‘So why do I not know of it?’ I demanded. ‘Why have I no memory of her birth? And why is she with you and not with me?’
His face darkened.
‘Are you sure you do not want to sit down? It’s a long story, and not a pretty one. But as God is my witness. Rowan, it is one I intend to keep to myself no longer.’
Ten
I sat. Truly, I do not think my trembling legs would have supported me any longer. It was not true. It could not possibly be true! But I had come to hear what Richard Wells had to say, and hear it I must. Then, and only then, could I begin to weigh up the things I had been told and the things I had yet to hear, and decide, if such a thing were possible, where the truth lay.
‘Perhaps,’ Richard said, ‘it would be best to begin at the beginning.’
‘Yes,’ I said faintly, ‘perhaps it would. You told me once that you knew me as Rowan Gillespie.’
‘And so you were. Does the name mean nothing to you?’
I gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of my head. I did not want to admit yet that it had stirred some chord of familiarity deep within me. It might indeed have been my name; Theo had more or less admitted it.
‘What makes you so certain that I am she, and not someone who looks like her?’ I asked. ‘You had thought, after all, if I remember rightly, that Rowan Gillespie was dead.’
‘I had been told she was dead, yes.’
‘In a…’ My voice wavered. I controlled myself with an effort. ‘As a result of a carriage accident?’
‘Not in a carriage accident, no,’ he said, ‘but we will come to that later. As to how I knew you were she and not some double… do you really think I could make such a mistake after all we had been to one another? At first, it’s true, I could scarcely believe my eyes. But the moment you spoke, I could be in no doubt. Your voice, your gestures, your expression, everything about you… oh, I knew you were she, though in the light of what I had been told – what I had believed – it seemed impossible. You were… you are Rowan Gillespie. And the fact that your loss of memory leaves you unable to disprove it is further evidence, if any were needed.’
‘Theo admitted to me that my grandparents may have changed my name,’ I said quietly. ‘He said they had decided Davina was more suitable.’
‘As they decided so much else,’ Richard Wells said grimly. ‘Oh, believe me, Rowan, they have a great deal to answer for. But let us go back, as we agreed. Let us set the scene the better for you to understand why I have pursued you and refused to be deterred, no matter what your so-called family may do in their attempts to stop me.’
His hand went to his ribs, holding them gingerly for a moment and grimacing with pain, and I guessed they had been damaged in the attack.
‘Are you badly hurt?’ I ventured, but he interrupted me with an impatient gesture.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me that won’t mend. In the physical sense, anyway. Let’s not waste precious time talking about it. I was telling you who you are, and hoping against hope that some of it might reawaken that confounded memory of yours.’
‘So,’ I said. ‘Tell me about Rowan Gillespie. I’m not saying that I believe she and I are one and the same – don’t think for a moment that I am. But tell me about her anyway. Where did she live? How did you come to know her?’
‘Very well, that’s how we’ll play it if that’s the way you want it.’ He crossed to the sideboard, poured some brandy into a glass and took a swig.
‘For medicinal purposes,’ he said with a crooked smile. ‘Do you want one?’
‘Indeed not!’ I said, shocked. ‘Why should you think I would? Rowan Gillespie did not drink brandy before noon, surely?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’ The crooked grin flashed again. ‘But she would not have been afraid to had she so wished.’
‘She was a wanton creature, then.’
‘Not wanton, no. Like her mother, she was uninhibited. And why not? There’s too much adherence to what is considered proper – it causes a great deal of trouble. No, Elizabeth Gillespie was a free spirit, and she raised her daughter to be the same. They travelled the country with a band of strolling players, living and loving and enjoying their freedom.’
A nerve twisted deep within me. That much my grandparents had told me, that my mother had run off with a strolling player. How could Richard Wells have been aware of that if he had not known us then – unless, of course, in order to practise his deception, he had familiarized himself with facts that would not be difficult to come by. But no… I was allowing my thinking to become confused. From what Theo had said, Richard Wells had certainly known me. It was the details of the nature of our relationship which were at odds. And whatever the truth of that, at least I could gain some insight into the previous life which had been lost to me.
‘Did Rowan Gillespie not have a father?’ I asked.
‘I never knew him.’ Richard Wells took another drink of the brandy and refilled his glass. ‘He had died when Rowan was just a little girl – as a result of some bizarre accident, I believe. He was run through by a sword in a stage fight that went wrong, and died from his injuries. A good way, I suppose, for an actor to go, doing what he loved best and with an audience to boot. But a tragedy, nevertheless. Elizabeth was heartbroken, I believe – certainly I never knew her to so much as look at another man.’
That, then, went against what Theo had told me.
‘What did she do then, she and Rowan, after she was widowed?’
‘Whilst Rowan was small, she took domestic jobs from time to time, I believe, in order to survive and keep a good solid roof over her child’s head. Then, later, she returned to the stage. She was a pretty woman, and a fine actress and singer. And Rowan took parts in the plays too.’
‘Did she have a talent for it?’ I asked.
His eyes smiled at me over the rim of his brandy glass.
‘Now you are fishing for compliments.’
‘No!’ I flashed. ‘I simply want to know!’
‘And so you shall. Rowan was good enough, I think, though perhaps more from having learned her craft at her parents’ knees than from natural ability. But, in my eyes, she was the greatest actress who ever lived. I would have watched her even if she had been as wooden as the boards she trod, and still acclaimed her a talent beyond match.’
A little colour rose in my cheeks; I felt it, and returned hastily to the more practical issues. To seek information as to Rowan’s accomplishments was indeed mere foolish vanity.
‘So how did you come to meet them?’ I asked.
‘I happened to attend an open-air performance in the courtyard of an inn. I was impressed –’ the corner of his mouth quirked again – ‘both by the performance and the players.’
‘My mother,’ I said, then hastily amended my words. ‘Elizabeth, I mean. You took a fancy to Elizabeth.’
‘Elizabeth?’ He frowned. ‘No, not Elizabeth, though I grant you she was still a very handsome woman. No, it was you who took my eye, Rowan. Some romantics would say that I fell in love the moment I clapped eyes on you, but I don’t know whether such a thing is possible. What I do know is that I wanted you – wanted you so badly I could think of nothing but meeting you, talking with you – and seeing you again. Not so easy to achieve, since the troupe was to move on the very next day.’
‘So – how did you manage it?’ I asked.
‘By hiring the company to perform for my father – entertainment for a private party at his house. He was a little startled, I admit, when I told him what I had done and asked for a stage to be constructed in the great hall, but I think he was impressed.’
‘Your father has a house with a great hall large enough to erect a stage?’ I exclaimed, surprised.
‘It’s not so unusual, surely? Your husband was able to do the same for that reception he gave in order to introduce you into Bristol society.’
‘Yes, but…’ I broke off. Somehow I had not thought of Richard Wells as coming from a wealthy family. ‘
Well, I had never seen such a house before that night,’ I finished lamely.
‘You cannot remember having seen such a house before. I assure you, you most certainly have, on a number of occasions. Anyway, you came to my father’s house.’
‘Which is where?’ I interrupted.
‘In rural Somerset. My father inherited the family home, Covington Hall, along with the title, when his elder brother, the Earl of Covington, died in a hunting accident. Prior to that he was a Bristol merchant, very like Mr Paterson, but that is another story.’
‘Your father is an earl?’ I exclaimed, amazed. ‘But your name is Wells…’
‘The name I use. The family name. One day I suppose I shall be the Earl of Covington, God willing, though I can’t say I relish the prospect. In the meantime, I am plain Richard Wells, and that is the way I like it.’
I gave myself a little shake. This truly was beyond belief, though I suppose the aristocratic background explained Richard Wells’ acquaintance with Lady Avonbridge, the reason he had been able to persuade her to bring him as a guest to Mr Paterson’s reception, and why we were here, now, in her drawing room.
‘So – we came to perform at Covington Hall,’ I said, returning to the story he was telling me. ‘What then?’
‘Why, I wooed and won you.’ He took a long gulp of his brandy. ‘I acquired a little house for you and your mother in Watchet, an idyllic little Somerset port. Elizabeth was glad enough now to leave her nomadic life with the strolling players, for her health was not as robust as once it had been, and she was glad, too, that you had the promise of something better than she had ever been able to provide for you.’
‘You mean Rowan was… your mistress?’ I could scarcely bring myself to speak the word.
‘Mistress? As you mean it, no. I had too much respect for you for that. We were to be married. Rowan. I was the happiest man alive – and you were happy too. But there was something I had to do first – a voyage I had to make. I don’t want to go into details now, it would take too long, and I’m not sure if we have the time. Suffice it to say it was something I had to do.’
‘A voyage… You were a sea captain, then?’
‘Not by that time, though I had been. But, as I say, the transposition from my former life as a sea captain to what constitutes my raison d’etre now – and at the time I planned to wed you – is another story, and would only cloud the important issues with which I need to familiarize you. The simple fact is that I left you in Watchet to travel to the West Indies. And before I left, we allowed our emotions to get the better of us. We became lovers.’
A nerve twisted deep inside me, bittersweet, haunting, and yet incredibly immediate. Lovers. The word caressed me. I looked at the powerful figure of the man before me, the man who tossed back brandy as if it were water whilst still, almost unconsciously, keeping a hand pressed against the ribs that had been injured because of the outrageous claims he persisted in making, and found myself almost wishing for a moment that it could be so. It was as if some deep unthinking part of me remembered what it was like to be held by those strong arms, loved by that lean, yet powerful, body, and yearned to experience it once more.
Lovers. Oh, Richard! Lovers!
With an effort I dragged myself back from the magical place I wanted to be, grasping the thread of the story he was telling me, following it to its inevitable conclusion.
‘And this is how, according to you, I… that is, she… came to bear you a child?’ I said, measuring each word.
‘I did not know the situation when I left for the West Indies,’ Richard said. ‘If I had known, then I would never have left you, Rowan, without making proper provision for you or ensuring your safety. I did not even expect to be gone so long. Under normal circumstances I would have been home long before the child was born. But my ship was caught by a sudden storm and suffered enough damage to delay us for many weeks whilst it was repaired. And it was whilst I was there, stranded in the West Indies, that I learned that you were with child. You wrote to me, sending the letter with an old acquaintance of mine, another sea captain, who was on his way to Africa, in the hope that, if he did indeed encounter me and pass the letter on, I would make fast tracks for home.
‘I could not do that, of course, until my ship was repaired. There was nothing I could do but wait – and believe me, boat builders and craftsmen in that part of the world work at an even more leisurely pace than they do here. Can you imagine it? Can you imagine how I felt, knowing that you were having our child and I was many hundreds of miles away and unable to be with you – caring for you, making an honest woman of you, even? I was beside myself, but what could I do? My only comfort was that you were safe – or so I thought – in the house I had bought for you, and your mother was with you. She would not blame you, I knew, though there were plenty of others who would. The life she had chosen had been outside of the normal conventions; she would not accuse you, and she would not burden you down with shame either.’
He paused, looking at me, expecting, perhaps, some reaction, but there was nothing I could say. I was feeling it now, that shame – the shame of an unmarried woman who has lain with a man and is left to bring his bastard alone into a harsh, condemning world. Perhaps my mother – Rowan’s mother – had not been the cause of it, though perhaps again she had been. Perhaps, with a life lacking any respectability behind her, she had been so disappointed that Rowan was no better, that she had hit out at a love that had been unprepared to wait for the marriage bed. Or perhaps the shame had been all Rowan’s…
‘But she took me to my grandparents,’ I said, abandoning any pretence that the story was anyone’s but mine.
‘Not to begin with. I don’t think she intended that you should do other than remain in Watchet and wait for me. But the months went by and I did not return. I had not been able to get a letter back to you, and I expect you thought I was dead – drowned, or murdered, or dead of a fever. And then something terrible happened. The house where you both lived was burned to the ground.’
‘A fire.’ Suddenly I had one of those tantalizing glimpses of something buried deep in the mists of my memory. Just a glimpse, only a glimpse – the acrid smell of smoke in my nostrils, a taste of fear. Then, once again, it was gone. ‘A fire. The house burned down.’
‘Yes. It was, apparently, a terrible conflagration. You and Elizabeth were lucky to escape with your lives. As it was, or so I was told on my return, you were left homeless and with not a single possession but the clothes you stood up in.’
‘But… did we have no friends who would take us in?’ I asked. ‘Was there no one who would offer us shelter?’
‘I am sure there was, but for some reason your mother had the idea it was no longer safe for you to remain in the area,’ Richard said. ‘She had, according to my information, been anxious for some time that there was someone who meant one or the other of you harm, and she was convinced that the fire was no accident. I believe she thought her only course of action was to seek sanctuary well away from whoever it was she feared.’
I frowned. ‘But who would do such a terrible thing as to try to burn us in our beds – and why?’ I whispered.
‘I don’t know,’ Richard admitted. ‘I have never found anyone she was prepared to confide in – only that she feared for your lives. Maybe it was my fault – the business I am engaged in has made me many enemies. Maybe they were trying to get at me through you. I don’t know – and believe me, I have left no stone unturned in trying to discover who it might be. But whatever. Your mother took you, heavily pregnant, and fled to what she believed would be the safety of Gloucestershire. But she was not safe – and neither were you.’
‘Are you saying that the carriage going out of control was no accident?’ I asked. ‘That whoever had fired our house followed us and—’
‘I don’t know that either,’ Richard said. ‘It could be that it is pure coincidence that, only days after the fire which failed to claim your lives, this second catastrophe overtook you, ki
lling your mother and damned near killing you too. But I am not a great believer in coincidence. If you ask me what I think, then I think there is the possibility that whoever it was your mother feared caught up with you and finished what he had started. An accident in Watchet which could have killed you both and did not, another in Gloucestershire that proved fatal for your mother, at least.’
‘Dear God!’ I pressed a trembling hand to my mouth.
‘I told you it was a terrible story, Rowan,’ Richard Wells went on, ‘and it is not finished yet.’
‘The child,’ I said in a whisper.
‘The child,’ he repeated. ‘When you were found unconscious and badly hurt in the wreckage of the carriage, you were taken to the home of your grandparents.’
‘And they did not turn me away,’ I said.
‘They would have had to be monsters to do so,’ Richard said harshly. ‘Though I think what they did later was monstrous enough.’
‘They did not turn me away,’ I repeated, hanging on to that fact. ‘Grandmama said they did not. She said that, when we first arrived at the rectory, she and Grandfather were out visiting a dying parishioner, and, if they had not been, my mother and I would never have been on the road that night…’
‘Well, that’s as maybe.’ Richard Wells’ tone was hard. ‘I couldn’t say, though it wouldn’t surprise me if they took one look at their wayward daughter and their granddaughter, soon to be an unwed mother, and decided their respectability would never recover from the disgrace of it.’
‘But…’
‘I cannot get inside their minds, Rowan. I am not in a position to know what they did or did not do, or what they planned. I can only tell you the facts as I know them. I returned at last to England just a few short weeks after your flight – I had missed you by so very little. As soon as I was told you had gone to Gloucestershire, I set out to find you – knowing nothing, of course, of the accident which had occurred. I came to the rectory—’
Forgotten Destiny Page 15
