‘I think I know where it might be.’ Joss tried to sound casual. ‘Can you manage supper? I’ll have a look while you’re getting it ready.’
‘That would be kind, darling, but you look exhausted.’
‘So do you.’ Joss smiled at her mother, willing up her own strength. ‘But I’m starving. If you can cope with the supper it would be great.’
‘Of course I can.’ Emma got up, only too ready to be distracted. ‘I bought some lovely fish for your father tomorrow but I thought we might have something quick and simple. I bought some lamb chops …’
‘Fine,’ said Joss quickly, wondering how she’d manage to eat anything at all. ‘If you’re sure there’s nothing I can do?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Emma reassured her. ‘Why don’t you just sit and rest?’
After she’d gone, Joss tried to collect her thoughts. She was struggling with a sense of dual identity: it had been strange to come back to Paradise, knowing that life could never be the same again whilst having to behave as if nothing had changed except, of course, that Mutt was gone. How, she wondered, had Bruno lived with his secret for so long? The thought of Bruno brought her to her feet. She looked around the room, even lifting the chair seat once again, and went quietly through the hall into the parlour. There was no sign of anything that might contain the letters and she crossed to the bookshelf, glancing quickly at the titles, knowing in her heart that Mutt would never have put Goblin Market in such an obvious place.
Of course, she might have removed the papers and certificates at a later date and put them somewhere else …
Emma came in behind her, making her jump. ‘I wondered if you’d like a drink?’ she offered. ‘I thought it might do us good. There’s some Rioja in the larder, probably Bruno’s choice. What do you think?’
‘Great,’ said Joss. ‘Good idea.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Just looking for that address book. I could have sworn I’d seen it in here somewhere.’
‘I was looking in the desk,’ said Emma, coming further into the room, as if she might help in the search, ‘but then Mousie came in about something.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Joss quickly. ‘A drink sounds brilliant. It’ll unwind us a bit. I feel on edge.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Emma was pleased to have her offer accepted so readily. ‘I’ll go and get it organized.’
She pattered away and Joss drew a great gasp of relief. Perhaps it would be better to keep Emma company, thereby limiting her exploration, and look for the letters and the book when she was safely asleep. Hastily she pulled out the drawers of the desk, checking each one: no letters, no Goblin Market. The address book was lying on the table, beneath a piece of tapestry. With a little cry of relief Joss seized it up; with luck this would deter Emma from further searching for the time being.
The telephone rang and she heard Emma hurry out into the hall to answer it. Quickly Joss took up Mutt’s big work-bag and riffled through it.
‘We’re fine,’ she heard her mother say. ‘Good idea … We’ll see you in the morning then … Yes, I’ll tell her that. God bless.’
Joss came out of the parlour, holding the book, just as Emma replaced the receiver.
‘Bruno,’ she said. ‘Just checking we’re OK. He’s going to have an early night. Oh, and he said to tell you that he found those letters he was telling you about.’ She raised her eyebrows at Joss’s blank expression. ‘Mean anything to you?’
‘Yes,’ said Joss quickly. ‘Of course, I remember now. They were something to do with his book. Some correspondence he needed. I’m glad he’s got them. And look what I found.’
She held up the address book and Emma gave an exclamation of relief.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll get our drinks and we’ll check through it together.’
Joss sat down by the fire, dazed. Bruno had found the letters – but where? Before she could puzzle it out Emma arrived with the drinks and there was no chance for further thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
‘Sorry for the interruption, Mousie,’ Bruno said. He sat down again in the corner of the sofa. ‘It would have been cruel to leave Joss worrying. So you’ve read the letters …’ He leaned forward, forearms resting along his thighs, his hands loosely clasped, needing to create an atmosphere of intimacy. ‘Let’s start right at the beginning. You heard us talking as you let yourself in …’
Mousie was sitting on the pouffe with her fingers laced round her knees, her expression guarded and watchful, but she began quite readily.
‘As I opened the front door I could hear your voice. You were talking about the boatyard and The Row, and I caught Emma’s name and something about her making a new will. Joss said words to the effect of, “Oh, no. That would be wrong. What about Mousie and Rafe?” At this point I guessed you hadn’t heard me come in and I thought it would be less embarrassing all round if I made my presence known. I called out to you and there was one of those pregnant silences and, as I glanced through the half-open door, I saw you gather up a heap of papers and sweep them under the cushion. I was a bit surprised and I wondered if you’d actually realized that it was me – it could have been Rafe, he’s got a key – and then you came out and told me about Honor …’
She paused, hesitating over the name, and Bruno at last recognized the emotion she was trying to conceal; an emotion he’d experienced himself earlier: Mousie was angry. Whilst he waited, watching her sympathetically, a small part of his brain registered this fact, considered it, and put it by.
‘Everything happened in a bit of a rush after that.’ She took up her story again. ‘Getting Joss to bed – and other things – and it wasn’t until after you’d gone that I made myself some coffee and went into the drawing-room. In your hurry to conceal the papers one of them had caught on the chair and was hanging down below the cushion and then I remembered that odd scene when I’d first arrived.’ She hesitated. ‘I assumed that you’d simply forgotten it with all the drama going on but, given that this was something you clearly wanted kept private, I felt it was sensible to gather up whatever it was and put it all safely out of sight. The trouble was that when I lifted the seat the sheets of paper were all over the place and I had to collect them almost individually. It was impossible not to catch a glimpse of some of the writing.’ A pause. ‘I recognized it,’ she said at last, ‘but what really caught my attention was the name at the bottom of the letters. Madeleine.’ She looked at him directly. ‘It was a name that had been on my mind this last few days. The American, Dan Crosby, had written it in his letter. Madeleine Grosjean was his great-aunt and he was trying to find her.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘And to think that all the time we talked, he and I, she was lying upstairs. Mutt knew it, of course, when I read the letter to her. “It’s too late,” she said. Imagine what she must have been feeling. Vivian’s grandson looking for her and not being able to acknowledge him … And then there was the photograph.’
‘Photograph?’ Bruno frowned, trying to remember. ‘Emma talked about a photograph.’
Mousie’s gaze slid beyond him as if she were looking at something long past: her expression was a mixture of frustration and sadness.
‘I think it started with the photograph,’ she said, ‘all those years ago when Hubert got married. I loved him, you see, in that romantic, intense way that little girls fall in love with older men. I was twelve or thirteen and he embodied everything I admired. I adored him. I used to dream that when he came back from the war I’d be grown-up and he would fall in love with me. And then we had the letter saying that he was married and enclosed with it was the photograph.’ Her little chuckle contained no mirth. ‘I know it sounds utterly foolish but it was such a shock. It was just before we came back to Cornwall. Your grandfather let us have the cottage – well, you know all that. Anyway, I was fascinated by this picture of the girl Hubert had married. I was jealous of her, in her silly little hat, and looking so pretty and happy. I studied her very closely and I hated her.’
There
was a longer silence and, after a while, she looked at him again.
‘I’m sorry, Bruno,’ she said sadly. ‘I’m talking about your mother, your real mother …’
‘Go on,’ he said gently. ‘It’s OK.’
‘Well, the years passed.’ Mousie took a deep breath, remembering. ‘And then we heard that you were coming home, Honor and the children, with Hubert following on later. You can imagine how we all felt when we heard that he had died.’ She bit her lips and shook her head. ‘And then you arrived, the three of you. Uncle James, Mother, even Dot and old Jessie were overwhelmed with sympathy and grief. They took you all in with open arms, but I … all I could feel was that something was wrong. Well,’ she shrugged, ‘you’ve read the letters. I reacted exactly as she recorded it and I wonder if my intuition was based on the photograph. It was years since I’d looked at it and when I saw it again a few days ago, or the copy of it that the American boy sent, I realized what it was that had troubled me. The girl who came home with you and Emma wasn’t the girl who was standing with Hubert in the photograph. It was a double wedding, you see. Honor and Hubert with Madeleine and Johnny Uttworth. I tested it out on Emma and she said at once, “Doesn’t Joss look just like her grandmother?” And so she does. Take away the silly hat and Joss looks very much like Madeleine did then. But even Emma didn’t pick it up at once, that the brides were with the wrong grooms. Then she said something like, “But isn’t it odd?” Before she could finish we were interrupted by something, perhaps the telephone rang, I can’t remember what, and the moment passed.’
‘And you think that your suspicions were founded on that?’
Mousie nodded. ‘Yes, I do. And they were compounded by Honor’s behaviour. She guessed that I sensed something was wrong and her own guilt made her nervous. But she was right in writing that it was you who prevented me from coming near the truth. Whilst you treated her as if she were your mother it would never have occurred to me that it could be otherwise.’
‘And that’s what’s making you angry?’
Her look was swift, surprised, and then she laughed. This time there was genuine mirth in the sound and Bruno relaxed a little.
‘Yes, I was angry. I’ve felt so guilty all these years because I could never totally accept her. There was always something withheld between us and I put it down to the old jealousy, because I loved Hubert so much, and I couldn’t quite forgive myself for it. And now I see that actually my instincts were right and I’d been duped. Nobody likes to be fooled, do they?’
‘I’m sorry, Mousie …’
‘Oh, my dear boy, it’s not your fault,’ she said at once. ‘I can understand the position you were in and the burden you’ve carried all these years, Bruno. How you’ve managed, I can’t imagine.’
‘Mutt described it very well, I thought,’ he answered. ‘The trouble is that generally we never quite remember the way things actually were at the time. We all crucify ourselves by imagining that we could have done just that bit more; we could have been kinder, stronger, more forgiving, more generous, because we’ve forgotten that, at that particular moment, we simply had nothing left to give. There have been times when I wondered why I went along with it but, luckily for me, I can remember what it was like in India then: the twenty-four-hour curfew in Multan, the atmosphere of violence and the overwhelming sense of terror. I desperately wanted to come home. Father was always talking about St Meriadoc and Paradise and the peace and beauty of the valley. To me he was so strong and comforting, so … indestructible, and when he died it was my most terrifying nightmare come true. I can still feel the stifling heat and the fear and then Mother falling ill. When Mutt walked into that hotel room with Emma in her arms she was like an angel straight from heaven. I often wonder what would have happened to me if she hadn’t turned up. She and Emma got me through the terrible misery of losing all my own family.’
‘I am so sorry,’ Mousie said gently in her turn. ‘I was very fond of her, you know, and she was very good to me. And to Rafe.’
‘She used to try to convince herself that nothing was different, no-one was suffering, because she was here. She offered me Paradise when I got married but I never wanted it and you and Rafe seemed perfectly content. At the end she wanted Joss to have Paradise.’
‘So what will happen now?’
Bruno shrugged. ‘It’s more difficult,’ he admitted, ‘now that Joss knows. It will be hard for her to accept anything from the estate but Emma would soon smell a rat if Joss holds out.’
Mousie looked puzzled. ‘But surely you don’t intend to continue to keep this a secret?’
Bruno stared at her. ‘Emma would be shattered if she knew,’ he said. ‘Joss thinks she’d never get over it. You know how she loves it here and how proud she is of her family.’
‘She can still be proud of her family,’ answered Mousie sharply. ‘She only has to read the letters to see that her mother was brave and warm-hearted and strong. And Joss is just like her. What more could a woman want?’
‘But she’d feel she doesn’t belong here, that the whole thing’s been a charade.’
‘I think you underestimate her,’ said Mousie strongly. ‘Great grief, Bruno! Once she gets over the shock Emma won’t question her belonging here. She’ll accept that she is a part of us all; how could it be otherwise after what has happened over the last fifty years? You can’t possibly go on now as if nothing has changed. The edifice that was built up to hide this deception has been pulled down. It would be madness to attempt to rebuild it. Worse than madness: it would be dangerous. You don’t know Joss very well if you think she could live a lie and remain as whole and happy as you have been. Up until now nobody but you has suffered from the deception and you have counted it worth the pain. Joss will never be able to be natural with any of us from this time forward.’
‘But it’s Joss who is insisting on it,’ he told her almost angrily.
Mousie shook her head. ‘Madness,’ she repeated.
‘But what am I to do?’ he asked wretchedly. ‘Joss is adamant that Emma shouldn’t know, and as for the will …’
He paused and Mousie looked at him shrewdly.
‘Do you know how your grandfather left the estate?’ she asked.
Bruno shrugged wearily, indifferently, and then reconsidered.
‘He would have left it all to Mutt, I suppose,’ he said.
Mousie shook her head.
‘Wrong,’ she said. ‘Uncle James would have left it to Hubert’s wife. She wrote as much in the letters, remember? To Hubert, then to Honor and to her children. That’s you, Bruno. Do you really intend to pay Inheritance Tax all over again?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked blankly.
‘The estate should have come to you fifty years ago, not to Honor. The tax was paid then, you shouldn’t have to pay all over again. Think about it.’
‘I can’t think about it,’ he said at last. ‘I got no sleep last night and my brain won’t work.’
Her assessing look was totally professional.
‘You need to sleep,’ she agreed. ‘But you should find the will and that book with the death certificates hidden in it, Bruno. Raymond arrives tomorrow and then your problems will really begin.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
George walked up to Paradise as soon as he’d finished breakfast. A light south-westerly breeze was lifting and shredding the mist so that the sun gleamed fitfully between trailing skeins of candy-floss cloud, warming the black bare twigs of the thorn hedge to a ruddier hue and touching with a brighter gold the yellow daffodils blowing in the wet ditch below. He could hear a soft, piping note somewhere near at hand and presently saw a flash of coral and white as the bullfinch flew up into a holly tree.
He paused at the field gate. The donkeys were across the other side of the meadow, grazing quietly, and he stood for a moment watching them, deeply and gratefully aware of this new sensation of freedom but fighting a sense of guilt at having been presented with it so easily. Soon he would see
Joss, able at last to tell her his true feelings, and – as nervousness and excitement twisted in his gut – he stretched suddenly, arms wide, as if this movement might expel the tension inside him.
Leaving the donkeys, he went on up the lane to Paradise, passing between the granite pillars on to the drive. Small clumps of snowdrops, heads drooped, glimmered moony-pale amongst the rhododendrons, and a tide of purple crocus flooded the small lawn with their darkly vivid colour. A blackbird flew out from the sturdy branches of the wisteria, piercing the silence with his stuttering, warning call, alighting for a moment on the top of the high stone wall before dropping out of sight.
Feeling that under the circumstances a certain formality was in order, George avoided his usual entry through the garden room and knocked instead at the front door. Emma answered it, opening it wide when she saw who it was, beaming at him affectionately.
‘How nice to see you, George,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
He kissed her lightly. ‘I’m so sorry about Mutt,’ he said. ‘I came to see if there was anything that I could do.’
‘That’s very sweet of you.’ A sudden flash of speculation quenched the sadness in her eyes and he instinctively braced himself so as to deal with her curiosity. ‘Is Penny with you?’ she asked brightly. ‘How is she? And Tasha?’
Joss had come out of the kitchen and was standing by the door in the shadows at the back of the hall, watching him. George met her eyes above Emma’s head and was shocked by the expression of anxiety on her face. Just for a moment they exchanged a long look, each probing and guessing at the other’s thoughts and emotions. With an effort, George turned his attention to Emma.
‘They aren’t with me,’ he answered shortly. The unexpected brevity of his reply resulted in a surprised silence and he raised his hands, as if making a reluctant decision. ‘You might as well know that Penny has taken Tasha back to New Zealand. She’s decided that they will be happier there.’
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