The Secret Woman

by Victoria Holt

  “Fake!” snapped Aunt Charlotte. It was the biggest insult she could offer.

  I wanted to laugh when I entered that house. The inside of Castle Crediton should have been the inside of the Queen’s House. The Creditons had made a great effort to produce a Tudor interior and had succeeded. There was the big hall with long refectory table on which stood a large pewter bowl. There were firearms on the walls and the inevitable suit of armor at the foot of the staircase. Aunt Charlotte saw only the furniture.

  “I supplied the table,” she said. “It came from a castle in Kent.”

  “It looks very well here,” I commented.

  Aunt Charlotte did not answer. The manservant returned to say that Lady Crediton would receive Miss Brett. He looked at me questioningly and Aunt Charlotte said quickly: “You may wait here for a while!” in such a manner as to defy the servant to object.

  So I waited in the hall and I looked at the thick stone walls partially covered with tapestries—lovely French Gobelin type in beautiful blues and stone color. I went up and examined one. It depicted the labors of Hercules. I was studying it intently when a voice behind me said: “Like it?”

  I turned and saw that a man was standing close to me. I was startled. He looked so tall and I wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking of me. The color heightened in my cheeks but I said coolly, “It’s beautiful. Is it really Gobelin?”

  He lifted his shoulders and I noticed the interesting way his eyes seemed to turn up at the corners when his lips did. He was scarcely handsome but with the blond hair bleached by sun at the temples and blue eyes that were rather small and crinkled as though he had lived in brilliant sunlight, his was the sort of face which I felt I would not easily forget.

  “I might ask,” he said, “what you are doing here. But I won’t…unless you want to tell me.”

  “I’m waiting for my aunt, Miss Brett. She has come to see some furniture. We’re from the Queen’s House,” I said.

  “Oh, that place!”

  I fancied there was a hint of mockery in his voice and was warm in its defense. “It’s a fascinating house. Queen Elizabeth once slept there.”

  “Such a habit that lady had for sleeping in other people’s houses!”

  “Well, she slept in ours, which is more…”

  “Than you can say for this one. No, we’re imitation Norman, I admit. But we’re firm and solid and this is the house that will withstand the winds of time. We’re built on a rock.”

  “Ours has proved it could do that. But I find it very interesting here.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “When I’m ashore. Mostly I’m not.”

  “Oh…you’re a sailor.”

  “How discerning you are.”

  “I’m not really about people. Though I am learning about some things.”

  “Tapestries?”

  “And old furniture.”

  “Going to follow in Auntie’s footsteps?”

  “No. No!” I spoke with great vehemence.

  “I expect you will. Most of us go where we’re led. And think what you already know about Gobelin tapestry.”

  “Did you…go where you were led?”

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling in a manner which, for no reason I could think of, I found very attractive. “I suppose you could say that I did.”

  I was filled with a desire to know more about him. He was just the sort of person I should have expected to meet in Castle Crediton and he excited me as though he were an unusual piece of furniture.

  “What should I call you?” I asked.

  “Should you call me?”

  “I mean…I should like to know your name.”

  “It’s Redvers Stretton—usually known as Red.”

  “Oh!” I was disappointed and showed it.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Well, Red is not very dignified.”

  “Don’t forget it is really Redvers which you must admit is more so.”

  “I’ve never heard that name before.”

  “I must say in its defense that it’s a good old West Country name.”

  “Is it? And I thought it should go with Crediton.”

  That amused him secretly. “I couldn’t agree more,” he said.

  I had a notion that he was laughing at me and that I was being very naive.

  He said: “I must ask yours, mustn’t I, otherwise you may think me impolite.”

  “I shouldn’t but if you really want to know…”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “It’s Anna Brett.”

  “Anna Brett!” He repeated it as though memorizing it. “How old are you, Miss Anna Brett?”

  “I’m twelve.”

  “So young…and so knowledgeable.”

  “It’s living in the Queen’s House.”

  “It must be like living in a museum.”

  “It is in a way.”

  “It makes you old before your time. You make me feel young and frivolous.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t be. I like it. I’m seven years older than you.”

  “So much?”

  He nodded and his eyes seemed to disappear when he laughed.

  The manservant had come back into the hall.

  “Her ladyship is requesting the young lady’s presence,” he said. “Will you follow me, miss?”

  As I turned away Redvers Stretton said: “We’ll meet again…less briefly, I hope.”

  “I shall hope so too,” I replied sedately and sincerely.

  The manservant gave no indication that he considered Redvers Stretton’s behavior in the least strange and I followed him past the suit of armor up the wide staircase. I was almost certain that the vase at the turn of the staircase was of the Ming reign because of the rich violet color of the porcelain. I could not prevent myself gazing at it, then I turned and saw Redvers Stretton standing looking up at me, legs slightly apart, hands in pockets. He bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment I had paid him by turning round and I wished I hadn’t because I felt it showed a rather childish curiosity. I turned away and hurried after the servant. We came to a gallery hung with oil paintings, and I felt a little impatient with myself because I could not assess their value. The largest of the pictures in the center of the gallery was of a man and I was able to guess that it had been painted some fifty years before. I was certain it was Sir Edward Crediton, the founder of the shipping line, the dead husband of the woman I was shortly to see. How I wished I might have paused longer to study it; as it was I caught a fleeting glimpse of that rugged face—powerful, ruthless, perhaps yes, and with a slight tip-tilt of the eyes which was so pronounced in the man I had met a few minutes ago. But he was not a Crediton. He must be a nephew or some such relation. It was the only answer.

  The servant had paused and tapped on a door. He threw it open and announced: “The young lady, my lady.”

  I entered the room. Aunt Charlotte was seated on a chair, very straight-backed, expression grim, in her best bargaining mood. I had seen her like this often.

  Seated on a large ornamental chair—Restoration period with the finely scrolled arms and the crown emblems—sat a woman, also large but scarcely ornamental. She was very dark, her skin sallow and her eyes looked as black as currants and as alert as a monkey’s. They were young eyes and defied her wrinkles—young and shrewd. Her lips were thin and tight; they reminded me of a steel trap. Her large hands, quite smooth and white were adorned by several rings—diamonds and rubies. They lay on her voluminous lap and from the folds of her skirt jet-beaded satin slippers were visible.

  I was immediately overawed and my respect for Aunt Charlotte rose because she could sit there looking so unperturbed in the presence of this formidable woman.

&
nbsp; “My niece, Lady Crediton.”

  I curtsied and Lady Crediton gave me the full attention of her marmoset eyes for a few seconds.

  “She is learning to know antiques,” went on Aunt Charlotte, “and will be accompanying me now and then.”

  Was I? I thought. It was the first time it had been stated, although I realized that for some time it had been implied. It was enough explanation of me. They both turned their attention to the escritoire which they had evidently been discussing when I entered. I listened intently.

  “I must call your attention, Lady Crediton,” Aunt Charlotte was saying almost maliciously I thought, “to the fact that it is only accredited to Boulle. It has the richly scrolled corner pieces, true. But I am of the opinion that it is of a slightly later period.”

  It was a beautiful piece, I could recognize that, but Aunt Charlotte would not have it so. “It is definitely marked,” she said. Lady Crediton had no idea how difficult it was to dispose of furniture that was not in first class condition.

  Lady Crediton was sure that any defects could be put right by any man who knew his business.

  Aunt Charlotte gave a hoarse cackle.

  The man who knew that business had been dead more than a hundred years—that is if André-Charles Boulle was really responsible, which Aunt Charlotte gravely doubted.

  And so they went on—Lady Crediton pointing out its virtues, Aunt Charlotte its defects.

  “I don’t think there is another piece like it in England,” declared Lady Crediton.

  “Would you give me a commission to find you one?” demanded Aunt Charlotte triumphantly.

  “Miss Brett, I am disposing of this one because I have no use for it.”

  “I doubt whether I could find an easy buyer.”

  “Perhaps another dealer might not agree with you.”

  I listened and all the time I was thinking of the man downstairs and wondering about the relationship between him and this woman and the man in the portrait in the gallery.

  Finally they came to an agreement. Aunt Charlotte had offered a price which she admitted was folly on her part and Lady Crediton could not understand why she should make such a sacrifice.

  I thought: They are two of a kind. Hard both of them. But the matter was completed and the escritoire would arrive at the Queen’s House in the next few days.

  “My patience me!” said Aunt Charlotte as we drove away. “She makes a hard bargain.”

  “You paid too much for it, Aunt?”

  Aunt Charlotte smiled grimly. “I expect to make a fair profit when the right buyer comes along.”

  She was smiling and I knew she was thinking that she had got the better of Lady Crediton; and I wished that I could have crept back to Castle Crediton and heard Lady Crediton’s comments.

  ***

  The man I had met in the hall of the Castle would not be dismissed from my mind so I judiciously set about discovering if Ellen knew anything about him.

  When we went for our walk I led the way up to the cliff top facing the Castle and we sat on one of the seats which had been put there by something called the Crediton Town Trust, the object of which was to add amenities to the town.

  The seat was one of my favorites because I could sit on it and gaze across the river at the Castle.

  “I went there with Aunt Charlotte,” I told Ellen. “We bought a Boulle escritoire.”

  Ellen sniffed at what she called my “showing off,” so I came quickly to the point, which was not, on this occasion, to show my superior knowledge.

  “I saw Lady Crediton and…a man.”

  Ellen was interested.

  “What sort of man? Young?”

  “Quite old,” I replied. “Seven years older than I am.”

  “Call that old!” laughed Ellen. “Besides, how did you know?”

  “He told me.”

  She looked at me suspiciously so I decided to come straight to the point before she accused me of doing what she called “playing the light fantastic.” She used to say: “The trouble with you, miss, is I never know whether you’ve dreamed half you tell me.”

  “This man was in the hall and saw me looking at the tapestry. He told me his name was Redvers Stretton.”

  “Oh him,” said Ellen.

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “How?”

  “Scornfully. I thought everyone in that place was a sort of god to you. Who is Redvers Stretton and what’s he doing there?”

  Ellen looked at me obliquely. “I don’t think I ought to tell you,” she said.

  “Whyever not?”

  “I’m sure it’s something Miss Brett wouldn’t want you to know.”

  “I’m fully aware it’s not connected with Boulle cabinets and Louis Quinze commodes—and that’s the only thing Aunt Charlotte thinks I should concern myself with. What is it about that man that mustn’t be talked of?”

  Ellen looked over her shoulder in that now familiar fearful way, as though she believed the heavens would open and dead Creditons would appear to wreak vengeance on us for having committed the sin of lese majesty—or whatever one would call showing lack of respect to the Creditons.

  “Oh come on, Ellen,” I cried. “Don’t be silly. Tell.”

  Ellen pressed her lips tightly together. I knew this mood and had never so far failed to wheedle from her what I wanted to know. I cajoled and threatened. I would betray her interest in the man who came with the firm of furniture movers and who often conveyed pieces to and from the Queen’s House; I would tell her sister that she had betrayed certain Crediton secrets to me already.

  But she was firm. With the expression of a martyr about to be burned at the stake for her faith she refused to talk of Redvers Stretton.

  If she had it would have been easier perhaps to forget him. But I had to have something to stop my brooding on my mother’s death. Redvers Stretton supplied that need; and the fact that his presence at Castle Crediton was a mystery helped in those weeks to lighten the melancholy caused by my mother’s death.

  The escritoire was put in the large room at the top of the house which was even more overflowing than the rest. This room had always fascinated me because the staircase leading to it was one of those which opened into the middle of it; the roof sloped at each end so that the ceiling was only a few inches from the floor. I thought it was the most interesting room in the house and tried to imagine what it had looked like before Aunt Charlotte had turned it into a store room. Mrs. Buckle always complained about it. How she was expected to keep that lot free from dust, she did not know. When I had come home from school last holidays Aunt Charlotte told me that I should have to sleep in the room which led off this top room because she had bought a new tallboy and two very special armchairs which had to be kept in my old room, so that I would not very easily be able to reach my bed. At first I had felt it rather eerie up there, but later I had begun to like it.

  The escritoire was put between a cabinet full of Wedgwood china and a grandfather clock. When a piece came it was always thoroughly cleaned and I asked Aunt Charlotte if I could do this. She gruffly said I might and although it was against her principles to show pleasure she could not hide that this was how she felt about my interest. Mrs. Buckle showed me how to mix the beeswax and turpentine which we always used and I set to work. I polished that wood with extra loving care and I was thinking about Castle Crediton and chiefly Redvers Stretton and telling myself that I must find out from Ellen who he was when I was suddenly aware that there was something unusual about one of the drawers in the escritoire. It was smaller than the others and I could not understand why.

  Excitedly I ran down to Aunt Charlotte’s sitting room where she was busy with her accounts. I said I thought there was something rather strange about the escritoire, and that brought her up to the top of the house at great speed.

  She
tapped on the drawer and smiled. “Oh yes. An old trick. There’s a secret drawer here.”

  A secret drawer!

  She gave me the benefit of her grim mirthless laugh. “Nothing extraordinary. They had them made to conceal their jewelry from casual burglars or to put in papers or secret documents.”

  I was so excited that I could not restrain my feelings and Aunt Charlotte was not displeased.

  “Look here, I’ll show you. Nothing very special about this. You’ll often come across them. There’s a spring. It’s usually about here. Ah, there it is.” The back of the drawer opened like a door and displayed a cavity behind it.

  “Aunt, there’s something there.”

  She put in her hand and took it out. It was a figure, about six inches long. “It’s a woman,” I said. “Oh…it’s beautiful.”

  “Plaster,” she said. “Worthless.”

  She was scowling at it. Clearly it had no value. But to me it was intensely exciting, partly because it had been found in a secret drawer but chiefly because it had come from Castle Crediton.

  She was turning it over in her hand. “It’s been broken off from something.”

  “But why should it have been in the secret drawer?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not worth much,” she repeated.

  “Aunt, may I have it in my room?”

  She handed it over to me. “I’m surprised you are interested in a thing like that. It’s of no value.”

  I slipped the figure into my apron pocket and picked up my duster. Aunt Charlotte returned to her accounts. As soon as she had gone I examined the figure. The hair was wild, the hands were outstretched, and long draperies were molded to look as though they were blowing in a strong wind. I wondered who had put it there in the secret drawer and why, if it were of no value. I also wondered whether we ought to take it back to Lady Crediton, but when I suggested this to Aunt Charlotte she pooh-poohed the idea. “They’d think you crazy. It’s worthless. Besides I overpaid her anyway. If it had been worth five pounds it would have been mine…for the price I gave her. But it’s not. It’s not worth five shillings.”

  So the figure stood up on my dressing table and comforted me as I had not been comforted since my mother’s death. I very quickly noticed the half obliterated writing on the skirts and with the aid of a microscope I made out the inscription: The Secret Woman.