A Fête Worse Than Death

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘And yet he turned out to be a bad ’un,’ said Haldean, stubbing out his cigarette.

  Lawrence shook his head. ‘The only reason I can think of for him going off the rails was his wife. Maybe she influenced him. She was German, you remember, and he might have been inclined to that point of view. But as I say, I never thought he was guilty. I tried to say as much to anyone who would listen and caused a bit of a row.’ He picked up his whisky and sipped it thoughtfully. ‘With the copper contracts I’d arranged, the government had plenty of reason to be grateful to me, but as far as both the Canadian and British War Offices were concerned, he was guilty and that was that.’

  ‘The evidence was pretty damning.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Lawrence finished his whisky and rested his arms on the edge of the billiard table, the cloth reflecting green light on his face. He shrugged. ‘All I can say is, he was my friend. Anyway, before he left for France it was all set up that the Vayles and I were his daughter’s trustees in case he was killed. Tyburn wrote to the Vayles and the four of us met up in the offices of a London lawyer and arranged the whole thing. He was a rich man by now, Major Haldean, and the money was going to go to her when she was twenty-one or when she got married. The trustees had to approve the marriage, of course.’

  ‘Do you know why he didn’t want to see her?’

  Lawrence picked up his cue, rolled a white ball into position with the tip and struck it thoughtfully. ‘Not really. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb her. He knew that these people, the Vayles, were raising her as their own child and he might have thought it was unfair to them. It was probably for the best.’

  Lady Rivers unclasped her hands from her knees. ‘As far as the Vayles were concerned the trusteeship didn’t change anything and I believe they were rather relieved that Marguerite’s father didn’t intend to interfere.’ She looked at Haldean. ‘Do try and understand, Jack. No one concealed anything on purpose from Marguerite but, as I say, the Vayles had always treated her as their own daughter and the question of who she was simply didn’t arise. And then when it came out that he was a traitor and had been in the pay of the Germans it seemed impossible to tell her. It was in the newspapers and was a tremendous scandal. The press loved it, because of the contrast between Martin Tyburn and Richard Whitfield. Marguerite was only a child when it happened and it was thought best to keep it from her. Andrew Vayle, who probably would have told her when she was old enough to understand, died in the last year of the war and Cissie only survived him by a few months. Poor Cissie knew she hadn’t got long left and asked us to take over as trustees, which, of course, we did. Marguerite was still at school, so all it really involved was having her for the holidays occasionally. Most of the time she went to stay with friends but at Christmas she met Colonel Whitfield and it became obvious that there was an attraction there.’ Lady Rivers shook herself. ‘We must take some action now, Philip. It’s a matter of justice. We can’t allow Marguerite to continue seeing Colonel Whitfield without letting her know the truth. I wanted to tell her when you arrived, Mr Lawrence, but you advised waiting.’

  ‘I had a mind to see things for myself,’ said Lawrence. ‘I’m far from happy about the idea of her marrying the Colonel in any case. It’s no secret she’s going to be a wealthy woman when she marries and I’m a little suspicious of his motives.’

  Lady Rivers stood up. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said in a firm voice. ‘Here we are discussing Marguerite’s future and the one person who’s most intimately concerned doesn’t know a thing about it. We must tell her. Why not now? It’s as good a time as any.’

  ‘Because . . .’ began Sir Philip, and shrugged. ‘Lawrence? What’s your opinion?’

  Lawrence put his hands in his pockets, thinking. ‘Why not?’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s go and find her. She was in the drawing room the last time I saw her.’

  In the drawing room Isabelle was feeling bored. She had been about to suggest a game of bridge when her mother had left the room. She glanced across at her brother, but Gregory was stuck inside a copy of On the Town.

  Marguerite was sitting by the window, an unread magazine on her knee. She was abnormally still, and Isabelle thought, as she had thought before, just how difficult Marguerite was to get to know. Since Saturday she’d been worse than ever. Not talkative – she was never that – but apprehensive in an odd sort of way. It was as if she was waiting for something to happen. It wouldn’t be so bad if she wasn’t so quiet, but she never started a conversation and she certainly never gossiped. Maybe she’d suffered from that awful phrase they used to drill into you at school: ‘If you haven’t anything to say worth saying, don’t say it.’

  Jack liked her but that, thought Isabelle, had far more to do with Jack’s character than with Marguerite’s. He was always frantically over-protective to anything or anyone he saw as weak or who’d had a raw deal. He liked her in the same way he’d like the runt of the litter or an unhappy child, which was all very well, but it did mean he was blind to her faults. He wasn’t really capable of seeing that Marguerite had any and he certainly wasn’t capable – and this was annoying – of talking about them.

  Dad was much the same. He called her ‘a shy, retiring little thing’, but Dad could be very dim sometimes. Shy? No. The phrase ‘pent-up’ came into her mind. Something was bothering Marguerite, bothering her badly, but what on earth could you do with someone who wouldn’t talk?

  Marguerite glanced up, caught Isabelle’s eye and looked away, flushing, her fingers tightening on the magazine.

  For heaven’s sake, this was ridiculous. Here they were, two girls of roughly the same age, who knew the same people, living in the same house and they couldn’t find a thing to say to each other. Mr Lawrence could always find something to say to her . . .

  Isabelle stopped, intrigued by a new line of thought. Mr Lawrence, eh? There was no doubt Marguerite liked him. She was easy and at home with him in a way she wasn’t with anyone else, not even her beloved Richard Whitfield. That, in Isabelle’s opinion, was nothing more than a crush. She remembered some of the crushes of her own and felt a twinge of sympathy. Maybe Maggie knew what was obvious to anyone looking on, that she was a great deal fonder of Whitfield than he was of her. Maybe it wasn’t so much Whitfield she was in love with as the thought of having a home of her own. Maybe that was it. Maggie Vayle didn’t have a home. She was cared for, certainly, but she’d spent years inside other people’s houses, living by other people’s rules.

  Marguerite’s eyes met hers again. ‘For heaven’s sake, Isabelle, stop staring at me!’

  Isabelle concealed her affront with a laugh. ‘Sorry. Just a bit bored, I suppose.’ She walked across to the gramophone and wound it up. ‘Let’s have some music.’ She put a record on and took the magazine from her brother’s indignant hands. ‘Come on, Greg, let’s dance.’

  He made a grab for On the Town. ‘Stop it, Isabelle. I don’t want to dance, I want to read. Besides,’ he added, listening to the music for a moment, ‘I don’t know the steps.’

  ‘I’ll show you. Come and dance, Maggie,’ she asked with a welcoming smile. ‘I’ll be the man, if you like, and Greg can watch. It’s ever so easy.’

  Marguerite unwillingly put down her magazine and came forward.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Isabelle encouragingly. ‘Watch, Greg. Back one, side step, back one . . .’ The door opened and she stopped. ‘Jack! I didn’t know you were here. Maggie and I are trying to show Greg this dance.’ She paused. ‘Whatever’s the matter with everyone? Mother? What’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s nothing really wrong, Isabelle, but we need to talk to Marguerite.’ Lady Rivers smiled at the girl. ‘Would you come into my sitting room, dear?’

  To everyone’s surprise, Marguerite shook her head. ‘I think I know what this is about. I’ve been waiting for you to say something.’ She stood rigidly still, her chin pointed forward. ‘You’d better say it here and get it over with. After all, it concerns everyone.’

&nb
sp; Mr Lawrence coughed. ‘This is private, Marguerite. Family matters, you know?’

  She looked at him blankly. ‘Family matters?’

  Lawrence put his hand on her arm. ‘Come with us, my dear.’ His voice softened and he added, seeing she was reluctant to move, ‘We’re talking about your father, Marguerite. There’s something you need to know. You don’t want to discuss it here.’

  ‘My – my father?’ She blinked, then gave an irritated shrug, shaking off Lawrence’s hand. ‘Which one? Daddy – Mr Vayle – or my real father?’

  There was a stunned silence. Haldean drew his breath in. Oh no . . . Oddly enough, he didn’t have the same sickening feeling as if he’d just kicked a kitten. All right, she knew, but there was another explanation, there just had to be. Somehow his reasoning was at fault. He’d far rather believe that than believe Marguerite Vayle was guilty.

  Mr Lawrence spoke first. ‘What do you know about your real father?’ he asked slowly.

  She drew a deep breath and met his gaze. ‘I know he was a traitor.’ There was a gasp from Sir Philip. The dance music suddenly seemed very loud. ‘I know all about him. For heaven’s sake, Isabelle, take the record off and stop looking at me like that!’ Isabelle dumbly complied, her eyes fixed on Marguerite. ‘He left me with the Vayles. I’ll always think of them as my real parents because he never wanted to have anything to do with me. Then he joined the army and betrayed everyone to the Germans and it was Richard who saved the day. I know. How could I not know?’ She was trembling now. ‘He thought he could make up for the way he acted by leaving me money. I know all about that, too, but he can’t make it better, not ever. And I’ve been dreading this, absolutely dreading it. Because you’re going to tell me I should tell Richard and I won’t! He must never find out.’

  Lady Rivers came forward, took her hands and gently sat her down. ‘Why are you so afraid of Colonel Whitfield finding out, Marguerite? If he cares for you then surely it won’t matter to him.’

  She shook her hand free. ‘Of course it’ll matter to him. He’s got a position – reputation – ambitions. He can’t marry a traitor’s daughter. The man who betrayed him. Even if I am going to have money.’ She bit back tears, and her voice cracked. ‘Oh leave me alone, all of you! You don’t understand! None of you understand!’ She got up and left the room at what was nearly a run.

  Lady Rivers made to go after her, but was stopped by Lawrence.

  ‘Let me go. I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘All right. If you’re sure.’

  He nodded and followed her out of the room.

  ‘Well,’ said Haldean, going over to the sideboard and pouring himself a whisky and soda, ‘this is a turn-up for the books. Drink, anyone?’ There was a blank part in his mind, the part which had so confidently said Tyburn’s child. There had to be another explanation . . .

  ‘She knew,’ said Sir Philip in stupefaction. ‘She knew! When I think of how worried we’ve been and she knew! My word, Lawrence is a brave man. I’ll have a whisky, please, Jack. A good strong one after that. How the dickens did she find out? And why the blazes didn’t she tell us?’

  ‘I wish someone would tell me,’ said Gregory. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I want to know, too,’ added Isabelle, vigorously.

  Haldean picked up his drink and draped himself over an armchair. He was deliberately making his actions and words as casual as possible. ‘I really think you had better tell them, you know,’ he said to his uncle. ‘Poor old Belle’s going to burst with curiosity in a minute.’

  Slowly, and with many interjections from his wife, Sir Philip ran through the story. ‘But how she knew,’ he finished, ‘is more than I can guess.’

  ‘And where’s her father now?’ asked Isabelle. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘We simply don’t know,’ said Haldean, sipping his whisky. ‘No one’s had a sniff of him since 1916. Mr Lawrence thinks he’s dead but as the man’s got a capital charge against him he wouldn’t want to make too much fuss about his continued existence.’

  Sir Philip snorted and, getting to his feet, walked around the room in irritation. ‘Of course Tyburn’s dead. Damn it, Jack, he has to be. Things are complicated enough without you thinking otherwise.’ Not nearly as complicated as they could be, Haldean thought, but said nothing. ‘Don’t you think the poor girl’s got enough to worry about without telling her that her father might pop up? She’s in an absolute state as it is. What the devil is Lawrence doing? He’s being a long time about it, whatever it is.’ He picked up a cigar-cutter from the sideboard, turning it over in his fingers. ‘I wish he’d take to Whitfield more. If it wasn’t for this awful complication I think it’d be a perfect match for Marguerite, but Lawrence seems to be dead set against him.’

  ‘I wonder if he’s jealous,’ said Isabelle.

  Sir Philip put down the cigar-cutter with a click. ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Lawrence. I wonder if he’s jealous of Colonel Whitfield.’

  ‘Isabelle!’ Her father looked at her in shocked disbelief. ‘That’s an outrageous suggestion. Why, Lawrence is twice her age. The idea’s preposterous. He’s a good, decent man and a first-rate trustee who, I’m sure, has no ideas about Marguerite beyond trying to secure her best interests. She’s nineteen, Isabelle. She’s only just out of the schoolroom, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Well, if it comes to that, Colonel Whitfield’s no spring chicken either. How old is he? He must be nearly forty if he’s a day. And Mr Lawrence is always fussing around Marguerite. Look at him just now. He was holding her hand and his voice went all squashy. Marguerite looks so helpless she sort of invites it. You do read about guardians marrying their wards.’

  ‘It’s a staple of romantic fiction,’ put in Haldean. Marguerite and Lawrence? Yes, Isabelle was right about Mr Lawrence’s reactions. ‘On the Town must do one with that plot every other month and you do come across it in real life.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ said his uncle, curtly. ‘It’s an appalling idea. Lawrence is a respectable businessman, not some half-baked hero from a magazine. He’s a well-known mine-owner of considerable wealth and has been for years. He’s endowed fellowships, set up libraries, and during the war was instrumental in providing this country with enough copper to keep going with no thought of his own gain.’

  ‘But none of that would stop him falling for Marguerite, would it?’ said Gregory.

  ‘Yes, it damn well would,’ said Sir Philip, exasperated. ‘And furthermore,’ he added, his voice rising, ‘I would ask you all to remember that he’s a guest in my house and I expect him to be treated with the consideration he deserves without being subject to this ill-informed speculation . . .’ He broke off abruptly as the door opened and Marguerite Vayle entered, ushered in by Lawrence.

  ‘In you go, my dear,’ said Lawrence, kindly. ‘I told you it would be all right.’

  She gave him a quick, grateful smile and cast a shy glance round the room. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I shouldn’t have caused such a scene. Mr Lawrence came and explained everything to me so nicely he made me see that the best thing I could do is come and apologize to you all.’

  Everyone tried to think of something ordinary to say to show that things were back to normal, and failed miserably. It was Lady Rivers who, coming forward, took the girl by the hand and led her to the settee. ‘Don’t worry about it, dear,’ she said, sitting down beside her. ‘We all realize this must have been a dreadful strain for you. Jack, offer Marguerite a cigarette, will you? And Gregory, I’d like a glass of Madeira and I’m sure Marguerite would like something as well. Now then,’ she said when this was all settled, ‘if you don’t want to talk about it any more this evening, that’s perfectly all right.’

  Marguerite’s voice was shy but determined. ‘I . . . I’d think I’d rather, if you don’t mind. I mean, I know that’s what everyone’s thinking about and it seems silly to try and avoid it. I want to get it over with.’

  ‘How did you know who your father really was
?’ asked Haldean, standing back after lighting her cigarette. The poor kid just couldn’t be guilty. ‘Tell me to go and boil my head if you’d rather not say.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. I’ve always known who he was,’ she said, holding her cigarette in fingers that weren’t quite steady. Oh, hell. She’d always known . . . ‘Mummy and Daddy – I mean the Vayles, of course – thought I didn’t know I was adopted, but I did. There were various things grown-ups had said when I wasn’t meant to be listening which gave it away, so I asked my nurse. I knew it wasn’t the sort of question I could ask Mummy. I rather liked the thought I was really someone else. I’d read ever so many stories where the heroine was adopted and turned out to be a princess or something. My nurse was a bit shocked when I asked her who my real parents were, but I went on and on about it and eventually she told me that my real mother was in heaven and that my father was a soldier.’ She bit her lip. ‘I used to think that my real father would come and carry me off and . . . and I think I liked playing with the idea. I loved Mummy and Daddy but they were ordinary and dull, you know, though in a nice way. I used to dream about my real father who was always wearing a red coat and riding a splendid white horse just like the soldiers in the picture in the dining room. It never occurred to me that he would look like the soldiers we saw in the streets and in the park. Stupid of me.’

  She took a sip of the cocktail which Rivers had given her. ‘Then one day, a man, who must have been a solicitor, called at the house and I watched him over the banisters. No one knew I was there. Daddy spent ages with him in the morning room and when they came out, the man stood in the hall and said, in a carrying voice, “This will mean that Miss Tyburn’s future is secure.” Daddy shushed him and said, “She’s always referred to as Miss Vayle.” They talked for a bit longer and I couldn’t hear most of it, but I knew they were talking about me. I asked Nurse that night if my real name was Tyburn and she told me that it had been, long ago, but it was Vayle now and I must never say that I knew, as it would upset Mummy and Daddy as they liked to think of me as their own little girl. And as it didn’t make any difference to how things were, I sort of forgot about it but it gave me a nice, secret feeling, if you know what I mean.’