He waited, but I neither spoke, nor raised my eyes.
‘I had no right to do so. You were a member of the family. I was only the estate manager. I lived here above my station. I took advantage of the family’s absence and, when you came, I took advantage of you.’ I heard him swallow, a dry gulp. ‘I know I threw away any possibility that I might… that we might…’ he trailed off. Indeed, that possibility was beyond articulating. ‘But,’ he went on, more firmly, ‘I must tell you, Evelyn, that although I knew I could not expect it, yet, I did, in my heart, always hope for it. Always. And still.’
‘Still?’ my voice came out as a whisper. His fingertips were half an inch from mine. Both our hands, I realised, were trembling.
‘Still. I bought this house from Colin in the hope that you might become what you should always have been - its mistress. That is your rightful place, and I want you to take it up, properly.’
‘As your…’ I could hardly speak the word, ‘mistress,’ I got out at last.
‘No.’ Ratton leaned forward. The action brought his fingertips to mine. They were clammy, the nails bitten to the quicks. ‘As my wife.’
I recoiled, snatching my hands from the table and throwing myself against the backrest of the chair, but before I could speak Ratton went on, in a rush of reasoning which, I got the impression, he had rehearsed many times. ‘There will be no more living in the servants’ quarters,’ he said, throwing his arm out to indicate the shabby kitchen and the tired rooms beyond where Awan and I slept. ‘You will occupy the principal suites,’ he said. ‘The house will be fully staffed, and redecorated, of course, refurnished, repaired: mains electricity, water, sewage, telephone, a television, if you like. Every modern comfort will be supplied.’ In his enthusiasm, he got up from his chair and walked quickly from one end of the room to another. ‘We’ll have parties. You’re starved of respectable company, here. I know women who would fall over each other to be your friends.’
‘Stop,’ I croaked.
But he rushed on, pacing, pacing, up and down the room, ‘Or we’ll live quietly, just as you prefer. And, naturally, we will travel, once the embargo is lifted. Private yachts, exclusive hotels, a safari…’
‘Stop,’ I said again, more loudly.
He didn’t seem to hear me. ‘Surely, you’d like that?’ he asked, ‘it will be as though your life is beginning all over again. The child can go to school - Bedford, I hear, is very good - she will be denied nothing at all. And other children, should they come, they will lack nothing that money can buy.’
‘Please, please,’ I begged.
It was as though I was mute. There was no stopping him. ‘Because there is money,’ he gushed, ‘lots of money, more than even I ever dreamed! But more importantly, there is me. I know I began badly, but Evelyn, I loved you from the first, and I love you still.’ His perambulations had brought him back to the hearth - a favoured spot of his - where he turned to face me. ‘I have watched over you, all these years. It was me who persuaded Colin to re-open the house. I suggested using it for private meetings and so of course it had to be repaired and maintained - that was for your benefit. My idea. You see? All these years I have been your guardian angel. Even when they brought in that crucifying super-tax, I used all my powers to persuade him to find it, somehow. I even paid it, on more than one occasion!’ In spite of his pacing and his animated speech, he was pale, his eyes, within their thickly-fleshed sockets and behind their inscrutable lenses, were dark flints of passion. He breathed quickly.
‘Please,’ I said again, and held up my hand to stop him from going on.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve needed to say this for so long, just hear me out.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Please, Miss Talbot, do me the honour of becoming my wife. There, I’ve said it. Whatever has happened in the past I forgive. I don’t care about your history or your reputation and you need have no fear of it; no one will dare impugn the wife of Sylvester Ratton and no word of reproach will ever pass my lips. Don’t you think fate has brought us to this? I do. All these years, we’ve led parallel lives and now, at last, our paths have joined.’ His tirade came to a halt at last. ‘There,’ he said, with a satisfied smile. ‘I’ve finally said it. Now you.’
But now I had the opportunity I was lost for words. My mouth flapped uselessly. Ratton misinterpreted my silence. ‘You’re overwhelmed,’ he said. ‘Let me pour you more tea.’ He reached for the pot.
‘No,’ I said, quickly.
He held his hand, ‘Oh, very well, if you’re sure. Something stronger?’
‘No,’ I repeated.
So many thoughts were going through my head I couldn’t order them. Colin was dead. Would there really be nothing left of the Talbot family wealth once his affairs had been settled? Ratton implied as much, but could I trust him? Tall Chimneys was Ratton’s. The idea of it felt the same as if the whole house had been swept away in a tornado or burned to ashes. His ownership, his influence, would defile it. The prospect of having no home was terrifying; what, I wondered, assuming I could get work, could I afford to provide long-term for Awan and myself? I did not know. I was woefully out of touch with such things. Could I possibly accept his offer? For the sake of Awan, for our future security, could I endure his sloppy kisses and sweaty pawings? Everything in me revolted against it. But how could I live otherwise? Panic rose in my chest. Would Ratton, I wondered, wildly, consent to a celibate marriage? Perhaps, I reasoned to myself, if he would agree to that, I could endure his society, preside at his seedy business dinners, manoeuvre things so that we spent as little time in each other’s company as possible, as I had done, I recalled, at the beginning. He would be away a great deal, I told myself, on business. He must have another home. He could live there and I could remain here - he might only visit at weekends, or less often… On the other hand, the world of the respectable married woman - a wealthy married woman - brought me into touching distance of the shimmering, mirror-image of myself that I had sometimes day-dreamed. As revolting as things might be behind closed doors, publicly I could hold my head up high. Ratton might even agree to my studying, taking up a career. I could educate myself, socially and intellectually, so that I would hold my own in any society, host fund-raising lunches, invite the foremost women thinkers to Tall Chimneys…
‘I can see you’re giving a great deal of consideration to my proposal,’ Ratton broke into my thoughts.
I found a handkerchief in my pocket and brought it to my mouth. ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘I am so taken by surprise. And the news about Colin is so sudden and so sad. And I am trying to envisage what life as Mrs Ratton would be like.’
‘Oh,’ he smiled, ‘as to that, it will be splendid. I have a house in Leeds but it isn’t a place for a lady. We’d need somewhere new - Roundhay, perhaps. In London I tend to stay at my club but we can find an apartment. Having said that, I expect my dealings with the government to decline, so I won’t need to be in London very often.’
‘We wouldn’t live here, then?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t see myself as the country squire.’
The bubble of my day-dream burst. ‘You used to,’ I replied, with an acid note in my voice. ‘I assumed…’
‘Things have changed. I have changed. I’m now a respectable and successful businessman. I have my various enterprises to consider. I couldn’t live so far from them. It would be out of the question.’
I felt the mass of rooms above me, the press of furniture and oaken floors. They teetered on my shoulders and clamoured in my mind, they clawed at my heart for purchase. ‘Wouldn’t it be better,’ I asked, with a smile I hoped wouldn’t be interpreted as patronising, ‘that things continue as they are? I will manage the house for you, as I did for Colin, and provide for your guests. You will be free to pursue your business interests. I mean,’ I gave a faltering laugh, ‘I presume, when Colin sold you the house, with, as you say, my welfare in his mind, he did not do it on the condition that we should marry?’
Ratton blanched. �
��He knew it was my heart’s desire. He did not expect you would do anything so foolish as to refuse.’
‘But if I did? Surely, in your new, softer self, you could see your way…’ I was wheedling, I knew it.
So did Ratton. Perhaps he feared he might succumb to my obsequious blandishments. ‘I will not allow you to take such a reckless step without due consideration,’ he said, sharply. ‘You should consult your friends - if you have any. They will advise you to do what is best.’
I stood up. My knees were shaking so violently I did not dare take a step away from the table. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I will do as you suggest.’
‘And we will talk again.’
Ratton walked stiffly to where he had left his hat, and took it up. He turned it in his hands a time or two, smoothing the nap with his fingers. Then he said, ‘I will be a softer self, Evelyn. Kind and gentle and generous. I will be a different man from the one you think you know.’ He gave me a look so piteous with hope it almost broke me.
‘We will talk again,’ I said.
He nodded and turned away.
As poor and dependent as I had been all my life, I had never felt as insecure as I did as I listened to Ratton’s car drive away. His timing, I thought, was absolutely impeccable. He had waited until I was at my lowest possible ebb, and pounced.
Ratton himself had suggested I consult my friends (if I had any) and I went first to Patricia Coombes. Her husband had returned from the war minus an arm and had all-but retired, taking up a position on a stool close to the end of the bar adjacent to the cash register, where he jealously watched every transaction whilst sipping from a bottomless glass of beer. Patricia did all the work, including hefting barrels, replenishing stocks of bottles and cleaning the urinals. Like many families, she had also taken in extended family members who had returned from war to find their homes bombed to rubble; her brother and sister in law had brought their young family to live above the pub. Neither did a stroke of work that I could see. Several houses in the village were in a similar situation, housing two or even three generations and while we had been promised (again) ‘homes fit for heroes’, none had yet been built in our locality. The poor woman was run off her feet, but she made time for me, and listened patiently as I poured out my tale of woe.
‘Well you can’t marry the man,’ she opined, when I had done, ‘but I don’t see that you can stay in that crumbling pile of masonry much longer, either. Those chimneys’ll fall round your ears before another winter is out.’
‘There isn’t a third option, though, is there,’ I said, wanly. ‘What can a woman with a child do to support herself?’
‘Plenty, if she’s the mind and the skills,’ Patricia sniffed.
‘I have no skills,’ I replied, ‘I’m fit for nothing.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ my friend smiled. ‘I think you need some legal advice. Why don’t you visit Colonel Beverage? He’ll be able to recommend someone.’
‘You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?’ I asked, gloomily, as I got up to leave.
‘Of course not,’ she said.
The Colonel was a man with whom I had had little to do since he had come to the village and moved into the abandoned Rectory. Whether this was due to my ambivalent status at Tall Chimneys or my disreputable situation as an unmarried mother, or whether it was more to do with Colonel Beverage’s impatience with all things female, or the character of his shrinking wallflower of a wife I do not know. Where there was no warmth of friendship, however, there was certainly no animosity either, and I recalled with comfort their attendance at John’s funeral, so I decided to consult him as a man worldly-wise who would be able to advise me.
It was a long time since I had set foot in the Rectory but it was largely unchanged - still draughty and dark. But I was shown into a small study lined with intriguing bookcases where a bright fire burned. The Colonel’s wisp of a wife served anaemic tea and then retired to a hard chair in a chilly corner and took up some embroidery. Briefly, I explained about Colin’s death, my resulting predicament and outlined my request.
‘Poor woman,’ he said, to the room in general (he could have been referring to either of the women in the room). ‘I know Ironmonger of Shackle, Dogwood and Ironmonger. Thoroughly sound man. I’ll write you a letter of introduction. Will, probate, terms of contract etcetera - he’ll be able to steer you, and an accountant will help you with the pounds and pence, Mrs… er, that is, Miss…’
‘Evelyn,’ a disembodied voice issued, rather than spoke, from the chilly corner. It was so quiet and self-effacing it might have been a whisper of a draught from the window, a shift of coal in the grate.
‘Indeed, Evelyn. I’ll have it with you by morning.’
The Colonel was as good as his word and the following morning I found a letter commending me to the firm of solicitors. I enclosed it in my own missive asking them to examine Colin’s Will and advise me regarding Colin’s affairs. What, if anything, remained of the Talbot estate? Could they look into the sale of contract which had transferred Tall Chimneys to the ownership of Mr Ratton; were there any clauses which catered for the needs of sitting tenants, incumbent family members or long-standing family retainers at the house?
With a sense more acute than it had ever been that I had, now, to look after myself, I wrote also to Giles Percy about John’s affairs and asked him to pass any information to Shackle & Co. I had searched John’s papers without finding a Will. I assumed, as Monique’s surviving spouse, he would inherit her estate although I doubted there would be anything left of it once the various governmental and diplomatic channels now operating had dealt with it. I didn’t know where I would stand legally in regard to anything John might have left but I assumed my claim would be shaky at best, unless there was a Will. I wrote also to John’s agent, whose details I discovered on papers in the gatehouse. I had some early canvasses of John’s, the work he had done on return from Dunkirk and afterwards and several sketch books.
The wheels of commerce turn quickly and I heard back from John’s agent quite soon; unfortunately the market for art was in the doldrums, but I should preserve the paintings I had until such time as things looked up.
Giles also wrote, condoling on Colin’s death and telling me all members of Military Intelligence were obliged to lodge a Last Will and Testament with their commanding officer. He promised to request sight of John’s and forward it as I requested. He asked after Awan and enclosed a five pound note - untold wealth, in those days.
The wheels of law turn more slowly indeed and, apart from receiving an acknowledgement of my enquiry I heard nothing from Shackle, Dogwood and Ironmonger for some time. In the meantime Ratton called several times, urging his offer and further outlining the benefits to myself and Awan should I accept. He brought tea, as he had promised, and other necessaries. I prevaricated as to my response, pending a reply from the solicitor but I felt utterly at his mercy. I had no other options, and he knew it. I searched minutely for some sign of an underlying scheme, some dastardly machination by which he would reduce me to ruin and then stand by and crow with triumph. I saw none. He was restrained and courteous, seemed genuinely concerned for our welfare and discussed, in vague terms, projects which would repair and improve the house.
A warm, dry May was followed by a wet June - perfect for fruit and vegetable growing, but I had made a mess of the pruning the previous autumn and our crops were not promising. The soil in the greenhouse became infected with some kind of fungus which blighted the tomato plants. All the raised beds were infested with couch grass. Inside the house, too many unused rooms and a lack of proper heating meant it was a work of diminishing returns, and the havoc wreaked by the preceding winter was almost impossible to make good. One of the rooms had been so badly damaged by ingress of water that the floorboards were spongy and I had to lock it up for fear someone might fall through. Everywhere wall paper peeled, curtains mouldered and tiles bloomed greenish slime.
I struggled on.
In September I received a visit from Mr Ironmonger. He wrote a note to inform me he was coming, and arrived, on foot, down the tunnel of driveway, wearing tweed walking attire, thick boots and bearing a rucksack. He was thin, immensely tall, but rather stooping in posture, with narrow shoulders and arms so long that his cuffs barely reached his bony wrists. His trouser-bottoms, similarly, ended well short of his boot-tops, revealing thick, army-issue socks and, when he sat down, an expanse of thin, hairless leg. He had fine, greyish hair, which, due to the breeze or the exertions of his walk, was rather untidy and revealed rather more than he might have liked of bare scalp across the crown. His eyes were very blue under beetling grey eyebrows. They were kind, and his smile appealing in a lop-sided way. He was probably in his mid to late forties, I thought, and a bachelor (no self-respecting Mrs Ironmonger would have allowed him out without lengthening his cuffs and hems). He looked nothing whatsoever like a man of the law. I took to him immediately.
I offered him ‘formal’ tea, in one of the drawing rooms of the house, or ‘informal’ tea, in the kitchen with me.
‘Oh, informal, every time,’ he said, looking woefully at his dirty boots and burr-infested jacket. ‘I’m not fit to be seen above stairs!’
‘Neither am I,’ I laughed, indicating my old trousers and gardening cardigan.
‘I’m on a walking holiday,’ he explained, unlacing his boots and resting them on the hearth (a long toe poked through a hole in his sock - more evidence that he was unmarried), ‘so decided to combine business with pleasure and call in.’
‘I’m glad of it,’ I admitted, placing scones on a plate. ‘I’ve been anxious for advice.’ I did not know how much longer I would be able to hold off Sylvester Ratton.
Tall Chimneys: A British Family Saga Spanning 100 Years Page 29
