Down the Garden Path (39 page)

“Ooh, in’t it just like the films!” cried Bertie. Bunched down on a hassock, fat freckled knees squeezed tightly together, his eyes grew big and round.

Yes, it was, wonderfully exciting. Happy endings and new beginnings for the Tramwell sisters. Harry, whilst looking pleased for them, did not wear the expression of an heir whose expectations had magically moved into the realms of fantasy. But during all those cosy conversations at his mother’s cottage, I had never sensed that boundless wealth was one of Harry’s goals. Well, he need not worry unduly, a good measure of the new-found spoils would, I was sure, cross the Atlantic one day to be enjoyed by Violet Wilkinson and her family.

Maude and Butler arrived at the house within minutes of each other, she apologizing for the length of her absence—a difficult and prolonged delivery—he to inform the Tramwells that Angus on his return to London had consulted with a Mr. Henry Falcon. I had heard of Mr. Falcon, and was certain he was the man Angus would have chosen to consult over anything Ming. Dear Angus. The pain was a bruise deep inside me. I would have to find out the day and time of his funeral.

Through the French windows I could see Highflyer tied to a cherry tree. The light was only now beginning to fade, casting soft, pearly shadows over the garden. Beautiful and utterly peaceful. Still, Devon—if not entirely peaceful with Fergy—would be a warm and loving place. My handbag and suitcases were at Harry’s house, but he would bring them over in the morning and we would say our polite goodbyes.

Perched on a straight-backed chair, legs negligently crossed, Butler, other than holding his cup with both hands, pinkies quirked, looked very much the gentleman at his posh London club as he listened to the sisters discuss their plans for a detective agency. “I think it might be rather interesting to check into the life of Herr Wortter,” said Primrose. “Constable Watt told me just now that the goot Fritz was interviewed yesterday by the police in his honeymoon suite at a London hotel. He’s over from Cologne celebrating his fourth marriage. It seems the three previous brides all committed suicide.”

Hyacinth looked disappointed. “I wouldn’t think there’s much mystery about that.”

Maude and Chantal were talking over the top of Bertie’s head, and Minnie’s snores rose in a series of highs and lows from the patchwork blanket. The room, despite the French windows being open, felt hot and stuffy. Stepping out into the hall, I closed the door on the cheerful flow of voices. No one would miss me if I disappeared upstairs for a few minutes. Wrong. A click and a quick tread pursuing me. No need to turn around to know it was Harry.

“Tess, are you all right?”

His hand touched my arm and I was glad that my hair fell forward, obscuring my face. “I’m marvellous. And I do appreciate the gallant charge to the rescue.”

“I was a bit late, wasn’t I?” He had turned me round and lifted a hand to brush back my hair. My skin burnt where he touched me and I still could not look into his eyes. I had such strong feelings for him—anger, bitterness, regret, tenderness, love—and yet everything between us was ruined, smashed to pieces like a broken cup. Fergy would say you can glue the pieces back together but the cracks will always show.

“You came when we needed you,” I said.

“I never dreamt Hyacinth and Primrose would take the law into their own hands. This morning I tried several times to telephone, and damn it I couldn’t get the car going. And then when we came out from the wood and Bertie pointed out your signal in the apple tree, I—”

“You dug your heels into old Highflyer and had him leap the verandah in a single bound.”

“No, I nearly fell off him in terror, and I haven’t fallen off a horse since ... but never mind that. I’m grateful to Bertie, even though Primrose had felled Deasley before my entrance. Bertie thinks a great deal of you, you know. A major crush. He told me how he left that note under your pillow asking you to hang something orange in that tree if ever you were in danger, orange being his favourite colour. Romantic and touching. I imagine I could learn something from that boy.”

“Bertie ... ! I thought you sent that note. It was signed ... Oh, I see. Not ‘Your Harry’ but ‘Your Hero.’ A pity I don’t deserve that kind of admiration.” My hand touched his sleeve and I stepped back.

“Don’t say that, Tessa—don’t pull away from me. I know I have made some horrible blunders. About what I said this morning—about my loving you ... But I still want us to ...” His colour heightened, and I felt the same kind of pain I felt when thinking of Angus.

“I want us to be friends, too,” I said.

“Friends? Isn’t it too late for us to be ... ?” His voice petered out and then he said in quite a different tone—crisp, almost as though he were making light conversation, “One of the mares had a foal this morning—she’s so pretty and golden, and already she has spirit. I took the liberty of naming her after you.”

“I hope she doesn’t grow up to bite her nails.”

“Tessa ...” Harry’s voice petered out again as the sitting room door opened and Maude Krumpet appeared.

“Sorry to barge in when you are having a chat,” she said. “I did want a word with you, Tessa, but another time will do.”

“Don’t go,” I said. “Harry and I have said everything we have to say.”

“I suppose we have. Oh, there was one thing, Tessa,” Harry said. “The reason I said Hunt’s aunts lived in Dundee ... Do you recall writing a letter to me about him? I remember, you said his aunts sent him fruitcake and being Scottish, I assumed it was Dundee cake.” Smiling at Maude, Harry went past her into the sitting room.

My mouth had trouble moving, but I managed. “Shall we go into the kitchen?”

“Splendid.” Her oversized Dutch-doll look was more pronounced as we went down the hall. When we reached the first Tessa’s portrait, a beam of red-gold light fell upon it and we halted, Maude glancing sideways. I looked at both faces before me. The sixteenth-century woman and the twentieth-century woman were remarkably alike. They were both plain, heavy-set, and brimming with the solid good sense of ordinary women. My own mum had been another of those women—unremarkable except to those who knew and loved them.

“I know who you are, Maude.” I was afraid to touch her as I had been afraid to touch Harry. “And I know why you asked that I be named Tessa.”

Maude continued gazing at the portrait. “You see it, then—the likeness. My mother used to say I was behind the door when the Lord gave out good looks, and so was Tessa Tramwellyan. My direct ancestor was her brother, and I have always liked to think of her as a kind of great-aunt. I’m not an overly sentimental woman but at”—we started walking again—“at a difficult part of my life I came to think of her as a guardian angel. And I hope ...”

We were in the kitchen, although I did not remember opening the door or walking in.

“What do you hope?” My voice came from a long way off. We sat down at the table across from each other. Every gesture of Maude’s—the clasping of her strong square hands, the shifting of her broad shoulders—intensified into slow motion. The Welsh dressers loomed, hemming us in.

“I hope”—her voice vibrated into an echo, causing my ears to buzz—“that if nothing else, you, too, can be proud of your relationship with Tessa.” One of her large hands moved to adjust the bib of her starched white apron.

The buzzing stopped, leaving a silence filled with slowly building warmth. I had always thought that when this moment came I would say, “Hello, Mother.” What I did say was, “I’m more proud of you. You gave me the best any child could have—a mother and father who loved me.”

We were both crying and I knew she wanted to come around the table and hug me. I wanted the same thing, but it was best to reach out and touch hands. We wouldn’t rush anything. We had plenty of time to grow to know each other, to become friends. Patience, Mum once told me, is the sweetest rain of all.

“It’s been awful waiting
to
resume our conversation of last night. I’d barely begun to tell you about dear Violet and how she supported me through it all, even taking you to the vicarage because that goodbye was too much for me. Was it Tessa’s portrait that first gave you the hint?” Maude asked.

“Not at first, but after the murder—when I was looking from one face to another, wondering who was capable of such an act, I thought of Mr. Tramwell and your father being involved in a
family
feud. And then you were sitting so still that I was reminded of someone having a photograph taken, or a portrait painted. Your hands were placed as hers are. Earlier the Tramwells had said that the village was dotted with Tessa’s descendants, but I had been convinced that my mother came from Cloisters.”

“Last night in the nursery I was sure you guessed the truth, but before that I wondered if you believed Violet was your mother.”

“I did for a while. But when I discovered she had been in love with Arthur Wilkinson for years and had converted to his faith I couldn’t think that they ...”

“Were sinners like the rest of us?” At my nod of agreement she continued, “I’m sorry to say the Tramwells feel the same way. They always speak as though Arthur missed the boat when he let the Mayflower sail without him.”

“But is Violet happy with him?” I asked.

“From her letters, I believe so—and she loves Arthur despite his looking like he embalmed himself by mistake. Violet was always a coper.” Maude squeezed my hands. “When I found I was expecting you she was the only one I told. She was a tower of strength, coming away with me to a small cottage near Stowe-on-the-Wold. She’d suffered a bit of nerve trouble when Arthur left for America the year before, and claimed she had to get away to avert a relapse. I think the sisters, being as shrewd as they are, may have guessed the truth—that Violet was taking care of me rather than the reverse—but they never let on.”

“And you managed my delivery between you? No doctor? No midwife?” I wanted to add—and no father of the baby? But I would have to wait until she volunteered information about him.

“My dear, who was in a better position to deliver her own child than I? It was arranged that if I encountered any problems Violet would get me to a hospital, but I did not want any record of your birth. I had my plans made for you.”

“Yes?” I held a little tighter to Maude’s hands.

“I had met your—your mother—once, about a year before you were born. It was one of those encounters between two women on a long bus ride. I’ve always been the sort who can’t sit next to anyone for more than two stops without striking up a conversation, and there was something special about her. A thorough down-to-the-socks niceness. She confided she was returning from yet another hospital check-up, and when I told her I was a midwife she opened her heart to me. She told me she desperately wanted a child but that there didn’t seem to be much hope. Her case wasn’t encouraging, and eventually the conversation turned to her husband, the parish, her garden, and finally—just before she got off—I told her about my situation. My relationship with a man who couldn’t marry me. After all these years I can still see her—her kind gentle face, not judgemental or condemning, as so many comfortably married women can be. She said that she would remember me in her prayers. Her last words were to invite me to visit her if I ever came to Kings Ransome. I meant to, I thought about her quite often, and I did go and look at the house and garden several times in the weeks after Violet placed you on the doorstep of that good woman. We hated doing it that way, the subterfuge, but I was afraid social workers would intervene if I handed you over openly.”

I sat looking at her. Unable to find words. All I could see was two women on a long bus ride.

“I’m not going to tell you anything about your father. Only that I loved him and that he was a good man.” Maude drew her hands away as if expecting me to protest. A week ago I would have insisted that I had the right to know everything about my origins, but now ...

“I hope you can accept that, Tessa, that I don’t owe you his name. You have a father.”

“I know. And I never have been much interested in who sired me. Perhaps if Mum hadn’t died ... I wish you could have met her again.”

“I was dreadfully sorry to hear of her death; I wrote and told Violet when I heard. But you are very like your mother, Tessa, in lots of important ways. That first time I saw you I couldn’t take my eyes off you—I had such a feeling of recognition. I’m a practical, down-to-earth woman, but a few weeks back Chantal had asked to look at my hand, and she told me that the child out of my past was coming closer. Bunk is what I have always termed clairvoyance. But Chantal is unusual, isn’t she?”

I nodded. “One thing still puzzles me. You don’t seem the type to use Devon violet writing paper. At first I took that as another sign that Violet was the one, but ...”

“Didn’t I tell you I am a practical woman? Every Christmas I receive all sorts of presents from my patients. Handkerchiefs and bath salts, and boxes and boxes of fancy writing paper. Devon violet was the best of the bunch that year, I remember.”

We smiled at each other, our hands coming together again. At least I thought she was smiling. I couldn’t see too well because my eyes blurred. This meeting wasn’t anything like the old dreams. Maude wasn’t glamorous, charming, witty, or beautiful—any more than the Tramwells were the sweet, simple-minded old ladies I had fancied them to be before coming to Cloisters. I was the one who had been simple-minded. Maude had told me about my origins, but that was not the same as telling me who I was. She couldn’t give me that information. No one could. I would have to find out who the real Tessa Fields was, a day at a time, like everyone else.

“You look sad,” said Maude.

“I am—and for the strangest reason. I feel sorry for Mr. Deasley. Fergy—she’s our housekeeper—would say he tried to take a short-cut through life and tripped over his own shoe laces. Perhaps you will meet Fergy and Dad one day. I think you and Bertie would like them. That reminds me, what was it Bertie wanted to tell me?”

“I’m afraid this is going to shock you.” She managed a shaky laugh. “Bertie was the one who locked you in the priest hole the other day. He saw you go in from the garden, and shut you in just so he could win points in your estimation by rescuing you. I know it sounds odd, but Bertie is so desperately in need of approval.”