by Caro Fraser
‘I’d rather you told me.’
‘Well, whereas the previous will bequeathed all your late husband’s real and personal property to you in your sole capacity, under the new one your late husband’s entire estate is left in trust for your son, Maximilian. The trustees and executors of the will are myself and Mr Latimer’s sister, Mrs Diana MacLennan. The trust will provide funds for Maximilian’s maintenance and education – I should add here that your late husband also left directions that he would like Maximilian to attend, when he is old enough, the same school that he attended – and when he is twenty-five Maximilian will come into the entire property. Mr Latimer also bequeathed a legacy of thirty thousand pounds to Mrs MacLennan.’
Meg was stunned. ‘Does it… does the will make any kind of provision – for me, I mean?’ It was an invidious question to have to ask.
Mr Bradshaw shifted in his chair. ‘Yes. You are to receive an income of one thousand pounds a year, until such time as you remarry.’
Meg was at a loss for words. A thousand pounds a year was barely enough to live on. Certainly not enough to buy a house, or rent a decent one. ‘I see,’ she murmured.
‘Please – I think you should take this copy of the will and read it for yourself. And’ – he picked up a long, white envelope and handed it to her – ‘your late husband asked me to give you this, in the event of his death.’
‘What is it?’
‘He didn’t inform me of the contents.’
Meg sat for a moment, both documents in her lap. Then she opened her handbag, put them in and closed it. Shocked as she was, she fought to retain her composure. ‘I suppose there really is nothing left to discuss, is there?’
Mr Bradshaw’s expression was almost apologetic. He rose from behind his desk.
‘I shall attend to the grant of probate, of course, and to the execution of the will. I will be in touch shortly with Mrs MacLennan. As Maximilian’s mother, you will be kept fully informed of the administration of the trust, as and when necessary.’
‘Thank you.’
Meg got to her feet. She left the office in a daze. Outside she hesitated, not sure what to do next. She turned and walked up the street, and kept walking, her thoughts in confusion, until she found herself in Lincoln’s Inn. She sat down on a bench beneath a tree. It was late morning, and a watery April sun shone on the peaceful gardens. A few barristers and clerks were coming and going along the pathways. Meg opened her handbag and took out the copy of the will that Mr Bradshaw had given her, and read it through. It was as he had said. Paul had left her enough to keep body and soul together, but no more. She folded it up and put it back in her bag, and took out the envelope. She sat for some moments before she could bring herself to open it. She unfolded the pages.
Dear Meg,
Even as I write, I pray that there may yet be a chance for us to put right everything that has gone wrong between us, and that this letter can be destroyed without you ever seeing it. But if you are reading these words, it is because I am gone, and so that chance is gone, too.
I know now that you and Dan Ranscombe are lovers – or have been. There were signs along the way which I could have read, but I never wanted to doubt you. The evidence is inescapable now. You are so beautiful and vital, and so in need of being loved in a way that I, unworldly as I am, cannot manage, that perhaps I should not be surprised. When I had my doubts and anxieties, I convinced myself that if there was an affair, it might end, and you would come back to me, thinking our marriage still worthwhile, and we could try again. In fact, when we moved to Suffolk, I had the feeling that it had ended, and that there might be hope for us. I realise now that is impossible.
I do not blame you entirely. I have long been a puzzle to myself. Certain feelings I have had for close friends have confused and even disgusted me, and I have always tried to conquer them. I thought that loving you – easy as you are to love – would help me in that regard. Perhaps it was inevitable that you should look elsewhere, and seek love from someone not bedevilled by such weaknesses.
In the end, however, I have to acknowledge the fact of your unfaithfulness. I wish I could say that you would never do anything intentionally to hurt me, but I know now that isn’t true. I have therefore taken steps to protect Max’s future, and to ensure that the Latimer fortune stays with him and cannot be diverted, through you, to someone who has also betrayed my trust and friendship. I do not ask you to forgive me, because we both know it is you who should seek my forgiveness. And I give that freely, and ask only that you think well of me, and always speak well of me to our son. Whatever your feelings for me, I know we both share the same love for him.
Paul
She folded the letter up, her eyes swimming with tears. He had only ever tried to love her, and do his level best to make their marriage work. The idea of the pain she had caused him, the misery and uncertainty he had had to endure, racked her very soul. The knowledge of her affair with Dan might even have hastened his death. And she had no way of atoning for it. The guilt was a burden she would have to bear for ever. He had punished her, and she deserved it. His letter showed her as she really was. Someone who was prepared to betray her marriage, yet who had still expected, if the worst happened, to receive everything that belonged to him. There was nothing she could do now to restore herself in his eyes. He must have died despising her.
She leaned forward on the bench, her head in her hands, and let her misery and self-loathing spend itself in tears. Afterwards she sat for a long time, her mind a blank. What to do now? Go back to Woodbourne House and wait for people to find out what Paul had done, as they eventually would. There would be consternation and puzzlement – and suspicion, perhaps. But before she faced all that, she had to see Dan, if she could. She knew he had left Woodbourne House to await his next orders, but she had no idea whether he was still in London. Perhaps he had already left. She opened her handbag and thrust the letter into it, then rose from the bench and walked down to the Strand.
When she reached Belgravia she let herself into the silent house. A few letters lay on the doormat. She went to the drawing room and then the kitchen, looking for signs that Dan was still here, but apart from an unemptied ashtray, there were no clues. She went upstairs to his bedroom. The bed was neatly made. She walked to the window, remembering the last night they had spent here, the last time they had made love. The ache of longing and regret was raw and painful. Then, as she turned from the window, she saw his suitcase and kitbag standing next to the wardrobe. Thank God, he hadn’t gone yet. She went back downstairs to the drawing room, prepared to wait all day and all night if she had to.
An hour later she heard the front door open and close, and the sound of keys being thrown on the hall table. Then there was silence. After a moment she rose and went out. Dan was standing in the hall, reading one of the letters he had picked up from the mat. He turned and saw her. For a moment neither said anything, then he chucked the letter on the table and put his hands in his pockets. ‘It is trite and inadequate, after all that’s happened, but I’m sorry about Paul.’
‘I had to come to see you,’ said Meg. ‘I’ve just come from the solicitor. Paul knew about us.’
Dan passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Christ.’ After a moment he muttered, ‘I need a drink.’
They went into the drawing room. Meg sat down and Dan poured them both whiskies.
As she took the glass from him, Meg said, ‘He left a letter with the lawyer. I think you should read it.’ She opened her handbag and handed the letter to Dan.
He sat down in an armchair opposite and read it. Then he looked up. ‘What did he mean about taking steps to protect Max?’
‘He changed his will. Presumably when he found out about us. Everything is left in trust to Max. I get next to nothing.’ She sipped her whisky and let out a long breath. ‘I’m glad of it. I see now I couldn’t have touched his money, anyway, after what I did to him.’ She gazed at Dan. ‘It’s worse than I could ever have thought possible. I can ne
ver forgive myself.’
Dan folded the letter up and gave it back to her. ‘He would have found out, anyway, in the long run. It was never going to work the way you wanted it to, Meg, even if he’d lived. When people do what we did, there is no escaping blame, or responsibility.’ He put his head in his hands, thinking of what Arthur Bettany had told him, of the selfless individual Paul had been, and of the brave way he had died. He had cheated a lifelong friend, betrayed the trust of someone who was, he now saw, a far better man than he could ever hope to be. Now he and Meg would have to live with the consequences. At last he lifted his head and looked at her. ‘Do you still love me?’
Something seemed to give way within Meg’s heart. ‘Of course I do. I never stopped loving you. I never shall. But it’s all dirty and tainted now. We can never—’
‘Stop.’ He came over, knelt by her chair, took her face in his hands and kissed her. ‘We will live with this for ever, but we still go on living. I want you to come here – now. Bring Max, make a home here, and we can be together when the war’s over.’
Meg shook her head. ‘I can’t. Everyone would know. They would hate me. And what would Max make of it, being brought suddenly to live in some other man’s house? He’s a little boy. His father was everything to him. It’s impossible.’
Dan stood up. He gazed at her in anger and despair. ‘Meg, we did what we did, and we must live with the consequences. Otherwise everything is useless. Our love. Paul’s death. Everything. Sooner or later you have to accept that.’
She said nothing for a moment, then rose from her chair. She felt utterly drained, unable to think properly.
‘Then it will have to be later. I can’t face up to it now, Dan. I can’t do it. But you have to believe I love you. I always did, and if I could go back nine years and do things differently, I would.’
‘Only then you wouldn’t have Max. And he is what matters most, isn’t he?’
‘Not more than you. It’s different.’
‘It’s your choice, Meg. It always has been. I’m here if you want me.’
‘I know. I just feel so utterly dead inside. You need to give me time.’
She gathered her things and he kissed her goodbye, knowing it might be the last time he ever did, because if she wasn’t prepared, even now, to come to him, then there was no hope.
*
Over the next few days Meg could resolve nothing. She made no mention of the contents of the will to her aunt, unable to face the inevitable questions. She let Woodbourne House close its arms around her, soothing her, taking her back to a time of innocence, and looked neither back nor ahead. She worked with Sonia in the kitchen garden, and helped with mindless household chores, pegging out sheets to flap in the spring wind, their blankness reflecting her own state of mind. She played with Max and Laura, and took them for walks in the woods. In one of these they came across the den Dan had built for the children. The winters had taken their toll, felling one of the supports, and making holes in the brushwood roof. Meg gazed at it while the children ran in and out. He might be going back to war any day, to face fresh terror and danger, while she stayed here, irresolute and fearful.
On Friday she received a telephone call from Diana, who had been contacted by Mr Bradshaw regarding Paul’s will.
‘Darling, I don’t understand any of it. Why didn’t you tell me? I have no idea why Paul made me an executor, and this trust business is beyond me.’
‘It was rather a surprise,’ said Meg weakly.
‘We need to discuss it all, but not on the telephone. I shall be coming down to Woodbourne tomorrow. Tell Sonia I’ll be there in time for lunch.’
*
When Diana arrived, it was an unexpectedly warm and sunny spring day. Sonia had managed to engage a new cook, whose abilities were still rather raw, but who had prepared a tolerable meal of early salad from the kitchen garden and some cold salmon.
‘Poached. Literally. By dear Alfredo,’ Sonia murmured to Meg. ‘Diana, why don’t you sit here? It’s just the three of us – the children have already had their lunch, but we thought we would wait ours till you got here.’
‘Thanks.’ Diana sat down, glancing sadly out of the window at the garden beyond. Her face was drawn with misery. ‘Isn’t nature heartless, the way it lets the sun shine and the birds sing, and everything look so lovely, when things are as they are? It’s hard to believe Paul won’t ever be here to see all this again.’
Sonia turned to Diana. ‘Did you know he’s to be awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross?’
‘No! When did you hear?’
‘The letter came this morning,’ said Meg. ‘I’ll go and fetch it.’ She left the table and returned with the letter and handed it to Diana.
‘Oh, my word…’ Tears filled Diana’s eyes as she read aloud. ‘“Wounded in two attacks, without oxygen, suffering severely from cold, his navigator dead, his wireless operator fatally wounded, his aircraft crippled and defenceless, Wing Commander Latimer showed superb courage and leadership in penetrating a further 200 miles into enemy territory to attack one of the most strongly defended targets in Germany, every additional mile increasing the hazards of the long and perilous journey home. His tenacity and devotion to duty were beyond praise.”’
Sonia took her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. ‘He was a very fine man.’
After lunch Effie brought out coffee.
‘Meg and I have a bit of business to discuss,’ said Diana. ‘We’ll take ours to the summerhouse, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course,’ said Sonia. ‘I’ll see you both later.’
Diana and Meg went to the summerhouse and settled themselves in the cane chairs with their coffee cups. The doors were wide open to the warm air.
‘I love this view,’ said Diana, gazing over the gardens and across the Surrey Downs. ‘Paul did, too.’ Her voice shook a little. She took a cigarette from a small shagreen case and lit it, and at the sight of the cigarette case Meg had a sudden memory of the two of them sitting here together years before, the day that Paul and Diana had arrived for Sonia’s last house party. The summer she had met Dan.
In a steadier voice Diana went on, ‘I hope you weren’t too put out about the will. You know Paul’s views on the fairer sex. Doesn’t trust us to count a row of beans.’ She paused, sipping her coffee. ‘Didn’t. He probably thought it would be less of a headache for you for everything to be put in trust. Though why he made me a trustee is a mystery. He always thought I was utterly hare-brained.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘My bossy big brother.’ There was silence for a moment, then Diana, brushing away her tears, went on, ‘As for the wretched sum he left you, I don’t know what that solicitor was thinking, allowing him to draw up a will in that way. I almost told him so. That’s the reason I came here today. I’ve had a talk to Roddy, and we both agree that I’ll make over to you the sum that Paul left me. I don’t know why he left me anything, after my marriage settlement. Probably to make up for how beastly he was to me when we were kids. But I’d rather you had it.’
Meg had been gazing out at the view across the Downs as she listened. Her glance fell on the tangle of briar rose outside the summerhouse door, newly in bud. She remembered the roses Dan had plucked for her that summer years ago, how they had dried to dust between the pages of a book. The roses, too, that he had left for her in the vase on the hall table in South Eaton Place. They had been brown and shrivelled by the time she found them. Had Dan died, they would have been the last token of his love. But he had come back, and their love had gone on. Suddenly everything suddenly seemed very clear and simple.
She turned to Diana. ‘That’s very fair of you. Far fairer than I have ever been to you. But I can’t accept.’ She set down her cup. ‘Paul wrote that will to punish me – no, perhaps that’s too harsh. To rectify matters. He was right to do so. I don’t deserve anything that belonged to him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s far too late for the truth to do anyone any
good, but you should know it anyhow. Dan was my lover. We had an affair for four years. Paul found out about it. Hence the will.’
Diana set down her cup and stared at her, appalled. ‘So it was true. And yet you denied it. I put it to you, and you denied it! I even asked you to pardon me for thinking such a thing.’ Her eyes darkened with angry tears. ‘That means my brother went to his death knowing… Oh God, how could you? How could you do that, Meg?’
‘I didn’t mean for Paul to suffer. I didn’t mean to hurt him.’
‘How can you say that? You betrayed your marriage, and you didn’t intend that he should suffer? It’s the most selfish, cowardly—’
‘Yes, all of that. I know all of that. And I have reproached myself a thousand times for everything. But the fact is, I should never have married Paul. I think even you knew that at the time – that he wasn’t really cut out to love any woman.’
There was silence for a moment, then Diana said, ‘Poor Paul.’
Meg wondered whether she was thinking of Paul the betrayed husband, or Paul the man who had fought against his own sexual instincts and won, to his cost.
‘Please don’t think I’m trying to escape blame. I know what I did. I deceived him, I deceived you, and everyone else – Sonia, my mother, so many people – because I was in love with Dan, and he with me, and nothing and no one else mattered.’
‘I don’t understand why Paul didn’t just throw you out when he discovered what the two of you were doing,’ said Diana bitterly.
‘I don’t either. Perhaps because he loved Max, and he didn’t want Max to be without his mother.’
Diana regarded her with hate-filled, tearful eyes. ‘What did you think would happen? If he hadn’t found out, were you just going to go on deceiving him for ever?’
‘I don’t know. I was too afraid to face the truth of what I was doing, and accept the consequences. Dan told me I should be honest with Paul and end the marriage, but I didn’t want anyone to find out I’d been having an affair. Not you. Nor my mother, or Aunt Sonia. Not Max. Especially not Max. I thought if I left Paul when the war was over, and waited a while, then Dan and I could be together without anyone knowing what I’d done.’ She sighed. ‘But one can never escape the truth.’ She stood up. ‘I think that’s all there is to say.’
