A Set of Lies

by Carolyn McCrae

  But, perhaps, if the letter were tied with legal pink ribbon to the codebook, it would have the appearance of substance. There would be less curiosity to open and to read.

  Claude regretted that his age and the years spent living the comfortable life Sir Bernard had made possible for him had made him less able to trust his instincts. When he was a young man he had been decisive, but, he told himself, that had been long ago and he had been a different man.

  Claude finally decided on his course of action in the week before the birthday celebrations. He would give Henry the letter and the codebook tied together and he would give strict instructions to the young man that he was not to open or read the contents of either as they were not for him. He would make Henry swear on his oath as a gentleman that he would not open the notebook and that, whatever happened in his life, he would keep the packet safe and give it to his son with the same instruction.

  As he worked through his alternative courses of action he knew he had already accepted that Josephine must be allowed to choose her future and, inevitably, Henry would leave.

  Claude had never known his only legitimate son, and he had acknowledged but had never been involved in the lives of two children by mistresses whose faces he had long forgotten. He had watched as Lewis Frensham, who would carry his blood, if not his name, through history, had grown into a fine young man. It had taken all his wiles to put a stop to his wife’s plan for Josephine to make a match of it with Lewis and he was relieved when his engagement to the daughter of an Earl had been announced.

  It was Josephine, the child he had not only fathered but also been a father to, who he cared most about. He had been involved in every stage of her transition from infant to woman and he loved her more, even, than her namesake the Empress.

  He could not force her to marry Henry and he knew she would not choose him for herself. Henry would undoubtedly leave Oakridge and, if he had not destroyed the packet in a fit of pique, with him would go the letter and the notebook. Even were he to honour his father’s wishes and hand the letter to his son, and he to his, the young man in July 1915 would have no idea how to locate the diaries.

  Claude took out the letter and notebook from the locked drawer in his desk.

  In order to honour the spirit of Sir Bernard’s request a short trail of clues would have to be left that would lead the opener of the letter to the stone coffin in the chapel in the woods. On a small piece of the thinnest paper he wrote his first clue.

  The Lodge, July 1843.

  Sir Bernard Lacey Bt. left four volumes of truths. He charged me to pass them to his elder son Henry. I could not do as he bid. I thought to destroy history but did not for the sake of my old friend, and so the volumes lie hidden. I leave it to Providence to decide if they are to be discovered and will not tell of their hiding place. I give you one ball of thread. Whoever you may be, wherever you are, whatever the year, in whatever circumstance lies the world in which you live, look to my Josephine’s locket. I am CO

  He carefully placed the note inside the codebook, pressing it hard into the spine so that its existence was well concealed before retying it to the letter with the pink legal ribbon.

  It was some minutes before Claude opened the secret drawer in his desk and removed an intricate gold locket on a fine chain.

  He had bought it on the occasion of the birth of his daughter Mary Lettice. It was a beautiful piece and the master jeweller had explained how to open the secret mechanism with a twist here and the slight push there, a method that reminded Claude of the way in which his military chest had unlocked.

  When Mary Lettice had died he had not had the heart to give the locket to any other but he would now give it to Josephine who would pass it to her daughter, and she to hers. The note in the codebook would lead the finder to the locket and if he had any wit, the folders would be found.

  He could not give Josephine titles and kingdoms, as he had given his son, but, as he stroked the chain that would hang around her neck long after he was dead, he was content with his decision to give her control over her future.

  *

  On the afternoon of their birthday Henry and William sat with their uncle in his study. Both knew what was to be agreed.

  William was reminded of the time he had stood in front of his father’s desk in the study in Oakridge Court, the day they were told his mother was dead and his world was changed. Perhaps, he thought, my world will change again today. If Henry were chosen to be Josephine’s husband, as seemed likely, William had decided to travel. It would be unfair to all for him to stay.

  Henry did not want to marry his cousin, his taste in women did not include provincial virgins past their first flush of youth, but neither did he want to lose out to William. He had decided that he would marry her, install her in Oakridge Court, sire a son or two and then remove himself to London.

  Claude opened the interview with a deceptively casual question. “You are twenty-one years old today and I wished to see you both before we prepare to join the ladies for your celebratory dinner. You will remember I asked you to resolve the question of my daughter’s future. We have not talked of this since as I have trusted you to do as I asked. What is your decision?”

  Neither twin spoke, and neither could meet their uncle’s eyes.

  “You have discussed this between yourselves as I instructed?” Claude asked more firmly, and his question was met by a heavy, embarrassed silence which William eventually broke.

  “We should ask Josephine herself. It is such a step for her. We must allow her to make the decision that she believes will best ensure her happiness.”

  “I disagree,” Henry interrupted. “It is not a woman’s decision to make, nor is it ours. As her father you must make the choice, and as her father, with her best interests at heart, you cannot choose the landless second son. It must be me since I offer a position in society, wealth and an estate.”

  “But you say nothing of affection,” William said, with suppressed anger in his voice. “Have you ever felt that for anyone? You should certainly feel it for a wife.”

  “I am the elder. She must be given to me.”

  “She should not be ‘given’ to anyone. She must choose for herself.” William spoke with cold determination.

  “Are you not aware of the wording of the marriage ceremony? ‘Who gives this woman?’ She is her father’s to give to whomsoever he chooses.”

  “She belongs to no one but herself. She must be allowed to choose her future.”

  “How can she?”

  Claude contained his anger as he watched the boys argue. When he interrupted it was with a hint of menace. “So you, William, refuse to make the decision I specifically asked of you two winters ago and you, Henry, presume to tell me what I should do?”

  William replied first, perhaps surer of his feelings. “I do, sir. I do not feel it is right for us to make such a decision without hearing her preference.”

  “How very radical of you, brother. The world as it has been for centuries is not good enough for you? Next you will be calling for abolition of all titles and the dissolution of landed estates. You are now an atheist, are you also a republican? You deny God created the world, would you also revolt like the French who rose against their monarch and cut off his head? No doubt as well as encouraging women to choose their own husbands you would recommend they are allowed a voice in the running of our country.”

  “We are ruled over by a Queen, or had you forgotten?”

  “You will both be quiet. You will go into the garden. You will discuss this as you should have done through the past years and you will return here in one hour and in one voice. If you have not come to a decision you can both agree on then I will tell you what is to be done.”

  Claude watched as the brothers left his study.

  He owed much to their father and he had promised that their two families would be linked, but he could not believe that Sir Bernard would have wanted that promise kept if it meant unhappiness for Josephine.
r />   He stood by the large bow window and looked out over the gardens listening for the chimes of the longcase clock in the hall to tell him that the hour was passed.

  It was, he felt, the last hour of their lives as they had known them to be for more than a decade.

  The knock on the door meant he had no more time.

  “Well?” Claude asked without preamble, but it was soon clear that they had not come to an agreement.

  Henry answered. “Obviously you must ensure that she does as my father wished. As Lady Lacey she will have the status and security my title will confer. I see that, but William will not concede his claim.”

  “I do not have a claim, I just deny that Henry has one. It must be her own choice, one or the other, or neither.”

  Claude noticed a reddening around William’s cheek and at the corner of his mouth and briefly wondered what had transpired in the garden. A glance down at Henry’s hand told him all he needed to know. “We will ask her.”

  “You agree with him?” Henry accused his uncle. “You agree that a woman should have the right of veto over my father’s wishes?” Henry ignored his uncle’s warning glance. “Who do you think you are, Claude Olivierre, that you think you can overrule Sir Bernard Lacey? You, who came from the Channel Islands with nothing, who was supported and maintained by my father’s generosity? How is it that you believe you can overrule his wishes?”

  “Have you learned nothing?” Claude spoke with quiet menace. “Have you remembered nothing?”

  “My father was a hero, you said so yourself. He was rewarded for his heroism. You have done nothing. You are nothing, you are nobody. I will not accept your decision. You must give her to me.”

  “You go too far.” Claude Olivierre’s voice was low and calm. It was a voice that forty years before had created terror in his household and had reverberated throughout Europe. William detected his uncle’s accent had become stronger as it did when he was either very upset, as when he had told the boys that their father had died in a shooting accident and left them orphans, or very angry, as he had been on a few occasions in the past ten years.

  “You go too far Henry. I have made my decision. William, you have my permission to approach your cousin.”

  Claude sat down, for he had risen to his feet in his anger, and turned his attention to the papers on his desk. Without looking up he spoke, still with the hard, low, calm voice he used when most angered.

  “William, go to your cousin. Henry, you will stay here.”

  William left the room swiftly as Henry stood, hands clasped behind his back, determined not to be browbeaten by his elderly guardian but wondering how much damage he had done.

  “I will not try to hide my dislike of the conversations of the last hour, Henry. I believe you have shown your true colours, but I will forgive the conceit of youth. Once I, too, was arrogant and believed I was more significant a human being than every other but life has taught me that the important things are not what others think of you, or indeed what station you hold in society, but more how a man deals with his fellows. You know nothing of my history yet you judge me. You have strong opinions based only on prejudice. You believe yourself in the right at all times. These are dangerous traits in your character and I urge you to look at yourself before it is too late. That, I promise you, is the end of the lecture. Sit down, I have something to give you.”

  Claude carefully unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out Sir Bernard’s letter tied to the notebook. He handed it to Henry, who was about to untie the ribbon when Claude stopped him.

  “Leave it. This letter is not for you to read.”

  “Then why do you give it to me?”

  “There are strict instructions from your father that he gave me on the day of his death. You are to swear on your oath as a gentleman that you will pass the letter and the packet, both unopened and unread, to your eldest son on his twenty-first birthday with instructions that he is to pass it on, still unopened and unread, to his son in turn until the fifteenth day of July 1915 on which date its contents may be disclosed.”

  “What is in it?”

  “I do not know.” Claude hoped Henry would not see his lie. “Your father asked me to give it to you on this day. He trusted you to follow his wishes.”

  “I may not read what is inside? Am I not to know the contents?”

  “You are to remain ignorant. If I believe you will go against his wishes then I cannot hand it to you.”

  “You would give that to William too?”

  Claude noted the disappointment, not well hidden, in Henry’s words. “No. I would destroy it,” he lied.

  “Then I will swear. I will take it and keep it safe and hand it to my son. What happens if I fail in that task as well?”

  “You will make sure you do not. You will marry and you will have a son, and one you can recognise as your legitimate son I may add.” Claude was not unaware of Henry’s activities whilst in Oxford. “You make your oath?”

  “I do,” Henry said, taking the small parcel from Claude’s hand.

  After Henry had left his study Claude turned his chair to face out across the garden to the Solent and the mainland beyond. He had done what he thought was best and he hoped Sir Bernard would have understood why he could not trust Henry with the folders, or indeed, with his daughter.

  *

  “I cannot marry you William. I really cannot.” Josephine was trying not to cry with the frustration of it all. She knew that this was what her mother wanted, and now her father had given his blessing. “I like you far too much to be married to you. Mama and Papa really should not have put you in the position of having to make me an offer when I know you’d rather not.”

  “I always thought it would be Henry.”

  “That would be even worse!” she exclaimed without thinking that the words were not complimentary, then she caught his eye and they both grinned.

  “Oh Josie, I know you’ve been forced to choose one of us,” William countered, “and you really don’t want either do you?”

  “I love you as a brother, Will, you know that, but being—”

  “Being my wife would be different?”

  “Of course it would be!”

  “Is there anyone else? Are you attached elsewhere?”

  “No, you know there isn’t and I’m not. I had wondered about Lewis Frensham at one time, we spent so much time together when you were away, but Papa was adamant it was Henry or you. He has no idea how difficult it is.”

  “Perhaps time can change your feelings?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “If I go away, travel and see something of the world I would return a different person. I will change. You will change. Our familiarity will be lost. When I return I will no longer be your annoying little cousin. I will be a different man and you may find it easier to feel a different kind of affection for me.”

  “That is a gallant suggestion, Will.”

  William had spent an hour with his Aunt Patience and it was she who had suggested the plan. He had agreed to it with relief. He wasn’t ready to marry the girl who had grown up as his sister any more than she was ready to accept him.

  “But it might help?” William was hopeful Josephine would agree.

  “I think it might, and you could make your fortune. You could return rich as Croesus and independent of your brother’s good will.” They both heard the relief in her voice.

  “Henry will never give me a penny that he considers to be his so I will have to make my own way. But I may be gone a long time, Josie. If you find someone you prefer then you mustn’t let this conversation stand in your way. You must not consider that we have an arrangement unless it is useful to you to be spoken for. I will ask your father formally only after we have spoken when I return.”

  “Do you think Mama and Papa will agree? I mean, they say I am already becoming something of a lonely old spinster.”

  “It was your mama’s idea and I suspect she can persuade your papa. They care for you ve
ry much, Josie, they would never make you do anything that would cause you to be unhappy.”

  “Where will you go?” Josephine knew she would miss him, but she would not pine. She would be older than many of her circle who were already married but she could mention their informal arrangement if she heard any talk of her being an old maid.

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  *

  “Henry is not joining us?” William asked as they assembled in the drawing room before the birthday dinner.

  “Henry has taken up residence in Oakridge,” Patience replied. “He paid me a short visit this afternoon appraising me of your uncle’s decision and telling me that he was leaving The Lodge and could be contacted at Oakridge Court when sense was seen and the decision was reversed.”

  “He’s left us?” William was disappointed but unsurprised.

  “He has. He took his leave an hour ago and his boxes are to follow tomorrow. He thanked me for my hospitality as if he had stayed at The Lodge for little more than a few days and asked if he could visit when he could be sure you would not be here.” Patience’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion, and it was impossible for anyone in the room to determine what her true feelings were.

  “He will not stay at Oakridge for long. Now he has access to his inheritance and can do as he pleases he will sell up and head for the fascinations of London.” Josephine had had no doubts about Henry’s plans but her certainty surprised her father.

  “You believe he would sell his father’s estate?”

  “I would be surprised if he were to stay,” William agreed sadly. A heavy silence followed.

  “Now to happier topics.” Claude was determined the evening would not be a sad occasion. “There may not be a formal arrangement between you two young people but I would like there to be a symbol of what you will mean to each other in the future.”

  He took the locket on the fine chain from his pocket and handed it to William. “Place it around her neck, young man.” Claude and Patience exchanged a glance of satisfaction as William carefully passed the chain over his cousin’s head and kissed her gently on the cheek.