Dark inheritance (21 page)

"Barbara dear, I'm talking to you."

With a jerk her thoughts came back to the present. "What do you want, Aunt Ellie?"

"Be a good girl and switch the wireless on, will you? I always like to hear the ten o'clock news. You don't mind, do you Dominic?"

"Not at all," he said indifferently, playing his next card.

Barbara went over to the radio standing on one of the occasional tables and switched it on. Dominic's radiogram was in the study but Barbara knew he rarely used it except for playing his records, and thought, not without a tingle of malice, that it would be good for him to
listen to news of the outside world for once instead of isolating himself in the narrow confines of Crags' Height.

The sonorous chimes of Big Ben filled the room,
followed by the announcer's voice giving details of in
ternational events.

"Turn it up a little louder would you, Barbara? I can't hear very well," Aunt Ellie said somewhat apologetically.

"There's not much of any consequence for you to hear," Rockwood cut in, as though he found his aunt's interest in current events ridiculous and unnecessary.

Barbara promptly put up the volume so that the announcer's penetrating tones made conversation impossible, and a spasm of irritation passed across the man's face.

"Dominic, listen!" Aunt Ellie leant forward in her chair.

"Listen to what?" he said testily, and then fell silent as the announcer's voice deepened.

". .. was found dead early this morning in his London home. Mr. Gilderstein was well known as the producer
of a number of successful London shows and was the
impresario who introduced Miss Gina de Courcey to the public. That is the end of the news. The next programme will follow in one and a half minutes."

With an exclamation Rockwood got to his feet and switched the radio off. Aunt Ellie's face was pale and anxious as she looked at her nephew, and for her part Barbara wished she had been anywhere except in this room, hearing this news.

"What are you going to do, Dominic?" the old woman quavered.

"Do? What should I do?" He sat down again and picked up his card. "It's your turn, Aunt."

"Oh, Dominic, I don't think I feel like it any more!"

"Nonsense," he said sternly. "Gina's nothing to you and never has been."

"I know, Dominic, but I don't think"

"Kindly let me do the thinking. Aunt. I repeat, it's your turn." Gone was the laconic effort at kindliness and he was once more cold and forbidding.

They finished the game in silence and immediately
afterwards Rockwood left the room with a curt good night.

Lying wakeful in bed later that night, Barbara would have given anything to know what his real reactions to the news of Charles Gilderstein's death had been. Did the knowledge that Gina was now free arouse any stirrings of his old passion? When he had told Barbara that
his love for Gina was dead she had believed him because
she wanted to, but his attitude to her since her return to Crags' Height made her wonder whether he had merely been trying to convince himself, for his reaction to her admission that she had been on the stage struck her more as that of a man who was still in love than one who was simply reminded of past unhappiness.

Her bedroom was too far away from the main corridor for her to hear when he came up to his room, but as she lay wakeful far into the night she heard the faint sound of music floating out on the still air and imagined
him finding solace in the harsh beauty of the music that
seemed to mirror his own conflict.

It was nearly a week later that Barbara found a letter with a London post-mark awaiting her on the hall table and not recognizing the flowing curly handwriting opened it curiously. It was from Mark.

/ dare say you were surprised at my abrupt de
parture (he began J, and I must apologize for not having
said good-bye to you, but my dear cousin and I had a flaming row and I couldn't stomach his rudeness any longer. One day, however, he may have cause to regret that he wasn't more expedient in his behaviour and wish he'd taken the cheaper way out. I'm in the middle of investigating something that will interest him in spite of himself and may affect his future as much as I hope it will affect mine. Bui enough about this for now— you don't want to be bothered with family feuds; what
I have said incidentally, is entirely between you and me.
Although you may not believe it, Barbara, I'm missing you very much and if things materialize as I hope I may be back at Crags' Height sooner than my cousin bargained for. Give my love to the old girl and tell her I'm sorry for what I had to do.

Au revoir,

Mark.

Barbara scanned through the scrawled lines again, then shrugged and slipped the letter into the pocket of her dress, surprised that he had had the politeness to write and apologize for not saying good-bye to her and Aunt HI lie. Somehow it did not seem in keeping with
'

his character, for although he had never been anything but friendly and pleasant towards her she had always looked on him as the sort of man who would do nothing unless it was worth his while, and she had the feeling that he had written to her merely as an outlet for his hatred of his cousin.

Blodwyn failed to put in an appearance to clear away the breakfast things that morning, and thinking the girl must be late for work Barbara took the tray of dirty plates into the kitchen herself.

Emily was sitting down having a cup of tea and stood up hastily as she went in.

"Indeed to goodness, miss, there's no need for you to do that. I was coming in myself in a minute."

Barbara smiled and put the tray down, "Where's Blodwyn?"

"It's sick she is, miss. Gone down with a nasty cold and temperature, and I said I wasn't having her round the house spreading her germs. Came in this morning sniffling and sneezing she did, so I sent her home."

Barbara started piling the dishes into the sink. "Let mc give you a hand, then."

"That I won't, miss!" Emily protested, pushing her gently away from the sink. "Your place isn't in the kitchen. Mr. Rockwood wouldn't like it if he saw you."

"He probably wouldn't notice."

"Indeed he would! The master's not as blind as he makes out. Now then, Miss Mansfield, off you go, please."

"Don't be so old-fashioned, Emily!" Barbara laughed. "But if you won't let me help you in the kitchen, at least let me do some of Blodwyn's other work. You can't possibly manage everything on your own."

"Well . . ." Emily put her head on one side consideringly, then went to a drawer in the old dresser and pulled out a large yellow duster. "It was her day for the drawing-room, so if you really want to help you can dust the knick-knacks." She sniffed. "Never knew a room with so many in it."

Armed with the duster Barbara went back into the hall, but at the door of the drawing-room decided she had better go up and see Aunt Ellie first, and slipping the duster under the belt of her dress ran upstairs into the old woman's room.

"Good morning, my dear, you're up bright and early this morning," the old woman greeted her. "I hope that doesn't mean you slept badly?"

"I haven't been sleeping very well lately," Barbara admitted.

Aunt Ellie cocked her head on one side. "You do look a bit peaky. And thinner too, now I come to think of it. That grey dress makes you look like a little ghost."

"Hardly little," Barbara said cheerfully. "Sometimes I wish I was a great deal littler!"

"Silly girl, don't tell me you've got this modern mania
for slimness? In my young day a woman was proud of having hips and a bosom. I remember Margaret the day she got married, as lovely a bride as I've ever seen, with a wasp waist but not skinny like the girls are today in spite of the fact that she was so slight."

"If she was anything like her portrait she must have been very beautiful."

"Margaret was far more beautiful than that. No artist could do her justice."

"It's a very good painting nonetheless," the girl maintained.

"Ah yes, but if you'd seen her in her heyday you'd know what I mean. She was already ill by the time that picture was finished, and it was the last painting poor
Hugh ever commissioned. He was killed in a hunting
accident, you know, and after his death I came here to keep Margaret company."

"Where was Dominic?" Barbara asked, hoping the old woman would not stop her flow of reminiscence.

"Still at college. He was only about eighteen, and a very carefree, jolly sort of boy in those days."

Barbara moved to the window and looked out. "He's changed a lot, hasn't he, Aunt Ellie?"

"The dear boy has had a lot of trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

The thin hands fluttered. "Well, first his father dying like that, and then his mother . . ." Her voice tailed off inconclusively.

"His mother?" Barbara prompted gently. "What
was
the matter with his mother?"

Aunt Ellie fumbled under her pillow, found a hand
kerchief and made a pretence of blowing her nose. When she put the handkerchief away her expression was veiled.
"Let's not talk about such morbid things, Barbara dear. I prefer to remember all the happy times I shared with Margaret. We had such gay parties—until Dominic came home, of course. Then it was all rather different. He stopped all those nice people coming up from London and insisted on his mother living a very quiet life. Poor Margaret didn't like that and she arid Dominic used to have the most dreadful quarrels." She yawned lengthily. "Do you know, I think I'll have a little nap. Pass me my bed-jacket, dear—it's rather chilly with the windows open.""

Realizing the old woman had said as much as she intended to, Barbara did not try to continue the conversation, and closing the bedroom door softly behind her went down to the drawing-room to dust the ornaments. It was slow, tedious work, for the porcelain
figures were intricately moulded with innumerable cre
vices that held the dust, and she was just wiping the
fifth Dresden shepherdess when Emily came in with a
steaming cup in her hand.

"Thought you'd like something warm to drink, miss. It's cold in this room."

Barbara took the cup and sniffed. "H'm, lovely! You make perfect coffee, Emily. Thanks." She perched herself on the arm of a chair. "It's a pity this room is so rarely used—I think it's the nicest in the house."

"It used to be, miss, in the old days. You should have seen it all lit up for a party, the chandeliers full on, the lire
blazing up the chimney and flowers on every table."

"I can hardly imagine it like that."

"And not only this room, miss." The housekeeper shifted from one foot to the other. "No, not only this, but the hall and the dining-room and all the rooms upstairs. Always full of visitors it was—such a coming and going that I never used to know whether I was on
my head or my heels. And the carryings-on! Such wild parties after Mr. Hugh died—the chapel folk hereabouts
didn't approve at all."

"Was Miss Berresford here all the time?"

"Lord yes, she was here all right. It was when Miss
Berresford was here that poor Mrs. Rockwood was at her worst."

"At her worst?" Barbara asked quickly. "What do you mean?"

The woman moved over to the curtains and made a
pretence of straightening them. "I only meant that when
Miss Berresford was here Mrs. Rockwood used to have
her wildest parties."

Barbara smiled. "I can't imagine Miss Berresford being wild."

"That's because she's old now, miss. You should have known her when she was young. Very pretty she was—
not beautiful like Mrs. Rockwood of course but lovely in her own way." The sing-song voice went on, but Barbara was preoccupied with the mystery surrounding the late mistress of Crags' Height. Suddenly possessed by an overwhelming desire to know what it was and
find out whether it would shed any light on Dominic's
character, she put down her cup and looked squarely at the housekeeper.

"Emily, what
was
the matter with the late Mrs. Rockwood?"

"Well, miss, it's rather difficult to put into words. It wasn't anything physical—'nothing you could see—"
She turned away from the window, looked involuntarily
towards the door as she did so, and broke off with a start.

Rockwood was standing on the threshold, his face dark with anger.

"When you've quite finished discussing my family, Emily, perhaps you'll be kind enough to return to your kitchen."

The woman's face flooded with colour. "Indeed yes, Mr. Dominic. I'm sorry, sir." And without another word to Barbara she hurried out, moving past her employer with a murmured apology.

Barbara stood up, her feeling of guilt disappearing under the impetus of curiosity. "I'm afraid I'm to blame for her gossiping."

Rockwood looked at her scathingly then turned silently on his heel and crossed the hall to the study, and Barbara stood irresolute for a moment before following Emily to the kitchen.

The housekeeper was busy at the sink and although she saw Barbara enter the room did not turn to speak but lowered her head over the breakfast crockery.

Barbara went over to her. "I'm sorry if I've got you into trouble, Emily, I didn't realize Mr. Rockwood would object so strongly to my asking you about his mother." Still the woman said nothing. "I didn't want
to know merely out of curiosity—it goes far deeper than
that. Won't you tell me what was wrong with Mrs. Rockwood?"

The housekeeper turned round. "If you want to know so badly, miss, it would be better to ask the master himself."

Barbara was taken aback by her frankness. "If I'd thought Mr. Rockwood would tell me I'd have asked him before now, Emily. Why won't
you
tell me? What are you afraid of? What's the reason for all this secrecy?"

The woman smoothed down her apron. "Every family
is entitled to its secrets, miss—we all have something we want to keep hidden from prying eyes and whispering tongues."

Barbara realized she would get nothing out of the
woman unless she changed her tactics. She went to stand
by the shining black grate, running her hand along the bright brass lire-guard.

"You're a very wise woman, Emily—you must have seen a great deal without saying anything. I don't suppose you'd be surprised if I told you that I'm very fond of Miss Bcrrcsford and—and more than fond of Mr. Dominic."

The shrewd eyes softened. "Why, it wasn't difficult
to realize that. Young people think they can hide their
feelings, but they're not always as clever as they try to be."

Barbara sighed. "So you do understand that I'm not
asking you out of idle curiosity? I've thought for a long
time that if only I knew what all this mystery about
Mrs. Rockwood is it might give me some understanding
of Mr. Dominic's behaviour. When we were abroad,
Emily, he was an entirely different person. I don't expect you could imagine what he was like—and yet I suppose
you could because you knew him when he was younger.
What was it that changed him from the person he used to be to the unhappy man he is now?"

Her voice was so vibrant with sincerity that it would
have taken a far harder person than Emily to remain unmoved by it. The woman's face worked indecisively, in conflict as to whether she should speak or remain silent.