‘My father.’
‘Your father. Mary and he fell in love and became engaged. I knew there’d be trouble, but Mary, glowing with happiness I remember, insisted that once Father met John, everything would be all right. Of course it wasn’t. We came home at the end of the season and Mary told Father that she’d changed her mind; that she’d fallen in love with someone else and refused to marry George Treslyn. Father was furious and forbade the marriage. John travelled down from London and tried to speak to him, to obtain his consent, but our father wouldn’t even have him admitted to the house.’
‘What happened?’ asked Sophie, wide-eyed.
‘Father exploded with rage and sent John packing. He didn’t go far. He stayed at an inn in Truro, while Mary tried to work on Father, but for once she wasn’t able to talk him round. John came of a respectable Suffolk family, but he was a younger son and had no money of his own. He had to make his own way in the world. Not at all what Father had in mind.’
‘What did Mama do then?’ All Sophie’s hostility to her aunt slipped away as she became embroiled in her parents’ love story.
‘Father told Mary that his decision was final and that John Ross wouldn’t be coming back. He said that the date for her wedding to George Treslyn had been set and that she’d better put John Ross out of her mind.’
‘He sounds very autocratic,’ remarked Sophie.
‘He always has been and he hasn’t improved with age,’ smiled Matty. ‘But your mother had much of him in her, you know. She didn’t like to be thwarted either. On hearing his pronouncement about her marriage, Mary quietly packed her bags and left. It was our twenty-first birthday, the day she came of age. Saying goodbye to no one, not even me, she went to meet him and they left for London.’ Matty sighed. ‘I’d never had Mary’s courage, particularly in dealings with my father, and I couldn’t defy him and go back to London with her. I had no one waiting for me there, so I stayed at home.’
‘But your father? How did he take Mama’s departure?’
‘In ice-cold fury; far more frightening for the rest of us than his normal bellowing rage.’
‘So you had to stay at home and face the music.’
‘More than that,’ continued Aunt Matty. ‘I had to pick up the pieces Mary had left, and try to take her place.’
‘Take her place? You don’t mean...?’ Sophie could hardly credit the idea that had slipped into her mind.
‘Oh yes.’ Matty confirmed the thought. ‘I had to marry George Treslyn.’
‘But didn’t you mind?’
‘Mind? Of course I minded.’ Even after the passage of almost thirty years her tone still held a trace of bitterness. Then she smiled and said more gently, ‘I hadn’t much choice really, and there were things to be said for the match. I knew now I would never marry for love. I knew I’d never be allowed to return to London and perhaps find a husband there. If I married George I would at least have some standing in the world. I’d no wish to stay at Trescadinnick at my father’s beck and call for the rest of my life. So as soon as we heard that Mary had married John Ross and Father knew there was no going back, I became engaged to George Treslyn and was married on the day that had been arranged for Mary.’
‘Didn’t Mr Treslyn mind the change?’ Sophie was fascinated by this whole tale, amazed at this strange introduction to her family. Her tea cooled unheeded beside her as she leaned forward in her chair to hear more.
Matty shrugged. ‘He didn’t seem to. He hardly knew us as people, and to his eye we were probably indistinguishable.’
‘But why did you let your father bully you?’ Sophie demanded.
‘He was my father. I did as he wished.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I hadn’t your mother’s courage; I hadn’t your mother’s determination, and... I hadn’t got John Ross.’
But you wanted him, Sophie realized, in the brief silence that followed her words. How sad that they’d both fallen in love with the same man. She looked with fresh eyes at her newfound aunt, her mother’s twin. They were indeed almost identical; even their hairstyles were similar. But there was no way she would ever confuse the two of them again. It was the shock of finding Aunt Matilda unexpectedly on the doorstep that had blinded her to their differences; these were subtle, almost indefinable. And yet, conjuring up her mother’s face before her, she knew that though the arrangement of the features was the same, with similarity of colouring and contours, and even at times the expression, the two faces were only alike, not identical.
Before the silence became awkward Matilda smiled up at Sophie and said, ‘So, gradually we lost touch. Mary and I wrote to each other for a few months, but then the letters became less and less frequent. Then the time came that I had to break the news of Joss’s accident. She travelled down to Trescadinnick for his funeral, but Father wouldn’t speak to her, or even acknowledge that she was there.’
‘Just a minute,’ Sophie interrupted. ‘Who’s Joss?’
‘Joss was our brother. He died in a tragic accident when he was still a young man. When Mary heard the news she came down to Trescadinnick.’
‘And your father wouldn’t speak to her, even then?’ Sophie was incredulous.
‘No. I’m sorry to say he ignored her, cut her dead in public.’
‘But you? Didn’t you talk to her?’
‘Of course I did,’ Matilda said. ‘I think she’d hoped to make it up with our father, but after the way he treated her that day, well, she simply went back to London and disappeared from our lives.’ Matilda sighed. ‘She’d told me they were going to move, but I never heard from her again. I didn’t know where she’d gone. I’d lost her.’
‘How could your father treat her like that?’ demanded Sophie. ‘His own daughter!’
‘It’s how he is,’ replied Matilda. ‘And after Joss’s death and Mary’s marriage, he became more morose and dictatorial than ever, so woe betide anyone who crossed him, or set themselves against him. It was as if, somehow, he blamed himself for Joss’s accident, though, of course, he had nothing to do with that.’
Sophie was about to ask what had happened to Joss, but Matilda went on. ‘Life at Trescadinnick became even more bleak. In a way being married to George was a relief. It had given me an escape from the house and from... Well, anyway, it was pleasant to be my own mistress in my own home. George was always kind and generous, and we grew fond of each other. He was much older than I was and when he died ten years ago I was as sad and lonely as any other widow. Still, he left me well off and independent, and I’ve been happy enough. Now,’ she went on briskly, ‘no more of that. Tell me about your mother.’
Sophie was about to reply when she heard the back door bang. ‘That’ll be Hannah. I must tell her you’re here. I don’t want her to have the same shock as I did.’
She hurried from the room, to reappear almost at once with Hannah at her heels. ‘This is Mama’s sister, Hannah,’ Sophie began. ‘She’s come from Trescadinnick in Cornwall, in answer to a letter from Mama.’
Hannah evinced no surprise when she saw Matilda seated in the parlour, but with a sniff she bobbed an infinitesimal bob, and said, ‘How d’you do, madam? I hope you’ve come to see Miss Sophie straight in all her difficulties. It’s not right that she should lose her home what she’s lived in all her life and go out governessing when she’s got family what’s able to provide for her, and that’s a fact.’
‘Hannah—’ began Sophie in dismay, but Matilda interrupted her.
‘Quite right, Hannah,’ she replied approvingly, showing little surprise or annoyance at being addressed in such a forthright manner by her niece’s maid. ‘Miss Sophie’s troubles are over, I promise you. There is no question of her being a governess.’
‘Well, I’m very glad to hear it, ma’am, indeed I am—’
‘Hannah,’ Sophie said quickly to stem the flow, ‘I believe my aunt will stay for dinner. Please see to it straight away.’ She glowered across at her and Hannah disappeared, shaking her head and muttering under her breath, appar
ently unrepentant.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie said as the door closed behind her. ‘But she’s looked after me ever since I was a baby, and she’s very protective.’
‘So I see,’ said Matilda dryly. ‘Still, she needn’t worry about you any more. Now, tell me about your mother.’
So, as the afternoon faded into evening, they sat together in the little parlour while Sophie told her aunt about her life, of her father’s death when he was knocked down in the fog, and of her mother’s last illness and death.
‘I don’t know how she wrote to you,’ Sophie said, as they lingered over the meal Hannah had prepared. ‘I think Hannah must have posted the letter for her.’ She suddenly remembered Hannah’s remark about not knowing what was just round the corner. Had she been aware of what was in the letter?
‘Your grandfather was very ill at the time. He’d had a seizure just before her letter came and it wasn’t opened until he was safely on the mend. That’s when he sent me to fetch you.’
‘Fetch me?’ Although her aunt had said this before, for the first time the meaning of her words really penetrated Sophie’s brain. ‘What do you mean, fetch me?’
‘Your grandfather wants to see you, Sophie.’
‘Why?’ She spoke abruptly. ‘He didn’t want to see my mother.’
‘He’s no quarrel with you, Sophie. You’re his only grandchild and he’d like to meet you. He’s an old man and probably hasn’t very long to live. Despite everything, he loved your mother, you know. When he heard of her death he broke down and cried. I’ve never seen him cry before, Sophie. It was a terrible sight. Then, a few days later, he asked me to come and find you.’
‘If he loved my mother so much, you’d have thought he’d have asked her home.’
‘He’s a proud man, Sophie. His pride wouldn’t let him admit his need to see her until it was too late. And remember, there are two sides to every argument. Mary could have made the first move.’
‘She had her pride too,’ Sophie said defensively.
‘Exactly. Two pig-headed people each hurting themselves as much as the other. I think that was another reason he wept so bitterly, because he had left it too late to be reconciled. Don’t carry on this feud, Sophie. Come and see him, for a short while at least.’
‘I’ll think about it, Aunt Matilda,’ Sophie said, and stood up to bring the visit to a close. She wanted to be on her own now, to think things through and come to terms with everything she’d heard that afternoon.
Matilda got up too, saying as she did so, ‘I’m sure this has all come as a great shock to you, my dear, but perhaps you’ll think over what I’ve asked and if I may call again tomorrow we can discuss it further.’
They went to the front door and Sophie helped her aunt into her coat. ‘Where are you staying?’ she asked as she opened the door.
‘I’m at Brown’s,’ Matilda replied, and seeing her niece’s expression added with a cheerful smile, ‘Don’t look so surprised, Sophie. I told you George left me very comfortably off. We’ve no children so I’ve no one to spend it on but myself.’ She paused on the threshold. ‘May I come and see you again tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘To hear your answer?’
‘If you want to.’ Sophie felt suddenly very tired and wished her aunt would go.
‘I’ll see you in the morning then. Goodbye, Sophie.’ She held out her hand and as Sophie took it, Matilda reached across and kissed her cheek. Then she turned away and walked briskly down the path to the hansom, which must have been waiting for her ever since she arrived.
Sophie shut the door and stood leaning against it for a moment, her eyes closed, the silence crowding round her. Then the grandfather clock, her father’s pride and joy, whirred noisily and struck nine. Her aunt had been there for just five hours, but those five hours seemed set to change her life.
*
Sophie didn’t sleep easily that night. Despite her determination to put Matilda’s story out of her head she found it impossible. It churned round and round, robbing her of sleep, and when at last she did doze off she dreamed of her mother, young and healthy, the mother of her childhood. They were walking on a cliff top. Sophie could hear the waves far below and the cries of the gulls wheeling above. Her mother stepped off the cliff, floating gracefully above the sea. ‘This is where we belong,’ she called as she drifted away from the cliff. ‘Feuds are death to a family.’ Sophie tried to reach out to her but found herself falling.
Her own cries of fear jerked her awake and she lay in bed trembling. In the grey of pre-dawn she could see the outlines of her own familiar room, but the dream stayed with her, vivid and disturbing.
There was no more sleep for Sophie after that and she soon gave up trying. She got out of bed and throwing a shawl over her nightgown, sat in the chair by her window watching the dawn rise over the street outside. As the sky began to lighten, colour came creeping back into the houses opposite, and shafts of early sunlight lit the undersides of the plane trees that lined the road. She saw the lamplighter walking slowly from street lamp to street lamp, extinguishing the yellowing flames. She watched the first signs of life as the neighbourhood began to awaken to another day, and yet her dream stayed with her, closer than the reality in the street outside. It didn’t surprise her that she had dreamed of her mother; after all, she had been prominent in her thoughts throughout the previous day, but the powerful images of the dream did not fade and she could still see the cliff and the sea. Her tired brain must have confused her mother and her aunt as she slept, her mother’s story muddled into her dream.
4
‘I’m very busy this morning,’ Sophie said as Hannah showed her aunt into the room. ‘All this has to go to the saleroom at the end of the week.’
‘Why?’ enquired Matilda gently.
Sophie glanced up angrily. ‘You know perfectly well why, Aunt,’ she said with some asperity. ‘There’s no room in my new lodgings to take all my parents’ belongings. And anyway,’ she added bluntly, ‘I need the cash.’
‘It seems a pity to move house if you don’t have to,’ remarked Matilda. ‘Do you want to move?’
‘No, of course not,’ answered Sophie, preparing herself to turn down her aunt’s offer of help. ‘But I intend to make my own way now, and I can’t afford to live here any more.’ She picked up a crystal vase that had been a particular favourite of her mother’s and began to wrap it; then on impulse she removed the paper again and set the vase aside. That should not go.
‘There’s no need for any of it to go,’ Matilda said, as if she’d read Sophie’s mind. ‘I must tell you, Sophie, that I’ve seen the landlord’s agent this morning and have paid the rent for another twelve months. The house is yours, at least until this time next year.’
Sophie froze and then slowly turned to face her aunt. ‘Have you indeed, ma’am? Perhaps you’ll allow me to say that I find that a gross impertinence and interference.’
‘Now then, Sophie, come down off your high horse,’ said her aunt, apparently unperturbed by her rudeness. ‘I did it for your own comfort. I know how disturbing I should find it to have to move out of a house that had been my home for so long.’
‘I don’t want your charity,’ snapped Sophie.
‘I assure you it wasn’t charity in the way you mean it,’ replied Matilda calmly. ‘I would prefer to think of it as a little of what I owe Mary.’
‘I see. It’s a sop to your conscience.’
‘You can take it as that, if you wish.’ Matilda remained unruffled. ‘But whatever motives you impute to me, at least you may stay in your own home if you want to.’
‘You will have wasted a great deal of money, ma’am, when I move to Putney and this house stands empty,’ Sophie said haughtily.
‘Perhaps,’ agreed her aunt, ‘but you will have cut off your nose to spite your face. I’m sure Hannah will not be at all pleased with you.’
‘Hannah is my maid. She doesn’t tell me how to run my life.’
Hannah came in at that moment with the
tea tray and Sophie, looking across at her, felt a pang of remorse at dismissing her as just her maid moments earlier. How much more Hannah was to her than just a paid servant... not even paid at present. Guilt brought colour to Sophie’s cheeks and she said softly, ‘My aunt has paid the rent of this house for a twelvemonth, Hannah. We don’t have to move to Putney if we don’t want to.’
Hannah showed no surprise at this announcement; it was exactly what she’d expected of Matilda Treslyn. She nodded with satisfaction and said, ‘It’s no more that your due, Miss Sophie. I’ll start unpacking the boxes in the hall.’
*
And so the decision was taken. Sophie would not move, and though she felt uncomfortable at having her obligations met by her newfound aunt, she had to admit to a great measure of relief at not having to leave her home, nor part with the familiar possessions of her childhood. But she would not agree to go to Trescadinnick, not at once, as if she were leaping to answer her grandfather’s summons. Perhaps some time in the future...
Matilda left when she had taken her tea, and for a long while Sophie sat staring into the fire. Then she went across to the piano and for the first time since her mother had died, sat down and ran her fingers over the keys. Out in the hall, where she was restoring ornaments to their accustomed places, Hannah heard the music and heaved a sigh of relief. It had worried her greatly that since her mother’s death Sophie had abandoned her piano, finding no solace in her music. Now, as she heard the soft trickle of notes expanding into an increasing flood of music, she knew that Sophie had at last turned the corner and would gradually re-establish her cheerful and determined grasp on life.
Hannah was right. Having found herself back in her music, Sophie spent much of the rest of the day at her piano and was playing again when Matilda came to visit her the next morning.
‘You play beautifully, Sophie,’ Matilda said when she finally stepped into the parlour. ‘I’ve been out in the hall listening to you. Your grandmother was an accomplished musician, you know.’
Miss Mary’s Daughter Page 4
