“There must be a mistake. My father would never have behaved like that.”
“Oh, he did all right. There was my mother … left with a child to look after. She went back to her father. It was a blessing she had him to go to. But her place was here, in Cador, that place she’d heard so much about. She used to say to me that she felt she’d been there. He’d talked so much about it, you see. She was fascinated by it. Every day she used to talk about it to me. You’d think she’d been there. According to her my father was a great talker. He used to tell her about the dungeons where the food was stored because it was cool down there; and the kitchens with their roasting spits and the buttery and the laundry rooms. She loved to tell me about the dining room with its tapestries of the Wars of the Roses and the Great Rebellion … I wanted to know all about them after that.”
I listened aghast. She was giving an exact description of Cador.
“What fascinated me most,” she went on, “was what they called the peeps. I can’t wait to see them. In that room called the solarium. I want to look through those peeps down into the chapel and the hall. I want to go out onto the battlements and look at the sea. But I think what’s going to be my favourite are the peeps.”
I thought: She knows the house. She knows it intimately. How could she unless …?
She saw the effect her words were having on me and there was, I fancy, a malicious glint in her eyes.
She went on: “My mother tried to do some tatting. She said it was on the chairs in the dining room. ‘Queen Anne’s Tatting’ she called it.” She smiled. “My mother used to say that my father could make you see the things he was talking about.”
Mr. Tamblin was looking uneasy, and I could see that Rolf was taken aback, for he, too, knew she was giving an exact description of Cador which could only have come from one who knew the house well.
I was relieved when her lawyer arrived.
She introduced him as Mr. Trilling. She had brought him with her from Sydney. He had read of the case in the papers of course. At the time, the whole of Sydney had been talking about it: the man who had been sent out on a seven years’ term, had served it and come back to his death. It was something to catch everyone’s imagination. Mr. Trilling said there was no doubt that Miss Maria Cadorson’s story was true and the marriage certificate would prove that.
The dramatic moment came when he produced the certificate. Mr. Tamblin looked eagerly and he and Rolf studied it. I saw the blank dismay on their faces.
“It … would appear to be authentic,” said Mr. Tamblin.
Rolf looked at me with a deep compassion which confirmed my worst fears.
“Of course,” said Mr. Tamblin, “there will have to be a further inspection.”
“May I see it?” I asked.
The document was put into my hands. I stared at the names: Jake Cadorson and Hilda Stillman.
Stillman … The name had a familiar ring.
“That was your mother,” I heard myself say. “Hilda Stillman.”
“That’s right. My grandfather was Tom Stillman. He had quite a fair property. Stillman’s Creek was the place … Named after him, you see. Because there was nothing there when he settled.”
“Whereabouts is that?” asked Mr. Tamblin.
“South of Brisbane … Just about on the borders of New South Wales and Queensland.”
The room seemed to be spinning round me. I was carried back to that day when I had been in my father’s room sorting out his clothes.
I saw the little notebook which I had given my father. I remembered the words so clearly. “Stillman’s Creek on the borders of New South Wales and Queensland.”
He had the address. He had asked Gregory Donnelly where it was.
Hilda Stillman had gone back to her father when she was deserted. It was there that Maria had been brought up.
I could almost hear his voice … and Gregory Donnelly’s answer. My father had known where she was and he was going there.
What did it mean?
Only one thing, it seemed. He knew of Stillman’s Creek, the home of the girl who said she was his daughter.
What had he intended to do? To recompense her in some way? He would naturally want to see his own daughter.
Was that the real reason why he had wanted to go to Australia?
She had talked of Cador as though she knew it. It was almost as though she had seen it. There could only be one answer. Her story was true. She was my father’s legitimate daughter. I was a bastard. I had no claim to Cador. Not only had I lost my parents and my brother: I was going to lose my home as well.
Discoveries
I SHALL NEVER FORGET those months. I think they were some of the worst I have ever passed through. My common sense told me that her story was true, but every emotion I possessed assured me that it could not be. My father would never have deserted her and her mother in that way. I could well understand that if he had in fact married that woman he would realize he had made a vital mistake and that the prospect of returning to England with her would fill him with dismay. She would certainly not fit in with the life at Cador. He might have wanted to desert her, but he would never have done so in the way it was suggested.
The matter was brought to court. Mr. Tamblin said it was imperative that this should be. I could not simply hand over the estates to a woman who had come along and asked for them. It was a court of law that would decide the merits of the case and legal documents would have to be drawn up.
Rolf was with me in those days. He was completely astounded by the turn of events. I should have liked to turn to him then, to tell him of my desolation and explain how I longed to be with him; and at this time I did not seem to care if he had been there on that Midsummer’s Eve. But he was aloof. I suppose he could not forget the humiliation I had inflicted on him by waiting until the morning we were to be married to tell him that I could not go on with it.
There was a barrier between us. He was there helping me, advising me; he gave me his knowledge, his sympathy, his time—but the closeness which had once been between us was there no longer.
He agreed with Mr. Tamblin that the matter would have to go to court.
I dreaded it.
The woman told her story well. It seemed to fit in with everything. Her mother had met my father—so the story ran—in a hotel in Sydney where she worked as a barmaid. They had become friendly. He had finished his term of seven years and had bought a bit of property. It was called Cadorsons and was some miles north of Sydney. A daughter had been born to them—Maria herself. Then it appeared news of my father’s inheritance had come to him. He had kept it from his wife. He had told her that he was selling the property to a man named Thomas Donnelly; and then went back to Sydney where she thought they were to remain until he bought a bigger property. But he had left her in Sydney and that was the last she saw of him. He had left her nothing and she was penniless. All she could do was go back to her father on his property at Stillman’s Creek. There Maria was brought up. If anyone tried to pretend she was a bastard she had the means to prove that she was not.
When there was all the fuss in the newspapers about Sir Jake Cadorson with the story of his past, she realized that this was the father who had deserted her and her mother all those years ago. She learned about the property in Cornwall and had spoken to a few of her friends about it. They had told her that she ought to claim what was hers by right; and this was what she was doing.
The marriage certificate was scrutinized, and the verdict was given that it was authentic.
Her Counsel reminded the court that Sir Jake Cadorson was a man who was a little cavalier in his relationships with women. He had been known to have one illegitimate daughter who had been born in Kent the same year as he had been sent to Australia for seven years. That child had been looked after by others and he had not been in the least concerned about her welfare.
Our Counsel pointed out that he had been unaware of her existence until he returned to England and in any case wa
s in no position to do anything about it as he was sent out of England for seven years.
It soon became clear to me in which way the case was going. Everything seemed weighted heavily against my father. The marriage certificate was declared to be valid; Maria’s story fitted exactly with what had been known to have happened. It was remembered that my father’s crime had been to kill a man who, according to him, was assaulting a young gypsy girl, presumably, was the sly comment, a protégé of his during this madcap sojourn with the tribe.
They were vilifying him. That was what I could not bear. To prove the woman’s case they had to make my father into a callous philanderer.
I could see from the first that we were going to lose. Her story fitted so neatly; I had to admit that if I had not known my father, if I had been looking in on the case from the outside, I should probably have believed her.
And the verdict. She was telling the truth. She had proved that she was my father’s daughter, that his marriage to my mother was no true marriage, and that she was the rightful heiress to Cador.
After the verdict she came to me outside the court.
She said: “I don’t want to hustle you. I know how it must be for you. You’ll want to take some of your personal things. You’re welcome to stay until you find somewhere else.”
“I shall go to London for a while,” I told her. “I want to get right away.”
Everyone seemed to understand that.
A gloom hung over the house. The servants were very uneasy. They did not like the idea of a new mistress in the house. I had not realized before how fond they were of me.
Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis arrived. They had come to take me to London and in a few days I left with them.
I did not know what I was going to do. At times I felt a burning anger; at others a listlessness.
I was angry at the reputation they had given my father. I knew that he had been wild in his youth. I knew that he was the father of Tamarisk and it was true that she was the result of a casual encounter, but he would never have deserted a wife and child. He would never have gone through a mockery of marriage with my mother. All the evidence might be against him but in my heart I just knew.
Aunt Amaryllis was very sad. For once she could not think that everything was going right.
Uncle Peter was thoughtful. I knew he was wondering what chance there might be of overthrowing the verdict. He would never accept defeat, of course. But I guessed from his demeanour that, like most, he believed my father guilty of all that had been said against him.
“God help me,” I prayed. “If we had never gone to Australia, none of this would have happened.”
Helena greeted me warmly and so did Peterkin and Frances. Since their marriage they were more absorbed in their work than ever. Helena had changed, too. She was a practiced hostess now and had lost a great deal of her reserve. She was pregnant once more and very happy about that. Matthew’s book had been published and had attracted the notice that Uncle Peter decided it should. He was going to stand for the election which would shortly take place.
“It makes us all very busy,” said Helena. “There is quite a big campaign. Father is putting up the money. He thinks it is certain that Matthew will win the seat. People know how good he is … after his book.”
She was very sympathetic towards me.
“We followed the case every day,” she said. “My mother wanted to bring you here but you had to be there, of course. Father thought it should have been tried in London instead of some little country court. He is wondering whether there could be another hearing.”
She looked at me anxiously and I shook my head. “They’ve given their verdict. They wouldn’t change it. I couldn’t bear to go through all that again.”
“But, Annora, do you believe it’s true?”
“I would never believe that of my father,” I said with conviction.
“No,” she said soothingly, but I guessed she believed, as all the others did, that he had deserted his wife and child.
“What are you going to do?” asked Helena.
I said with truth: “I don’t know.”
“Something will work itself out. You’d always have a home here. I expect Tamarisk and Jonathan would like to see you at Eversleigh … my parents, too.”
“I have to think, Helena. I don’t know what I shall do yet.”
Uncle Peter discussed my future with me. He was crisp and realistic as I expected him to be.
He thought it was a terrible calamity to lose Cador. That was what concerned him so deeply.
When I spoke about the damage they had done to my father’s reputation he shrugged that aside.
“That won’t hurt him now.”
“But, Uncle Peter, you can’t believe …”
He frowned. “I can believe he would have realized he had made a big mistake in marrying that woman and that he wanted to get away from her. But from what I know of him I am sure he would have made some provision for her. It was not his way to steal off and hope to lose himself. That he married the woman … yes, that’s possible. He thought he was out there for the term of his natural life. He adjusted himself. He always liked women. I can see how it happened. But, my dear Annora, how can we be sure? We’re wasting time in conjecture. Let’s look at the practical side. We have to think about you. Have you any plans?”
I shook my head.
“Of course, I should like to probe into this more fully. I think they have skimmed the surface and come to an easy conclusion too quickly. I should like to get a man out to Australia to look into a few things.”
“She had the certificate. The dates and everything fitted. That was what turned things in her favour.”
“It’s cleverly worked out … if worked out it is. But often there is a loophole.” He looked at me through narrowed eyes. “The mistake was to have it tried down in Cornwall. It should have been in London with the very best people working for you. There was a great property at stake.”
“Uncle Peter, I want to forget it.”
“All right. Now what are you going to do? You’re not without means. The family is comfortably off. You have some money from your mother. She can’t touch that. It’s Cador and your father’s property that she is claiming; but I should have thought that a sophisticated lawyer would have brought forward more the fact that you had lived there all your life as his daughter with expectations. You should have been entitled to something. The whole thing was too blithely handed over to her … lock, stock and barrel.”
“I have selected my very own possessions … a few pieces of furniture, ornaments, that sort of thing. Mr. Tamblin is arranging for them to be stored. Then there is Croft Cottage. That belonged to my mother. I suppose that will remain mine.”
“A little property then.”
“Yes, in need of repair.”
“You should get Tamblin to arrange to have it put in order.”
“I don’t want to think …”
“I’ll think for you. It may be small but it’s a property. You might want to use it, or it could be let.”
“You are so practical, Uncle Peter.”
“It pays to be. I think you ought to do something, Annora. Have some purpose in life. You’ve seen the change in Helena.”
“Yes. It’s miraculous.”
“And you know what you’ve got to do. You’ve got to pick yourself up. You’ve got to start all over again. Dear child, you have had a very bad time … blow after blow …”
“One leading to the other, of course.”
“That is how life works. It’s a pity you didn’t marry that young man.”
I was silent.
“If you had,” he went on, “it would have cushioned the blow. I gather his Manor estate is growing and prospering. I remember your father’s saying some time ago that it would rival Cador in a few years’ time.”
“You always think of the material side of everything, Uncle Peter.”
“My dear, it is always a side to consider.
All your creature comforts depend on it, and they are not called comforts for nothing. They soften the impact of the slings and arrows. If you had married him you would have a home.” His eyes gleamed. “You could have found a soothing balm in rivalling your neighbour. What does this woman know about great estates?”
“She’ll have Bob Carter to look after it for her.”
“A lot depends on the one at the top. It would have been just what you need. It would have added a zest to life. Zest. That’s what you want, Annora.”
I said: “You would have enjoyed it. I know you would have found means of getting the better of her.”
“And, you are thinking, in a none too scrupulous way.”
“Perhaps.”
“You don’t trust me, do you? You have a long memory. You are thinking of what I did to Joseph Cresswell. It was fair enough to my mind. He wouldn’t have been any good in that post. What did he know about the vice of underground London? I do know of it. I thought I was right in what I was doing. Oh, you are not going to agree with me, of course. It is amazing, Annora, how you have become involved in my affairs. Look at the good I am doing now. They are working wonders at the Mission—all due to my support. That can’t be bad, can it? Does it matter how the money is come by if it does good in the end?”
“That is a question which has often been discussed.”
“And have you found a satisfactory answer?”
I shook my head. “You have been good to me, Uncle Peter,” I said.
“I’ve told you I always had a soft spot for your mother … and now for you. Listen to me. What you will do now is go with Helena and Matthew down to Mobury. There is a lot to do. We must get him in, you understand. You’ll work for him. It’s hard work. You’ll persuade people why they’ve got to vote for Matthew Hume … the reformer. Read his book. It’s illuminating. He’s done a good job. He somehow gets right into the minds of those convicts and some of the stories are pretty grim. It’ll carry you along for a while. Stop your brooding. I’ve told you before that you have to pick yourself up when life knocks you down. You’ve got to think about those poor devils who have been sent into bondage for some petty crime or perhaps for some political attitude. Then you’ll realize how much you have to be thankful for.”
Midsummer's Eve Page 32
