Sons and Daughters

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘Then my admiration for him is growing by the minute. I’ll tread carefully, Charlotte, I promise. I’ll not offend him. But it is still my grandchild and I’d like to see if he would let me do something. Set up a trust fund, perhaps, for when the child comes of age.’

  ‘Perhaps. But he might see that as being unfair on any other children, as he said, if they’re blessed.’

  ‘If they’re blessed,’ Miles repeated the words softly and then sighed. ‘My grandchild . . .’ And then he added words which brought a lump to Charlotte’s throat and a twinge of envy. ‘I hope it’s a girl. Oh, I do hope it’s a girl.’

  Forty-Four

  Miles’s hopes were not realized. Lily’s baby, born on the last day in June only five days after her marriage to Eddie, was a boy. He was named Alfred Joseph, but would always be known as Alfie.

  Osbert almost danced with glee. ‘There, my boy has proved he can sire a son. Now he only has to find someone worthy to bear him an heir. Someone better than that little trollop. Still –’ his eyes gleamed with excitement – ‘a young feller has to sow a few wild oats. But now he should choose more carefully, and next time—’

  ‘I don’t think Master Philip will be siring any more children – boys or girls – for a while yet,’ Charlotte reminded him tartly. ‘He’s seventeen and is to return to school and his studies now he’s recovering so well.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but one day – one day he will marry well and have a family. I wonder,’ the devious man mused aloud, ‘if he would change his surname by deed poll to Crawford.’

  ‘Father!’ Charlotte was appalled. ‘That would be grossly unfair on his own father. Think what you’re saying.’

  He regarded her through narrowed eyes. ‘I know exactly what I’m saying.’ He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Mm, yes, that’s a good idea. Now, why didn’t I think of that before? If the father won’t marry you,’ he looked her up and down, sniffed and then muttered, ‘and I can’t say I blame him – then the boy could take my name. He reckons he’s going to be a lawyer, so he’ll know how to go about it.’

  Charlotte was so angry – not for herself, but for Miles Thornton – that she almost spilled out the news that she’d found her mother alive and well and had met her. But something held back the words. Was it still fear of this man? No – she didn’t believe that. Not now. At least, not for herself. But perhaps she was afraid, deep down, of what he might try to do to her mother if he knew where to find her. Or was it pity? She looked at the man, wizened by bitterness and grown old before his time because of it. He looked seventy or even older – so much older than his fifty-seven years. She’d not had much of a life – but she still had a chance to make something of it. He’d wasted his. Of his own choice, he whiled away the years sitting wrapped in discontent and resentment, manipulating the lives of others for his own insidious schemes. And he was still trying to do it. No, she wouldn’t tell him about her mother, but her decision was more to protect Alice than for any other reason.

  Life settled back into a routine. The weeks passed – another haymaking and another harvest were over. Philip went back to boarding school at the start of the autumn term and, this time, Ben went too, so there was only Georgie left at home in the great rambling house to keep his father company. The little boy – though growing rapidly now – still attended the village school, continued to play with Tommy Warren and the other boys, and never ceased to charm the locals with his cheeky grin.

  ‘Perhaps he ought to go to boarding school soon too,’ Miles confided in Charlotte. ‘But I can’t bring myself to let him go.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ she said quietly. She didn’t add that she wouldn’t be able to let her children out of her sight – if she were fortunate enough to have any. But she kept silent. Things were different for boys. They had to have the best education that could be found – or afforded. She’d have given her eye teeth to have been sent to boarding school, she mused, but that would have meant her father loosening his domination over her. And he’d never have done that. She sighed. Despite his threats, she knew he’d never let her go, even now. If she were ever to escape, the decision would have to be hers.

  But something still held her here at Buckthorn Farm amidst the bleak, windswept marshland. Was it loyalty and duty to her father? Or was it the presence of the handsome man on the big black horse riding beside her along the beach? They met often and Charlotte no longer rode one of the shire horses now. At the August horse fair that year, she’d bought herself a more suitable horse for her outings to the beach where she hoped to encounter Miles.

  One morning in October, when Charlotte took a well-earned break from work, they met on the beach. It was the first time in several days she’d had the chance to slip away, for she and all her workers had been fully occupied with the lifting of their first harvest of sugar beet. The crop had been good – better than they’d dared to hope for. But now it was safely on its way to Bardney, Charlotte allowed herself a brief respite. She’d also given Eddie and the other workers on Buckthorn Farm the day off. ‘As long as the milking gets done and the animals are fed,’ she’d warned.

  After greeting each other, Miles asked, ‘Have you ever told your father that you’ve met your mother?’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘No,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I – I couldn’t.’

  ‘Mm. So,’ he added slowly, ‘you’ve never solved the mystery of the grave in the churchyard, then?’

  She shook her head and murmured, ‘I’m not sure I want to.’

  ‘Ah,’ was all Miles said and they rode on in silence. They parted in the lane, he to canter towards the manor, Charlotte to ride slowly back to Buckthorn Farm, her gaze holding sight of him until the very last moment when he disappeared from her view.

  ‘Miss Charlotte – ’ Cuthbert Iveson had visited the Sunday school class as usual, but today he lingered until all the children had gone. This was the first time he’d deliberately sought her out since her father’s threats to have him removed from his living.

  She looked up at him and smiled, but her smile faded when she noticed how thin and pale he’d become. His hands were shaking and he chewed nervously on his bottom lip.

  ‘Miss Charlotte – I have to tell you – I’m leaving.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Iveson – no!’ She paused and then asked, ‘Has this anything to do with my father?’

  ‘Well – in a way, but—’

  ‘But I thought Mr Thornton wrote to the bishop and explained—’

  ‘He did, he did,’ Cuthbert said quickly. ‘And I was grateful – most grateful. No, I’m leaving of my own free will.’

  But his eyes were haunted and she was sure that this was not the truth – or at least, not the whole truth.

  ‘Why?’ she asked candidly.

  ‘I am no longer comfortable here.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. Your services are well attended. The church is almost full – well, most of the time. And always on special occasions like Harvest and Christmas and Easter. So why?’

  He avoided meeting her gaze. In anyone else, she would have described his manner as shifty. But in a vicar – Heaven forbid! she thought.

  ‘There are things I can’t tell you about. Confidences, you know.’

  ‘Like confessions, you mean?’

  ‘Well – sort of. Look, I’m sorry. I just have to go. Make a fresh start. I had hoped . . .’ He looked at her now, meeting her gaze. ‘There was a time I’d hoped that you and I . . .’

  She touched his hand and said gently, ‘I know.’ But there was no regret, at least, not on her part. Now she knew how it felt to fall in love, she knew she could never have felt about Cuthbert the way she felt about Miles. ‘When do you go?’

  ‘The bishop has found me another living. My last services here will be next Sunday.’

  ‘So soon? Who will take the services until a replacement has been found?’

  ‘Mr Knoakes from Lynthorpe will take one service a day here. Matins, I think.’

&nb
sp; ‘And the Sunday school?’

  Now he actually smiled. ‘I hope that will continue as it always has – under your expert tuition.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘I don’t know about the expert bit, but I’ll certainly do my best.’

  ‘I’m hoping the next person to come here will be older. And a married man. I said as much to the bishop. I – I think he understood.’

  Charlotte nodded and said quietly, ‘I think it would be for the best. But I’m so sorry if it’s my father who’s caused you to leave.’

  Cuthbert became agitated again. ‘It wasn’t because of you and me. It was something else.’

  ‘Oh? What?’

  He pressed his lips together. ‘That’s what I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. It – it was a deathbed confession and must remain so. But it troubles my conscience.’

  ‘Have you discussed this with the bishop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He advised me to move away. It – it was none of my making, you understand. Something that happened years ago, but I’m finding it hard to cope with the knowledge.’

  ‘I – see,’ she said slowly, but of course she didn’t understand at all. And yet, as they parted company, there was something nagging at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t quite think what it was.

  As she walked back towards the farm, she was deep in thought. Then suddenly, in the middle of the lane, she stopped and said aloud, ‘A deathbed confession? Why, that’d be old Harry Warren. It must be.’ She remembered suddenly that Peggy had told her of old Harry’s agitation shortly before he died. And – he’d asked to see the vicar.

  During the eighteen months since Harry had died, there’d been only two deaths of people Charlotte knew, which had also involved Cuthbert’s church. One, Flora Brown, had been a non-believer ever since she’d lost her husband and two sons in the Great War. She’d raged at a God who could let that happen – and not only to her. Another had been a young man killed in a horrific accident with a traction engine. There’d been two or three old people in Ravensfleet who’d died, and whom Charlotte had known slightly, but she’d understood that they’d been chapel-goers and if they’d called for anyone on their deathbeds, it would have been the Methodist minister.

  Miles, she decided as she reached the gate of Buckthorn Farm, I’ll ask Miles. She remembered that he’d hinted at something. She would ask him.

  Her heart lifted at the thought of an excuse to see him.

  Forty-Five

  He was standing on the terrace when she walked to the manor later that week. He was looking out over the flat land, most of which he owned, apart from Buckthorn Farm’s acres. But, she thought, even those would one day belong to his family.

  He turned and saw her walking towards him. ‘Charlotte – how lovely. Just in time for afternoon tea when Georgie gets home from school. Brewster has just gone to fetch him.’ He laughed. ‘I think Georgie is the most popular boy in the school when my motor car turns up. Brewster says he can hardly drive sometimes for the number of excitable boys squashed into the vehicle. I’m not sure it’s entirely safe, but there you are. Thank goodness for quiet country roads!’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘I think your motor car is one of the few round here, so I shouldn’t worry.’

  ‘Can you stay for tea?’

  ‘I’d love to, but first, before Georgie gets home, there’s something I want to ask you. Did you know that the Reverend Iveson is leaving?’

  Miles raised his eyebrows. ‘No, I didn’t. Why? I thought that business with your father was all sorted out after I wrote to the bishop.’

  She nodded. ‘I don’t think it’s because of that particular letter my father sent to the bishop.’ She frowned. ‘There’s something else troubling the vicar, but I think it has something to do with my father. Indirectly. He said it was a deathbed confession that is troubling him. He wouldn’t – couldn’t – tell me more, of course, and I respect that, but I’ve been thinking . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The only person I can think of who’s died in the last year or so and who I know asked to see Mr Iveson and who also had a connection with my father is old Harry Warren.’

  ‘Aaah.’ Miles let out a deep breath as if, suddenly, everything had become clear. ‘Charlotte, my dear . . .’ He put his arm about her shoulders and led her down the stone steps towards a garden seat set in the rose garden just below the terrace.

  She trembled at his nearness. They sat down side by side and he took her hands in his. ‘My dear, I began to suspect some – shall we say, skulduggery – when you came home and confided in me that you’d met your mother whom you’d been led to believe was dead all these years.’ His tone hardened at the cruelty of such an act. Cruelty, not only to the child Charlotte had been then, but to the mother, too. ‘The mystery of your mother’s supposed grave in the churchyard and why Harry Warren demanded to be buried beside her. Why he’d bought the plot next to her in – in readiness?’

  Charlotte bit her lip and lowered her gaze. ‘I wondered about that myself. I – I thought perhaps there’d been something between them. Between my mother and Harry. An affair, perhaps. And that was why my father was so bitter. My mother’s never said anything, but then, perhaps she wouldn’t confess to such a thing. Not even to me. That’s why – for a while – I didn’t want to know. But now . . .’’

  Miles squeezed her hands gently. ‘I don’t think it was anything like that at all. What I think happened – and I don’t believe even Joe knows this – was that your mother did leave your father, just as she told you, because of his cruelty to her. But her leaving happened at the same time – by sheer happy coincidence from your father’s point of view – as Harry’s wife died.’

  Charlotte gasped and stared at him, her mind working feverishly. ‘You – you mean it’s old Mrs Warren who’s buried in that grave?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘But – but how could they do that? I mean, the vicar would know. And the undertakers. They’d all have known. They must have done.’

  ‘I expect so. But your father has always got his own way, hasn’t he? By fair means or foul, he manipulates people. Bribes them, threatens them. Who was the vicar here then?’

  Charlotte frowned. ‘I can hardly remember. An old man, I think. I can’t remember his name now. He – he left soon afterwards . . .’ Her voice faded away as she began to realize that the incredible picture Miles was painting was perhaps possible. Even probable. It all seemed to fit.

  ‘So, you think Harry was – was involved – and that’s what he wanted to confide in the vicar before he died so that Mr Iveson would understand why he insisted on being buried next to my mother’s – well, what we thought was my mother’s – grave?’

  Miles nodded. ‘And that knowledge is hanging heavily on poor Mr Iveson’s conscience, so much so that he can’t bear to stay here with the daily reminder. The grave isn’t far from the path he treads every day from the vicarage to the church. Poor fellow, he can’t betray the confidences of a dying man. And apart from that, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to upset Joe and his family.’

  ‘They know nothing, I’m sure, because when Harry died they couldn’t understand why he’d bought that particular plot and—’

  ‘Father – Father! Oh, Miss Charlotte!’

  They both turned to see Georgie scampering down the steps. Miles released her and Charlotte felt a sense of loss. Her hands – and her heart – were suddenly chilled.

  ‘By the way,’ Miles whispered with a chuckle, ‘now that both his brothers are away, Georgie feels himself “second in command”, so he’s calling me “Father” now, and no longer the childish name of “Papa”.’

  ‘What a shame,’ Charlotte murmured, before she had stopped to think. ‘They grow up so quickly, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ Miles said with a wistful tone. ‘That’s just what I feel, too.’

  But they could say no more, for the young boy was hopping up and down in front o
f them. ‘Come and play, Miss Charlotte. Tommy has come to tea. And Sammy Barker too. We’ll have a party.’

  And indeed they did. It was a merry, impromptu tea party, all the more enjoyable because it was unexpected. Almost, Charlotte thought, letting her imagination and her longing run riot, like a proper family; a mother, father and three little boys . . .

  Afterwards, they played a noisy game of football on the lawn and when it was time for the boys to leave, Miles walked down the lane with her towards Buckthorn Farm.

  ‘What do you think we should do?’ she asked, coming back to the topic of their earlier conversation.

  ‘I think Joe should know. He thinks his poor mother is buried in Lincoln.’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘And that’s another thing. Joe told me that when their mother died, his father wouldn’t let any of the family go to Lincoln with him to see her buried – ostensibly with her family.’

  ‘I expect that was all a charade. I don’t think there ever was a burial in Lincoln. The funeral director must have been in on the secret, provided an empty coffin and, well, just acted as if they were going to the city. For one thing,’ Miles went on, ‘I doubt someone like Harry Warren could have afforded to pay for his wife to be buried so far away. Think of the cost. Don’t you have to pay something to each parish the coffin passes through or something?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  They walked in silence for a while until Charlotte said, ‘Yes, I think you’re right. We should tell Joe.’

  ‘Want me to come with you?’

  ‘Please,’ she said without hesitation. She didn’t really need him there. She knew the family so well that she could talk to them about anything. But it was another excuse to be with him again.

  ‘We’ll go tomorrow afternoon. I’ll pick you up in the motor car. About two?’

  ‘Well, that certainly solves a mystery, Mr Thornton,’ Joe said, running his hand through his hair. ‘Dun’t it, Peg?’

  They were sitting in the huge kitchen at Purslane Farm, surrounded by an appetizing smell of freshly baked bread. Teacakes, scones and a sponge cake were laid out on the dresser top to cool. Peggy set out half a dozen scones, jam and fresh cream on the table and bade them help themselves as she poured out cups of tea and then sat down to join them.