The Alington Inheritance (6 page)

The young man in the car was enjoying himself. It was a fine night very heartening to behold. The moon was out now, quite clear of the clouds. He would have liked to switch off his lights and drive through all this country by moonlight. He shook his head a little mournfully. There were so many things he would like to do, and he couldn’t do them. Not because they were difficult or impossible, but simply because you had been brought up hedged in by laws and by-laws until they had got you down. He laughed a little and considered what a modern world would be like with everyone doing as he pleased. Come to think of it, no one was ever free. Different times had their own restraints, personal, political, what have you. You were brought up in a certain code, and you kept to it. If you kicked over the traces you came to a sticky end. Each generation made its own rules, and the next one altered them. What was quite unacceptable in one generation was the fashion in the next, and so you went on.

He liked driving alone, and he liked driving by night. If you kept off the beaten track you didn’t meet anyone much after twelve o’clock. His plan was to drive within a strategic distance of Alington House and sleep out the night in the back seat of his car. Then in the morning, when a country inn would be open, he would have breakfast and from there on follow the reasonable inspiration of the moment. He wanted to see the house and the portraits. He wanted it very much. After all, if they were in any way decent people they couldn’t object to him. It wasn’t as if he was claiming anything, or wanting to claim anything. He was simply a distant connection of the family who had come into possession of some papers about the house and the people to whom it had belonged. It was natural enough that he should want to come down and see the place for himself.

He had turned rather an abrupt corner just out of a sleeping village, and a long flat stretch of road lay before him. Quite suddenly there was someone in the road. It stretched flat and open at one minute, and the next there was something there. Something? No, someone. He braked and brought the car to a standstill.

The someone was a girl. She had a case in one hand, and with the other she had signalled him to stop. He leaned out, frowning.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know.”

“But I wanted you to stop.”

“Why?” He was terse because for a moment he hadn’t been sure that he could stop in time and the road was narrow.

The girl moved from the front of the car and came round to the door on his side. In the moment that she stepped across the lighted patch of road in front of the car he saw her, and he saw that she was young and pale—or perhaps that was just the lights of the car. She came up to the window on his side and said,

“Will you please give me a lift?”

The anger had gone out of him. He said,

“Where do you want to go?”

“It doesn’t matter. I mean, just anywhere will do.”

“Are you running away?”

It was quite obvious that she was. What does one do with a stray girl who asks one to help her? He said,

“You’re running away, aren’t you? Why?” It wasn’t in the least what he had meant to say.

The moonlight shone on her face. It looked sad and rather tired. There were dark marks like smudges under her eyes. She said very earnestly,

“I’ve got to—I really have.”

It was the sort of thing that any girl would say if she had had a row with her people or with her school.

He said, “Why?” and she came nearer and dropped her voice.

“I can’t tell you. You wouldn’t believe me.”

“You might try.”

Jenny considered. All this time he was in the shadow—she couldn’t see his face. She must see him. You can’t tell whether you can trust a person whom you can’t see. She said quickly and a little breathlessly,

“Will you get out for a moment? I want to see you.”

“Why do you want to do that?”

He had a nice voice, but she must see him. She said,

“I want to know whether I can trust you.”

“Do you think you would know?”

“Oh, yes, I should know if I could see you.” There was a confident ring in her voice.

Without a word he pushed open the door and got out. He shut the door behind him, leaned against it, and said,

“Well, here I am. Take a good look and make up your mind.”

She said,

“It’s you who have to make up your mind, isn’t it?”

They stood looking at one another in the bright, clear moonlight. He heard her draw in her breath.

“Who—who are you?” she said.

“My name is Richard Forbes.”

She echoed him in a faint whisper, “Richard Forbes—”

“That is my name.”

Jenny stood still. It was unbelievable, but it had happened. Unbelievable things did happen. This one had happened. He stood there with the moonlight across his face, and she saw feature for feature the Richard Forbes who had built Alington House. The Richard Forbes in the picture had had long curling hair, and he had worn fine clothes, not a raincoat and slacks. But it was the same face, it was the same expression— the laughing look in the eyes, the humorous querk of the mouth. And then the humour faded. He had the air of being very much in earnest, and he said,

“Why do you look at me like that?”

Jenny said, “Because I’ve seen you before.”

“Where? When?” He had never seen her before, he was prepared to swear to that.

“All my life. You’re the portrait in the hall—the picture of Richard Alington Forbes.”

He caught his breath and said,

“But that’s my name.”

He saw her colour rise, not as colour, but as a shadow, because they were all black and white in the moonlight. He could only just catch the tremor in her voice when she said,

“Is it?”

“Yes. What’s yours?”

“I’m Jenny Forbes. I’m from Alington House.”

It was the first time she had given her name as Jenny Forbes—the very first time. She had been Jenny Hill all her life, but she wasn’t Jenny Hill any more. She was Jennifer Hill’s daughter, but she was Richard Forbes’ daughter too—Richard Alington Forbes. She was their lawful daughter. She held her head up and looked Richard Forbes in the face and said his name.

Something in that straight look of hers got through. He said in a puzzled voice,

“I don’t understand. I thought the sons were grown up, but the daughters—they’re little girls, aren’t they?”

“Yes. I don’t belong to that family. I’m the daughter of Richard Forbes, the one who was killed at the beginning of the war. They said he wasn’t married to my mother. She was ill. There was an air raid—it was the day my father was killed. Her head was hurt—she didn’t talk. She came down here to Garsty.” She went on looking at him straight. He had never seen such truthful eyes. “Garsty had been her governess. She came to her because that was her home—she hadn’t any other. That’s how she met my father. But no one knew they were married. I only found out last night.”

“What did you find out?”

She had put down her case on the ground. She put out her hands with the little shabby bag in them and said,

“Don’t you believe me? I’m telling you the truth because you’re Richard Forbes. I wouldn’t tell about this to anyone else—I wouldn’t really. But you are different.”

That struck home in a most curious way. He felt it with every nerve of his body. And he felt it because it was true. There was a deep relationship between them—kinship, and something more than kinship. They were two of a kind. That was the difference which she spoke of.

She was speaking again.

“I’ll tell you—because you’re Richard Forbes. I was upstairs in the schoolroom, and Mac came in and his mother.”

“That’s the eldest son?”

“Yes. I was behind the window curtains. The room was dark. I’d been crying because of something that had happened, and I didn’t want to see anyone, or anyone to see me… Where was I?”

He said gravely, “Mac had just come into the schoolroom.”

She nodded.

“Yes. I thought he’d come to see me. I didn’t want to see him, so I stayed quiet. And then Mrs. Forbes came in, and she shut the door and they began to talk. She said, ‘What did you want to say to me, Mac?’ and when he didn’t answer she said, ‘Mac, what is it?’ And he said, ‘All right, you can have it.’ He said he had only known for a week. And then he went on, ‘It’s Jenny.’ And then he said, ‘She’s legitimate. He married Jennifer Hill.’ Mrs. Forbes said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he said, ‘I’m talking about Jenny.’ And she was angry—she was very angry. She said, ‘You’re talking nonsense! There was no marriage!’ And he said, ‘There was a marriage. And I’m not asking you to take my word for it. I’ve seen the certificate at Somerset House.’ ”

“What!”

Now that it was said, Jenny felt better. It was like a calm after the storm. She said,

“They went on talking. There was a letter from my father. Garsty talked about it when she was dying. She said it was in a little chest. She said my father called my mother his wife. She said she didn’t read any more but she kept it for me. Poor Garsty—she loved me so much—she was so good to me. She wasn’t sure about the marriage, and she didn’t like to make sure because she was afraid that I should be taken away from her. That was how it was. You didn’t know Garsty. Nobody who didn’t know her could tell how good she was. She died ten days ago, and I went up to Alington House to look after the little girls. That was how I came to be there in the schoolroom. So I waited till they would all be asleep and came away.”

There was a long, long pause. She stood there waiting. Waiting for him to make up his mind. If he helped her, it wouldn’t end with his giving her a lift to wherever she wanted to go. He was quite sure about that. This wasn’t a light-hearted adventure, it was deadly serious. His brows drew together in a frown.

“Where do you want to go?”

She answered without any hesitation.

“I don’t mind. I want to get away.”

“Have you any money?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve got nearly ten pounds. I thought they’d take me in at a cottage, and I could look for something to do—something with children. I like children.”

He said reluctantly—he was surprised to find how reluctantly,

“Look here, don’t you think you had better go back and do things properly? If you are really Richard Forbes’ daughter, they can’t make any bones about it. They’re bound to acknowledge you, and it will save a lot of talk.”

She shrank back, and then checked herself. She said,

“I can’t do that.”

“Why can’t you?”

Jenny caught her breath.

“I can’t.” The colour rose in her cheeks.

He said a little impatiently,

“It’s the sensible thing to do.”

“I can’t do it. Oh, you don’t understand.”

“I can’t understand if you don’t tell me.”

“It’s because of what he said—Mac. He said—he could marry me. He said it just like that. When his mother said, ‘No—no,’ he laughed, and he said, ‘You don’t suppose I want to marry the girl, do you?’ And he went on to say worse things. He said he would marry me, and they would hold their tongues. If it ever came out it would be just too bad, but there would be nothing to be done about it. They didn’t know, and I didn’t know. Once we were married it didn’t really matter. That’s what Mac said. He said, ‘I shall be the noble cousin who married her when she was the illegitimate poor relation.’ ”

Jenny had said her say. She had said it quietly. If it had come out, as it might have done, in a storm of sobs, it would not have been nearly so convincing. As it was, he was convinced. And something more. He was swept by such an insensate fury against Mac that it took him all he knew to fight it down. He said shortly,

“All right, get in. We’d better be on our way.”

They drove along without speaking. He had to swallow his anger, and that wasn’t easy. It was in fact quite surprisingly difficult. Surprisingly? Yes, that was it. Why should he have flashed into that sudden state of anger with Mac? He had a hot temper, but it very seldom got away with him like this—not since he had learned to control it. Jenny sat beside him quite quiet. He was glad she didn’t chatter. Instantly, indignantly, the thought came pushing up—she wouldn’t. He stopped being angry in his surprise. What did he know about her to be sure what she would or wouldn’t do? He had a quick answer to that, a factual answer. He did know. He knew her as she had known him. There was kinship between them, and something more than kinship. He drove on in silence, thinking.

Jenny did not say a word. It all seemed quite natural, as things feel in a dream. She had put her case in at the back. It was a comfortable car. She was very lucky to have found a cousin. She felt as if she knew him quite well—as if she had known him always. It was very strange, but in a way there was nothing strange about it. It had just happened.

When they had gone three or four miles, he turned a little and said,

“What were you going to do?”

She said,

“I was going to go as far as I could. Because they’ll look for me, you know—they’re bound to. And then I was going to get a cottage to take me in, and try and get some work to do.”

He was appalled. She had said it before. He remembered that now. He said,

“No one would take you in like that.”

“Wouldn’t they?”

“Not respectable people—not the sort of people you ought to be with.”

She said, “Oh—” and then, “Are you sure?”

“I’m quite sure.”

There was a little pause. She said,

“Then what am I to do?”

He said, “I’m going to stay with an aunt. She’s a very nice person. She’s not a Forbes. She’s from the other side of the family. My father and mother were killed in an air raid—she looked after me. You’ll like her. Everyone does. Her name is Caroline Danesworth.”

Jenny said, “Won’t she think it rather odd your turning up with me?”

“She won’t when she sees you.” He felt so sure of this that it wasn’t until afterwards that he thought it was rather a strange thing to say.

Jenny looked at him earnestly.

“Are you quite sure?”

He was quite, quite sure. He said so in a matter-of-fact way that carried conviction.

Jenny gave a little sigh. She had begun to feel dreadfully tired. She wondered how much farther she could have walked. She leaned back and felt at peace. He was Richard Alington Forbes. He had her father’s name. She could trust him—he would look after her—she hadn’t got to bother about anything more… She fell asleep.

Richard drove on through the night. He had taken on an obligation, and he knew it for what it was. It was a very serious obligation. She wasn’t really his business—that was what anyone would say. She wasn’t really a relation. A hundred years had gone by since Lady Georgina had been painted in her wedding-dress. That picture he knew only from a photograph of it in his father’s album. It was a good photograph. He wanted very much to see the original. And now he was driving away from Alington House and from the portraits.

Jenny—he thought about Jenny. He had never seen her before, and he had the familiarity which only comes with years. Lady Georgina had had two sons, just the two, and they were George and Stephen. Jenny descended from George, and he descended from Stephen. The two sons had fought bitterly about this and that, and finally about a girl. She was engaged to George, and she ran away with Stephen. There had been the father and mother of a row and a complete separation of the brothers. Stephen and the girl, whose name was Susanna Cruickshank, lived long and happily on the estate which they inherited from his mother. George married a sickly heiress with whom he was neither happy nor unhappy. She was a nonentity with a large fortune, and when you had said that you had said everything that was known of her. The brothers never met, and the quarrel was never made up. There was no communication at all between the elder and the younger branch. What turn of fancy had made his father go back to the beginnings of the family for his name, he wondered. Richard Alington Forbes had been the son of an earlier Richard who married the only daughter of John Alington, Esq., by which marriage came wealth and an extraordinary tradition of happiness. There was no picture of him. The pictures began with his son, Richard Alington Forbes, who had built the house. That was the family history so far as he knew it. Odd that he himself should be a throw-back to the first Richard Alington Forbes whose name he bore. He drove on mile after mile, thinking.

After a while his thoughts turned to Jenny. He was taking her to his mother’s sister, Caroline Danesworth, who had brought him up. It was a complete give-away of course, but he couldn’t help that. Caroline would understand.

He looked down at Jenny sleeping like a baby beside him, and he was surprised at his rush of feeling. He supposed it was because one was used to seeing girls in every possible mode of activity, but one was not accustomed to seeing them asleep. Jenny slept deeply. Her hands were on her bag. Her face, against the side of the car, looked shadowy. He had the feeling that she wasn’t all there, that she was really somewhere else and he didn’t know where. He would like to know where she was, and what she was dreaming.

She smiled suddenly in her sleep. Her eyes half opened, looked at something he did not see, and closed again. Her lips moved. They said his name—“Richard Alington Forbes.” But was it his name that they said. Her father had borne it too, and the first Richard Alington Forbes who had married Jane and built Alington House.

Jenny went on dreaming. She dreamed that she was flying and she was not alone. There was someone with her, caring for her, someone with a strong arm which held her. If he let her go, she would fall down, down to the ground. But he would not let her go. She felt perfectly safe, and she felt perfectly happy. She could not see who was holding her. She knew who it was. It was Richard Alington Forbes. She was quite safe, because she was with him and he was helping her. She half opened her eyes and said his name. Then the dream closed round her again and she slept. The time went on.