The reply, when it came, was not what Dixon expected. Written across the top of the envelope was ‘Return to sender. Never at this address.’ The word ‘Never’ was underlined three times with strokes of the pen so firm that they had torn the paper. The place where the word ‘Mrs’ had been was scratched out, leaving a hole and messy blots.
“There’s a story there,” said Mrs Sinclair when she saw it, “and I don’t think it has a happy ending for your friend. This was done by a very angry hand. Was your friend especially ugly?”
“Not at all. What gave you that idea? She was attractive for her age with fine skin that made her look ten years younger. Any old farmer would be lucky to get her.”
“Well, this one wasn’t, for whatever reason,” Mrs Sinclair said, examining the envelope in more detail as if it would yield an explanation.
How would one set about tracing someone with no known address in a country as vast as Australia? Dixon berated herself for not thinking to memorise the address of Teresa’s friend here as a back-up, but at the time they didn’t think there would be any need of one, so keen were both parties on the original plan.
“Perhaps she changed her mind after she left you, and stayed in Ireland,” Mrs Sinclair said. “Sometimes the simplest explanations are the correct ones.”
18
Tyringham Park
1918
When their youngest boy was twelve, Sid’s wife Kate died at the age of forty-four giving birth to their seventh child and first daughter. There had been a lot of joking about the lengths people would go to have a seventh son, especially as Sid was a seventh son, and how they wouldn’t be able to control the crowds finding their way to the Park when the time came for the young one to practise his gifts of healing and prophecy.
Kate had been alone when the baby arrived four weeks early. Sid was in the workshop, realigning a coach wheel that had hit a rock and buckled. The older boys no longer lived at home: two had emigrated to America, one was away at the war and two in Dublin worked as apprentices, leaving only Keith, the youngest, who was in the back fields shooting rabbits at the time.
Sid arrived home to find his Kate without any signs of life, lying on the kitchen floor. In her arms was the longed-for daughter, wrapped in a blanket, crying but warm and unharmed. Typical of her to attend to the baby even though she must have been in a dreadful state. Kate had left it too late to look for help. A dinted copper pot and bent ladle were found beside the open back door. No one had responded to the banging. Sid tormented himself remembering how he thought he’d heard a faint echo when he was straightening out the wheel with a sledgehammer and how he’d dismissed the idea as fanciful. It broke his heart to think he could have been alerted to the significance of that sound if he’d stopped to listen for even a minute.
One of the women from the village who had a week-old son took the child, called Catherine after her mother, and cared for her in her own home.
Lily East visited Sid to offer her condolences, and attended the funeral in the small church in the grounds, as did everyone on the estate and so many villagers that a large number had to remain outside in the churchyard during the service.
When Sid returned to work, Lily visited him often for the morning tea break in his workshop but not his cottage as she didn’t want to create a scandal.
“That’s a laugh,” said Sid when she explained why she didn’t go near the cottage. “Who’d be looking at two old ones like us?”
“You can’t be too careful. I don’t want to dishonour the memory of dear Kate.” She wondered if anyone remembered that she and Sid had had a five-year romance after she’d arrived at the Park. Probably not. Back then, she and Sid had been the youngest employees, and now they were the oldest.
“It’s good of you to take the time. I like to talk about Kate and you’re a good listener. You’re so peaceful.”
Lily let out a burst of laughter. “Not always. I can get riled at times.”
“True enough. Like the time last year you gave Nurse Dixon her marching orders the minute Her Ladyship’s back were turned.”
“Oh dear. Did it look as obvious as that?”
“Only to me and I never talked about it. I seen the way she give Charlotte a hard time so I were glad you done it. My Kate used to worry about Charlotte having that unhappy little face all the time. She’s a new girl since you took her on.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. I think she’s blossoming nicely. Though slowly.”
“It do take time.” Sid’s voice faltered, and Miss East took the cup out of his hand as the tea was sloshing into the saucer.
“You never said a truer thing,” she said.
Six months after Kate’s death, Lily asked Sid to her rooms for afternoon tea, and he wondered what was serious enough for her to want to talk about that she would issue such an unusual invitation, so aware was she of propriety at all times.
Instead of the expected tea, Lily gave him a whiskey and poured herself a sherry.
Sid glanced around the room. “You keep it nice,” he said. “Real homey.”
“If the offer is still open, Sid, I accept,” said Lily.
Sid looked bewildered. “What offer’s that then, Lily?”
“Marriage, of course. You haven’t made me any other offers.”
“That were a long time ago, and I were greatly upset when you refused me then.”
“Me, too. But things turned out for the best, didn’t they?”
“Not for you, I don’t think, with no husband or child to call your own.”
“I’ve had employment and peace of mind and friendship. Can’t complain about that. That’s more than a lot of people have. No need to ask about you.”
“Kate were the best wife a man could have, and the boys are a credit to their mother.”
“And their father.”
“Their mother mostly. I were working all hours. I see so little of Catherine I can’t believe she’s mine. And every time I look at her I see her mother.” He took a long sip. “That’s not true, neither. With only Keith in the cottage now I sometimes wonder did it all happen. Everything is fading, like a dream. Sometimes I think I’m going off me head.” He took a longer gulp. “I would love to marry you, Lily. I loved you from the first time I seen you, when I carried you into the doctor’s and was afraid you was dead. And you was only fourteen years of age. But why would you marry me now when you wouldn’t marry me then? Do you feel sorry for me?” He looked up. “Is it Catherine? Everyone knows you love children and always wanted to be a nanny.”
“No, it’s not Catherine, though I’m aware if we marry you can have her back living with you. And it’s not pity. I dearly wanted to marry you back then.”
“But you said you’d never marry anyone.”
“And I didn’t.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“Because I knew early on I could never have children because of some early illness, and I didn’t want you to be without because of me.”
“You should have said. I would have married you anyway.”
“I knew that. That’s why I didn’t tell you. And I’m glad. Look at you now with six fine sons and a daughter and you wouldn’t be without them.”
He nodded slowly. “I wouldn’t. And much as I loved you then, I wouldn’t be without those years with Kate.”
“Then I did make the right decision.”
“Who knows about these things? I put you out of my mind for all them years, but I liked the fact you was around. I wonder did I love the two of you at the same time?”
It was agreed they’d wait for the year out of respect for Kate’s memory.
“What about Charlotte? She’ll miss you something awful if you leave her now.”
“I’ve thought long and hard about her, but really she’ll be leaving me, not the other way around. She’s off to boarding school next month when she turns ten and they only come home as visitors after that. And during holidays she’ll be staying in the Dublin house or with
friends from school. If she needed me, I’d never desert her, but my responsibilities are nearly over. And it’s not as if I’ll be leaving the estate – she can still come and visit me in your cottage, Sid, now that I know the offer’s still open.”
“As if there were ever any doubt about that, Lily,” said Sid, “though I think you’re doing this for the sake of little Catherine.”
“Believe me, Sid. I’m doing this just for you and me,” said Lily, and when he looked into her face, he knew it to be true.
19
Lady Beatrice had disliked Waldron all through the years they were growing up on neighbouring estates, and often said she would pity the poor girl who was unfortunate enough to marry the drunken popinjay. After he introduced his young English bride to the Park, Beatrice determined to befriend Edwina, and when he returned to India she made a special point of keeping a motherly eye on the deserted stranger.
At the time Victoria went missing, Beatrice and her husband Bertie had been in England searching the military hospitals for one of their sons. They had not been officially informed, but rumour had reached them that someone recognised the young man on the boat bringing back the wounded from France and that he was suffering from memory loss. They hadn’t found him. One of their other sons had been killed in action and the third was still on active duty. They had come back to see if they could find any additional information on their side of the water before returning to England to resume their search.
As soon as Beatrice heard about Victoria’s disappearance, she put her own sorrows to the side and went to the Park to spend as much time as she could with Edwina to make up for not being available when she was needed. Their friendship was now consolidated by their shared experience of living in the shadow of their missing children.
Edwina welcomed Beatrice’s restful company, and didn’t want to talk to anyone else. She asked Beatrice to deal with people who called in to enquire after her health, while she went into an adjacent room, sometimes moving away and sometimes listening in.
The day Lady Wentworth called was one of the days she decided to eavesdrop so she left the door between the two rooms slightly ajar.
“She doesn’t intend to leave the house until after the confinement. Won’t drive past the stables or go anywhere near the river.”
Beatrice spoke in what she thought was a whisper, but her imperious tone carried beyond the room. Lady Wentworth’s voice, in contrast, was inaudible beyond three feet, and she was facing away from the door, so the conversation Edwina heard was one-sided.
“Quite understandable,” Beatrice continued, her voice saturated with sympathy. “Yes, under the circumstances . . . Quite low . . . Poor little Victoria, of course . . . Perhaps she’ll have a boy this time . . . Life goes on . . . Yes, yes . . . Exactly. Wonderful rider . . . wonderful . . . Yes, Bertie thinks so, too. Perfect hands, perfect seat . . . Couldn’t agree with you more. We’re privileged to have her in our county. One doesn’t often see excellence like that.”
Edwina flushed with pleasure to hear herself so described by people whose opinion she respected. A wonderful rider. That was the pinnacle of her life’s ambition, to be regarded as such. Did Beatrice and her husband Bertie belong to the school of thought that eschewed praise as detrimental to character building? A pity, as it would have meant so much to hear it from them directly. It gave her goose bumps to think she would have missed hearing it if she hadn’t made the effort to hover near the door.
“I’ll see you on Thursday to give you more details,” Beatrice concluded. “Yes, I’ll pass them on to her. Thank you for calling. I’m sure Edwina will be in contact with you when she’s feeling better . . . Yes, I’ll make sure to tell her. Goodbye, dear.”
Edwina moved to a third room so Beatrice wouldn’t realise she had been listening.
“She sends you her best wishes. Will drop you a note,” Beatrice said when she located her, before gathering her hat and gloves – she hadn’t taken off her coat because of the cold in the room. “Bertie will be wondering what’s keeping me. Now if there’s anything you want . . . ?”
“You’ve done more than enough,” Edwina said with feeling.
Beatrice’s departure left Edwina more deflated than she had been earlier, something she didn’t think possible. After the initial delight in hearing the compliment about her riding excellence, her despondency resurfaced at the thought that it would be a whole year before she would be able to dazzle the county with a demonstration of it, and how on earth was she to fill in the long days between now and then?
20
Edwina wandered from room to room, not looking at anything in particular, filling in time. Seven more hours until she could retire – any earlier and she would wake long before dawn, unable to control the maelstrom of regret that during daylight hours she was able to repress.
Without her daily stint at the stables she was left with what was, ironically, considering the state she was in, a feeling of hollowness. Whoever first named this section of a woman’s life ‘confinement’ couldn’t have chosen a more accurate word.
She found herself facing the corridor leading to the billiard room, a male domain she had seen once during her initial tour of the house after she’d arrived as a bride. She hadn’t had the inclination since to view it again. She moved down the corridor. Along the inner wall were oil paintings featuring lots of fruit, especially grapes with the bloom still on them, arranged around silver goblets, joints of meat and dead creatures. They looked so real she felt as if she could taste the grapes, and touch the skin, fur, feathers and scales of the foxes, rabbits, pheasants and fish. She hadn’t noticed them before and wished she hadn’t now, as the sight of all that food exacerbated her morning sickness.
Twenty yards short of the billiard room was an ornately carved oak door, which was the entrance to the tower she had visited once during that introductory tour and hadn’t seen since. At the time she thought it was the defining thing, apart from the horses, that assured her she had made a superior match, but because the marriage had soured so early on, it had lost its appeal. Now, to fill in a few minutes of this endless day, she decided to visit it for a second time. The thickness of the door, the grating noise of the hinges, the cobwebs, dull light and narrowness of the stairs reminded her of a fairy-story illustration that, as a child, promised magic and secrets. She felt a slight lift of spirits as she ascended the stairs.
The room at the top was bare except for a pile of books, a broken table, chewed-up paper, a tea chest and a telescope on a sailor’s chair, all covered in dust except for the last two items which had only a light film over them.
She looked through the narrow window. To her left she could see the avenue emerge from the beech trees and curve up towards the house and in the distance she could see the stables. In the practice yard at the back of the stables a small group was assembled. Mandrake and Manus could be identified from their outlines, but she couldn’t make out who the other two figures were.
She picked up the telescope. Was it Waldron who had left it there, she wondered? He wasn’t a bird watcher, as far as she knew, and she couldn’t think of anything else he’d be interested in that would necessitate its use. She tore some pages from one of the leather-bound books on the floor to wipe the dust from the chair seat before settling, leaning her elbows on the window ledge to keep her arms steady, and focused on the group in the yard for a long time.
“I can’t believe this,” she said aloud at last. “When did she become so accomplished?”
Charlotte on Mandrake was showing a skill Edwina didn’t know she possessed. Manus was supervising, and Miss East was watching, clapping at intervals.
Edwina’s heart rate increased as she studied the dynamics of the little group.
She had expressly ordered Manus to let one of the lads tutor Charlotte, and not waste his time doing it himself. Had he been instructing her all those years for her daily hour while Edwina was having lunch? Had he expanded that hour? What was Miss East doing down
there neglecting her duties? When she had put Charlotte in the housekeeper’s care in a moment of fury she didn’t mean for her to actually look after her; she expected Charlotte to drag around behind her all day whining and whingeing until Miss East could stand it no longer.
The next day, rather than taking the usual two hours to summon up the energy to move, Edwina rose immediately on waking and was at her station in the tower within thirty minutes.
At around ten Manus appeared in the exercise yard on Sandstorm. The oldest stable lad, Archie, built up all the jumps to a higher level and Manus eased Sandstorm over them, smoothly and calmly. She had expressly told Manus that Sandstorm was not to be tamed while she was housebound, only exercised and fed, and she had instructed Les, the middle lad, to do it, not Manus, as she knew Manus would ignore her wishes and do whatever he was going to do in the first place, and here was proof of it before her eyes.
It was all right for Beatrice to want a Manus-trained hunter – at her age she needed a foolproof mount – but Edwina was half Beatrice’s age and what she wanted was wildness and unpredictability.
She and Manus could never agree on training methods, but this flagrant disobeying of her orders was beyond endurance. Fear was the best teacher, she was convinced. “Break a horse’s will and it will obey one for life!” she had shouted at Manus one day after she’d lost patience with him. Manus had turned his face away from her after she’d said that, sadly shaking his head.
She had a good mind to march down to the stables this minute and set him straight with commands that he couldn’t deliberately misinterpret or ignore.
She often had a good mind to do something with Manus, like putting him in his place. But what was his place? Or showing him who was boss. But who was boss once the threshold of the stables was crossed?
The first time she saw him, such was his air of quiet authority, she took him for Waldron’s younger brother Charles until he spoke and she heard the soft musical Cork accent for the first time. He had come upon her beating a mare between the ears with a whip to stop it rearing its head.
Tyringham Park Page 11
