by Mary Nichols
When everything was ready, she went up to her room to finish packing her bag ready to leave. She was kneeling on the floor putting her clothes in it, when she came across the little figurine wrapped in tissue in the folds of the dress Richard had bought for her. She sat heavily on the bed with the dress draped across her knees and the little figure clasped in her hands. Her own words came back to her: ‘I shall treasure it as a memento of my time in Borstead.’ She heard again his voice saying, ‘It is only a piece of stone, not a precious jewel, a small token of gratitude for helping me choose my great-grandmother’s gift.’
Again and again she went over everything that happened between them in the last week and could not believe it was so short a time. They had begun warily; she had been convinced he did not think she was good enough for his brother, and then by being amiable and helpful, making her sympathise with him over the loss of his dog and his estrangement from his parents, he had wormed his way into her heart. She could not change that, he was there for ever, but it had been the most humiliating experience of her life to realise he had only been using her in his vendetta with Stephen. Poor Stephen, her rejection of him must have hurt him badly, considering he had suffered it before.
And yet…She sat there for a long time, turning the little figure over in her hand and stroking the soft silk of the gown, her emotions going from anger to despair and back again. She had been manipulated by everyone, even her father, who, in some ways, was the most manipulative of them all. It was time she reasserted herself. She stood up and hung the gown in the wardrobe where it would stay to be found by chambermaids after she had gone. The little carving she slipped into her pocket to return to the giver. Then she set off for the nursing home, wondering, with some trepidation, what she would find there.
Her father was sitting on the bench in the garden. Newly shaved, he was in his best suit of clothes and looking very smart. ‘Papa,’ she said, bending to kiss him, noting that there was no smell of alcohol on his breath. ‘How are you?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Very sorry.’
‘Papa, you have said that before, many times.’
‘I mean it this time. Yesterday—’
‘Yesterday you disgraced me and yourself. Now the whole village knows what you are. It is a good thing we are leaving. You must pull yourself together and help me. I am sure if you stayed sober you could find work for yourself.’
He turned to her, ready to protest as he always had, to tell her that she had no right to speak to him in that fashion, but the words died on his lips. ‘Yesterday,’ he went on as if she had not spoken, ‘was the last time, the very last time. I could not help it. I had had a shock.’
‘What shock? You do not mean because I turned Stephen down?’
‘No, that does not matter now. I had a visitor…’
‘Visitor? You mean Richard?’
‘No, Miss Alicia Harecroft.’ He gave her one of his lop-sided grins. ‘She came after you had left me last night. She said it was about time she met me and invited me to her mother’s party. You were not going to tell me I had been invited, were you?’
‘I was not sure I could trust you.’
‘I know. I am a terrible burden to you, but no longer, not ever again. I will stay as sober as a judge, I promise you. They are going to send the coachman with the pony and trap to fetch me, it is all arranged.’
It was just one more indication of how they were being manipulated and the anger she had felt earlier returned in full measure. ‘Then it can be unarranged. We are not going to the party, either of us. We are going to take the carrier to Ascot to catch the stage.’
‘But we cannot do that,’ he protested. ‘We are expected.’
‘We can and we will. Now I suggest you pack your bags. I am going back to the Hall to fetch my own and I shall tell them exactly what I think of their scheming.’
‘You will live to regret it,’ he called after her as she marched to the door.
She was too incensed to answer him and hurried back to the Hall, almost at a run. She even forgot to avoid the dower house and was passing the gate when she heard her name being called and turned to see Richard in the garden with Dick. He sent the child indoors and came over to her. ‘How is your father this morning, Diana?’
He spoke as if there had never been that dreadful quarrel with his brother over her, but it had happened, as a bruise on his cheek bore witness. Seeing it, she wanted to reach up and touch it tenderly and ask him if it hurt, then berated herself for her stupidity. ‘My father is well,’ she answered coldly. ‘Well enough to travel with me when I leave, which I shall do this afternoon.’
‘This afternoon!’
‘Yes, I am tired of being used.’
‘Used—whatever do you mean? Who has done that?’
‘All of you. Every one of you. Do the Harecrofts never think of anyone but themselves?’
‘You are disappointed with Stephen?’
‘No more than with the rest of you.’ She paused. ‘Why did you mention Stephen?’
His spirits rose, then plummeted again. ‘He did not tell you, then?’
‘Tell me what? That he had discovered I was a nobody, after all, and not fit to marry one of the mighty Harecrofts?’
‘Good Lord, no! If anyone has given you that impression, Diana, I am sorry for it,’ he said. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. You are too good for any of us.’
‘Ha!’ She was scornful. ‘If you think flattery will bring me round, you could not be more wrong.’ She delved into her pocket and pulled out the little figure he had given her. ‘And you may have this back.’ She held it out to him.
He recoiled, refusing to take it. ‘Why, Diana? What have I done to displease you?’
‘If you do not know, then you must be even more insensitive than I took you for. I bid you goodday, sir.’ And with that, she left him.
He stared after her, then looked down at the little carving which had somehow got into his hand, though he did not remember taking it. Not since the day Pal had died, had he felt so consumed by dark despair.
As soon as she entered the house, Diana was swept up in the final preparations for the party, being appealed to by Cook and Dawkins to settle a dispute over the cleanliness of the silver, and then going to look for Catchpole, whose job it was to oversee the footmen’s work. She handed the problem over to him and was on the way up to her room, when she was met by Mathilde. ‘Miss Bywater, I was coming to find you. Her ladyship wants to see you.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, if you please.’
Diana took a very deep breath to calm herself and tapped on the dowager’s door, Receiving the command to enter, she went in to find her ladyship dressed, ready to receive her guests. Her gown was of cream satin embroidered with silver thread and seed pearls and she wore a small diamond tiara on her white hair. Mathilde had made up her face very discreetly and she looked much younger than her ninety years. Her blue eyes were sparkling.
‘You wanted to see me?’ Diana asked.
‘Yes. Come in and sit down.’ She waved at a stool close to her feet.
Diana perched herself on the edge of it and waited.
‘You are still wearing that old grey dress, Diana. I expected you to be dressed for the party before now.’
‘I am not going to stay for the party, my lady. My father and I are leaving almost at once to take the carrier into Ascot to catch the stage. I know you have spent money on Papa’s convalescence and I am sorry for that, but somehow I shall find a way of repaying it.’
‘My dear child, what nonsense is this? I thought you were happy here.’
‘I should never have been asked. It was a great mistake on my part to accept. Mr Henry Harecroft seemed to think I was a relation and I think you thought it too and that is why…’
‘Did you never wonder about it yourself?’
‘No, of course not. I know Mr Richard thought I was using a superficial likeness to the family to worm my way into favour, but i
t is not true, I swear it. It never entered my head.’
‘Did Richard really say that?’
‘No, but he implied it.’
‘Then he is a bigger dolt than I took him for. I knew you were a Harecroft the minute I set eyes on you in John’s office. The trouble was proving it. Everyone was bound to say I was becoming senile if I told them. The only one I could trust was Richard.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Listen to me for a minute while I explain.’ She paused to collect her thoughts. ‘Out of the six children I had, three grew into adulthood—William, James and Alicia.’
‘Yes, I saw the portrait in the attic and Miss Harecroft told me who everyone was.’
‘James was a handsome devil and all the young débutantes fell in love with him; he could have married any one of them with our blessing. Instead, he fell in love with a young woman called Susan Bywater, who was the daughter of a seamstress.’
‘Bywater?’
‘Yes, my dear. He wanted to marry her, but naturally, his father did not approve and, to my shame, I agreed with him. We did our best to dissuade him against the marriage. My husband even went so far as to threaten to cut off his allowance and disinherit him if he married her. They were both stubborn and neither would give an inch. In the end, James went off and joined the army, saying it was the only way he could be independent. A little like Richard, I suppose, though Richard did come back, thank God.
‘We did not hear of James for over a year and then came the news that he had been killed in action in the Americas. It broke my heart that he had died without becoming reconciled with us. I wanted to find Susan, thinking that he must have married her and, whether we had approved or not, she was our daughter-in-law and there might be a child, but my husband was adamant. He said he had cut him off and that meant he had cut off his wife and any progeny he might have had. He would not listen to my pleading and it was not until after he died several years later, that I felt able to begin my search.
‘I discovered from a fellow officer that James had been going to marry but he did not think he had done so before he was sent off to America. He had no idea what had happened to Miss Bywater. He said she might have been expecting a child but he could not be sure. After that the trail went cold.
‘In spite of that, I have always been convinced there was a child and I kept trying to imagine what he or she would be like. If the child was a boy, was he handsome and good, or if a girl, was she clever and pretty? I tended to think that everyone who was the right age and bore a superficial likeness to the Harecrofts must be my grandchild. But I was always disappointed. When I met you, all my old hopes and frustrations surfaced again. I would have renewed my search as soon as I met you, but Alicia persuaded me it would only lead to another dead end. It was when Stephen asked if you might come to my party, that I really began to think about it again. This time I am sure.’
Diana had been mesmerised by the story, easily relating it to what she knew of her father. And he was called James! She stared at the old lady who was smiling at her, as if expecting her to welcome the news. ‘You are saying that Miss Bywater was my father’s mother?’
‘Yes and what is more to the point my son, James, was your grandfather.’
‘Are you sure? Can you prove what you are saying?’
‘Yes, I think so. The Foundling Hospital has a reputation for placing orphans in the navy and when I learned that your father was a naval man and you told us he had been brought up in an orphanage, I asked Richard to make enquiries there. Their records of when your father arrived in their care and the date of his birth given to them by the woman who brought him there, coincided with the little I knew.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘No one knows. According to the hospital records, she said she would return for him, but she never did.’
‘How do you know she was Miss Bywater? She could have been anyone.’
‘I had met her once and the description fitted. And there was more tangible evidence. As a token of her intention to return, she gave the director of the orphanage a necklace, one James had given her, telling them it was to be used for his welfare if she did not. When he left the hospital, it was given to him.’ She paused. ‘I have seen you wearing it.’
Diana stared at her. ‘I cannot take it in. Does my father know?’
‘Alicia went to see him yesterday and told him.’
‘He never said a word to me.’
‘No doubt he could not take it in either.’
‘I think it is more likely he would not like to think he was a bastard, born out of a young woman’s shame. He would not want to tell me that. Does Stephen know?’
‘No one does, except Alicia and Richard.’
‘No wonder he did not want me to marry Stephen.’
‘He had his own reasons for that and it is nothing to do with who you are.’
She was too full of the Dowager’s revelations to wonder what they could be. And he did not seem to be the kind of man to condemn the child for the sins of its parents—in her case, grandparents. After all, there was Dick. ‘Why did he not tell me?’
‘Because I asked him not to. I have had so many disappointments I wanted to be sure. And I wanted to be the one to tell you.’ She reached out and put a hand on Diana’s. ‘You are without doubt my great-granddaughter.’
Diana was silent for a long time, trying to digest what she had been told. ‘I do not know what to say,’ she said at last. ‘My father is your grandson, cousin to Mr John and Mr Henry. And Richard and Stephen, Cecil and Maryanne are my second cousins, once removed. Is that right?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Do they know?’
The old lady smiled. ‘Richard does, of course, and Alicia, and I think John might have guessed, but the others…no, I do not think so. I was tempted to welcome you into the family at the party, to watch everyone’s reactions, but I realised you might find it humiliating and embarrassing, so that is why I asked you to come and see me now.’
‘But you are going to tell them?’
‘Yes, but not to cause a stir…’
‘It will certainly do that.’
The old lady smiled. ‘Yes, but I do so want you to be recognised as one of the family. I have waited so long.’ She paused and there was a catch in her voice. ‘You are not going to run away from me now, are you? Not when I have only just found you. You belong here.’
‘Papa?’
‘He will be fetched. I want so very much to meet him. And do not worry, Alicia has had a long talk with him; he is her nephew, after all, and he has promised to be good.’
‘But you do not know…Unless Richard…’
‘Richard said nothing. Your father confessed his problem to Alicia, explained how it came about because of his frustration and helplessness and the poverty in which you found yourselves. Now there is no reason for it. My husband could not quite carry out his threat to cut James off and he never changed his will. The money left to James has been accruing interest over the years and it belongs to your father. He is a wealthy man. It is sad to think you need not have suffered the hardships you have had to endure, but all that is over now.’
‘Miss Harecroft told him all this?’
‘Yes.’
‘No wonder he felt he needed a drink. Celebrating, he said he was.’
‘Do you blame him?’ It was said with a rueful smile. ‘I want him here, to acknowledge him for what he is, my grandson, the child of the boy I gave birth to and always loved. Do not deny me that pleasure. It would be the best birthday present you could give me.’
‘I would be a churlish daughter if I denied my father the family he has always wanted.’
‘Then go and change for the party.’
In the face of pleading like that, Diana gave in. How the revelation would affect her future, she did not know, but there would be time enough to consider that after the party was over. She kissed the old lady, called her Great-Grandmama and left
her to change into her mother’s green gown. She had no sooner reached her room than Mathilde came and offered to help her dress and do her hair. She was glad of the help; her hands were shaking so much she could not have done up the buttons or arranged her hair. Her brain was numb.
Later in the evening she found herself standing in the crowded drawing room surrounded by guests, their conversation a hum of noise that made no sense. The family had been told who she was at dinner before the other guests arrived. Henry had said he was not at all surprised, Stephen had gone very pink about the ears, and his mother had kissed her and welcomed her into the family very coolly. Diana smiled to herself; their disgust at her father’s bastardy was mixed with the knowledge that he was probably the wealthiest of them all, barring Lord Harecroft, and they were unsure how they ought to react. It was amusing to see them struggling with their so-called finer feelings, wondering what to do for the best. But while the old lady presided over them, they were prepared to welcome Diana. They had yet to meet her father.
She wanted to talk to him, to find out how he felt, to make sure he stayed sober, but since he had arrived, he had been closeted with the old lady. She wanted to speak to Richard, too, but she did not think he would want to have anything more to do with her. She had been scathing to him and had practically thrown his gift back in his face. Well, he deserved it. Whatever her new status, it did not alter the fact that he had humiliated her. She was well aware that she was being inconsistent, but she could not help it. The images of Lucy and Dick always came between her and any thought of reconciliation with him. As for Stephen, she did not know what to think. She ought to have asked the old lady why he had been encouraged to offer her marriage, but in her confusion she had not thought if it.
No one came to speak to her; though she felt thoroughly uncomfortable, she refused to show it, standing tall and proud with a fixed smile on her face. She had nothing to be ashamed of and neither had her father, except for his love of alcohol—perhaps Lady Harecroft was right and his joy at finding himself with a family might effect a cure. She decided to make her way to the barn and see how the party was going there; after all, she had helped to arrange it and it was part of her duties to see that it was running smoothly.
