianne and Grev, that night, had been told the truth by their respective parents, Francis and Lady Sybil. How could those two grown-ups have been so unthinking, compounding the follies of their youth with the cruelty of middle-aged necessity? If the truth had to be told (and Eleanor believed that it should have been brought out into the open long before then)…if the truth had to be told, then it should have been done differently, not in a manner which could not fail to hurt two vulnerable young people.
It did not take Nella long to read the disjointed and haphazard outpouring of M
arianne’s scribbled sentences on the first page of the notebook: ‘Tonight, Father has ruined my life. No happiness now for me, or for Grev. My brother! Why did they not tell us, before? Aunt Sybil – and my father. Dishonouring my mother and living a lie all these years. A man in his position. They have both lived a lie. I promised to slip out and meet Grev tonight. In less than an hour, now. He laughed and said I wouldn’t dare, but I really meant to. I cannot, not now. Yes, I will. I must see him again. But what are we to say to each other? How are we to carry on, feeling as we do?’
She turned the page. There was nothing more. She stood, her face blank with disbelief, as white as Amy’s, speechless, feeling as though all the breath had been knocked out of her body by a giant fist. The world went on outside: a vehicle drew up on the gravel, probably to collect the debris of the tree, the sound of sawing stopped. The front doorbell, Florrie would get it. And Nella asked herself why she, of all the people in the room, had been the only one not to know. The one who might have been expected, out of them all, to have worked it out for herself.
The policeman, Reardon, had told them that the Gypsy, Daniel Boswell, had actually seen Marianne lose her balance, her arms flailing in an attempt to save herself as she felt the rotten boards of the jetty collapsing under her, and heard her scream. But this – this thing she had just learnt – this added another dimension to the story: whatever had happened, right at the very end, Marianne must have run along the jetty, after what she had just learnt, with every intention of letting the deep water take her instantly. After all, if one did not consider it first, it could seem an easy, swift and sure way to end a life. Until it came to the point…
The set of her son-in-law’s mouth showed Eleanor he had reached one of his stubborn conclusions. ‘You know what I must do,’ he said. ‘The police must have this, since I understand they have the rest of Marianne’s notebooks.’
Eleanor looked at him sitting there, the light of martyrdom in his eyes, and she thought, outraged, surely this is too much. All these years, Francis had kept it up, indulging himself in guilt for his own misbehaviour, and for Dorothea’s death. Enduring patiently, paying for his sins, and making his family pay, too. He never had been able to see his way through the thorny thicket of blame and forgiveness. ‘Give it to the police, Francis?’ she cried. ‘You will do no such thing!’
Nella was rallying, too, could scarcely believe her ears at what she was hearing. Was her father entirely mad? Providing Reardon with two ready-made suspects for Edith’s murder? Edith could never have seen this last notebook, of course, but what if she had somehow wormed out the secret from Lady Sybil, and threatened to tell? She stood, white-faced, still clutching the notebook. It felt alive, like a serpent in her hand. Suddenly, she flung it, as hard as she could, into the fire.
For a moment or two it sat on the miserable little heap of coals without catching alight. There was an appalled silence in the room as they watched the covers slowly begin to curl upwards. Then at the moment when it seemed as though the pages must burst into flames, Francis thrust his hand in, snatched the book back and threw it onto the hearth.
He bowed his head, nursing his hand as if the fire had scorched it, though there had not been enough heat for that.
‘I’m sorry, Father.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Nella. It’s over. The secrecy. I would not have had any of you find out this way, but I am glad, after all, that you know.’
They were all on their feet now, standing like figures in a tableau, as Francis still sought for words, when the door opened and four pairs of eyes turned towards it. It took a moment for it to register with anyone that the person who stood there was William.
He was here. He’d come back, war-weary, but safe and sound, and he’d come straight to her, Eunice, first, before even going home. Safe and sound in wind and limb, and wholly hers in heart and mind. They had kept faith throughout the war, and William had come home to her. She felt to be enclosed in a blaze of glory.
They were standing in the orangery when Sybil saw them. Facing each other, close, close together, hands clasped. He was looking down at Eunice with an expression she could not fail to recognise. So that at last she understood a good many things that had puzzled her lately about Eunice. Something in her began to ache, but in that moment, quietly, with a barely perceptible sigh, she accepted the inevitable, relinquished the matrimonial hopes for her daughter she had cherished so long.
Chapter Thirty
‘Witch’, he used to call her.
‘Do you know what my name means?’ she had demanded of the twelve-year-old Ben. ‘I do, I’ve looked it up. Sybil: a prophetess, fortune-teller, a witch, that’s what it says.’
‘I’ll call you “Witch”, then. T’others don’t suit you.’
So that’s who she’d been, Witch, in those childhood years, when he had been Ben, her boon companion. Now he was Naylor, her head gamekeeper, middle-aged, awkward, twisting his cap in his hands. ‘I just wanted to say, m’lady, you can rely on me. I won’t say nothing. About what I saw, Monday night.’
Ben had seen? A sudden painful lurch in her chest, and the blood draining from her extremities. She said, carefully, inadequately, through stiff lips, ‘Thank you, Naylor, I won’t forget that. But you must – whatever happens.’ He nodded and walked away to prevent any further embarrassment. Before he reached the door she said, ‘I’m sorry about Edith, Ben, very sorry.’
He turned and for a moment she thought she saw a flash of – what, anger? – in his eyes. ‘Yes, m’lady.’
And then he was gone, leaving her shaken and confused. Don’t panic. Rest assured. His promise meant that he still, as she did, treasured and would not deny fond memories of that idyllic, carefree, unthinking childhood they’d shared, almost-brother and almost-sister, gleeful at breaking the rules and avoiding authority. Halcyon days, in retrospect.
She had been fiercely resentful at being sent away from Oaklands by her father, when she became fifteen, to live with Aunt Charlotte and her silly girl cousins, to be made into a young lady. First her hair, then her clothes. Her complexion. Her speech. ‘Lord, what has Broughton been thinking of? It’s quite a little hobbledehoy! Look at her hands!’ cried Aunt Charlotte, almost in a swoon with horror. Piano lessons, dancing lessons, French lessons, all of them hated. Then, being brought out…parties, dances, lovely clothes, young men. It had suddenly become quite fun, and a little wild.
What wasn’t so much fun was Oaklands. Her father had begun to take notice of her when she blossomed and he saw how she could become an asset to him, and he commandeered her to act as hostess for him at his weekend shooting parties. She had come back to Oaklands and seen with new eyes her old home’s dilapidation, and grieved over it more than she did over her father’s descent into drunken stupors every night, his gambling away money he didn’t have, and the way both were ruining him. She saw that what was needed was money, and did her best to do what her father wanted and entertain his guests, being charming to those he had his eye on as suitable matches – suitable in his eyes but not in hers. They were all wrong, in one way or another: rich but ugly; handsome but penniless; charming but feckless. Francis Wentworth, a distant relative of sorts, was none of these, but neither could he be considered as a suitor, since he was already married, with a wife he adored and a baby son. He had the dangerously seductive looks of a beautiful, unattainable, medieval young monk, pale and thin faced, with an expression of suffering in his dark eyes. He was fighting demons at that moment in his life. Unthinkable she should allow that to continue…
In later years, she looked at Grev, and saw the same dark eyes, the same sensitive face, trembled and wondered that no one else saw the likeness. Perhaps it was not as apparent as she feared. Or perhaps those who saw it wisely said nothing. She would give twenty years of her life, or all that remained of it, to see that face now.
At the Greville Arms, in the office they had set up there, Reardon heard the sound of an engine, looked out of the open window and s
aw drawing to a halt a motor car with a long bonnet and a strap around it. A young man’s motor car, a yellow-painted, sporty Martini, covetable. Suddenly, every boy in the village seemed miraculously to appear, to stare and jostle round the phenomenon of such a spectacle, here in Broughton. A tall man jumped from it, followed by Eunice Foley, with a scarf tied round her hat. There was all at once much talking and laughter and Sam coming out of the door to greet them.
The two men pumped hands and beamed at each other and the driver was gesturing towards the motor Sam was admiring and telling him, ‘Used to belong to a friend – I went to see his parents on the way home and took it off their hands. Oh, she’s beautiful, runs sweet as a nut. Nothing wrong except two flat tyres on the way, but blame the roads for that.’
He was broad-shouldered and long-legged, this tall young man, in a pre-war suit that now hung loose on him, clean-shaven and with a thatch of reddish hair that told Reardon this might be William Wentworth. The sender of the Mizpah brooch, he concluded, looking at Eunice’s face.
A few minutes later, they came into the parlour. William shook hands with Reardon and said, after Eunice had introduced him, ‘I got home yesterday and came as soon as I could. My sister – Nella, that is – thinks you’d like a word with me. She’s sorry she can’t be here herself, but she’s on duty.’
When they were all seated, he said directly, ‘I gather you’re anxious to know what happened to Rupert von Kessel. Well, I can tell you because I wrote to him, care of his parents, after the Armistice. We’d been close before the war, you know, school and all that, and I’d spent one or two vacations with his people in Salzburg, where they’d always made me pretty comfortable, so it seemed…’ He paused awkwardly. ‘Well, they wrote back to tell me he didn’t make it through the war.’
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