The Winter Folly

by Taylor, Lulu

  GC

  She read it over and over, curiously calm, as though her father had destroyed her ability to weep over him. Did this scrap of paper mark the final chapter in her relationship with him? It must. He was adamant that there would be no forgiveness, and she had never known him change his mind about anything.

  ‘Forget him,’ said Nicky, furious and scornful when she showed him the note. ‘Let the old fellow rot in his own bitterness. Can’t you see what he’s like? He’s a tyrant. Look what he did to your mother. He’ll hound you the same way if you let him! You’re better off keeping away. And if he dies a lonely death, he’ll only have himself to blame.’

  Alexandra knew it was not that easy. She held John close to her, hugging him as tightly as she could without hurting him. She showed nothing outwardly, but inside a fear was growing that she had somehow stained him with something of her own wrongdoing. But there didn’t seem any way to put it right.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Present day

  The doll was hidden under a pile of jumpers in Delilah’s chest of drawers, where there was no danger of John seeing it. When she went out for a morning walk with Mungo, Ben came loping over to tell her that he’d spoken to his older sister the previous evening and asked her about it. She couldn’t remember ever having a doll like that.

  ‘It’s one of those things, I suppose,’ Delilah said, half an eye on Mungo, who was sniffing around the flower beds. ‘There are probably lots of mysteries in the house, when you think about how many people have lived there over the years.’

  ‘You’re right. By the way, I asked my sis about that folly too.’

  Delilah said quickly, ‘Yes? What did she say?’

  ‘She said people definitely jumped off it – and at least one woman, she thinks, but she doesn’t remember it being our aunt. But like I said, the family just didn’t talk about her, and once we went away to school, we didn’t hear any gossip.’ He looked at her keenly. ‘Why don’t you ask John?’

  She flushed and looked away. ‘I . . . I should, I know. But it’s such a sensitive subject for him, as you can understand. I don’t want to ask something like that if I’ve got it wrong.’

  Ben nodded. ‘I know. He’s not easy, is he?’

  She gazed at the gravel path, not wanting to be drawn into disloyalty, even if Ben was right. He seemed to sense her discomfort because he said quickly, ‘And that’s not surprising, considering what the poor bloke has been through.’

  A thought occurred to her and she said, ‘Ben – do you and John get along? I’ve almost never seen you together.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said sturdily, though she caught the slight hint of awkwardness below. ‘I suppose there’s an age difference between us that doesn’t help’ – he caught himself, obviously remembering that it was the same difference as between John and Delilah – ‘but . . . well, I guess we’re just very different.’

  They certainly were, Delilah thought, as she walked with Mungo out of the gardens and into the woods. Sometimes it seemed to her that they had polarised the house between them: John had become its gloom and darkness and despair, while Ben had taken on the beauty and light and growth it was capable of. Was it any wonder she was being drawn towards that sunny, life-enhancing side of things and away from the misery?

  A terrible thought crossed her mind before she could stop it. Perhaps it was John’s fault that there was no baby, not hers. And there was Ben, conjuring up new life all the time with his gardener’s skill, making the earth fertile and the plants bloom and multiply . . .

  She had the sudden vision of Ben taking her to bed, planting a child in her, his vigorous seed taking root . . . then she caught herself with horrified guilt.

  I mustn’t think that way, she told herself, appalled at what her imagination could create for her. And yet, the tiny glimpse in her mind’s eye of his strong brown body on hers had been thrilling, and made her a little dizzy.

  No. It’s impossible. She shook her head hard as if to dislodge the treacherous image. Mungo had run off ahead and as she emerged from the wood and out into the clearing she could see him up by the folly, nosing around among the overgrowth and the fallen masonry.

  The air was full of the buzzing of insects and the two-note coo of a pigeon floated into the still afternoon. Delilah looked over at the broken tower, sticking up craggily against the blue sky. It brought a bitter taste to her mouth. The last time she had been here, she hadn’t guessed what significance it held. Now she knew why it caused such horror in John, and she was aghast that she’d even suggested they renovate it as a place for honeymooners. What a horrible, crass idea! Now she couldn’t bring herself to go near it. She was glad it was boarded up and wished, like John, it could be pulled down altogether, its grim skeleton shattered by a bulldozer and shovelled away.

  ‘Mungo!’ she called, and turned back for home.

  John refused to come out and see the gymkhana. He said he would spend the day at the coach house with his father until all the pony club brats, as he called them, had gone home with their ghastly rosettes and even ghastlier mummies.

  ‘Dad hasn’t been well lately. I don’t want him upset by all the noise and traffic. I’ll keep him calm,’ he said.

  Delilah at once felt guilty: it hadn’t occurred to her that the day might be disruptive for John’s father. ‘There shouldn’t be much noise from that distance and Ben’s arranged the parking well away from the house. I haven’t seen your father for ages. Can I come and say hello to him?’

  ‘No,’ snapped John. When he saw the hurt expression on her face, he said, ‘I told you – he’s not well. If he doesn’t recognise you, you’ll only make the situation worse.’

  She gazed at him, stricken, and whispered, ‘Are you going to shut me out forever?’

  But he was already stalking away and didn’t hear her.

  During the afternoon, Delilah went up to the field to see what was going on and was soon chatting to some of the locals, watching the competition and visiting the tea tent to see what was on offer – thinking privately that she would make much better teas herself if she ever got the chance. She was about to head back to the house when the pony club president, Mr Harris, introduced himself, shaking her hand vigorously.

  ‘Mrs Stirling, thank you so much for allowing us to use the paddock. It’s been a marvellous venue and a splendid time has been had by all.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ she replied. ‘It’s been fun. I’ve loved watching the children on their ponies.’

  ‘We wondered if you might do us the honour of awarding our silver cup to the best all-rounder. It’s just about to be announced.’

  ‘Oh.’ Delilah looked around, flushing with embarrassment. Lots of the mothers had come in smart summer dresses and designer sunglasses. Here she was, just in her jeans and a cheap floaty top, her hair messy, and wearing a pair of old sandals. ‘Well, I’m not sure . . . I’m hardly prepared. And I’m a bit of a stranger to horses myself.’

  Mr Harris grinned, his sandy eyebrows beetling. ‘Now, that doesn’t matter a bit. Please do come, we’d be so honoured.’

  It would have been ungracious to refuse, so she said, ‘All right, if you’re sure you want me.’

  She accompanied him up to the judges’ platform and took her place as it was announced over the tinny loudspeaker system that she would be presenting the prize. Feeling very out of place next to the judges in their smart navy blazers, she took the little silver trophy in hand and said, ‘Well done,’ as she handed it over to a neatly turned-out young girl rider in jodhpurs, jacket and a riding hat.

  There was a round of applause that felt very much like the final huzzah of the day, and then the crowds began to disperse, heading towards the makeshift car park in the next field, or towards the rows of horse boxes, leading tired ponies by the head while children trailed after.

  Now that Delilah had been publicly identified, she was at once surrounded by people keen to introduce themselves, and she guessed by their en
thusiasm that she had been the object of curiosity for a while, but everyone was so pleasant and friendly that she rather enjoyed the attention. She talked politely until she felt it really was time to leave, so she excused herself and headed back to the house, trying not to catch anyone’s eye.

  ‘Mrs Stirling!’ came a breathless voice from behind her.

  She turned and saw a plump lady in a vivid flowery dress hurrying towards her across the hummocky grass of the outer field. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to keep you but I felt I simply must introduce myself. My name is Grace Urquhart.’

  ‘How do you do,’ Delilah replied politely, her heart sinking. She had the feeling that a long and difficult-to-escape conversation was about to ensue.

  Grace Urquhart reached her, panting and rather flushed from her dash across the field in unsuitable shoes. She caught her breath, flapping her hands in front of her face, and said, ‘Oh, my, this heat! I’m dying from it!’ Beads of sweat stood out all over her nose and forehead and she blinked rapidly.

  ‘It is warm, but it’s been perfect weather for the gymkhana,’ Delilah said, giving her time to cool down.

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed . . . Oooh, I’m sorry. That’s better, I’m getting my breath. Now, I wanted to talk to you because my maiden name isn’t, of course, Urquhart . . .’ She took a deep breath and her expression became almost triumphant. ‘It’s Sykes!’

  Delilah waited for more explanation but when none came, she said a neutral, ‘Oh.’

  The woman frowned. ‘Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘But your husband’s mother was married to my husband’s second cousin once removed. I’ve been doing the Sykes family tree. There’s a big landowning family up in Yorkshire we’re distantly connected to but it was very exciting to discover that we’ve got a connection down here, so close to home.’

  Delilah shook her head, puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘Your husband’s mother was married twice – once to Lord Stirling, of course, but before that to Lieutenant Laurence Sykes in the Blues and Royals. Or just the Blues they were then, I think.’ Grace Urquhart’s mouth turned down into an expression of sadness. ‘Of course, it didn’t end well, as I’m sure you know.’

  Delilah’s heart was beating quickly and her breath came in shorter bursts. ‘I’m terribly sorry, I don’t know. You see, I’ve not been a Stirling long, and I’ve not yet learned all the ins and outs of the family. What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know all that much myself but Laurence Sykes died in a car accident, going off a bridge and into a reservoir. The Dursford Reservoir, just a few miles away. A nasty accident, apparently, poor man. But . . .’

  ‘But?’ prompted Delilah.

  Grace coloured slightly. ‘Well, I don’t like to say if you’ve not heard it before.’

  ‘Please do, Mrs Urquhart,’ she said in what she hoped was a commanding tone and, sure enough, the other woman seemed to take this as an order.

  ‘There’s a rumour in my husband’s family that the death wasn’t exactly an accident. They think he may have’ – she leaned forward confidentially and said in a loud stage whisper – ‘done it on purpose!’

  ‘On purpose?’ Delilah echoed, surprised.

  Grace nodded and said, ‘Yes. Because he’d been up at the house, you see, and Lady Northmoor was already there, living with Lord Northmoor, although she wasn’t Lady Northmoor then, of course, she was still Mrs Sykes. And what are we to think when a woman is living with another man and her husband drives off a perfectly sound bridge to his death?’

  ‘What indeed?’ said Delilah, trying to absorb and make sense of what Grace Urquhart was saying to her. ‘How fascinating. Thank you so much for letting me know. I must get back to the house now, but would you mind leaving me your number? That way I can reach you if I have any questions.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Mrs Urquhart said, pleased, the sting of Delilah’s departure softened by the idea that they would keep in touch. ‘Please call me any time. I’d be delighted to help if I possibly can.’

  ‘Is the grim fiesta over?’ John asked, going to the fridge and pulling a beer from its cool depths. He popped it open and took a long drink.

  ‘If you mean the gymkhana, then yes,’ Delilah said. She had the laptop open on the kitchen table and was doing an internet search at the same time as preparing supper. ‘You should have come up, you know. Everyone would have loved to see you.’ She gave him a look. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of noblesse oblige?’

  He grimaced. ‘Heard of it? It’s been the bane of my bloody life. I wouldn’t be suffering with this damn place if it wasn’t.’

  ‘All right, but doing a little more of it wouldn’t hurt. I think you could forge local relationships, that’s all. People want to feel a connection to the house, they want to belong to it.’

  ‘They wouldn’t if they knew what it really meant,’ he said, looking irritated. ‘They just see the beauty. They don’t understand it’s a front. It’s like the make-up on the face of a raddled old harridan, designed to lure you in and then suck the life out of you.’

  Delilah stared at him, startled by the bitterness in his voice. He was utterly sincere. Despite what he’d said before, she’d assumed that a part of him must love the house in a way she never could. After all, his roots were there.

  She remembered her encounter with Grace Urquhart and said carefully, ‘I heard an interesting thing today. A woman told me that before your mother married your father, she was married to someone called Laurence Sykes. Did you know that?’

  John went very still and his eyes widened with surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘Yes – she was married twice. And the first husband drowned in the Dursford Reservoir after a car accident.’

  He stood by the fridge, the beer in his hand, not moving. He said in a cold voice, ‘Can that be true? I had no idea.’

  ‘The woman who talked to me seemed very convincing. She’s a Sykes, and has been doing the family tree thing that’s such a craze now. Do you think it’s likely?’

  ‘Who knows? And to be honest, who cares? They’re all dead now. Only my father is left and he can’t tell us.’

  ‘Perhaps we should ask him,’ she suggested. ‘He might find it easier to remember the distant past.’

  ‘I don’t see the point,’ John said shortly. ‘We wouldn’t know if he was telling the truth or not.’

  ‘All right. Well, do you mind if I do a bit of investigation myself? I’ve been looking on the net but I can’t find much. The records don’t seem to be on there. I think it’s going to take quite a bit of poking about.’

  John looked suddenly cross. ‘Why? What’s the bloody point? So my mother was married twice, so what? It won’t change anything! I can’t see why you’re so interested. I don’t like you digging away like this. For Christ’s sake, Delilah, I didn’t marry you to go back to the past, I married you to get away from it!’

  His words hung heavy in the air. She stared at him, stricken, as he breathed heavily under knitted brows.

  ‘I just want to understand you better,’ she said. ‘I want to help you. I thought that if I knew more about the past, I might be able to do that.’

  ‘Don’t waste your time,’ he said irritably. ‘I need you to help me face the future, don’t you understand that? I mean, for fuck’s sake . . .’ He walked over to the kitchen table and slammed his palm down on it, making Delilah jump and her laptop judder. Then he muttered, ‘Oh God. Maybe I’m making a mess of the whole thing. It’s probably better if we don’t have a baby.’

  The words hit her like a hard punch to the stomach. ‘What?’ she whispered.

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe the fates are telling me that a man like me ought not to have children.’

  She stared at him, half frightened now, discomfited by the way he was almost echoing her own thoughts of earlier. She saw a flash of herself and Ben in bed, and quickly banished it. ‘What do you mean?’r />
  ‘Can’t you tell?’ Irritation seemed to surge through him. He twitched angrily. ‘For one thing, this house is bloody well killing me, so why I ought to inflict that on some poor innocent child is completely beyond me! And for another—’ He broke off, took up his beer and gulped another mouthful.

  ‘What?’ she pressed. A tumult of emotions was rushing through her: fear, astonishment, surprise and horror. Was he really having second thoughts about wanting children? ‘What’s the other thing?’

  When he spoke it was in a low, determined voice. ‘This family is miserable. We’re destined to suffer. My father is probably happier than he’s ever been now he’s forgotten the past. He used to be something else – drunk most of the time, permanently despairing and the loneliest man you’ve ever seen.’

  ‘But that’s not you,’ Delilah replied, her lips dry. ‘We can change the pattern of the past. We’ve got each other now. There’s no need for you to suffer like your parents. And I’m not going to die like your mother did.’

  John stared at her, frozen, his face a study of horror. Then he said in a cold voice, ‘What did you say?’

  A wave of fear went over her. ‘I-I-I said I wasn’t going to die like your mother. You don’t have to worry about me leaving you.’

  John’s expression became agonised. ‘You don’t know anything about it!’ he said, his voice raw.

  She leapt to her feet, pushing herself away from the table. ‘But I want to know! I want to understand you! Why do you keep so much of yourself closed off from me when all I want is for us to be close to each other, to help one another?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you! I’m trying to escape it all, not drag you into it too!’ He slammed down his beer bottle on the kitchen table, and it spouted a little fountain of foam. ‘I thought you would be my fresh start, but I can see now that you’re going to be cursed by all this just like I am.’

  ‘That’s not fair! You have to give me a chance. I have no idea what I’m up against because you won’t tell me anything!’ She was panting now, furious. ‘You won’t let me in, John! I can’t just be here for the bits you choose, I have to live this life completely with you, or it just won’t work. I can’t help you if you don’t let me!’ Her rage was growing with her sense of impotence and thwarted hope. ‘You don’t let me build a relationship with your father, you won’t talk about your mother, or what happened here to make this house such a miserable bloody place! How am I supposed to live like this?’