by Mary Mackie
‘Be so good as to tell me the truth, whatever it may be.’
‘Very well.’ She considered a moment before beginning. ‘I knew Basil Pooley for a long time. Nearly twenty years. I knew him better than anyone. Used to work for him at one time.’
That surprised me. ‘In what way?’
‘I ran one of his houses. The one in Norwich.’
Puzzled, I leaned towards her. ‘I’m not sure I understand. You mean, you were his housekeeper?’
‘I mean, I kept a bawdy house for him.’
The phrase made me sit back, stunned – this was certainly not what I had expected. ‘A what?’
‘A house of pleasure – a house of ill-repute, you’d probably call it.’
Her flat, emotionless voice went on, telling me more about the ‘businesses’ my husband had conducted. Prostitution, locally and later in London, and on to gambling, and the fringes of crime… His various properties about the country all had some hidden connection with the illicit. He had made his money out of vice.
It was so unexpected that I couldn’t find words; I simply sat there letting her assault my ears with facts that destroyed every illusion I had ever nurtured about Basil.
‘He just got deeper and deeper once he’d started. He was good at it, you see. It made him a lot of money. But he didn’t like me being involved. He was fond of me, in his way. So he got me out of it. Set me up in a place of my own. And came and stayed with me. Often.’
She watched with bright, narrowed eyes as this news percolated through my numb brain.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘And did your husband know about this?’
A sharp, impatient laugh escaped her. ‘There wasn’t any Captain Longville. I invented him for the sake of propriety when Amy came along. The only man I’ve ever been married to – married in all but legal name, for sixteen years – is Basil Pooley.’
Before I could begin to frame a response, she went on, ‘We even lived together once, like a regular married pair, for about a year and a half. We let this cottage out to a tenant, and had a house in London. In Camden Town.’
I must have made some exclamation, for she nodded, ‘That’s right – the same house where he took you for your honeymoon. But he couldn’t settle in town. His heart was always in Norfolk – especially this last few years, after you came home. When he heard you were in bad trouble because you’d upset the prince, back he came. The girls and me stayed in London for a bit. I’d have been better off staying there for good. But when this cottage fell vacant again, back I came too, like the fool I am. I came to be near Basil. And Basil, he came to be near you. He was obsessed with you.
‘You were miles above him – that’s what he always thought. He couldn’t believe his luck when you asked him to marry you. He thought he’d got the prize. The fairy princess. Forbidden fruit.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Of course, he had to marry you to get what he wanted, while I gave him everything without any ties. I made it too easy for him – that was my mistake. Basil Pooley always wanted what was out of reach. But when he got it he soon got tired of it. It was the game he liked best – the chase. He soon came back to me. I knew he would. I was always more his sort. I understood him. We had more in common. And we had the girls – his daughters. Look at them out there, bless their hearts. Basil Pooley’s daughters.’
Like one bewitched, I did as I was bid and looked out of the window. Amy was bringing a tray of tea; the two middle girls came running to join the party; the smallest one sat on Felicity’s knee as she read a story.
Basil’s daughters.
‘How old is she?’ I croaked. ‘The baby – how old is she?’
‘She’s four. She was born in December ’68, just before he married you. Perhaps if she’d been a boy things might have been different. But I can’t rear boys. We had three, but they all died before they were two years old. That hurt him bad. He always wanted a son and heir.’
Oh, dear God. I closed my eyes, but inexorable memory presented me with the sight of Basil rushing into the room where I lay in childbed, almost beside himself because I had given birth to a boy.
‘Well,’ Mrs Longville said flatly, ‘at least he got one before he died.’
My eyes snapped open. ‘My son is dead!’
‘Not yours. The other one.’
My mind went blank. ‘Other one?’
‘Well, you do know about that, don’t you? That woman Earley told me you turned up at the cottage. It was because of her he changed his will. That’s why the girls and me’ll only get half – because that bitch gave Basil the boy he so dearly wanted!’
The cottage seemed suddenly airless. I remember clawing for the door, gulping in the fresh air as I ran down the path and out to the lane, where I stopped in confusion, wondering where I was. Felicity came flying after me, all concern, got me into the carriage with the coachman’s help and sat beside me holding my hand, anxiously asking what was wrong.
‘Don’t ask,’ I told her. ‘Don’t ever ask. I never want to think of it again.’
I couldn’t help but think of it though. Inexorably the thoughts went on, round and round until my brain hurt. My hands clenched so tight in anger that my gloves cut off the blood and made my fingers go dead. All Basil had ever wanted was a son. So when had he turned to Ellen Earley – as soon as Georgie died? That had been December. Ellen had left the farm in February. Had Basil seduced her while he claimed to be grieving for our son? Would he have married Ellen if I had died that night at Onion Corner? Would he have stayed with me if Georgie had lived? And still kept going back to Mrs Longville and their daughters when it suited him, as he had throughout our marriage?
The thought caused a hiccup of wild laughter to erupt in my throat. I let it out, the sound tearing at my ears and my aching head, laughter turning to cries, cries to sobs, and then tears of both fury and pain. Even his kindnesses to me seemed suspect now. Our marriage had been a sham, a deceit, a falsehood.
Oh, Georgie, my darling monkey!
Felicity held me, soothing me, saying, ‘Yes, cry, my dear. Cry it all out. You’ll feel better for it.’
At Orchards a letter awaited me. It bore the royal crest and it came from Mr Beck, an official and officious communication pointing out that, with my husband dead, the farm no longer had a legal tenant. The agent wished to know what I and my brother intended to do. He had several eager applicants waiting to take on the farm. Did we not think it might be best for us to sell up and move on? He wanted my answer by Michaelmas.
Evidently the prince was grasping his chance to get rid of me. He couldn’t even wait a decent interval before trying to throw me out.
Watching me, Felicity said, ‘What is it, my dear?’
‘Read it for yourself. Excuse me.’
In a turmoil of anger and distress, I sought the solitude of my room. I stood at my window for an age, staring unseeingly at the garden and the apple trees beyond, one glove half off. In my head the years unrolled – the years of my life at Orchards; the years of my marriage to Basil.
Had it all been for nothing? Was I to lose the farm at last?
I was still standing there, lost in mists of memory, when Felicity came knocking softly on the door. Her face was a study of concern when she saw me.
‘My dear… Are you intending to go out again? You haven’t even taken off your hat and coat. Come, let me help you.’
‘No!’ I flinched away from her, then saw her face. ‘Oh, forgive me, Felicity. I’m out of sorts. It’s not necessary for you to help me. You’re not my lady’s maid.’
‘But I am your friend,’ she answered softly.
‘My very best of friends,’ I assured her, laying my gloves aside as I reached to the enamelled pin that held my hat.
‘Shall you employ another lady’s maid?’ she asked. ‘Now that Violet’s to be married, you really need—’
‘I really need to live according to my income,’ I replied with a wry smile. ‘It won’t stretch to lady’s maids.’
‘Won’t i
t? But I thought…’
‘You thought I would be a rich widow? Not so, I fear. Basil left only debts.’
Her open face plainly showed her concern. ‘Oh, my dear…’
‘I shall manage very well,’ I assured her. ‘I have a little money that Father left for me. And there’s my jewellery, which I can sell if need be.’
‘Oh, my dear…’ she said again, lost for words.
‘I shall manage,’ I repeated, and sat down at the dressing-table.
As I tidied my hair at the mirror, she stood behind me, watching me in the glass. ‘We must talk about the future, Rose. There’s something I’d like… But not now. I came to say, you have a visitor. I told the girl to say you weren’t at home today, but he insisted you be told he was here, so I asked him to wait.’ She leaned past me, picking up a tail comb which she used to tuck some stray ends of my hair into its bun. ‘There, that’s better,’ she approved, ‘though you’re still too pale for my liking. It might do you good to have some different company. He brought some lovely yellow roses which I told Swift to put in water. Yellow roses are your favourite, are they not? Mr Devlin always did have a charming knack of choosing… Why, Rose, what’s wrong?’
I had got up, almost thrusting her aside as I went to the window. But it was too late. Not even Felicity could have failed to see the hectic colour that had flooded my neck and face at the sound of his name. I cooled my cheeks with my palms, feeling giddy as the blood receded, leaving my head and heart pounding.
Geoffrey was here. How I longed to see him. I had only to walk down the stairs and—
‘I don’t want to see him.’
‘Why not? Surely an old friend…’ She stopped herself, evidently not wishing to pry. ‘But I expect our visit to Drayton was enough for one day. I’ll ask him to come back in a few days, shall I? You should be well enough to receive callers by—’
I swung round. ‘I don’t want to see him!’
Felicity blinked at me in astonishment. ‘But why ever not? I thought you liked him. He certainly seems very concerned about you.’
Knowing only that if I saw Geoffrey at this juncture something disastrous would happen, I turned away, moving across the room. ‘Then tell him I’m well enough, considering the circumstances. But don’t let him come again. Tell him not to concern himself about me. He’s not to come back, Felicity. Make him understand that.’
She said, ‘Very well,’ but I heard the bewilderment in her voice and I knew I should have controlled myself rather than give her cause to wonder. It was all too much. I could almost feel myself being torn apart by all the pressures on me.
But even then I had an insane desire to rush after her, to stop her, to see Geoffrey and throw myself into his arms where I so dearly wanted to be.
Instead I sat down and wrote to Johnny, asking him to come home as soon as he could, or risk losing the farm. The last of my strength was rapidly draining away and all I wanted to do was to turn over responsibility to someone else and go away, somewhere peaceful and quiet – somewhere I might gather the pieces of my life and build them into a new shape. There had to be a better life waiting somewhere.
* * *
The only person I took fully into my confidence at that time was Farmer Pooley, because he wanted me to contest the will and I had to explain my reasons for not doing so: if we went to litigation a whole horde of skeletons would come clanking out of their hiding holes for the edification of the gossips. Besides, I wanted none of that ill-gotten wealth. It was best left as it was. At least the innocents – Basil’s children – would not suffer.
Since I had already told the lie to Felicity, Pooley and I agreed that we should let it be believed that Basil had been living beyond his means and had left nothing but debts. The rest was handled discreetly by the London solicitor.
Before the summer ended Mrs Longville and her four daughters left Drayton village. I heard that Fenny’s cottage was also empty – Ellen Earley and her son were gone. It was all over. Except for memories.
* * *
In a long letter, Geoffrey assured me that he understood my reluctance to see him at that time. It was perhaps best that he should stay away until my husband’s death was no longer the cause of speculation and rumour. He did not want to put extra pressure on me, but neither did he intend to stay away for ever. Too much remained to be said between us.
He had come home from Italy in haste as soon as he heard what had happened.
I have been desperately worried about you. How did the accident happen? Was it truly an accident? You see how my fear for you plays on my imagination. I must know everything before I am satisfied. I regret his death, as I regret the untimely death of any man, but since my main concern is for you I can only be glad that you are free from an unfortunate marriage which you should never have been obliged to contract. If only I had had the courage to trust in my feelings for you all those years ago, then perhaps we should be together now.
I long to see you, even in other company. Are you really well? Please be sure to take care of your health. I know Miss Wyatt will look after you. If only I could share her task, how happy I should be. I shall not be content until I see you for myself.
As to Lucy, she remains in Italy. Her father’s illness is terminal. When I left he was in a deep coma from which he was not expected to awaken. His death will be a release for us all, especially Lucy. She has hinted at some things which I do not care to commit to paper. Suffice to say, if what I suspect is true, the man richly deserves the hell that awaits him. I shall return to Italy within the next few days, and I expect to stay until all is over. By the time I come home I trust you will be as eager to see me as I to see you. I may bring happy news.
Happy news? How could there ever be happy news for us? He had a habit of trying to quiet my fears with hopeful promises, but all we had given each other was guilt and loneliness. It couldn’t go on.
My reply, which I penned in haste, was brief – a jumble of conventional condolences and wishes for both his journey and the impending dramas which both he and Lucy must endure. ‘But pray do not do anything rash on my account,’ I added, reminding him of the promises he had made to poor Lucy. We could not take our happiness at her expense. I told him that I needed considerable time to think and re-evaluate, that nothing seemed certain any more.
Thus I rebuffed him, anxious to be rid of extra complications. My life seemed fraught enough already – questions about Basil, gossip and speculation, condolences and commiserations; however kindly meant, even the curiosity of those closest to me seemed an intrusion at that time, on top of which there was the prospect of raising crops amid the welter of hares and pheasants and partridges which must be preserved in readiness for the great slaughter in November, and all the time the threat of possible eviction…
I sometimes thought that if I didn’t escape for a while I would run mad. Consequently, when some friends of the Wyatts offered us the use of their villa in the south of France for as long as we wished to have it, I let Felicity persuade me to take a holiday. I felt like a traitor to the farm and my labourers, but when Robert Wyatt agreed to keep a general overseeing eye on things, I laid aside my final doubts. My reserves needed recharging. Besides, McDowall would cope.
* * *
We crossed the Channel by steam-packet in mid-August.
The villa proved to be a charming little hideaway on the edge of a village not far from Nice, among craggy hills and white houses drifted with bougainvillaea. It was wonderfully peaceful there.
As my physical strength returned, Felicity and I went walking further and further, to favourite spots in the woods and a particular cove with steep steps leading down to a rocky beach. Felicity amused herself by sketching, and I kept notes of our exploits, the different flora and fauna we found, and the methods of cultivation and husbandry which, in the hills among the vines and goats, were so different from our Norfolk ways.
The local people regarded us as typically eccentric English ladies. From the woman wh
o cooked and cleaned for us, we learned that we were known as ‘the ancient virgin’ and ‘the skinny widow’.
Letters from Robert Wyatt reported a few arguments with the gamekeepers when their interests conflicted with those of the farm; there was also a storm which slightly delayed the start of harvest, but all in all Orchards was managing well enough without me. That was good to know, though I still felt I should not have deserted my post.
One day, Felicity having gone off with her watercolours to catch the bay in a particular light, and our daily woman being engaged about some family concern, I occupied myself in preparing a meal. Fresh vegetables lay about the kitchen, waiting their turn for attention, while I tried my hand at pastry for an apple pie.
The day was warm, the sun bright with that quality of light one finds only in the south of France. Light poured in through the open doorway, bringing the sound of singing birds and the distant sea, while a cat which had adopted us lay stretched indolently along the window-sill, ignoring the colourful goldfinch that had so far escaped the cage-bird trappers and hopped outside the door after crumbs. I was aware of all these things, and of the peace of the place, but while my hands rubbed butter into flour my mind was divided, part of it in Norfolk with the farm, part in Italy with Geoffrey.
With a flurry of wings and an anxious call, the goldfinch fled. The cat, too, stirred itself and leapt from the window-sill to the high garden wall, where it poised watching as a step sounded in the yard and a shadow fell across the sunlight. I thought the arrival must be Felicity, then I saw that it was a man. He halted on the doorstep and removed his hat, but even then, with the light behind him, it took a moment for my brain to register what my startled eyes were telling me. I had never expected to see Geoffrey here – and I in an apron!
‘May I?’ he enquired.
I jerked myself back to some semblance of sanity. ‘Oh – yes. Yes, please do come in. I just… I didn’t…’
He smiled a slow smile that made my heart twist painfully in my breast. ‘I’m glad to see you, too.’
