Wild Heritage

by Wild Heritage (retail) (epub)

  ‘Will I tell Tibbie to take the boy away?’ asked Robertson, but Emma Jane shook her head.

  ‘No, I’m going to tell him. He has to know. He’s lost a father and I’ve lost my husband. God, how cruel! How could this happen!’

  ‘I think you should wait before you tell him. It’s bad for him to see you in such a state,’ advised Robertson, but she sat up straighter,a visible effort to pull herself together, and said, ‘No, I must tell him now. He knows something’s wrong and I don’t want to fob him off with lies. And there’s poor Tibbie as well. She loved Tim like a son.’

  She rose and walked across the grass with such dignity that Robertson felt a surge of love and admiration for her. Hurriedly wiping his eyes on the huge handkerchief he wore flopping from his top pocket, he walked behind her and heard her say, ‘Christopher, Tibbie, my dears, darling Tim’s dead. He’s been killed in a collapse of the tunnel he was building… He died trying to save other people.’

  She gave a strangled sob and held out her arms to receive her son and her old friend, who both ran towards her, Christopher clinging to her legs and sobbing brokenly. The women bent down to him and held him close though they too were convulsed with tears.

  ‘Oh bairn, don’t cry, don’t cry,’ wept Tibbie. ‘Your daddie’s in Heaven. He’ll be watching out for you.’

  ‘But I want him here, I want him here,’ sobbed poor Christopher. I want him here too, thought Emma Jane, only Tim can help me through this.

  Next morning Alex Robertson escorted her by train to London. In spite of her protests he advised that she leave Christopher behind because he thought that attending his father’s funeral would be too gruelling for such a young child.

  Tibbie broke her lifelong rule about never sleeping outside her cottage and moved into Falconwood to watch over the little boy, whom his mother did not want to leave in the care of servants at such a terrible time.

  Sir Timothy Maquire’s funeral service, and the service for the other men killed in the tunnel collapse, was held in St Peter’s, Hanover Place, the church Emma Jane attended when they were in London, for they had taken a town house nearby while the tunnel construction was going on.

  Tim, though nominally a Roman Catholic, had long ago abandoned his religion. Somehow it was suitable that he be buried with his workmates, the other navvies, his friends.

  The huge church was packed to the door and the mourners came from every section of society. There were weather-beaten old navvies who had worked with him long ago and peers of the realm sitting side by side in the pews.

  Kitty Scott, elegant in black, was one of the last to arrive and slipped into the back of the church as a line of immense silver-decorated black coffins was being borne down the aisle. She did not know which one was Tim’s but guessed it was the last in the line because alone on it rested a single red rose, a token of love from Emma Jane, who sat with her head bowed in the front pew.

  Kitty knelt and prayed for Tim, not to a conventional God but to the gods of the woods and the fields, the gods who still seemed to rule and frolic around the fields of Camptounfoot. Somehow Tim Maquire seemed to belong to them more than to the solemn God of the established Christian Church.

  The funeral service was long and impressive, dominated by a sonorous sermon and a eulogy, extolling Tim’s bravery in giving up his life trying to save his men, but at last the congregation began filing out, following Emma Jane, who was walking with her sister-in-law Amelia. They were both shielded from view by long black veils that completely hid their faces.

  Walking behind like two sentinels were Sydney Godolphin and Dr Robertson from Maddiston, both of them grim-faced.

  The mourners gathered in the church’s pillared portico and watched as the coffins were carried out into the churchyard. Kitty stood at the back of the crowd and was about to walk away when she felt a hand on her arm.

  ‘I saw you in the church but I didn’t have a chance to speak to you,’ said a voice she recognised and she looked up into the solemn face of Robbie Rutherford.

  ‘Oh, Robbie,’ she said brokenly, ‘isn’t this awful! He was such a good man. I’m so sorry.’

  He nodded. ‘So am I. Tim was one of the finest men I ever met.’

  He took Kitty’s arm and said, ‘I need something to drink and so do you, I expect. There’s a cold wind blowing. I’ve written and told Emma Jane how I feel so I’m not going to any funeral reception. I can’t stand those ghoulish affairs. Why don’t you and I go somewhere and talk about Tim Maquire in comfort.’

  They went to a hotel off Piccadilly. A string quartet was playing and Robbie ordered brandy without asking Kitty what she wanted. When it came he raised his glass to her.

  ‘To Tim Maquire, to Camptounfoot,’ he said solemnly.

  The fiery liquid made her eyes water but she was crying anyway so it did not matter.

  Robbie put his hand on hers and said, ‘Don’t cry. He was the sort of man who had to go out with a flourish. He wouldn’t have wanted to get old and crippled or senile and querulous. He died a hero.’

  ‘I know he did. It’s not that, it’s everything – people dying, people changing, time passing, not knowing what’s coming next… it’s everything, Robbie. Since I heard about Tim’s death I’ve been thinking so much about the people at home. My mother, Tibbie Mather and Marie Benjamin. I’ve made up my mind to go back to see my mother. I’ve been putting it off for too long.’

  She’s all right,’ Robbie told her. ‘I saw her three months ago. I told her I’d seen you and she was delighted. Tibbie buys her things with the money you send and she’s very careful about it. Big Lily doesn’t know.’

  Kitty sighed. ‘I’ve only just realised that I need to see her, though. I must go back to sort things out before I can go forward again. I’d like to see Marie too. We weren’t good friends when we parted. I’d like to make it up with her.’

  ‘Are you still with your wild jockey?’ asked Robbie in a careful voice. Kitty shook her head. ‘No, I’m not. We parted. It was over.’

  ‘I guessed that was about to happen when we met in Menton,’ said Robbie. ‘Who are you with now?’

  She bridled. ‘Nobody. I’m with myself. I don’t need a protector. I’m not a tart.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting that you are. I was only asking if you were free to do something,’ he said in apology.

  She looked sharply at him and asked, ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve heard from my mother that Tibbie’s very worried about Marie. She didn’t hear from her for a long time and then she got a letter that was distracted, as if it were written by someone out of their mind. Her brother’s no help. He’s a hard case. All he’ll say about his sister is that she cut herself off from him and she should stay cut off. He wrote to her and told her to come home but she never replied and he’s furious.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ exclaimed Kitty, looking at him in dismay. ‘Somebody must know what’s happened to her? Didn’t she go to Paris with her friend from Edinburgh?’

  ‘Yes, but that girl came home months ago, over a year ago in fact. She wrote to Marie’s brother and dropped dark hints about her keeping bad company. That horrified him,’ said Robbie solemnly.

  Kitty sighed. ‘Poor Tibbie. She’ll be grief-stricken about Tim Maquire and now she has Marie to worry about as well.’

  ‘I want you to go to Paris to find her,’ said Robbie, leaning forward eagerly in his chair.

  ‘Why me?’ asked Kitty.

  ‘Because you’re her friend and you’ve got your head screwed on. I can’t imagine anybody who’d be better. I can’t go myself because I’ve to travel to America on business and besides, she wouldn’t come home with me. There’s not many people she would trust but I’m sure you’re one of them. I’d like to ease Tibbie’s mind, especially now she’s grieving over Tim. It would be a great happiness to her to see Marie again.’

  His eyes held Kitty’s as he talked and she said, ‘You’re interested in her too, aren’t you?’

  ‘Y
es. I think she’s a great painter and it would be a pity if she wasted her talent. I got her last Paris address from Tibbie, the one the letters were sent to. I’ll pay all your expenses if you’ll go.’

  She frowned. ‘I’d like to go but I can’t speak French.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll wager you can make yourself understood in any language. Just go to this address. You’ll probably find she’s there or they’ll know where she is. Find out why she hasn’t written to Tibbie and bring her home if she’ll come.’

  Kitty nodded. ‘Marie always needed somebody to look after her, didn’t she?’

  Robbie agreed. ‘She’s a gentle soul and gentle souls need nurturing.’

  ‘Not like us,’ said Kitty but he shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. We both need nurturing too at times, I suspect.’

  She’d known from the moment he made his proposition that she was going to Paris but the sum of money he brought out of his pocket and pushed across the table towards her was an embarrassment.

  ‘I don’t need your money. I’ve plenty of money of my own. I don’t need bribing to go,’ she said drawing back.

  ‘Please take it,’ he pleaded with her. ‘You don’t know what’ll be needed when you get there. Stay at a good hotel and bring her home with you if you can. I wish I could accompany you, but I can’t.’

  ‘I’ll keep an account for you,’ said Kitty primly, putting the roll of notes into her purse.

  Travel always energised her but this was her biggest adventure so far because this time she would be crossing the Channel alone. When she went to France with Freddy she had only seen the interior of two Parisian stations but now she was to walk the city’s streets, see its sights, become one of the throng that filled Paris with life. So after she left Robbie, she hurried back to her room, packed a bag and caught the midnight train. She was wasting no time.

  Next day she found a hotel off the rue de Rivoli and was soon in a fiacre rolling over cobbled streets on her way to Madame Guillaume’s at the Boulevard Clichy.

  She asked for Madame when she rang the polished brass bell. Her reception was icy.

  ‘Marie Benjamin?’ said Madame with a rising note of disapproval in her voice when Kitty announced the reason for her visit.

  Kitty nodded. ‘Yes, yes. I’ve come to see Marie Benjamin.’

  ‘Not here,’ said Madame shaking her head.

  ‘Where?’ asked Kitty, spreading her hands in an imploring gesture.

  ‘For a long time not here,’ said Madame.

  ‘How long?’

  Madame puzzled, searching her mind for the English words. ‘A year, more…’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘Au diable,’ said Madame.

  Kitty had a phrase book with her and she flipped through the pages… ‘Diable, diable,’ she muttered as she turned the pages but Madame stopped her by holding up a hand.

  ‘To the bad,’ she said.

  That was all that could be elicited about Marie from her and Kitty turned to go but the maid who held the door for her had obviously been listening and raised her eyebrows with an air of complicity.

  Kitty lingered on the landing outside the door and was rewarded a few moments later by the door opening a crack and the maid peering out.

  ‘Marie Benjamin?’ asked Kitty.

  The maid lifted a plate off the top of a cupboard and showed her a letter lying in it. Kitty looked at it and saw that it was addressed to Marie.

  ‘You mean she hasn’t come to collect her mail?’

  The maid nodded, came out, took Kitty’s arm and pulled her in the direction of the kitchen door where she motioned to her to sit down. Then making another gesture that told her to stay where she was, hurried out of the room again.

  Within a few moments she was back with a white-haired old man who bent over Kitty’s hand and said, ‘I am a neighbour of Madame Guillaume. I speak a little English and Isabelle, the maid, tells me that you are enquiring after a girl who used to live here.’

  ‘Thank heavens!’ gasped Kitty. ‘Yes, I’m trying to find Marie Benjamin. Her friends in Scotland are worried about her.’

  ‘Marie Benjamin,’ said the old man to Isabelle, who nodded vigorously. She knew that already.

  Then she started to speak rapidly and he listened with his head cocked to one side, making encouraging noises when she paused for breath.

  At last he turned to the curious Kitty and said, ‘Marie Benjamin left here more than eighteen months ago but till Christmas of last year she used to come for her letters.

  ‘Latterly she was very thin and pale. Her friend, an artist, came for them then. He told Isabelle she was ill. He has not been for some time and Isabelle is worried too. She was fond of the girl.’

  ‘Has she any idea where she was living after she left here?’ asked Kitty and he addressed this question to the maid, who went off on another tirade.

  Then he told her, ‘She was a painter. She went to live with other painters. Isabelle does not know their names. She never said where she was staying but Isabelle once saw her going into a house near Montparnasse station. That’s the district where many painters live.’

  Kitty got to her feet. ‘Thank you very much. Montparnasse station. I’ll go there now.’

  ‘Would you like me to go with you?’ offered the old man in a kindly way. He was frail but his eyes sparkled and he was obviously interested in her quest.

  ‘That would be very kind of you. I would appreciate your help because I can’t speak the language at all,’ she said in acceptance.

  ‘Wait till I fetch my overcoat,’ he said and bustled off while Isabelle wrung her hands with excited little moans and sighs.

  Kitty and her guide found their way to Montparnasse station without any trouble.

  ‘The best way to find anything out in Paris is to ask at the local café,’ he told her and went into the nearest one where he engaged in colloquy with the customers and soon came out again, his face shining with triumph.

  ‘A woman painter lives upstairs! They think she might know something about your friend,’ he exclaimed.

  Félice was working when they knocked on her door. She opened it to find two strangers there. One, a woman with brilliant red hair, stared at her and then said, ‘No, that’s not her.’

  Félice, who had been pedantically educated as a girl, could understand English and asked, ‘Who is it that you are seeking?’

  ‘Marie Benjamin,’ said Kitty.

  ‘Her! She left my studio a long time ago.’

  ‘You know her! She’s been here! That’s wonderful!’ cried Kitty.

  ‘Yes, I know her,’ Félice sounded guarded.

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Kitty. ‘I’m her friend from Scotland and I’ve come to find her.’

  Félice glared over her spectacles and said, ‘You should have come a long time ago. The last I heard she was living above the laundry at Mancini’s place.’

  Kitty’s guide interjected, ‘Where does Mancini live?’

  Félice gave him directions and once more they were off on the trail.

  Mancini received them cordially and could not stop himself from casting admiring eyes at Kitty, who was exactly the sort of woman he admired.

  ‘Poor little Marie,’ he said, rolling his liquidly expressive eyes to heaven. ‘Poor child, she’s with the nuns.’

  Kitty gasped, ‘She’s a nun?’

  ‘No, she’s a mother,’ said Mancini.

  Kitty looked at her guide for elucidation and he found out that Marie had given birth to a child and was lying ill in the nuns’ hospital, which was marked by a large green glass light outside the front door, a few streets away.

  ‘Alas, she will be there till she dies,’ said Mancini dolefully.

  Kitty could see from the expression of her kind guide that something unfortunate had been said and she grabbed his arm. ‘What did he say?’ she asked.

  ‘He said she will be in hospital till she dies,’ he explained and she gasped in horror,
‘Dies!’

  The old man hastened to reassure her. ‘He is Italian. Perhaps his French is bad. He may only mean that her life could be in danger.’

  By now Kitty was in a fever to find the hospital and her friend. ‘Let’s go, let’s go,’ she urged him, pulling at his sleeve.

  It was evening and the lamps were lit when they left Mancini’s so it was easy to see the large lamp in a green globe at the doorway of the hospital where Marie was lying. Kitty could not stop herself from running when it was pointed out to her from the other side of the street.

  She grabbed hold of her guide’s hand to hurry him along but he gasped, ‘Wait, wait, I am an old man.’

  She barely slacked her pace, however, and in the hospital entrance hall urged him, ‘Please ask for Marie Benjamin, ask where she is.’

  He stopped a black-clad sister and whispered to her. A long white hand appeared from beneath the drooping sleeve and she pointed along a corridor.

  Kitty was halfway up it before the nun had time to speak. There was a door with a glass panel in its upper half at the end of the passage and she looked through it into a narrow room containing four beds. Her eyes went from occupant to occupant till they reached the bed by the window. The woman lying there had her face turned away but there was a skein of pale yellow hair on the pillow.

  ‘Marie, Marie,’ Kitty was crying as she burst in.

  The patient in the bed turned slowly. Her face was very thin, almost ethereal, but it looked as it had done when she was a girl. Time had turned back for Marie Benjamin.

  She stared at the gloriously dressed stranger running towards her and frowned, but for only a moment. Then she whispered, ‘Is it Kitty? Oh, Kitty, I’ve been thinking about you.’

  Kitty bent over the high metal bed and took the thin hand that lay on the cover. ‘I’ve been thinking about you too. That’s why I came to find you. I’m going to take you home,’ she said.

  At that moment a hand descended on her shoulder and a red-faced nun hissed, ‘You shouldn’t be exciting this patient. She’s very ill. You must not upset her.’