Sylvia Andrew (5 page)

‘She told me, yes. I am sorry you were so unwell.’

‘I’m not unwell! Dr Woodruff is an old woman, and I shan’t let him come again. I don’t need him to tell me what I am to do or not do. Don’t waste any time before seeing those people, Fanny. I shall want an account when I am up. You may go.’

Against her better judgement Francesca said, ‘Can I get you anything? Some books?’

‘Don’t be absurd! Agnes will get me anything I need. But you’d better see the housekeeper about meals for the rest of you. Agnes will let her know what I want. Agnes?’

Francesca was given her aunt’s list, then she was escorted out and the door shut firmly behind her. She made a face, then walked wearily down the dark oak staircase. It was not easy to feel sympathy or concern for her aunt—not after all these years. But she was worried. Whether her aunt lived or died, her own future looked bleak indeed. If no post as a governess was forthcoming, where could she look for help? In spite of her brave words to Marcus, her claim on her father was non
existent. She had not heard a word from him since she had left the West Indies nearly twenty years ago, and had no idea where he might now be.

The world would say that her aunt ought to do something for her, there was no doubt about that. But Francesca had every doubt that she would. Shelwood was not an entailed estate—Miss Shelwood could dispose of it as she wished—and whatever happened to Aunt Cassandra’s money, her sister’s child would see none of it—nothing was more certain. Her duty, such as it was, would end at her death.

Francesca came to a halt, thinking of the cheerless years since her grandfather had died. She had always been required to sit with her aunt at mealtimes, though the meals were consumed in silence. She was adequately clothed, though most of that came out of her allowance. She had a bedroom to herself, though it was the tiny room allotted to her when she had first arrived as a child of six. She had been taken to church twice every Sunday, and forced to join in her aunt’s weekly session of private prayers and readings with the Reverend Mr Chizzle. But there was nothing more.

Was it that Miss Shelwood could not tolerate the evidence of the shame that her sister had brought on the family? But Sir John Shelwood had never shown any sense of shame. Regret at not seeing his daughter again before she died, at not telling her that she had been forgiven, perhaps, but there had been no sense of shame. There had never been anything in his attitude towards his granddaughter that even hinted at the shocking truth. Strange…

The next morning Francesca rose early; by midday, she had completed her round of visits. She had made notes of complaints and requests, and, in order to satisfy her aunt, had written down one or two criticisms—nothing of any consequence—together with some recommendations. She at
tempted to see her aunt, but was denied access, her civil enquiries about Miss Shelwood’s health being met with a brusquely indifferent reply from Agnes Cotter. Resolving to see Doctor Woodruff for herself when he called that evening, she left the papers and escaped from the house.

At the end of an hour, she found she had walked off her frustration and anger and was enjoying the woods and open ground above Shelwood. The air was still heavy, however, and swallows and martins were swooping low over the swollen expanse of water left by the storm, catching the insects in the humid air. Francesca watched them for a while, marvelling at the speed and skill with which they skimmed the surface.

But even as she watched, one bird’s judgement failed disastrously. It dipped too low and, as it wheeled round, its wing was caught below the water line. Francesca drew in her breath as it dropped, then rose, then dropped again. By now both wings were heavy with water, and the bird’s struggles to fly were only exhausting it further. It would soon drown.

Without a second thought, Francesca hitched up her skirts, took off her shoes and waded in. The water was very shallow—it shouldn’t be difficult to scoop the bird out.

‘I never knew such a girl for water! You must have been a naiad in your previous existence.’

She recognised the voice, of course. But she said nothing until she had captured the bird and released it on dry ground. Then she said calmly, ‘And you seem to be my nemesis. I lead a very dull, dry life in the normal course of events. Excuse me.’ She bent down and put on her shoes. ‘Let me wish you a pleasant walk.’ She wanted to take polite leave of him, but realised that she had no idea what to call him other than ‘Marcus’. That she would never do again. She started off down the hill without saying any more.

‘Wait!’

She pretended not to have heard, but he came striding after her.

‘I was hoping to learn how you fared.’

‘Thank you—very comfortably. But my aunt is not well—I must get back to her. I know you will understand and forgive my haste. Goodbye.’

‘Not so fast! I want to talk to you.’

The pain in her heart was getting worse. He was still as handsome—more so! The years had added one or two lines to his face, one or two silver strands to the dark hair, but this only increased his dignity and authority, and the blue eyes were as alert, as warm and understanding as ever. The villain! The scheming, double-dealing villain! Where was the lady from the carriage?—if ‘lady’ was the right word! He should be using his charm on her, she might reward his efforts—probably had done so long before now. But she, at least, was old enough to see through him. She was well past the age of innocence!

But none of these uncharitable thoughts showed in her expression as she said coolly, ‘That is a pity. I have no wish to talk to you. I doubt that we now have very much in common. You must find someone else to amuse you.’

‘Is your aunt as ill as everyone says?’

He blurted this out with none of the polish she expected of him. What was he thinking of? Had he heard the rumours and was daring to be sorry for her? Francesca fought down a sudden rise in temper, then said in measured tones, ‘I am surprised that Lord Witham’s guests indulge in village gossip. I would have thought they had other, more interesting, pursuits.’

‘Don’t be such a awkward cat, Francesca—tell me how your aunt is.’

He had no right to sound so anxious. It weakened her, made her vulnerable once again to his charm.

‘I don’t know why such a thing should concern you,’ she
said, maintaining her usual air of colourless reserve as she lied to him once again. ‘But if you insist on knowing, my aunt is suffering from the heat. I am sure she will be quite well again in a few days.’

‘That isn’t what I have heard.’

They must have been discussing the situation at Witham Court. Once again she had been made the subject of gossip there. It was intolerable! ‘You must think what you choose, sir. However, I am sure my aunt would not welcome speculation by strangers. And nor do I.’

‘Strangers, Francesca?’

Francesca had been avoiding his eye, but now she looked directly at him. She did not pretend to misunderstand. ‘Whatever happened nine years ago, sir, we were, and are, strangers. Of that I am certain. Now please let me go!’ In spite of herself, her voice trembled on these last words.

He took a step forward, hesitated, then bowed gracefully. ‘Very well. Good day to you, my dear.’

She felt his eyes on her as she set off again down the hill. She hoped he could not see how her hands were trembling, or hear how her heart was pounding.

M
arcus was astonished to discover that, even after nine years, the strange line of communication between Francesca and himself was still there. The horrors of war, the problems and anxieties of peace, the totally absorbing task of learning to run a huge and prosperous estate had caused him to put her out of his mind, but no sooner had they met again than he was once more caught in a strange web—a curious feeling of kinship with her. It was as infuriating as it was inexplicable.

He stood watching her as she went down the hill, and knew, though he didn’t know how, that, in spite of her gallant attempt to deceive him, she was lying about her aunt, just as she had lied to him all those years ago about her future with her father. Francesca was desperately worried about the future. And if the gossip last night had any foundation, she was right to be worried. The impulse to run after her, to shake her till she admitted the truth, then to reassure her, swear to protect her from harm, was almost irresistible.

It was absurd! It had been absurd nine years ago, when he had been a penniless and inexperienced officer in Wellington’s army. At that time, he had been convinced that Francesca was the love of his life, and only the intervention of his uncle
had stopped him from making what would have been a disastrous mistake. His uncle had been right—he had indeed forgotten the girl once he was back with the army!

But to find, now, that he had the same impulse to protect Francesca nine years later was ridiculous. A man of thirty, rich, sophisticated and, not to put too fine a point on it, extremely eligible…how London would laugh! He must take a grip on himself, before he did something he would later regret. Shrugging impatiently, he strode off down the other side of the hill.

When Francesca got back to Shelwood Manor she found Agnes Cotter waiting for her. The woman was clearly distressed.

‘Miss Shelwood has suddenly got much worse. But she won’t hear of sending for Dr Woodruff. I don’t know what to do, Miss Fanny.’ The situation must be grave indeed—this was the first time ever that Agnes had appealed to anyone for help.

‘We must send Silas for him straight away,’ Francesca said calmly.

‘But Miss Shelwood will—’

‘I will take the blame, Agnes. Go back to my aunt but say nothing to her—it would only cause her unnecessary agitation. Stay with her till the doctor comes, then I shall take over.’

Dr Woodruff came with a speed that showed how grave he thought the situation was. ‘I knew this would happen. It is always the same in cases like these.’

‘Cases like what, Dr Woodruff?’

‘You mean you don’t know that your aunt is dying, Miss Fanny? No, I can see she hasn’t told you.’

‘You mean she knows?’

‘Of course. I warned her some months ago, but she refused to believe me. A very determined woman, your aunt, Miss Fanny. I’m afraid that very little can be done for her, except
to ease the pain. I prescribed laudanum yesterday—perhaps she will accept it now. Take me to her, if you please.’

Francesca went up the stairs with a heavy heart; when she entered her aunt’s room, she was shocked at the change she saw in her. Miss Shelwood was a ghastly colour, and gasping for breath. Agnes was bathing her mistress’s forehead, but when the doctor came in she glided away.

‘What are you doing here?’

Francesca was not sure whether her aunt was speaking to the doctor or to her. She went up to the bed and said gently, ‘It’s time you had some medicine, Aunt Cassandra. Dr Woodruff has something to make you feel better.’

‘I don’t want his morphine! If I’m going to die, I want to die in my right senses! But you can stay. I have something to say to you. A-ah!’

‘Drink some of this, Miss Shelwood. You won’t feel less alert, but it will take away the worst of the pain. And if you wish to be able to talk to your niece, you will need it.’

‘Very well.’ The voice was but a faint thread of sound.

Dr Woodruff held a small vial to the sick woman’s lips, and then stood back. He said quietly, ‘That should make her feel better for a while. I’ll be in the next room.’

After a moment, Francesca said tentatively, ‘You wished to tell me something, Aunt Cassandra?’

‘Yes. Box on the desk. Fetch it.’ Francesca did as her aunt asked, then on request opened the box. ‘Letter…underneath.’

The letter was dry and yellow. It began, ‘My dear Cassie’…and was signed ‘Richard Beaudon’.

‘Do you wish me to read it?’

‘Later. No time now. It’s from your father. Richard Beaudon. To tell me my sister had stolen him.’ The dark eyes opened, and they were glittering with malice. ‘Why I hated you. Still do.’

‘Aunt Cassandra, don’t! I have never done you any harm, you know that.’

‘Never should have existed. He’d have married me if she hadn’t told him…told him…’ The voice died away again.

‘Shall I fetch Dr Woodruff?’

‘No! Not finished. It’s the money. Chizzle’s got to look after the money. Told him.’

‘Mr Chizzle? The chaplain?’

‘Don’t be stupid. Who else? Do as he tells you. M’father had no right…A pauper—that’s what you ought to be!’ Miss Shelwood raised herself and stared malevolently at her niece. This time she spoke clearly and with intense feeling. ‘You’d better do what Chizzle tells you—you needn’t think anyone will marry you for love! A plain, dull child, you were. Plain, like
me
! Not like…’ She sank back against the pillows, and her words were faint. ‘Not like Verity. You’ll never be the hon-eytrap she was.’ The lips worked, then she added, ‘Seen your father in you, though. The eyes.’ A dry sob escaped her. ‘God damn him!’

Francesca was appalled. ‘Please, don’t—I’ll send for Mr Chizzle. He ought to be here—he’ll help you.’

A grim smile appeared on her aunt’s pale lips. ‘I won’t be here myself. Remember what I said, Fanny. Plain and dull, that’s you. She called you Francesca—what a stupid name for such a plain child…Rake Beaudon’s child…’

The voice faded away and Miss Shelwood closed her eyes.

Francesca ran to the door. ‘Dr Woodruff!’

But when the doctor saw his patient, he shook his head. ‘It won’t be long now,’ he said. ‘I doubt she’ll be conscious again.’

‘But…’ Francesca gazed at the figure on the bed. ‘She didn’t have time to think! She didn’t have time to make her peace with the world, to forgive those who had hurt her! And those who hadn’t,’ she added forlornly.

‘Miss Shelwood is dying as she lived. A very unhappy woman,’ said Dr Woodruff, adding drily, ‘But God will forgive her. It’s his job, after all.’

These were the most sympathetic words Francesca was to hear about her aunt. Words of respect, of conventional regret, of admiration for her energy and devotion to duty—all these were paid to her memory. Madame Elisabeth came, but her sympathy was for Francesca. Only Agnes Cotter truly mourned Cassandra Shelwood.

Following her aunt’s death, Francesca underwent a time of confusion and shock. Mr Chizzle was much in evidence, though she wished he wasn’t—his attempts to provide consolation were misplaced, to say the least. The funeral was well attended, and though Francesca was surprised at first, on reflection she decided it was to be expected. Although Miss Shelwood had been something of a recluse, she had, after all, been one of the great landowners of the district. But the biggest shock of all came after the funeral, after her aunt’s will had been read.

The will was very much on traditional lines. Various small sums had been left to the servants, in proportion to their length of service. Mr Chizzle, as the local curate and Miss Shelwood’s chaplain, received a modest sum, Agnes Cotter quite a large one. The rest of Miss Shelwood’s estate was left to a fund for building and maintaining almshouses in a neighbouring town. Francesca’s name was not mentioned in the document.

Gasps of astonishment came from the servants—Betsy even voiced her disapproval out loud. But Francesca herself was not at all surprised. It was a blow, but one for which she had been prepared. The question of a post as a governess had now become urgent, and she decided to consult the family lawyer, Mr Barton, on the best way to set about doing this.

The others finally went. Mr Chizzle took his leave so warmly that Francesca began to wonder whether she had been mistaken in him all these years. He was most pressing that he should come again to see her the next day and, though
she was reluctant, she eventually gave in, largely because it was the only way she could be rid of him.

But when she mentioned her intention of seeking a post as governess, Mr Barton was astounded. ‘My dear Miss Shelwood! What on earth for? You now have control of the money left by your grandfather.’

‘It is hardly enough to keep me, sir!’

‘Well, that is a matter of opinion. I should have thought that seventy thousand pounds was enough for anyone! Together with what the Shelwood estate brings in, it is a considerable fortune.’

Francesca sat down rather suddenly on a convenient chair. ‘Seventy…? Do you…do you mean to tell me that my grandfather left his
whole estate
to me?’

‘Most of it. He left a sum of money outright to the late Miss Shelwood, and the rest was put into trust for you until you reached the age of twenty-five, in November of this year. The arrangement was that, during her lifetime, your aunt would run the estate and receive half of the income from it. The other half was put back into the Shelwood trust, which is why it has now grown to such a handsome fortune.’

‘How much did you say it was?’ asked Francesca faintly.

‘About seventy thousand pounds. The trust was set up for the benefit of you and your children, and has certain safeguards which are in the discretion of the trustees. But you will have more than enough to live on, nevertheless. Shelwood is a thriving concern, and should provide you with an income of about ten thousand pounds per annum. Do you mean to say that Miss Shelwood never told you of this?’

‘No. I had no idea…’

Mr Barton looked uneasy. ‘I have been remiss. I agreed with your aunt that you were too young to be burdened with it at the time of your grandfather’s death, but I ought to have made sure you knew later. But I have to say in my own
defence that it simply never occurred to me that she would keep it from you. Why should she?’

‘My aunt…my aunt was a secretive woman, Mr Barton,’ was all Francesca said, however. Aunt Cassandra was dead. No good would be done by raking over the past.

‘Hmm. I knew of course that she was dissatisfied with the arrangement, but still…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I can see that you have had a shock and need time to assimilate the news, Miss Shelwood, so I will not weary you. I should perhaps just add that one, somewhat curious, condition of the trust is that no one else—neither your father, Lord Beaudon, as your legal guardian, nor a future husband could benefit from it. Only you or your children may have use of it.’

‘Since my father has never acknowledged me, he could hardly claim legal guardianship!’

‘You are now of age, of course. But until you were twenty-one, he could always have claimed it, had he wished.’

‘Even though I am illegitimate?’

The lawyer was astounded. ‘Whatever gave you that impression, Miss Shelwood?’

‘I…I was told…that is to say, I…was led to believe that there is no record of my parents’ marriage.’

‘What nonsense! Of course there is! I have all the relevant documents in my safe. Your grandfather gave them into my care just before he died.’

‘But Aunt Cassandra said…Did my aunt know of these documents, Mr Barton?’

‘Why, yes. We discussed them after Sir John’s death.’

So Aunt Cassandra had lied to her, had lied to an eleven-year-old child about her parentage. For so many years Francesca had carried a burden of shame around with her, had worried over her future, had made no effort to be received into society or make friends with the surrounding families, sure that she would be rebuffed. Aunt Cassandra had done her best
to ruin her niece’s life in the way that her own had been ruined. How could she?

Perhaps, in her twisted unhappiness, she had convinced herself that her lover had really not married her sister, in spite of incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. Or had she been exacting a terrible revenge on the child of those she felt had wronged her?

‘Miss Shelwood?’

‘Forgive me, I…it has been a shock.’

‘A shock? But why should you think…?’ His face changed. He said sternly, ‘Are you telling me that Miss Cassandra Shelwood, your own aunt, gave you to understand that you were not…not legitimate? I find that very hard to believe, Miss Shelwood. Your aunt was not an easy person to know, but she was generally respected throughout the neighbourhood as a just and upright woman.’

‘I am not
telling
you anything, Mr Barton,’ said Francesca, forcing herself to speak calmly.

‘But you have obviously been under a misapprehension—for many years. Why did you not consult me?’

‘It never occurred to me to do so. I never thought I had any sort of claim on the Shelwoods, except one of charity.’

‘But this is disgraceful!’

With an effort, Francesca put aside her own feelings of outrage. Her aunt was dead—it would do no one any good to reveal how badly she had treated her niece. ‘Mr Barton, whatever…misunderstandings there may have been in the past, the truth is now clear and we will, if you please, leave it at that. The future is now our concern.’