Gossamer Cord

by Philippa Carr

  I told my story. I had gone swimming one day, had lost my memory, had been taken into a hospital some way off. I could not remember where or who I was.

  “Well, there was an awful fuss when you went. Your sister was very cut up. I reckon she’ll be as pleased as a dog with two tails when she knows you’re back. You’d better get to her right away.”

  “I want to make sure of seeing her alone first. I shall have to explain. I am very undecided, Mrs. Pardell. It will be a shock, and I am a little frightened about my husband.”

  She was silent, staring at me.

  I said: “I’m afraid to go back … afraid …”

  “I know what you mean,” she said. “There’s something funny about that place. But you needn’t be afraid of him anymore. He got his come-uppance, he did.”

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Pardell?”

  “He’s dead. Fell off his horse. He was crippled … badly. Then he took too many pills. Some said it was by accident, some said he meant to do it. They weren’t sure.”

  I could not speak. I was too shocked. I kept saying to myself: It was my fault. Oh, my poor Dermot. You fell off your horse and I wasn’t there and you died. How much better it would have been if you had never taken that holiday in the German forest! How much better for us all!

  I thought: How can I face them now … even Violetta? She will blame me. This changes everything.

  I had planned to tell them the story of losing my memory. No one except Violetta must ever know about Jacques. I had planned to reform and be a good wife to Dermot for ever after. Now … he was dead.

  I stammered: “I find it all so difficult. It wasn’t what I had expected. I don’t know how I shall face them … even my sister.”

  “Your sister is a nice, sensible girl.”

  “I know … but even her… after this. My husband … dead.”

  “Don’t take it so hard. I’ll never believe he didn’t have a hand in my girl’s death.”

  “No … not Dermot. He would never hurt anyone.”

  “Well, he was your husband. It’s natural, I suppose, for you to stand up for him.”

  “Mrs. Pardell, may I stay here for a while? I’ve a little money. Suppose I could stay for about a week. I’ll pay for everything. I’ve got to think how I am going to get back.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then she said: “You’re welcome to stay.”

  “Oh, thank you. I only want a few days. I couldn’t even see my sister now … not just yet. I have to think …”

  When I look back on that time, I can’t remember the order in which things happened. I went over my plans, deciding what I could tell Violetta. I should need all my courage to face her. The news about Dermot had unnerved me. I was in a panic now. I felt sick and ashamed. I could not stop thinking of Dermot’s going out riding … recklessly, I imagined, for he had always been decidedly at home on a horse. Mrs. Pardell had hinted darkly that he had been drinking. Oh, Dermot, I thought, what did I do to you?

  I longed to see Violetta while I wondered how I could face her.

  There was one day when I was alone in the house. Mrs. Pardell had gone into West Poldown to shop. I thought how fortunate it was that she was, as she said, one to “keep herself to herself.” She would not gossip in the town. She was what they called a “foreigner” in these parts, not even coming from the south of England, and so she was placed in a category lower than mine. In times of stress, one is thankful for these small blessings.

  There was a knock on the door. I was startled. Mrs. Pardell had had no visitors since I had arrived. I looked from the window of my bedroom and emotion swept over me, for Violetta was standing below.

  Now was my moment. Yet I stood still. Panic rushed over me. I could not move. I had been waiting to see her and now that the opportunity had come to do so, I was filled with dismay. I was unprepared. I kept seeing heartbroken Dermot, drinking too much, taking his horse out in a reckless mood and then being injured—and later ending his life.

  I had done that. I stood at the window and I said to myself, not yet.

  Again she knocked. I felt limp. I wanted to go down and throw myself into her arms. But I did not do so. I watched her walk away and as soon as she had gone I wanted to rush after her.

  What a fool I was! What would Mrs. Pardell think if I told her? I stood leaning against the curtains, cursing myself for being such an idiot. I had lost the best opportunity that could be offered.

  I did not tell Mrs. Pardell. She would have despised me for a coward, and rightly so.

  There was another stupid thing I did. I had not gone outside the house during the daylight hours for fear of being recognized. But after a while I was so distraught that I just could not bear to remain indoors any longer. I felt as though I were in a cage. I was imprisoned by my own folly and cowardice. I had to get out. Late one afternoon, in a mood of recklessness, I left the house. It was unfortunate that on the cliff path I came face to face with one of the maids from Tregarland’s. I had at least taken the precaution of wearing a scarf over my head.

  To my horror, I realized she had recognized me, for she turned pale and stared at me. She thought I was a ghost, that was clear. I tried to look vague and unearthly. I stared ahead of her and went past.

  I knew she would go back to Tregarland’s and tell them she had seen my ghost. And what would Violetta think? She could not believe the girl, of course, but she would start thinking of me and I knew she would be mourning for me afresh.

  I went back to the cottage. I lay tossing all that night. This state of affairs could not go on. I suggested to Mrs. Pardell that she write to Violetta and ask her to call. That would seem reasonable.

  This she agreed to do.

  And that was how I was reunited with Violetta.

  I remember every detail of that meeting. I opened the door and stood before her. I shall never forget her look of amazement, of disbelief, and the sudden dawning of joy when she realized that I was alive.

  As always, Violetta set me on the right course. Not that it had been easy. She immediately pointed out that, of course, I had to tell her the truth and she agreed that this was something which, for all our sakes, should not be revealed. Life would be impossible in the neighborhood in which we were living if such stories were kept alive, and they would be embellished in the process. There was Tristan to think of. He must not grow up learning of the scandal.

  Violetta brought her practical mind to bear on a solution. To have been picked up off our coast and taken to Grimsby was ridiculous, she said. If I were picked up by a fishing vessel, it would have been a Cornish one. I should have been known immediately and taken to the hospital in Poldown, and, lost memory or not, Tregarland would have been notified without delay.

  The loss of memory would have to stay, but Violetta suggested I could have been picked up by a yacht, the owners of which were on their way home to the north of England. They had been in Spain. They did not realize immediately that I had lost my memory and, by the time they did, we were on the north coast. So they took me to a hospital there.

  “It is not very good,” she said, “but it will have to do.”

  She arranged it as she always did. My parents came down to Tregarland’s at once. They had to know the truth. No one else there did.

  Violetta said we should never have got away with such a tale but for the fact that, just about this time, war was declared and people had something to think about other than the exploits of a wayward wife.

  I had done my best to forget that incident with Jacques, as I did with all the unpleasant incidents in my life. It was a comforting habit I had developed.

  And then … there he was, arriving on our shore, in the middle of the night, with a sister of whom I had never heard before.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text ma
y be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1992 by Philippa Carr

  cover design by Jason Gabbert

  978-1-4804-0384-0

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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