by Mary Mackie
The others’ were Narnie and Aunt Beatrice. They came hurrying, as best they could with their rheumaticky legs, and wept over me. Grace had wanted to come, Narnie told me, but they had thought it best that she stay where she was, with her children and with Mama.
‘You know how illness upsets your poor mama,’ she added. ‘So I came in her stead to be with you. And I shan’t leave until you’re fit and well again, my lamb.’
My illness had brought her from Thetford, made me once again her ‘lamb’. In her own strange way she did still care for me.
‘God has answered our prayers,’ Aunt Beatrice cried, tears of joy in her eyes. ‘I’ve prayed for you constantly, my love.’
‘As have all of your friends,’ Felicity added. ‘We’ve had so many anxious enquiries.’ She smiled as she recalled, ‘Mrs Benstead said we ought to put a bulletin board at the gate – as they did at Sandringham when His Royal Highness was ill. Now, I think we should let you lie quietly a while. Mrs Hamilton, Miss Narborough… it’s your turn to rest. Why don’t you have Mrs Benstead make us all some tea? I’ll sit with Rose.’
At the door, as they left, there was some whispered conversation of which I made out only Felicity saying, ‘Yes, yes. I’ll do it.’
She seemed reluctant now to look at me. She paused to rearrange the set of hairbrushes I kept on a tallboy, then went to straighten the curtains and look out on a sky that had turned to ink and flame. The blackbird that nested every year in the berberis under my window was singing tunefully, and I saw the martins swoop – or was it bats? How I loved the farm. How glad I was to have been allowed to survive to enjoy it once more.
‘Thank God you were strong,’ Felicity said. ‘But then you have always been a fighter.’
‘Have I?’
‘Far stronger than I. I’ve marvelled at you sometimes. You remind me of a saying my father has – “It’s not the beaten man who fails; it’s the one who lies down.” You never have lain down. You’ve been knocked off your feet, but you’ve always jumped up and carried on fighting.’
‘That’s not strength,’ I denied ruefully, ‘that’s stubbornness. And impetuosity. Hamilton failings, I fear.’
She turned and moved softly back to stand by the bed watching me with soft, sad eyes. ‘Whatever you may call it, you’re going to need all your courage now, my dear. There’s something I have to tell you. You… you haven’t asked about your husband.’
Basil. My mind panicked, my thoughts fragmented. I didn’t want to think about Basil.
‘Do you remember anything about the accident?’ she asked.
The storm. The trap, jolting. Flying leaves on the wind. The smell of wild garlic. The bridge. Basil saying, ‘It’s you who’ll drown…’ He had tried to kill me.
‘No.’
‘You were out on the Babingley marshes in the trap – you and your husband. There was a thunderstorm. The horse must have bolted. The trap overturned – at the bridge near Onion Corner. Fortunately you were thrown clear, into the bushes.’
I felt numb. ‘And he?’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, but… he’s dead, Rose. His neck was broken.’
Though I heard the words, they didn’t seem to have any meaning, not then. Shock had cushioned me. ‘What about the pony?’
‘She’s all right. She had a bad fright, but your man Plant’s taking good care of her.’
My lovely Beauty. I thought of her high-stepping along the lanes. I thought of her whipped to terror as lightning flared…
Felicity said, ‘Mr Pooley – Farmer Pooley – has made arrangements for the burial to take place at East Esham, next Friday afternoon.’
‘What day is it today?’
‘It’s Monday. The last day of June.’
* * *
Apart from concussion, shock and bruises, I sustained a black eye and innumerable small cuts and abrasions. My nails were broken, too – from clawing at the trap, and at my husband, in a frenzy of fear.
Determined to be well enough to attend the funeral despite the doctor’s remonstrances, I lay in bed listening to the sounds of nature and the farm, letting my thoughts drift. I slept long hours every night and more hours in the day, often prey to strange dreams but otherwise more peaceful than I had been in all of the four years I had been married. I was not sorry that Basil had gone – I should be a hypocrite to claim otherwise, though I had never wished him dead.
About the rest – about that last night – I tried not to think. But there were times when I imagined his step on the stair and a shudder of horror raised the hairs along my spine.
My recovery was unhelped by the descent of Grace, with all her children, and Mama, who couldn’t take in what had happened. I blessed my dear Felicity, who shielded me from the worst of it. Nevertheless, when the appointed day came I was still shaky, glad of the support of my friend and my sister, one on each side of me.
The storm had brought with it a cold front whose showers still persisted, so we walked beneath umbrellas. There were few mourners – just those of us from Orchards, with Felicity; George and Eliza Pooley, with their daughters and sons-in-law; Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Jonathan; and Mr and Mrs Wyatt with Robert.
I don’t remember thinking or feeling anything.
Vaguely aware of other presences in the background, I thought little of them until, as we left the graveside, Grace on my right and Felicity on my left, my sister hissed, ‘Who are those people?’ She indicated the woman who stood at the far side of the churchyard, with beside her a young girl perhaps sixteen years old, both of them attired in full mourning.
‘I don’t know.’ As far as I could remember, I had never seen either the woman or the girl before.
‘Then what are they doing here? They were at the back of the church during the service, and now they stand there watching…’
‘I believe it’s Mrs Longville and her daughter,’ Felicity said.
‘Who?’ Grace demanded.
‘Mrs Linnet Longville. Have you never met her, Rose? She used to be acquainted with your husband. Surely you remember. It was she who arranged for Victor and me to meet.’
Threads of memory gathered like fronds of mist. Mrs Linnet Longville, who kept bees. ‘I do seem to recall your saying something of the kind. Her husband’s a sea captain, is he not?’
‘He was,’ Felicity replied. ‘I think he must be dead now. I’ve heard her referred to as ‘the Widow Longville’. Shall I go and speak to her?’
‘No!’ The word escaped sharply as I clutched at her arm. ‘No, leave her to grieve in her own way.’
It was only later that I understood myself, when I finally remembered where I had heard the name ‘Mrs Longville’ quite recently.
* * *
In order to save me the trouble when I was unwell, the Pooleys had arranged the funeral repast at their farm. Mrs Pooley had put on a generous spread of pork pies and hams, pickles and crusty loaves, cakes and jellies, all home-made from home-grown ingredients. Half a dozen grandchildren raced in and out – the oldest boy was destined to inherit the farm some day – and on the surface the mood was light, as if everyone were anxious to forget our reasons for gathering.
Farmer Pooley seemed especially jovial, playing the host with such hearty verve that I guessed it was a cover for his real emotions. But after a while he asked me to attend him in the front parlour, and there he set aside his mask: his smiles died, his whole body drooped. He became suddenly tired and old, a man turned seventy and feeling every year of it.
‘There’s business has to be seen to,’ he said, closing the door so that we were shut together in a brooding silence emphasised by the slow, ponderous ticking of a huge, ornately-carved clock on the wall.
The front parlour was seldom used. Light came dimly through thick lace curtains and potted plants. In one corner a piano stood silent, as it had done for years; neither of the Pooley daughters had displayed any talent for music. Grass-green velveteen draped across piano, tables and sideboards; even the mantel wa
s swathed and bobbled. On top of the draping, decorated boxes of all sizes stood among dozens of silver-framed photographs depicting the family at various stages, along with glass domes which kept the dust from stuffed birds, paper flowers, shells…
Pooley walked heavily across the room, favouring his arthritic hip, feeling in his waistcoat pocket for a key, his air that of one who has an unpleasant duty to discharge. In a corner, another velveteen-draped piece of furniture proved to be a bureau, which the farmer unlocked, taking out a legal document tied with red ribbon.
‘It’s the will,’ he said, keeping his back turned to me. ‘His solicitor sent it me from London.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Yes.’ Suddenly agitated, he turned to look at me, waving the will in the air. ‘The latest codicils were added last September. But that’s been changed over and over. Basil kept changing his mind. If he’d a lived, he’d probably have changed it all again. He can’t have meant… I don’t understand it. That’s wholly ’mazed me. I know things weren’t all honey ’tween you two, but… Well, that don’t fare to be my business, but if I’d a known, I’d a given him a piece of my mind. Still, that’s too late now. That seem to be all legal and proper.’
‘Are you trying to tell me he’s cut me out?’ I asked.
‘No. Not entirely. He’s left you… this.’
‘This’ was a painting which lay face down on a sofa. Pooley turned it over, showing me the picture contained by an ornate gilt frame. Done in oils, it was a study of Orchards in springtime, a fine painting evoking the atmosphere of a working farm.
‘He commissioned it, special,’ Farmer Pooley said, fixing his eyes on the painting to avoid looking at me. ‘Then he gave it to me for safe-keeping. Two year ago. About the time the little ’un passed on.’
‘Ah,’ I breathed, comprehending. At a time when things were well between us, Basil had planned a surprise to please me. But by the time the picture was complete he had changed his mind, because Georgie had died and he blamed me for it. So he had bequeathed it to me as a reminder, meant to wound me. Which it did. ‘The only thing you care about’s the bloody farm,’ he had said.
‘Who has he named as his main heir?’ I asked. ‘You?’
Carefully, Pooley laid the painting down, saying, ‘Well now, as to that, Miss Rose… He left me and Eliza some personal bits and pieces – mementoes, so to speak. The girls, too.’
‘And the rest?’ Seeing him hang his head, staring down at the will which he still held tight in a big, horny hand, I felt both sorry for him and impatient with him. ‘Mr Pooley, I think I’m entitled to know how he’s disposed of his estate.’
‘He’s left it…’ he said slowly, ‘to the children of two friends of his.’ He looked up, inspired with an answer to the mystery: ‘Children. See – he always liked children. Always wanted some of his own. If only you’d had another child—’
‘What friends?’ I broke in.
He stared at me unhappily. ‘Nobody you’d know, Miss Rose.’
‘You think not?’ Wanting to release him from his torture, I held out my hand, ‘Let me see the will, if you please, Mr Pooley. Let me read it for myself.’ While I did so, he stood over me, restlessly shifting from foot to foot. The will was a morass of legal jargon, written in neat copperplate.
‘I don’t understand whatever made him do it,’ Pooley said. ‘You could contest it, you know. You’re his legal widow. You’re entitled to at least a third—’
But I wasn’t listening. I had just found the details of how Basil had disposed of his main estate: it was somewhat complicated, but the gist of it – the names of his two ‘friends’ whose children would be beneficiaries – stood out in letters that burned into my mind: ‘Ellen Earley’, and a certain ‘Linnet Longville’.
Pooley and I agreed not to mention it to anyone else, not yet. We both needed time to think.
* * *
Solicitous over my welfare and determined that I should convalesce in peace, Felicity was instrumental in seeing that Mama and Grace, with the children and sundry’ nursemaids, including Narnie, all went off again to Thetford only a few days later. Felicity herself planned to stay at the farm: ‘For as long as you need me, my dear. I somehow feel it’s my place. We might have been sisters if Victor had lived.’
‘If Victor had lived,’ I said, ‘so many things would have been different. Felicity, where exactly does Mrs Longville live? I think I might pay her a call.’
‘What a good idea. I’ll come with you.’
‘There’s no need for you to trouble yourself.’ What Mrs Longville and I must say to one another might be better said in private.
But Felicity would not be dissuaded. ‘It won’t be any trouble to me, my dear. I certainly don’t intend to let you go out alone – you’re not at all well yet. Besides, I’ve sadly neglected Mrs Longville in recent years. After Victor died I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to Drayton. I really should go and pay my respects. I don’t even know how long it has been since she lost her husband.’
Since my trap was in Ben Chilvers’s workshop, undergoing repair, Felicity organised a carriage and coachman from the Grange and we set out on our visit one afternoon in mid-July.
Drayton village lay a few miles south of Feltham, its church, inn and cottages centred around a broad green in a hollow where three lanes met, shaded with copses, gardens brilliant with summer flowers, vegetable patches neatly hoed. Mrs Longville’s cottage lay apart, down a narrow lane sheltered by tall hedges. A white gate led to gardens lush with roses and hollyhocks, alive with bees hunting in a patch of lavender, and butterflies congregating in the blossoms of the buddleia. The cottage itself was thatched, beetling eaves over small leaded windows, backed by an orchard of apples and pears, and on a lawn to one side a small girl, perhaps four years old, romped with a clutch of kittens while a couple of dogs lazed yawning nearby.
‘It looks as though she has acquired yet another daughter,’ Felicity said with a fond look for the child. ‘Poor Mrs Longville. She always said her husband yearned for a son.’
As we walked down the path, barking sounded and another dog dashed into sight, leaping round the pinafores of two brown-haired girls aged about thirteen and ten. They stopped when they saw us, blushing and giggling, before darting back out of sight.
‘That must be Clara and Beth,’ Felicity said. ‘My goodness, how they’ve grown since I saw them. And… ah, yes, here’s Amy.’
At the corner of the house now appeared the oldest sister, who had been with her mother in the churchyard. She was the fairest of the four, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders, her pinafore neat over a short black dress that showed black stockings and button boots.
Regarding us warily, she called, ‘Mother!’
A moment later the door opened wider, disclosing the figure of a neat little body of middle years – about forty, I guessed – dressed in full mourning, tastefully though not expensively, as if she tried hard to keep up appearances on a small income. Seeing us, she began nervously to pat her tidy hair.
‘My dear Mrs Longville,’ Felicity greeted, her hand extended. ‘Forgive us for calling unexpectedly. I don’t believe you know Mrs Pooley.’
Mrs Longville ignored the proffered hand; she had not taken her eyes from my face. She said, ‘We haven’t been introduced, but I know her. I’ve been expecting you. Perhaps you’d like to come in, Mrs Pooley. No – just Mrs Pooley, Miss Wyatt – would you keep an eye on the children for me, please?’
Disconcerted by being consigned to the role of nursemaid, Felicity looked askance at the child on the lawn. Then, realising that Mrs Longville wished to speak to me privately, she nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ though she gave me a puzzled glance.
‘Amy will make you some tea. Won’t you, Amy?’
Amy, with a speaking look for her mother, hurried away, while Mrs Longville gestured me inside and closed the door, pointedly shutting Felicity out.
The cottage was homely, clean but slightl
y shabby, with evidence of make-do and mend. Signs of children and animals lay everywhere, toys on the floor, a ball of wool unravelled across a peg rug, a chewed bone in the hearth. Evidently Mrs Longville liked animals – her ornaments included many pottery representations of cats, dogs, rabbits and birds, in various sorts and sizes, mostly mass-produced fairings. The room was also enlivened by large vases crammed with flowers. I caught myself wondering how familiar it had been to Basil. Had he felt more at home here than he had felt at Orchards?
Having straightened the cushions on a couch, Mrs Longville gestured me towards it. ‘Have a seat.’ She herself chose a straight-backed chair by a table littered with scrap-book cuttings. She sat erect, hands folded in her lap, waiting.
Now that I was there, I hardly knew how to begin. ‘I understand you knew my brother, Victor Hamilton.’
‘I knew Basil Pooley better.’
‘Ah. Yes.’ Her bluntness dispensed with any need for polite prevarication. I was glad of it. All I wanted was the truth. Once that was clear, I intended to put it behind me and go on. ‘That’s what I thought. Are you aware that he made your children his main heirs?’
‘He always said we’d be all right if anything happened.’
‘And to me – his wife – he left almost nothing. Perhaps you can explain that to me, Mrs Longville.’
She looked down at her hands, lacing her fingers, rubbing her thumbs. ‘I can and I will, if you really want me to, but I warn you… you won’t like it.’
‘I’m quite sure of that.’
Her head came up and she regarded me in speculative silence for a moment, as if I were not what she had expected. ‘I’ve had his uncle here, you know, asking the same questions. Not that I told him anything. I thought that ought to be between me and you. Not that I want to cause you grief. If you hadn’t come I’d never have said a word. But, since you’re here…’
