by Val Wood
‘I will go and change right now, Aunt Julia,’ Edmund said with a disarming grin. ‘Only please save me a slice of cake.’
‘That boy!’ Julia murmured as he went out of the room. ‘Perhaps Joseph should have sent him off to France with Amy, instead of to school in Pocklington.’
‘He wouldn’t have settled, Aunt Julia,’ Amy said. ‘He would have been bored by the constant round of balls and soirées that Grandmama loves so much. Our grandmother is French,’ she told Laura. ‘She spends a great deal of time in Paris, and I often travel with her.’
Laura glanced at Joseph Ellis, who was regarding her, yet seemingly not listening to the conversation.
‘Do you know France at all, Miss Page?’ Amy asked. ‘Are you familiar with that country?’
‘I have been to Paris twice,’ Laura answered. ‘The first time was when I was very young and I barely remember it.’ A flash of awakened memory came to mind, carrying her thoughts back. ‘And when I was about twelve my mother took me again.’ Why didn’t James go with us? she thought. Mama generally took us both wherever she went. Perhaps – oh, of course! He would have been away at school the second time. But the first? Again the tug of memory returned. She wore a white dress and bonnet and was laughing as she was lifted high into someone’s arms. My feet ached, she remembered. My kidskin boots were new and pinching my toes. I could see so much up there, even over the top of Mama’s head.
‘Miss Page?’ Amy was speaking to her. ‘Do you take milk?’ Amy had poured the tea and was hovering with a milk jug.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Laura blushed, something she rarely did. ‘Yes please. I was reminded of something as we were speaking of France,’ she said. ‘Something that I had completely forgotten about. Do you visit France often, Mr Ellis?’
‘Never,’ he said brusquely. ‘Not since I was a young man. That’s where I met my wife. I’ve had no wish to go back. My home, my memories are here.’ He took a breath. ‘My wife likes to go back to Paris. She never settled in Holderness, even though our sons were born here.’
‘How many sons have you, Mr Ellis? Are they all farmers?’
Joseph shook his head. ‘My eldest son and his wife, Edmund and Amy’s parents, both died of typhoid whilst they were living in France; but Austin wasn’t a farmer. He hadn’t settled on what he wanted to do, even though he had married and had two young children.’ There was a note of bitterness in his voice. ‘After they died I insisted that both children should be raised in Holderness.’
‘Even though Grandmama wanted us to live in France,’ Amy interrupted.
‘And my two other sons are twins. One is in banking in London, and the other married a farmer’s daughter and inherited her father’s property on the other side of Beverley.’
‘So you must be relieved that your grandson took to farming?’ Laura said. ‘To carry on the family estate.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am. Burstall will be Edmund’s one day.’
After they had finished tea, Miss Julia excused herself and went to her room. Joseph Ellis took himself off somewhere and Edmund asked Laura and James if they would like to take a look round the garden and some of the grounds.
‘I think I’ll stay and keep Miss Amy company if she has no objection,’ James said. ‘I’d like to know more about Paris, seeing as I have never been.’
Laura smiled. James did not like gardens, mud, or being out in the cold, and there was a keen breeze blowing. She could see tree branches dipping and dancing outside the window. ‘I’d like to,’ she said. ‘Have we time to walk to the estuary before dark?’
‘Yes, it isn’t far, though I must find you some suitable footwear. It’ll be rather muddy,’ Edmund said.
‘I’ve brought some,’ she said. ‘I’m prepared.’
‘Really? I’m astonished.’ He grinned.
‘Oh, Laura is always pottering in the garden at home,’ James said, stretching out his legs towards the fire.
‘Hardly pottering,’ she objected, rising from her chair. ‘I plant trees, cultivate fruit and grow vegetables. Some of which you eat!’
Edmund opened the door for her and she said she would take only a moment to change into something suitable. In a very short time she came down into the hall wearing a woollen cloak over her dress and rubber boots on her feet.
‘I’m impressed,’ Edmund said admiringly. ‘I had you down as a lady of elegance and leisure!’ He had changed back into his boots whilst she was upstairs and put on a rubber mackintosh over his frock coat.
She gazed squarely at him. ‘Perhaps I am that too,’ she said. ‘But I hate to sit around doing nothing. My mother is very industrious and I suppose I’ve inherited some of her traits.’
‘We can walk down to the river,’ he said. ‘Or – do you ride?’
She confessed that she didn’t. ‘Though sometimes I wish that I did,’ she said. ‘We can see the river from our house in Hessle and I often think that it would be nice to ride along the foreshore.’
‘Then we’ll walk this time,’ he said. ‘But perhaps if you come again, I’ll find you a steady mount and teach you to ride.’
She lowered her head. His gaze was intense, rather as his grandfather’s had been. She had caught the older man looking at her several times during the afternoon. ‘Perhaps,’ she said softly, and then asked, ‘When do your other guests arrive?’
‘Later,’ he said, ‘before supper.’
He led her round the side of the house and towards the track through the woods which she’d noticed on their arrival. ‘It’s rather overgrown,’ he said. ‘My grandfather and I are the only ones to use it, but it’s a short cut to the estuary. We both like to ride there. There’s a good path along the embankment.’ He took her arm as her feet became entangled by bramble, and again as she stepped over a fallen log.
‘Are there bluebells?’ she asked. ‘In the spring, I mean.’
‘Yes, and primroses and wild garlic, and the snowdrops and aconites will be up at Christmas.’
‘We came to the estuary,’ she told him. ‘That day we met you in Hedon. We’d been to Welwick, and I saw flowers that looked like Michaelmas daisies.’
‘Sea asters, probably,’ he said. ‘Though I’m not very good with names of plants. But there’s a great variety on the Welwick marshes.’ He turned his head to gaze at her. ‘Why did you go to Welwick? What was there that you wanted to see?’
She hesitated. She wanted so many answers, and yet she hadn’t yet formulated the questions. ‘I … was just interested,’ she hedged. ‘I’ve been to Hedon often, but never further than that. Never even been to Spurn Point. My mother has spoken of it, but never got round to taking us when we were children, though we went up the coast to Bridlington and Scarborough.’
She refrained from telling him that their mother was born in Holderness. Something held her back. There were many things her mother hadn’t told her about her former life or her marriage to their father; and again came the memory of the first time in Paris. I must have been about three, and James – yes, James remained behind because he had been invited to stay at a friend’s house. There was a grey mental mist hovering over the visit and yet she could remember laughing. They had all laughed. The three of them. Her mother, herself, and whoever it was who had lifted her up into his arms. But not my father, she mused. My mother said he died not long after I was born.
* * *
Some of the supper guests had to return home that night; others, like Laura and James, were staying until after tea on Sunday. ‘I’d like to get off in good time tomorrow,’ James told Laura as they went down to meet the new arrivals. ‘Don’t want Stubbs driving along these roads in the dark.’
‘It will be dark before we get home anyway,’ Laura objected. ‘The light’s already gone by six o’clock.’ But she knew he would insist, and make the excuse that he had a busy day on Monday.
There were twelve of them sitting down at table, not including Miss Julia, who excused herself to have supper in her room. Mr Ellis s
at at the head of the table and Edmund at the foot. Edmund wanted to have Laura at his side, but his grandfather forestalled him, insisting that she sit on his right.
Joseph carved the meat and a maid served the vegetables. They were a chatty crowd of people and quite informal, obviously used to coming to the house. The young men were farmers; some were with their wives, but the single ones, both men and women, were obviously not intentionally paired, but had been invited for their camaraderie. Edmund’s cousin Mark, son of the Beverley farmer, was there. He was tall and fair like Edmund, and as their grandfather had been.
‘So, Miss Page,’ Joseph began. ‘What is your impression of Holderness?’ His gaze lingered on her and she thought he seemed pensive. ‘Do you think it flat and boring?’
‘No, indeed not,’ she said softly. ‘I love the openness and the wide skies, and I saw a magnificent sunset tonight.’
He nodded. ‘You went down to the estuary?’
‘Yes. Edmund took me. It’s quite different at this lower end from where we live in Hessle.’
‘That’s because there are more mud flats,’ he said. ‘It’s also more saline; Spurn Point is constantly changing because of the coastal sediments and with the reclamation of Sunk Island and Cherry Cob Sands, so the tidal channel is narrower.’ He continued to gaze at her as they waited for the next course. ‘You must forgive me for monopolizing your time, and I know my grandson is angry with me because he wanted you to sit next to him, but you remind me very much of someone I once knew.’ He put his hand over hers where it rested on the table. She didn’t object, for there was nothing suggestive or secretive about the action. ‘Someone I cared for when I was young,’ he said quietly. ‘She was very beautiful, as you are.’
‘Did you love her?’ she whispered, for this conversation, she realized, was meant only for her ears.
‘I did,’ he said. ‘Very much.’ Then he patted her hand and withdrew his. ‘I’m sorry.’ He sighed softly. ‘Just an old man’s memories. My grandson is rather taken with you, I think?’
She smiled. Edmund had been most attentive, and she also found him very appealing.
Joseph was about to say something more, but a sudden guffaw came from the other end of the table. ‘Yes, but Edmund, you’ve got the best waggoner in the district,’ Harry Fowler proclaimed. ‘I’d give anything to have Tom Marston leading my lads.’
‘How very odd!’ Laura turned to Joseph Ellis and said, without thinking, ‘My mother had a cousin called Thomas Marston. He worked with horses.’
Joseph became very still. ‘Did she?’ He faltered, his words husky. ‘What – was your mother’s name?’
Laura hesitated. Had she ever known? Marston? Not Brewster! Why had she never asked? Why had her mother never said? She swallowed, suddenly unsure of herself. ‘Her name is Susannah.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Laura and James arrived home late on Sunday evening. Edmund had insisted that they stay and have an early supper. Only two other guests stayed on, so there were just six of them at the table, as Aunt Julia said she would take a light meal in her room, and Edmund’s grandfather, who had appeared only briefly at breakfast, looking red-eyed and tired as if he hadn’t slept, didn’t come down for supper.
After his grandfather had left the room the previous evening, Edmund had come to sit next to Laura. ‘Grandfather is an old devil,’ he’d said in a low voice. ‘He knew I wanted you next to me. I hope you weren’t bored?’
‘Not at all. He’s charming – but …’
‘What?’ There had been a note of anxiety in his voice.
‘Well – he seemed upset, and I’m not sure if it was because of something I said.’
‘Miss Page! I don’t believe it. Whatever could you have said to upset him?’
She’d shaken her head. ‘I don’t know. But I think there was something.’
They’d left with Edmund eagerly asking if they would come again. He’d pressed Laura’s hand. ‘Please do,’ he’d urged. ‘I would so much like you to.’
She had thanked him, but hadn’t promised even though he seemed so ardent. However, she knew that she would like to.
Joseph Ellis came to see them off. He’d given her a courtly bow and said they must come again, but there was a constraint, and Laura thought that he was only being polite to his grandchildren’s friends and would relish the quiet of the house once they had gone.
‘Mama! Where are you?’ Laura called upstairs. ‘Where’s my mother, Smithy? Has she gone to bed already?’
‘Yes, Miss Laura, she has. I think she’s sickening for something. She’s been off colour all day.’
‘Oh! She was all right when we left. Will she be asleep? Should I go up?’
‘She isn’t asleep. I’ve just taken her a cup of hot milk.’ The housekeeper folded Laura’s cloak over her arm. ‘She was all right yesterday morning. It was in the afternoon, after Mr Cannon called, that she came over giddy.’
‘Mr Cannon called?’
‘Yes, Miss Laura, though he didn’t stay long.’
Laura climbed the stairs and quietly knocked on her mother’s door. Her mother was rarely ill and hardly ever went to bed before eleven. ‘It’s me, Mama,’ she said, going into the room. ‘Smithy said you were unwell.’
‘I’m perfectly well, Laura. Smithy does fuss so!’ Her mother was sitting up in bed, sipping from a cup. ‘I was rather tired, that’s all, and decided to come to bed early.’ She glanced at the bedside clock. ‘Though it’s not so very early – ten o’clock. Have you had a pleasant time?’
‘Yes, lovely.’ Laura sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Though I don’t think James likes the country. He wanted to leave earlier but Edmund insisted we stayed for supper.’
‘Edmund?’ her mother quizzed her. ‘So familiar so soon?’
Laura smiled. ‘They’re not at all stuffy, but then everyone knew everyone else. James and I were the only strangers.’
‘What kind of house was it?’ her mother asked. ‘When I was a child …’ She paused. ‘Well, I think I went once, but I don’t know why I did. I can remember going up some steps and into a large hall and then up a staircase.’ She took another sip of milk. ‘But there again, I’m not sure. Perhaps I imagined it.’
‘I didn’t tell them that you were from Holderness,’ Laura said. ‘I thought they might ask questions, and I wouldn’t know the answers. Mama, there are some things I’d like to ask you.’
‘Not tonight, Laura,’ her mother said, and then, with a slight hesitation, added, ‘Freddie called in yesterday. He – that is – he came with bad news. His wife died early on Saturday morning.’
‘Oh! Oh, dear,’ Laura breathed. ‘So she was ill after all?’
‘When Freddie was sent for – I told you, didn’t I, that I was there when he received the summons from the doctor? Well, when he arrived home, seemingly Mrs Cannon had sustained a fall, but the servants hadn’t thought at first that the matter was urgent. Eventually they sent for the doctor, who didn’t come immediately; perhaps he too thought she was overstating her symptoms as usual. But when he arrived she had deteriorated and he could do nothing for her, and so he sent for Freddie,’ she ended faintly.
‘I am sorry,’ Laura said. ‘Poor Uncle Freddie. Will you go to the funeral service?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Susannah said softly. ‘Unless I am asked. I never met Mrs Cannon, but I will send Freddie a letter of condolence.’
Laura rose to her feet. ‘I’ll tell James, shall I? He won’t have gone to bed yet.’
‘Yes, please, if you would, dear.’
‘And can we speak tomorrow, Mama? There are several things I want to ask you. Things that I’ve been puzzling over.’ She halted, her hand on the brass bed rail. ‘Edmund Ellis’s sister, Amy, spends a lot of time in France – their grandmother is French. I told her that I’d been to Paris twice; once when I was very young, and once when I was twelve. Do you remember?’ Her gaze took in her mother’s startled expression. ‘And we bumped into Un
cle Freddie, didn’t we? We were all amazed at the coincidence of our being there at the same time.’
‘Yes, I do remember,’ her mother murmured. ‘I really am tired, Laura. We’ll talk tomorrow. Good night, dear.’
After Laura had closed the door behind her, Susannah closed her eyes and put her head back against the pillows, cradling the cup in her hands. So has the time come? she thought. Is this my time of reckoning? What do I tell the children – except they are no longer children, but adults. Even so, will they understand?
She took another sip of milk. How and where do I begin? Do I tell them bluntly that their dead father didn’t exist? That I have lived a lie all these years? Or do I start at the time when Uncle Brewster died and Aunt Brewster was so bereft that she couldn’t cope?
‘You see, m’dear,’ Aunt Brewster had wept, ‘we’d been together for such a long time. We never had children – well, just the one and she died within hours – so we onny had each other to care for.’ She’d managed a wistful smile. ‘So when you came along it was as if we’d been given a granddaughter, for our girl would have been old enough, had she lived, to have had a daughter of your age.’
Susannah was effectively running the Fleet by that time. The alterations and renovations were finished and people were flocking there to take a look. It was a pleasant walk from Hedon, so the locals came; and the inn was now able to accommodate visitors. There were three extra bedrooms, simple but adequate, and an ample breakfast was provided in a small dining room; but when Uncle Brewster had gone and Aunt Brewster wasn’t able to help her, Susannah felt she had to take on more staff. She’d discussed it with Freddie, who had almost finished at university and always came to stay during the summer.
‘Employ a woman who can cook,’ he’d advised. ‘And a cellar man. That will leave you free to be with the customers and supervise the running of the place.’
