by Rona Randall
‘— which you didn’t find, of course. That valet of mine is more conscientious than you think.’
‘He is at least honest. He could have helped himself to this and sold it very profitably.’
He glanced at her extended hand. Something lay within the palm, silencing him.
‘I — recognized it at once.’ She continued with an effort, ‘It was part of a ruby necklace of my mother’s. She lent it to Phoebe on one occasion, and Phoebe never returned it. You know that, of course. You also know when she wore it last. So do I.’
The retching he had felt when those men threatened him was as nothing to what he felt now.
His mother laid the ruby on a table beside her, dragged herself from her chair, then lumbered to a side table. She returned with brandy.
‘Drink this,’ she said, ‘then go.’
‘I — I found it!’ he blustered. ‘I found it by accident! I called at Carrion House after…after she’d been taken away and the house searched…this one ruby had been overlooked, hidden in the carpet pile…’ His voice petered out. He gulped the brandy. He continued desperately, ‘I was too frightened to admit it… I might have been suspected!’
‘Even though you found it after the murder? After her body had been removed?’
He gulped more brandy, then nodded.
‘I don’t know what made me go there. Curiosity, I suppose. I didn’t believe the news when I heard. How could anyone?’ When his mother remained silent he burst out, ‘It’s true, I tell you! True! Why can’t you believe me?’
‘I am trying to.’
‘You shouldn’t have to try to believe the truth! I found that ruby by chance…saw it half-buried in the carpet…obviously, it had been overlooked. What a piece of luck, I thought. It wasn’t until later that I had second thoughts and realized that the damned thing could arouse suspicion…wrong suspicion. I panicked, and hid it.’
‘But took it with you to America? It was concealed in clothes you had made there…’
‘I’d forgotten I had it! I’d thrust it in a pocket and left it there. When I arrived in Savannah I came across it, didn’t know what to do with it, so thrust it out of sight…and have continued to.’
‘In a very secret pocket…’
‘Many men have pockets like that, to foil thieves…’
Her silence, combined with the brandy, began to lull his fear. Doubt was beginning to touch her, doubt that made her ready to listen.
He said reproachfully, ‘Dear Mama, surely you could never think that I could be guilty of that hideous thing? I thought you knew me. I thought you trusted me. I — thought you loved me.’ His voice broke. ‘Dearest Mama, believe me — please.’
He sensed that she was trying to, that she wanted to, that she was seizing on his story to allay her own fear. He reached out and grasped both her hands. She didn’t withdraw, and he knew then that even if she didn’t believe him she would never betray him. That was the only thing that mattered.
She withdrew her hands, crossed to the window and stared out across Tremain’s spreading grounds. At length she turned. With her back to the light he could see little of her face, but what he did see was twisted with grief.
When she spoke again, the words came in jerks, choking her.
‘Why have you come to me? Don’t say “for advice”, because you never want it or heed it. You came for help. Tangible help. If it’s money to enable you to run away again, you’ve come to the wrong person. I have none to spare.’
‘But you’re my mother!’
‘Yes — your foolish, gullible, doting mother who can be twisted round your little finger. But not this time. All I have to give you now is maternal advice, no doubt unwanted — but here it is. Give the pottery back to Amelia, unreservedly. You can’t sell it or raise money on it in any way. It belongs to the Draytons and Amelia has a son.’
‘I may have sons!’
‘And they will be Draytons, too. Time will tell. Time will deal with everything, but you can deal with nothing. You can bring only ruin to Drayton’s because you’re incapable of running the place. It was foolish of me to believe you could, but I’ve always been foolish where you are concerned.’ Taking a deep and steadying breath she finished, ‘If you’re really thinking of your unborn sons, you’ll heed my advice. If you don’t, the men who threatened you — and everyone has heard about that — will carry out their threats. You must be content with the Carrion bequest. As for this ruby…’
She picked up the stone and stared down at it for a long moment, then said painfully, ‘I’ll accept your story because I must…because I want to…because the alternative would be too unbearable to live with. But belief would be easier if you hadn’t hidden this all these years —’
‘I’ve told you why I did that! How could I confess to being near the place?’
‘In the customary way. By telling the truth. To me, at least.’ Her fingers closed over the ruby. ‘I’ll keep this. It was my mother’s. I shall wear it as a pendant. What use would a single stone be to you? You have plenty of rings, plenty of fobs, more than enough jewellery for any man. You could sell it, but you would have done that, had you needed money. The Carrion bequest carried funds for its upkeep so long as you live there, and your pockets have never been to let — thanks to me. Now you must survive with what you have, and be content.’
She sat down, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
‘I’m tired, my son. Very tired. On your way out, please summon Rose. She will help me to bed.’
He turned his back on her, and left.
*
When he returned to Carrion House, a phaeton stood at the door. He recognized it as one belonging to Damian Fletcher.
He couldn’t avoid the man. He was waiting in the impressive hall; not sitting, but standing beside the hearth, legs astride in a resolute stance which somehow suggested that he had been waiting for some time and nothing was going to dislodge him. But he spoke pleasantly enough.
‘I came to thank you on behalf of Olivia and myself.’
‘Indeed. And why?’
‘I think you know. It was you, wasn’t it, who wrote to Caroline, telling her how prosperous her husband has become? It seems that at long last she’s willing to take advantage of it. When I was poor, she refused a divorce. Now I can provide for her more generously, she is eager for it. Her terms are excessive, but I’ll meet them gladly. Any price is worth paying to marry Olivia. The result of your interference is ironical, but gratifying, so I’m here to thank you for it.’
‘And you came here just to say that?’
‘No — something else as well. From the sound of things, it’s time you quit the Drayton Pottery. I’ve made it my business to talk with the men. They want you out of it, and Amelia back. Olivia, too.’
Lionel laughed. It was a mirthless sound.
‘You’re a bit late. I’ve already decided on that. My aunt is welcome to whatever is left of it. The place is a mess.’
‘Amelia has a talent for sorting out messes, and Olivia has a talent for helping her.’
At the door, Damian Fletcher turned. ‘I’ve just remembered something. It should interest you. Caroline has another reason for agreeing to a divorce at long last — she plans to marry again. A rich landowner from Kentucky, with vast estates and a string of fine hunters…’
So that’s what she was hinting at in her letter, Lionel thought bitterly. That’s what she meant by: Freedom is very desirable, providing one knows how to use it…and I do, dear Lionel… I do… And he’d imagined she was hinting at a possible renewal of their once-enjoyable relationship! Freedom, to her, meant the freedom to take lovers as and when she felt inclined — but, this time, more permanently and profitably.
He felt as if a final door had been slammed in his face.
After that, there was nothing to say. Leaving Fletcher to see himself out, Lionel sought escape by opening the nearest door. The choice was unfortunate. It led into Phoebe’s tawdry salon. Ornate mirrors
glittered. Satin drapes and crystal candelabra gleamed. Artificial flowers festooned the ceiling. Everything was pink and silver and gold; everything was tinsel, bright and gaudy and hideous. Gilded cupids looked down on him, their dimpled faces laughing…mocking…exactly as they had laughed and mocked when he scrabbled on this floor for scattered rubies, while her contorted face gazed up at them…her cherubs…her pretty cherubs…all laughing at her bulging eyes and her swollen tongue and the frantic man harvesting the fruits he had killed her for.
As he flung himself from the room his reflection was flung back from Phoebe’s grandiose mirrors — an ashen, frightened man faced with unwelcome imprisonment. He stumbled in his haste and, with shaking fingers, locked the door behind him. Never again would he enter that damned place. Let it gather dust; let it go to wrack and ruin. Let time take it over.
Time! For all time he must remain here because he had no choice. The money bequeathed for its upkeep would cover that, but leave no margin for luxury travel and little for pleasures on the scale he enjoyed. From henceforth those pleasures would consist only of bear-baiting and cock-fighting down in Burslem, but not enough for higher stakes in Stoke and elsewhere, and little for the even more exciting sport of dog-fighting. He might win something here and there, enough to cover his wine bills, but precious little else. His mother had proved to be singularly ungenerous today, and it would be a long time before he inherited anything from her. She was the sort who could live for ever. He was confident that she would rally from shock — the shock, he remembered, which Deborah had observed when seeing Agatha hurrying away from Carrion House. Then she would settle down to good hearty eating again.
For his mother, life would go back to normal. For himself, it would never be the same again.
As for selling Carrion House, how much would it fetch? A fair sum, a tidy sum, but how long would that last? Money had a way of vanishing and when it was gone — what then? Property was at least durable, and its value could even increase…and of course he was still a Drayton, which was a comforting thought. He might be able to trade on the name; even, with luck, claim some sort of financial benefit from the family business. After all, Drayton descendants had been profiting from it for centuries.
Those who worked for it, you mean… The words came from nowhere, echoing in his brain, reminding him that this unhappy, doomed house was now his sole legacy.
Fear was an icy chill in his heart. He was trapped for ever in a house of tragic legend and if he ever tried to scoff, his own memories would rise to mock him. Locking the door of that room wouldn’t keep them at bay.
Chapter 18
If she rode to Merrow’s Thicket at about seven o’clock in the morning, she might see him. Deborah had hinted as much when Miguel came to Ashburton, unexpectedly.
‘I’m taking up my early morning rides again,’ she had said. ‘Mama has made me see the folly of my ways. I’m not getting enough exercise, she says. The Ashburton lands are not enough. I must ride further, as before. She also says I shall work all the better for being healthier. Not that I’m unhealthy. Papa says I’m always “bursting with rude health”, which sounds awful…and here I go, chattering too much, as usual.’
‘I like the sound of it. What route will your early morning rides take?’
‘The same as before. Across the valley and then a good gallop across Tremain’s fields, down into the dip of Badgers’ Brook and across the ford, up the hill at the other side…and then the usual way home. Early, of course, because now I’m to have full responsibility at the Ashburton Pottery I must be as conscientious as Olivia and Aunt Amelia have always been.’
It was very exciting, the merger of the Ashburton and Drayton Potteries; Drayton’s producing earthenware, china, and porcelain as before, and Ashburton working exclusively in the new white stoneware, which was proving ideal for her own type of work.
‘Have you seen the sundial in the Martin Drayton Museum?’ Deborah had then asked with some hesitation.
‘I have. And the tribute to its donor. Both pleased me — but I wonder how Aunt Amelia persuaded him to be so generous.’
She wondered, too. However it had been achieved, she was glad about it, for already she was working on a better design, a more suitable one for Tremain Hall. She hadn’t told Miguel about it yet, but would do so very soon because she had also decided on a course of action inspired by something Olivia had told her — a step Olivia herself had taken many years ago.
Riding now toward Badgers’ Brook, Deborah’s hope quickened. If he were there, it would be wonderful. If he were not, she would emulate Olivia and ride up to the s’or of Tremain Hall and tell him why she had come. That was what Olivia had done when Damian’s wife went back to America, never to return.
‘Had she come back,’ Olivia had confided, ‘she would have found me already installed, and very difficult to dislodge. I knew precisely what I wanted to do, and what he wanted me to do but couldn’t ask me to. In such circumstances I had to take the initiative, so I did. I packed a bag, told my grandparents the time had come for me to rearrange my life and that even if they didn’t give me their blessing, which I wanted very much, nothing would stop me.’
‘And did they give it?’
‘Of course. They loved me. Then I walked all the way to Damian’s cottage and knocked on his door. I knew exactly what I was going to say, and that I had to say it for him. “I’ve come to live with you because I can’t live without you.” But it wasn’t even necessary. He took one look, seized my grip and drew me inside. And there I’ve remained ever since.’
‘And now you’ll be married. Will you feel any different?’
‘After all these years? I don’t know. An even stronger sense of belonging, perhaps. An even deeper permanence. I shall find out. I shall be glad to share his name, of course; to be Olivia Fletcher instead of Olivia Freeman. He wants that, and so do I. But I’ve always been glad I took that first, important step.’
So if Miguel didn’t appear at the gap leading from Merrow’s Thicket, Deborah knew what she would do. She would ride up to Tremain Hall and ask to see him, and when he appeared she would say, ‘I’m making another sundial for you. A more apt one. It features our entwined initials. That will be more suitable for the walls of your home, don’t you think?’
No — that was wrong — it would have to be ‘our’ home. And she would stress it.
The ford by Badgers’ Brook was behind her. A few more yards, and she would reach Merrow’s Thicket. Only the sound of her horse’s hooves echoed in the silent air.
Then something else. A footfall. The crunch of dried bracken and fallen twigs.
Her breath caught.
He was there. He was waiting.
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