by Anne Mather
Josie turned from the sink, a relieved smile on her lined face. ‘Thanks for coming, Rafe,’ she said warmly, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She sniffed. ‘We’ve missed you.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Rafe gave her an old-fashioned look before setting the little dog on the floor again. Then, ignoring Hitchins’ protests, he nodded towards the bags on the table. ‘I called at the supermarket on my way. I thought you might need one or two things.’
‘You’re too good to us!’ exclaimed Josie, pulling one of the bags towards her and unloading its contents. ‘Oh, smoked salmon! Perhaps I can persuade Elinor to eat a little of this.’
Rafe’s brows drew together. ‘She’s not eating?’
‘Hardly at all.’ Josie exclaimed again when she found a leg of lamb and some fresh asparagus. ‘She’s not been right since she had that chest infection that she insisted was just a cold and I’m sure was probably flu. The cough has never properly gone away, though she won’t admit it.’
Rafe felt a twinge of anxiety. ‘So why haven’t you called Charteris?’
‘I did,’ said Josie at once. ‘He came, but she wouldn’t see him. She told me to keep my nose out of her business. That if she needed a doctor, she’d call one for herself.’
‘Crazy old woman!’ Rafe blew out a weary breath. ‘So that’s why you’ve kept calling me.’
‘Well, you’re the only one she might listen to,’ said Josie defensively. ‘She thinks the world of you, Rafe; you know she does. She may not always show it, but she’s very proud of you.’
Rafe scowled. ‘And I suppose you knew all about those paintings,’ he countered obliquely, and Josie coloured.
‘I knew of them,’ she agreed unwillingly. ‘But I’d been told to say nothing to anyone, so—’
‘So you kept them a secret.’
‘It wasn’t like that, Rafe.’
‘What was it like, then? When was the old lady going to tell me about them? And why produce them that night without even a word of warning?’
‘I don’t know.’ Clearly Josie was as perplexed as he was. ‘Perhaps because you were coming to dinner.’
Rafe shook his head. ‘So who put them up there? Don’t tell me you were the one who moved the bookcases and hung the paintings because I won’t believe you.’ His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Was it Cary?’
‘Heavens, no!’ Josie was very definite about that. ‘Cary knows nothing about them. I doubt he’d be very happy if he did.’ She met his eyes squarely. ‘She got Jem Helford to do it.’ Jem and his family farmed Tregellin land further up the valley, Rafe recalled. ‘He and his son came down on Saturday morning. It took them all of three hours to put everything in place.’
Rafe was stunned. ‘But—why?’
‘You’d have to ask Lady Elinor that.’ Josie returned to unpacking the shopping. ‘Oh, Rafe, we must pay you something for all this.’
‘Forget it.’ Rafe wasn’t interested in being paid for his contribution to the household. ‘Where is she? In the conservatory, as usual?’
‘Actually, no, she’s still in bed,’ admitted Josie unhappily. ‘She’s taken to getting up later and later in the day. Some days, she doesn’t get up at all.’
Rafe caught his breath. ‘But isn’t that hard on you? I mean, if you’re having to run up and down stairs—’
‘It does me good,’ declared the housekeeper staunchly. ‘And if I do go up and down the stairs, it’s not for her I’m doing it. She asks for nothing. Not even her meals.’
‘Dios!’ Rafe swore. Things were so much worse than he’d expected and, as usual, he felt guilty for staying away.
With a rueful look in Josie’s direction, he left the kitchen, striding swiftly across the hall before vaulting up the stairs, two at a time. If he gave any thought to the last time he’d climbed these stairs—and with what purpose—he didn’t acknowledge it. That was just something else the old lady could blame him for and he’d had enough of being everyone’s whipping boy.
Even so, when he reached Lady Elinor’s bedroom door he paused for a moment to get his breath back. It wouldn’t do for her to think he’d been worried about her. Then, after raking back his hair with an impatient hand, he tapped sharply on the panels.
There was silence for a few moments, and then a rather frail voice called, ‘Come in, Raphael. If you must.’
Rafe stifled the resentment her words inspired and plastered a smile on his face. She’d evidently heard the car and she was just trying to get a rise out of him, but it wasn’t going to happen. Pushing open the door, he sauntered into the room. ‘Hello, old lady,’ he greeted her, with similar irreverence. ‘Do you know what time it is?’
He spoke carelessly, but the old lady’s appearance shocked him. She looked so pale, her hair, which had always seemed more black than white, a loose grey curtain about her thin shoulders. Lying back against her white pillows, she looked every one of her almost eighty years and Rafe’s stomach took a decided plunge.
‘I believe it’s after twelve o’clock,’ she declared at last, and there was a reassuring trace of impatience in her voice. ‘What’s it to you, Raphael? You don’t seem to care what happens to me these days.’
Rafe bit back the retort that first sprang to his lips and instead said mildly, ‘That is not true, old lady. Anyway, it cuts both ways. Why didn’t you let me know if you wanted to see me?’
‘What? And have you tell me you didn’t have time to waste coming here to see an old woman you both hate and despise?’ Lady Elinor tilted her chin. ‘I think not.’
Rafe sighed. ‘I neither hate nor despise you,’ he muttered heavily. ‘Whatever—or should I say whoever—gave you that idea?’
Lady Elinor turned her head aside to stare out of her window. ‘What else was I supposed to think when you haven’t said a word about the little exhibition I arranged for you? Indeed, it seems obvious to me that you were furious at my little deception and that’s why you’ve stayed away. Not to mention the insulting way you walked out of here two weeks ago, without even acknowledging my kindness for inviting you.’
‘Your kindness?’ Despite the curb he’d put on his temper, Rafe found that was one word too far. ‘There was nothing kind about confronting me with paintings I’d thought had been sold years ago. And how long have you had those paintings of my mother’s? You let me think everything of hers had been either lost or destroyed when she died.’
‘When she committed suicide, you mean?’ Lady Elinor said flatly, stunning Rafe into silence. ‘Oh, Raphael, you don’t allow for anyone’s vulnerabilities, do you?’ Her voice shook a little now. ‘How do you think I felt when I found out what had happened? Christina was my daughter. I loved her dearly. Yet she abandoned me to take up with some itinerant Italian labourer, who treated her so badly she was forced to run away.’
Rafe blinked. ‘That’s not true!’
‘I’m afraid it is.’
‘No. I mean…’ He stared at her with tortured eyes. ‘I know my father treated her badly sometimes. I remember the rows they used to have, the arguments that went on for hours. But my mother didn’t commit suicide. She—she fell. From a hotel balcony.’
Lady Elinor turned to look at him again. ‘That was the story I chose to tell everyone,’ she said wearily. ‘You were a sensitive child. I didn’t know what kind of damage hearing your mother had killed herself might do to you. For years, I thought I might never tell you. But you’re a man now, and I can’t carry the burden alone any longer.’
Rafe shook his head. Then, dragging a chair from beneath the windows, he swung it round and straddled it to face her. ‘So,’ he said harshly. ‘Tell me what really happened. Did she kill herself because of my father? Is that what you’re trying to say?’
‘No. No.’ Lady Elinor sighed. ‘Nothing so dramatic, Raphael. Christina had a little money of her own, so she took you and fled to Switzerland.’ She paused. ‘Regrettably, she started drinking. She did very little painting after she left Italy, and I’m fairly sure her money
was getting short. Then, one night, she climbed up onto the rail surrounding the balcony of your hotel room. And, according to witnesses, she simply stepped off into space.’
Rafe’s lips felt dry. ‘So she did fall?’
‘Yes, she fell.’ The old lady sounded bleak, however. ‘But there seems little doubt of what she’d had in mind. She’d written me a letter, you see. It arrived in England two days later. In it she asked if, in the event of her death, I would bring you back to England and give you a home.’
Rafe groaned, covering his head with one arm, burying his face against his sleeve. ‘So that’s why you never liked me.’
‘Never liked you?’ Lady Elinor sat up straight. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Raphael. I love you. I’ve always loved you, right from the first moment I saw you in that kinderstube in Interlaken.’ She sniffed, reaching for her handkerchief, and Rafe was amazed to see that there were tears in her eyes now. ‘They’d put you with the younger children, but I recognised you instantly. You were so tall; so handsome; so like Christina, I wanted to weep.’ She sniffed again. ‘I never even thought of trying to contact your father. As far as I was concerned, you were Christina’s son, my grandson, and that was all that mattered.’ She made a rocking movement of her hand. ‘Later on, as I believe I told you, I made enquiries and discovered your father had been killed in a car accident soon after Christina left him. It has crossed my mind that that might have been what drove her to do what she did, but we’ll never know for sure. The important thing, so far as I was concerned, was that she’d turned to me in her hour of need. You were here, at Tregellin, and whatever you think, I have never regretted it.’
Rafe didn’t know what to think. When he’d driven here this morning, he’d had no idea the old lady was going to drop such a bombshell. Yet it made more sense; now that he was older, he could see that. His mother had been a passionate, emotional woman. It was fitting, somehow, that her death should be a passionate and emotional one, too.
‘What are you thinking?’
Lady Elinor was regarding him anxiously now, and Rafe folded his arms across the back of the chair and rested his chin on his wrist. ‘I’m thinking you’ve had it pretty tough yourself, old lady,’ he admitted honestly. ‘It can’t have been easy losing both your children before their fortieth birthdays.’
Lady Elinor stifled what sounded suspiciously like a sob. ‘Yes, Charles’ death, too, was a devastating blow. For years I’d lived alone, and suddenly I had two young boys to care for.’ She grimaced rather wryly. ‘But, do you know, I do believe you and Cary kept me sane?’
Rafe frowned. ‘OK. So why did you let me think that everything that belonged to my mother had been either lost or destroyed?’
The old lady sighed and sank back against her pillows. ‘It was easier that way.’
‘Easier?’
‘Easier for me,’ admitted Lady Elinor regretfully. ‘I’m afraid it took me many years to forgive Christina for what she’d done. Having her child was one thing. Having her paintings around me—the thing that had driven her from me—was something else.’
‘So?’
‘So I had them all packed up and stored in the attic. Along with those early paintings of yours that I’d had a third party obtain for me.’
‘The solicitor from Bodmin.’
‘The solicitor from Bodmin,’ she agreed, pressing her lips together for a moment. ‘I knew you’d never forgive me, so I didn’t tell you what I’d done.’
Rafe shook his head. ‘But why did you do it?’
‘Can’t you guess?’ Lady Elinor was succinct. ‘I thought if I bought your paintings, they wouldn’t be seen by other collectors. I’d already lost my daughter because of her love of art. I was so afraid I was going to lose you in the same way.’
Rafe stared at her for a long moment, and then, discarding the chair, he crossed the room to sit down on the bed beside her. ‘You’ll never lose me, old lady,’ he said gruffly, gathering her frail body up into his arms and pressing her face into his shoulder. ‘You may be a cantankerous old bird, but you’re my old bird, and that’s what matters to me.’
Lady Elinor yielded against him, but only for a few moments. Then, with a briskness that belied her age, she urged him away. ‘I was right,’ she said, though her voice was unaccountably thick, ‘you’re just like your mother. I can’t do with all this emotion. I’m a plain woman. I say what I think.’
Rafe’s smile was gentle. ‘Treat ’em mean and keep ’em keen, yeah?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ But her voice was definitely gaining in strength and there was a touch of colour in her cheeks. ‘Anyway, let’s talk about something else, shall we? Have you forgiven me for making you spend the evening with Juliet?’
Rafe got up then, pacing restlessly about the bedroom, not prepared to suffer the old lady’s scrutiny at such close hand. ‘What’s to forgive?’ he said at last, and he was proud of the indifference in his tone. ‘I dare say it got up Cary’s nose though.’
‘Do you think so?’ Lady Elinor was surprisingly restrained. ‘Well, maybe because it was you, yes. But didn’t you think Cary was amazingly cavalier about his fiancée?’
Rafe turned to frown at her. ‘Cavalier?’
‘Yes.’ The old lady pleated the hem of the linen sheet. ‘It made me wonder exactly what their engagement is all about.’ She paused. ‘Juliet left your mother’s ring behind, you know?’
Rafe hadn’t known. But then, how could he? This was his first visit to Tregellin since that fateful weekend.
‘I expect Cary wants to buy her a ring,’ he said offhandedly, not allowing himself to read anything into Juliet’s gesture. ‘Anyway, you’ll be pleased to have it back.’
‘Hmm.’ Lady Elinor didn’t sound particularly convinced. ‘What did you think of her?’
‘Juliet?’ His stomach tightened convulsively.
‘Who else?’ There was a touch of asperity in her voice now. ‘Josie’s convinced the engagement won’t last. She thinks Juliet has more in common with you.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘No, I’m not joking.’ Lady Elinor’s mouth was tight. ‘Josie’s entitled to her opinion, isn’t she?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘You mean, you’ve never thought of her in that way?’ the old lady probed and Rafe blew out a frustrated breath.
‘Of course I’ve thought of Juliet in that way,’ he muttered, deciding there was no point in denying it. ‘She’s a beautiful woman. A man would have to be blind not to notice it.’
‘And you’re not blind, are you, Raphael?’ Lady Elinor remarked drily. ‘Not if half the stories I’ve heard about you are true.’
Rafe scowled. ‘You shouldn’t believe all you hear.’
‘Oh, I don’t.’ The old lady nodded. ‘But I have to say, on this occasion, I do agree with Josie. Juliet is far too good for Cary. Let’s hope she realises it in time, hmm?’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE letter was lying in her mailbox when she got home from work.
Juliet wasn’t used to getting mail—unless it was a bill, of course—but the fine vellum of the envelope ensured it wasn’t one of those. And it was her name that was printed in black typescript, her address correctly delineated, even down to the number of her apartment.
With a shrug, she put the letter into her bag and started up the stairs, wondering if it had anything to do with David. But her ex-husband never contacted her and he was unlikely to have come back to England. With a possible case for the fraudulent transfer of funds hanging over his head, she doubted—indeed, she hoped—that she’d never see him again.
Her apartment was on the second floor, and in the small entry she slipped off her jacket and kicked off her high heels. It would be July next week and the apartment was airless. Crossing to the windows, she released the security catch and pushed up the sash. Then, after taking a breath of cooler air, she turned back into the room.
She needed a shower,
she thought, glancing down at her skirt with its ugly smear of tomato ketchup. Parents really shouldn’t let children take hamburgers on the bus, she thought ruefully. Apologising when your six-year-old had dropped a burger into your neighbour’s lap was not quite good enough.
She had a hard enough time of it as it was, keeping her clothes neat and clean without spending too much on them. But working in a small boutique required her to look reasonably smart at all times. Granted, the shortness of her hems and the amount of cleavage the management expected her to show weren’t exactly high fashion. But the shop’s clientele had certain expectations, and Juliet was so grateful to have a job, she hadn’t been prepared to argue.
Not that she intended to remain at the boutique any longer than she had to. She was taking a course in computing and office management at evening class with a view to finding more interesting employment before the end of the year. She was optimistic of achieving her goal. Her tutor, a retired computer programmer, had said she had a real aptitude for the work.
It had been a struggle. Particularly as she’d refused to take the money Cary had offered her after their return from Cornwall. He’d thought she was a fool, but she’d felt bad enough as it was without taking what she suspected was Lady Elinor’s money. By pawning her wrist-watch, she’d got by, and the reference she had accepted from him had been enough for Sandra Sparks, the boutique’s manageress.
But now, she couldn’t put off opening the letter any longer. Finding a knife in the alcove that served as both kitchen and dining area, she ran it under the flap and slit it across. Then, with what she recognised were delaying tactics, she put the knife back in the drawer before pulling out the single sheet of paper that was inside.
She saw at once that it was from a firm of solicitors in Bodmin. Bodmin! Her heart skipped a beat and the hand holding the sheet of paper trembled as she read on.
The letter advised her of the death—the death!—of Lady Elinor Margaret Daniels of Tregellin House, Tregellin, Cornwall, and invited her to the reading of Lady Elinor’s will, which would take place on Monday, July 2nd, after the funeral service and internment at St Mawgan’s Church in the village of Tregellin.
