Текст книги "Gossamer Cord"

Автор книги: Philippa Carr

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

However, no one else seemed to have any qualms. The bride and groom were so obviously in love, and I could detect none of that apprehension I had sensed in Dorabella when she had come into my bed on the previous night.

All would be well, I told myself. I should visit them often. It would be fun. I might meet that interesting man Jowan Jermyn again. That would be amusing.

All would be well.

We drank the champagne. My father made a speech. Dermot responded and it was all according to tradition.

The day after Boxing Day the married pair left for Venice.

Then I realized how lonely I felt without her. She had been right about the bond between us. It was as strong as ever. I had liked her to lean on me. I had truly reveled in her copying my sums.

I knew my life was going to be different without her close by. I felt an emptiness…a deep loneliness.

Dorabella and Dermot had returned from their three weeks in Italy. She had written to say she had had a wonderful time. She wrote often and her letters indicated that she was happy at Tregarland’s.

The weather had been rather severe. We had had snow and my mother caught a cold. She was rarely ill and when she was I had always taken on the task of looking after her. But for this I might have gone to Cornwall for a visit.

My mother said: “Dorabella will probably be better settling in on her own. It is all new to her and she may be hankering after her old home for a while. Let her get used to it and we’ll go down in the spring.”

Hearing that my mother was not well, Edward came to see us, and it was then we heard about his coming wedding, which was to be in March.

“It will make things easier,” he said. “We always intended to, but Gretchen feels she should visit her family and, quite frankly, I don’t like her going over. If we were married, she would be English…and that will make a difference.”

“They haven’t had any more of…that sort of thing?” I asked.

He shook his head. “But that man is still around, and I don’t like it.”

“I understand that,” said my mother.

When he had gone my mother expressed a certain fear to me.

“There is no doubt that he cares deeply for Gretchen, and she is a nice girl, but I wonder if he is marrying her out of pity.”

“Well, what is wrong with that?” I asked.

“It just is not enough.”

“He was very interested in her because of that business in the schloss.”

“Oh, I expect it is all right. I always looked upon Edward as my baby.”

“I know. I hope you’ll feel well enough to go to his wedding.”

“I’ve made up my mind that I’m going.”

She did, though the cold was still hanging around. The Greenham grandparents arranged this one. I wondered what Mrs. Mills would have said about its taking place from the bridegroom’s home, which I imagined was stepping aside from convention. But, of course, in this case the bride’s home was in Germany, so perhaps the fates would have made a concession on that account. It was not like Dermot…who could have stayed in a hotel.

I told my mother what I was thinking and we laughed together over it.

It was a charming wedding. Gretchen looked delightful and happy, although she suffered some anxiety over her family, but at least no trouble at the schloss had been reported.

During the honeymoon she and Edward would see her family, and later she did tell me that they were very happy about the marriage.

My parents and I with Grandmother Belinda traveled back to Caddington; I saw immediately how fatigued my mother was and that her cold had worsened, so I said she must go to bed and I would have supper with her there.

She declared she was much better and over our food we talked of Edward.

She said: “It was so moving to see him there, a grown man, actually getting married. When first I saw him he was a baby in a perambulator in the Plantains’ cottage garden.”

“Who were the Plantains?”

“They were his foster parents,” she told me. “He was to be brought up by them because Madame Plantain had just lost her own baby. It had been stillborn. She had been heartbroken…until Edward was brought to her.”

“What happened to Edward’s parents?”

She said: “I suppose you will have to know one day. I remember his great-grandfather’s saying, ‘There is a time for silence,’ and it was then. But now…it is a long time ago.”

“Do you mean Jean Pascal Bourdon, Grandmother Belinda’s father? The one who left Edward that house in France?”

She was silent for a moment. Then she said: “This is for you only. Don’t tell anyone, not Dorabella particularly. She could never keep a secret. Jean Pascal Bourdon was Edward’s great-grandfather. He arranged it all. He was a very sophisticated aristocrat. He knew how to manage things. You see, it all came about when Annabelinda, Grandmother Belinda’s daughter, your father’s sister…”

“Aunt Annabelinda …the one who died in that old house?”

“It’s a complicated story. But Annabelinda, when she was at school with me, fell in love with a young man. He was German. Edward was the result. Annabelinda was only a schoolgirl. We were in Belgium. Jean Pascal arranged it all and for Madame Plantain to take the child in place of her own. She lived near the school. I met her and saw the baby, though I did not know at first that he was Annabelinda’s. I found out by chance and they had to let me into the secret. Then the war came; the cottage was bombed, the Plantains were killed, and I came along and found the baby in his perambulator in the garden. I brought him home. But the fact of his birth was hushed up.”

“Does Edward know?”

“Yes, he does. I told him only recently. I talked it over with your father and Grandmother Belinda. For some time I could not decide what to do for the best. Jean Pascal had been so certain that he should not be told. Edward does not know everything, not exactly who his father was. But he knows he was German and that his mother was Annabelinda. So he knows that he is one of us, and I think that pleases him very much. He belongs to the family, and we thought he should not be kept in the dark any longer. People have a right to know who their parents are.”

“I expect he will tell Gretchen.”

“I daresay. I am glad that he married her.”

“But you thought it might have been out of pity.”

“I believe it will be all right, though. It is like a pattern, you see. He is half German and he is attracted by a German girl. Don’t you think it is significant that they should be attracted by each other?”

“It seems so. And by Kurt, too, when they met at college. They were drawn together, I suppose, and they became great friends. It could well be something to do with their being of the same nationality, even though they did not know it. And then, of course…Gretchen.”

“I am sure they will be very happy. I am glad that he has married her and taken her away from that…unpleasantness.”

Dorabella married. Edward married. There is change all about us. For so long everything went on as it always had…and now…change.

I had heard from Dorabella now and then. She had a rather unexpected trait; she liked writing letters, and, of course, most of what she wrote would come my way. So far they had been short—an indication that everything was going well. I believed she was not missing me as much as I was her. I had replied and told her about our mother’s health and what was happening at Caddington. I explained that the reason I had not been to see her was because of our mother’s persistent cold and, as she would want to accompany me to Cornwall, I did not feel it would be wise to come.

They were ordinary letters. Then one came which was different. Because it was a long letter, I took it to my bedroom so that I might enjoy it without interruptions.

“Dear Vee,” she had written.

“How are you? I wish you were here. It would be lovely to talk, and there is no one to whom I can talk as I can to you.”

I felt a quiver of alarm at that. It must mean that all was not going well. Why could she not talk to her husband?

This is a strange place. It is not like home. It makes you feel there is something in the air. The sea makes strange noises at night. I don’t think I shall ever get used to it. Matilda is very good. She manages everything. I never interfere with that. I am not interested and I would not want to face that old dragon of a cook every morning to discuss the meals. These servants are not cosy like ours. I suppose that’s because ours have known us for years.

Vee, I don’t know how to describe this to you. But…this house …I can’t get used to it. It was all right when you were all here. It felt different then, like home, with you and the parents…and all that. You made it feel…normal. It’s different now. I feel people are watching me. They aren’t really. It’s just a feeling I have. The eyes in the people in the portrait gallery…they follow me, stare at me, and it seems as if they change when I’m looking at them. They are laughing at me, sneering…some of them look as if they are warning me.

This is silly, of course. I think it is because I don’t fit.

Dermot is wonderful. He is very kind and gentle, all that I thought he was in the beginning. It’s the others I don’t understand…I mean the old man and Gordon. The old man seems amused by something…by me, I think. Gordon, well, he’s alert in a way. The old man is always telling me how pretty I am and how he likes to see me there. He likes me to sit close to him and keeps patting my hand. It’s welcoming in a way and yet somehow it seems as though he is laughing at me. But not only me, at the others as well. As for Gordon, he’s working most of the time. He doesn’t say very much, but I get the impression that he would rather I wasn’t here.

Matilda is kind. I believe she knows how I am feeling. She said to me the other day: “You are finding it hard to fit in, aren’t you, Dorabella?” I hesitated. It seemed rather rude to agree, but it’s the truth.

She said: “It’s strange no doubt. It must be so different from your home.”

I told her the house was not so different. We lived in an old house and there is a similarity about old houses. No, it wasn’t the house.

“It must be the people,” she said.

I assured her it was not. Everyone

had been kind to me.

“Of course they have,” she said. “It is your family now, your home. I think you miss your sister. You were always together, I suppose.”

I told her yes, we had been, and she said she understood absolutely and it would all come right. I try to keep feeling that it will, but it isn’t the same, Vee.

I think I have been trying to work up to this. It shocked me very much when I heard. Don’t tell the parents yet, not until I say you may. I don’t know what they’ll think. I know it will be that we ought to have heard of it before. I don’t know whether it would have made any difference. I don’t think it would. I should still have wanted to marry Dermot.

The fact is, Vee, Dermot was married before!

I paused. Married before! That was what was upsetting her. Why hadn’t he said so? Now I understood all this about the portraits watching her. I guessed she was very shaken.

Yes, he was married before. She died. It was two years before we met. He confessed it to me one night. I can tell you it was a shock. He said, why should it be? It didn’t make any difference to us. He was young and impetuous and had rushed into it. It was different from what had happened to us. There had never been anyone like me, he said. It was rather strange, really. There was that story about the feud…do you remember? That man Jermyn told you. I haven’t seen anything of him, by the way. I heard someone say in one of the shops that he was abroad somewhere. Well, Dermot’s wife was drowned. She went out to swim and there were crosscurrents or something…and she ought not to have gone. Her body was washed up some days later, on the beach right in front of the house. It was odd, after what happened to that girl in the feud. She drowned herself of her own accord. It revived it all. Dermot said it was all very distressing. He didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to forget, which was why he couldn’t bear to bring it up. I suppose the sea being so near made it easy for the Jermyn girl. And then, of course, Dermot’s wife…her name was Annette. It’s rather pretty and feminine.

I was ever so shocked when I heard. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” I kept asking Dermot. He said he thought it might have made a difference. Well, it would have in a way. He always seemed so young and carefree. He didn’t seem like a man who had had a wife who had died like that.

He said it was a bad time. There was an inquest. The verdict was, of course, death by drowning. He said the sea was safe enough most of the time, but you have to watch for winds and cross-currents.

That really is what I wanted to tell you. It has made a difference. I wanted you to know first, but somehow I really didn’t want to think about it…so I kept putting off writing.

If you were here, I could talk to you. That would be easier. When one is writing it seems more serious, more important. If I could only talk to you, it would be so different.

So, don’t tell the parents…yet. I wonder what they’ll say? I’m just telling you at the moment. Everyone here knows about it, of course. There’s always gossip. The servants are watching all the time. As I said, they are suspicious of me. I am not one of them. I heard one of them refer to me as “Mr. Dermot’s foreign lady.” I did mention this to Matilda and she laughed and said, “Everyone’s a foreigner from the other side of the Tamar.” So you see how it is.

I had to let you know this. Oh, how I wish you were here!

Your twin sister,

Dorabella

The letter disturbed me. Had she been in a certain mood when she wrote it? How much did it portray her real feelings? I knew her well. She could change her mind from one moment to another.

But whatever her mood, the fact remained that Dermot had been married before—and it was certainly strange that he had not mentioned it.

I think we should have seen him rather differently if we had known. He had seemed so light-hearted, so young. Had he been afraid of losing Dorabella? Why otherwise should he want to keep his first marriage a secret?

I should have liked to talk it over with my mother, but Dorabella had expressly said: “Don’t tell the parents yet.” And I must respect this confidence.

So I did not tell her that I had received the letter; she would have expected to read it if I had, for we shared Dorabella’s letters.

I hated the subterfuge, but I decided that I must wait for Dorabella’s permission before I divulged this secret.

I thought a great deal about Dorabella after that time and wondered whether I ought to go down to see her. I was still anxious about my mother. She was not really ill, but I liked to make sure that she did not go out in cold winds or rain which she might do without me to restrain her. Her cold still hung on and I felt torn between them.

And then came the next letter.

This was change indeed. This was Dorabella exultant…and yet a little fearful.

My dear Vee,

What do you think? I am going to have a baby. I am so excited. Can you believe it? Me…a mother!

I have been to the doctor and it is confirmed. I would not have told you until it was. Dermot is thrilled. So is Matilda…and the old man, too. And as for Gordon, even he seems quite interested.

I’m a bit scared, just a little, of course. It is rather an ordeal, you know. It has happened rather soon, but there’s a long time to go yet.

Just fancy! You’ll be Auntie Vee. It sounds a bit fierce to me. I think Auntie Violetta sounds much softer. Names are important. I’ll have to get the right one for him/her.

Isn’t it marvelous? I’m writing to the parents. I wonder who’ll get their letter first, you or them. If you get yours first, tell them right away. Mummy will be Grandmamma and Daddy Grandpa. What nice ones they’ll make!

Lots of love from,

Dorabella,

“Mother-to-be”

I had taken the letter to my room to read, wondering whether there would be more revelations about Dermot’s first marriage. Revelations there had certainly been, but on a different subject.

Almost before I had had time to read the letter my mother came into my room. She had obviously received hers by the same post.

She was flushed and excited.

“You have heard, too,” she cried.

I nodded. She was smiling.

“Dorabella a mother! I can’t believe it. I thought it might be some time, of course…but not quite yet. How will she manage a baby?”

“People you least expect do turn out to be good mothers. She’ll have a nanny, I suppose.”

“We’ll both go,” said my mother. “And now we must tell your father. He will be so thrilled!”

The Cottage on the Cliffs

BEFORE THAT WEEK WAS out we were on our way to Cornwall.

Dermot and Dorabella met us at the station. Dorabella looked radiant and beautiful; the prospect of motherhood had changed her in a subtle way: There was a softness about her which made her seem more vulnerable than ever.

She flung herself at us. My mother hugged her and then it was my turn.

“It is wonderful that you have come,” she cried.

“With news like this, what did you expect?” asked my mother.

“Everybody’s thrilled, aren’t they, Dermot?”

Dermot confirmed this and tenderly told her not to get too excited.

My mother smiled fondly at this display of husbandly concern, and we got into the car and drove to the house.

Matilda was waiting to greet us.

“How nice to see you,” she said. “Dorabella has been hoping you’d come for ages. Of course, the weather has not been good.”

“It’s lovely now,” said my mother.

“Spring is here.”

We went to the rooms which we had had for our last visit.

The old man came down to dinner and Gordon Lewyth was there, too. They both said how pleased they were to see us.

The old man was smiling that strange smile of secret amusement which I had noticed before.

“What do you think of the news?” he asked.

“We are delighted,” said my mother.

He nodded, smiling. “We are looking forward to the new arrival, aren’t we, Matty…Gordon? All of us…we can’t wait to see the little fellow.”

“You seem to be sure it will be a boy,” said my mother.

“Of course it will be a boy. Tregarlands always have boys.”

He was laughing to himself, as though it were some big joke.

Gordon asked about my father. I think he was disappointed because he had not come with us.

The old man was saying: “Gordon is especially delighted. He is looking forward already to the little one’s growing up and helping him with the estate. That is so, is it not, Gordon?”

Gordon’s face twisted into a smile.

“You’re looking very far ahead, Mr. Tregarland,” he said.

“It’s always a good idea to look ahead. Well, there is one thing we can be sure of. My grandson will have a good welcome when he arrives.”

Again I had that feeling that there was some sort of innuendo intended, and the uneasiness I had felt during my previous visit came back to me.

We had little time to talk to Dorabella alone, but my mother did corner her and asked the question, “When?”

“November,” said Dorabella.

I was hoping she would join me for a chat, which she would in due course, but I must be patient, it seemed.

My mother said to me, “November. That’s seven months’ time. We shall have to be with her then.”

“We will. They all seem so delighted about it.”

“Families love babies, and this will be the first to be born for years. They won’t have had any babies around for a long time. I am going to ask to see the nurseries here. I’ll get Matilda to show me. I am sure she will be very helpful. Dorabella is not the most practical person. She’ll need looking after.”

“It is wonderful that she is so happy.”

“I hope she will be all right. Pregnancies can be trying times. What about Nanny Crabtree?”

“What about her?”

“For Dorabella, of course. I could see if she were free.”

Nanny Crabtree had played a big part in my youth—and that meant Dorabella’s. Plump, with a double chin, what had fascinated us about her from our earliest days had been a large wart on that second chin from which a solitary hair protruded. We had often speculated about it and wondered why she did not pull it out.

“If she did,” I prophesied, “two more would grow in its place.”

Nanny Crabtree could be stern in the extreme and tell dire stories of what happened to little girls who did not eat up their rice pudding. They never grew up and remained little all their lives; if they made a face over it, God would be so angry with them and He would make them go through life with their tongues stuck out in a hideous scowl. But when we fell over we would fly to her ample lap to be comforted and have plaster or whatever was necessary from her spacious medicine cupboard; and if we were in some trouble which had been brought on through something not our fault, we were told that we were our Nanny Crabtree’s Pet and that was enough for anyone. The mention of her name brought her back clearly to my mind.

“Nanny Crabtree sounds a wonderful idea,” I said.

“And,” said my mother, “we must make arrangements to be here at the time. And in between now and November it would be nice if one of us was here…often. I know that is what she would like.”

I could not sleep that night. It would be all right, I assured myself. November would soon be here. My mother would make sure everything was all right.

Yet I could not rid myself of that uneasiness which settled on me as soon as I was alone.

I lay listening to the sea breaking on the rocks below. It was like whispering voices.

The three of us spent a lot of time together. After all, it was the reason for our coming.

My mother discussed the practical details and we went into Plymouth and bought clothes for the baby and some for Dorabella when she would become advanced in pregnancy. We lunched at a restaurant near the main shops and talked animatedly as we ate as to what would be needed.

“November may seem a long way off now,” said my mother, “but time flies. We must be prepared.”

She had already told Dorabella that she was thinking of asking Nanny Crabtree to come.

Dorabella was amused and she and I went into a long “Do you remember?” conversation which resulted in much laughter as we recalled our childhood adventures with that redoubtable Nanny Crabtree.

Our mother listened with amused tolerance and then she said: “Well, you can trust Nanny Crabtree. She was heartbroken when you girls went away to school. I knew she would come back if she were free. Matilda is quite amenable. I discussed the matter with her, so there won’t be any difficulty there. I shall write to Nanny Crabtree as soon as we get home.”

While we were going round the shops I had an opportunity to ask Dorabella if she had told my mother yet about Dermot’s first marriage.

“Yes,” she said. “I told her this morning while we were waiting for you to come down.”

“What did she say?”

“She was surprised. Not shocked really. She just said, ‘Why didn’t he tell you?’ I said he didn’t really want to talk about it, and that we never mention it now. Dermot said he had been afraid to tell me in case it made some difference. He thought it might change my feelings for him, and I might not want to marry him. That’s what I told her.”

“She doesn’t think very much of it then?”

“Not all that much. She understands why he didn’t want to tell.”

“That’s all right, then.”

“I don’t think about it now. When I wrote to you it was fresh in my mind and then it seemed…important. Matilda has referred to it once or twice and she said she’s glad to see Dermot’s happy now.”

Later that day my mother came to my room, and I knew at once that she wanted to talk about Dermot’s first marriage.

“I was astounded when she told me,” she said. “You knew, of course. She said she had told you and bound you to secrecy. Well, it’s over, isn’t it…odd, he didn’t say he was a widower.”

“Perhaps he thought that sounded too mature. I think when they met in Germany he was very attracted to her and he wanted to be young and carefree, as she was, certainly not like a man who had been married.”

“People get these notions. He’s absolutely devoted to her. I was a little anxious because it was so rushed, but being here and seeing them together makes me feel better about it. I wish they weren’t so far away. Matilda is very efficient, and I think she is quite fond of Dorabella. She’s relieved that there is no interference with the running of the house which she might have got from some. So that side of it is all very amicable. I am not worried, really. We’ll keep an eye on Dorabella and, if I can get Nanny Crabtree in residence, that will be fine. Thank goodness we have a little time to get all this worked out.”

I was naturally hoping to see Jowan Jermyn again. I could remember every detail of that meeting with him from the time I was cautiously getting up from my fall to the moment we parted at the boundary of the two estates.

Starlight was still available and I had ridden her once or twice. I usually rode alone. It was early days yet, but Dermot was anxious that Dorabella should not ride. My mother was often in Matilda’s company, discussing nursery preparations; Dorabella would now and then feel tired and want to rest. So I found that it was not difficult for me to slip away on my own.

I went to the stables. The groom, whose name I had discovered was Tom Smart, said: “Good morning, Miss. I reckon you be looking for Starlight.”

He remembered that I had ridden the mare when she cast a shoe and I had had to take her to the blacksmith.

“She be in right good order this day, Miss,” he told me. “None of they there shoes coming off this time.”

“I hope not.”

“She remembers you well. That’s for certain sure. Her be pricking up her ears. Let her have a bit of a nuzzle and you’ll see.”

I followed his advice and it was clear that Starlight did remember me.

“I’ll have her saddled in a tick,” said Tom.

“Thank you.”

“ ’Tis a nice day for a ride,” he said as he waved me off.

It was a nice day for a ride. April, I had discovered, was a beautiful month in Cornwall. Spring comes a little earlier there than to the rest of the country; there were wild flowers in the hedgerows; the trees did not thrive near the coast but inland they were magnificent; the heavy rainfall made for luscious growth. Some trees, however, were battered by the force of gales which had twisted them into odd shapes, which a few quirks of the imagination could transform into something from Dante’s Inferno. A strange country, I thought. Sometimes it was warm and cosy, at others forbidding.

The screeching of the ever-present gulls sounded almost malignant, a warning mingling with the murmur of the sea.

I suppose I was being fanciful again. It was because I could not feel perfectly at ease at Tregarland’s.

I turned toward the Jermyn land. I would have no excuse for trespassing this time, yet I had an urge to retrace my footsteps and recall that incident in every detail.

It was foolish of me, but there was no one around so I took the turning which I had taken before and found my way to the field.

There was the spot where the tree had fallen. I rode up to it and inspected the gap where it had been. I looked at it for some moments, thinking of that fall and how I had extricated my foot from the stirrup as Jowan Jermyn had arrived.

I rode across the field, trying to remember which way we had walked to the blacksmith’s place. Once there, my trespassing would be at an end, because that would not be Jermyn land.

I was on a path which I had seen before. I came to a clearing and pulled up sharply. A group of men were standing together. There was a cottage close to a hedge and they were looking at something there. I would have turned and gone back, but one of the men had started to come toward me. I saw at once that it was Jowan Jermyn.

I felt overcome with embarrassment. I was caught trespassing again.

He called: “Hello there.”

He came toward me.

“Why!” he said. “It’s Miss…er…Denver.”

I was surprised and rather pleased that he had remembered my name.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m trespassing again.”

“No, no. Friends are always welcome.”

“Thank you. I was trying to find that Smithy Inn. Am I near it?”

“Very close. Give me a moment and I’ll join you.”

He went over to the men while I waited. He very soon returned.

“We’re doing some repairs to that cottage,” he said. “It’s becoming derelict. It hasn’t been occupied for some time. Now, you are looking for Smithy’s…not the blacksmith’s but the inn. No more lost shoes, I hope?”

“Oh, no. I thought I should find it more easily. I am very sorry to have trespassed again.”

“I’m glad you did. I was getting a little bored with that cottage. They can manage very well without me. What have you been doing since I last saw you?”

“We had a wedding, you know.”

“Of course. We all knew about that. And Dermot Tregarland returned with his fair bride. We are kept well informed, you know.”

“Well, apart from the wedding, I have done very little. My mother has not been very well this winter and I have been helping to look after her.”

“I hope she has now recovered?”

“She wasn’t really ill. And thanks, she is quite well now. As a matter of fact, she is here in Cornwall with me.”

“Good. Look. Here we are. Now you are here, you must try a glass of their very special cider.”

“That sounds rather a good idea.”

“I assure you it is. Let’s take the mare to the stables. She’ll be all right there.”

We did so. I thought she must have been there before because the man in charge seemed to know her. Everyone here seemed to know everyone else.

The inn looked just as it had last time I had seen it—the fireplace with the glistening brasses, the cosy atmosphere. Mrs. Brodie came out to serve us. She recognized me immediately.

“Well, Miss, so you be back with us then? That be nice. Come back to see your sister, ’ave ’ee?”

I was amazed at her memory and told her so.

“That be part of the business, Miss. We do remember our customers.”

“I told her she must try some of your excellent cider,” said Jowan Jermyn.

“That be nice of ’ee, sir.”

“The best in Cornwall,” he added.

“And who am I to say nay to that? I’ll get two tankards right away. That right?”

“Absolutely.”

He smiled at me when she had gone. “She’s a dear old soul,” he said. “She has a mind like the Records Office. She knows what happens to every one of us from the time we were born.”