Secrets and Lies

by Janet Woods

  She received a reproachful look. ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Since before I left for Australia. Sorry, Livia. Meggie needed me and I couldn’t break her trust. Besides, I’d already been told to keep my nose out of your affairs . . . remember?’

  Livia nodded. ‘Keep an eye on the boys if you would. They’ll be down for something to eat before too long. There should be some bacon and egg tart left in the larder, if the rest of the wolf pack hasn’t discovered it first. I hid it behind the bread bin.’

  ‘Good luck, Livia.’

  ‘Thanks, I think I might need it,’ she said, and was gone.

  Twenty

  Meggie left the back door of Foxglove House unlocked. The air inside the house was cold and clammy.

  She made her way up to the room that was her hideaway, the one her father . . . Richard Sangster, had used, and huddled under a blanket for warmth.

  The house made all sorts of creeping noises around her.

  She had never felt so miserable, or so mixed up before. She shouldn’t have said that to her mother. Her mother would hate her now, and Aunt Es would hate her, as well.

  She shivered, and wondered if she should light a fire in the grate. The fireplace in here was of black cast iron and had a curly pattern that looked as though it wore a moustache. Blue and white tiles formed a surround, and there was a brass fender, one that needed cleaning. Everything was stale, grubby and used up – even the ghosts.

  Along the mantelpiece was a row of photographs of the Sangster family. Her family! Her grandmother smiled at her from a silver frame. Her name had been Margaret Sinclair.

  Meggie had inherited her grandmother’s name as well as her house. Foxglove House was hers. Nobody would mind if she lit a fire. She could do what she liked here, and nobody could tell her what she could do or what she couldn’t.

  Yet she felt lonely here, like a small, tender crab in a very large carapace. It was as though she hadn’t yet grown into her armoured shell. The rooms were empty of sound, and of souls. The house could not be owned. Major Henry had told her it was tied to the will of the dead Sinclair who’d built it. The house was her master, and she a minion manacled to its will, as all the Sinclair heirs had been.

  It would have her playing the bagpipes and dancing on crossed swords before too long. A thought entered her mind, one so astounding that she smiled at both the simplicity and the enormity of it.

  ‘I don’t want to be owned by a house,’ she shouted out, and her voice was absorbed by the thickness of the walls. It was not listening. A draught made a little moaning sound as it forced its way under the door. One of the stairs creaked.

  She shivered, and the hair of her arms stood on end as she remembered her recurring dream. But that spirit wasn’t in this house, it was in her mind. And because she managed to ignore it during the day, it came to her at night, so sometimes she was forced to stay awake.

  She found some kindling, and some coal in a scuttle in the other room, and soon had a blaze going. Dragging a wing chair in front of it she curled up on the seat with her head on the arm and gazed into the leaping flames. Gradually, she fell asleep, but not quite, for it was a shallow one, more like a daydream – an escape from the remorseful thoughts crowding in on her. She saw the old man coming, his face terrible – and he’d come for her.

  The spirit dragged her in deeper. She tried to avoid his eyes but she couldn’t. They were red-rimmed. His face was purple and his mouth hung open. She wanted to get up and run, but she couldn’t move. ‘Get away from me,’ she screamed out.

  Somebody shook her. ‘Meggie, my love . . . stop it, you’re frightening me.’

  ‘Mummy?’ Half-awake and half-asleep, she mumbled. ‘Don’t let him take me.’

  ‘It’s a dream. Open your eyes, Meggie.’

  The nightmare faded, and she found herself looking into the worried eyes of her mother. ‘Tell me about it, Meggie. I want to know everything.’

  ‘I was there . . . in the cottage when he died. He told me I was his daughter, not his granddaughter. I was shocked, and scared. I wanted to run away, but my legs wouldn’t take me. I went to make him some tea, I was going to make some excuse and leave after that. When I came back he was dead. His face was all blue and his mouth was open. I knew Dr Elliot was going to visit him, so I ran away. Now I keep thinking, what if he was still alive, and if I’d told someone, his life might have been saved.’

  ‘Oh, my dearest girl. It wouldn’t have made any difference. His heart was worn out and he was living on borrowed time. I wish you’d come to me with this.’

  ‘Was he my father? I must know.’

  ‘Of course he wasn’t your father.’ Her mother was stroking her hair, and it was soothing.

  ‘Why would he say such an awful thing?’

  ‘Remember that I’d been employed here. When Richard and I decided to marry, the major thought I was beneath his son. One day, when he’d had too much to drink, he assaulted me. Do you know anything about the relationship between men and women?’

  ‘Only what I’ve read in Daddy’s medical books.’

  ‘Then this is a secret between you and me, since you are growing up. Men often react physically to women. That’s what happened to the major with me. But he was too old and too drunk to . . . well, he passed out. Chad was there and he fetched Richard’s servant. Beamish helped me up and sorted the major out. When Richard learned of what had happened, he asked his father to leave the house.

  ‘After that the major’s wife left him. He tried to kill himself. I was so worried that he’d attempt to hurt you. He tried to take you once. He escaped from the mental hospital and came to the cottage. I’d just finished hanging out the washing, and found him holding you in his arms. He was confused, and thought you were Richard. I was scared stiff until Denton came and rescued you.’

  So that was why her mother hadn’t wanted her to know her grandfather. ‘So, Richard Sangster really is my father.’

  ‘He really is. I loved Richard dearly, you know. And he was so proud that he’d fathered a child. I wish he’d lived long enough to know you. I can tell you that he loved you as much as I do. Sometimes I look at you and it’s like looking at him.’

  ‘How could he have loved me, when he never met me.’

  ‘He just did. He left you a letter, but you’re not supposed to have it until you turn eighteen. It’s in his journal.’

  Curiosity filled her. ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘No . . . it’s sealed, and it’s for you. I didn’t know it was there until after he’d gone. He wrote me a poem, too. I’d like you to have that. It will tell you exactly how he felt. I was so privileged to have read it.’

  ‘Do I have to wait until I’m eighteen?’

  Her mother smiled. ‘Not if you’ll accept my apology and we can forget all this nonsense going on between us. I love you so very much, Meggie. I wish I’d been able to show it better.’

  ‘I love you too, and I’ve been such a brat over the past few years.’

  ‘I guess we both were. It’s time you started being the graceful young lady that you are. Resenting the past won’t make it change. Now, if we’re going to kiss and make up, let’s get it over with. The men will be home soon, and I’ve got dinner to prepare. I’ve never seen men eat so much. They’re like a herd of bulls munching their way though a field of clover.’

  Meggie giggled. ‘I’ll give you and Aunt Esmé a hand with it.’

  They stood for a few minutes and Meggie enjoyed the closeness of an intimate few moments of such love and warmth that it shut out the rest of the world. Then they moved apart. Her mother went to the writing bureau. She slid a couple of panels aside and opened a compartment. Pulling out a bulky, leather-bound journal that filled the secret space, she kissed the cover and placed it in Meggie’s hands. ‘You can keep the journal as well. This is very precious, so look after it. It will give you an insight into your father’s mind, and he can tell you his story much more eloquently than I can.’

>   Her look of enquiry was met with a tremulous smile. ‘It’s Richard Sangster’s journal. I think you’re old enough to read it. He made a monthly entry all through the war, and up until his death. It will help you to understand him. Are you ready to come home now, my love? The fire has gone out and it’s cold here.’

  Meggie nodded.

  To my unborn child, whether boy or girl, I take with me into the unknown the thought that I’ve created and left behind a unique and beautiful child who will take its rightful place on this earth.

  Tears blurred Meggie’s eyes.

  It grieves me that I won’t be here to support and guide you over the years to come. I’ve left that task to the sweet and generous lady who filled the last months of my life with such joy, and gave me you.

  You will be grown when you read this, child of mine, and your mother will have guided you through the uncertainties of growing into maturity without me.

  There’s not much else I can say, except you were created by love, and your presence, even though unseen, is a miracle to me. I love you, my infant. If there’s a window in heaven, you might catch a glimpse of me in the starshine now and again.

  Your loving father,

  Richard Sangster.

  Meggie crossed to the window and gazed at the sky. It was a clear night, with a white moon riding high in a circle of mist. She held her breath when a star shot across the sky, then smiled at the coincidence.

  She smiled again and whispered, ‘Not a coincidence, I think. The star was created especially for me. Thank you, Daddy.’

  Downstairs, the party was getting under way. She smoothed down the blue satin folds of her calf-length gown, and adjusted the flounces at the shoulder line. She was wearing the garnet ring her aunt had given to her, and had spent hours practising in her grown-up shoes with the heels. She was nervous.

  A knock came at the door, and her aunt came in with her mother. Aunt Es looked wonderfully wicked in a long, black satin cocktail gown, with diamanté clips resembling miniature chandeliers dangling from her ears. A matching one was clipped daringly to the low point of her bodice. Her mouth was a red pout to match her nails.

  Her mother was in an ankle-length gown of tangerine silk, that was old-fashioned, but breathtaking.

  ‘Where have you been hiding that gown?’ Meggie asked her.

  ‘It was designed by our mother . . . your grandmother, Eloise Carr. I felt like wearing it in her honour tonight, though I’m surprised it still fits. But never mind me. As the only women in the family, we felt we should offer you support on the occasion of your first New Year party.’

  Meggie smiled at her mother, because she knew she’d understand when she said, ‘I’ve just seen a shooting star.’

  ‘I think you’re going to be the star yourself tonight, my Meggie. You look quite grown-up. Hmmm . . . I must remember to keep an eye on the local boys.’

  ‘Mummy, you’re making me squirm. Boys my age are all so impossibly . . . well you know . . . impossibly gauche and terribly spotty!’

  ‘You’re right of course. I recall that your Uncle Chad was as spotted as a Dalmatian once. Now he’s quite handsome.’

  Esmé laughed. ‘By the way, I believe he’s invited a local girl tonight. I’m dying to meet her.’

  Meggie smiled. ‘I know who it is, Aunt Es. It’s a girl who used to be your best friend at school. I can’t remember her name, and Uncle Chad wouldn’t tell me. He said it was a surprise.’

  They exchanged grins, then linked arms and went down the stairs to celebrate the coming of the New Year.

  Their appearance brought them a barrage of wolf whistles.

  ‘Oh . . . for heaven’s sake,’ her mother said, but she turned pink and laughed and looked pleased, anyway.

  Remembering the shooting star and its brief, but oh-so-glorious journey across the heavens, a lump rose in Meggie’s throat, and she slipped one hand into her mother’s and raised the small glass of champagne to her lips. She wrinkled her nose at the taste of it. Like most grown-up things, she discovered that forbidden fruit didn’t always taste as sweet as it looked.

  Later, her stepfather raised his glass in toast. ‘To absent friends, and to whatever the New Year may bring.’

  The church bells began to ring and everyone raised their glasses.

  ‘To 1937,’ they said, and they began to count. ‘Fifty-nine . . . fifty-eight . . .’