The Secret Woman (3 page)

But as far as I was concerned the Queen's House took on a new fascination. I began to know certain pieces, to regard them as old friends. Mrs. Buckle dusting with deft but careful hands said: “Here, are you going to be another Miss Charlotte Brett, Miss Anna?”

That startled me; I felt then as though I wanted to run away.

It was one morning in the middle of the summer holidays, about four years after my parents had brought me to England, when Ellen came to my room and told me that Aunt Charlotte wished to see me at once. Ellen looked scared and I asked if anything was wrong.

“I've not been told, miss,” said Ellen, but I was aware that she knew something.

I made my way—one made one's way in the Queen's House—to Aunt Charlotte's sitting room.

There she was, seated with papers before her, for she used the place as her office. Her desk on that day was a sturdy refectory table—sixteenth-century English, of a type that owed its charm to its age rather than its beauty. She sat very upright on a rather heavy chair of the Yorkshire-Derbyshire type of carved and turned oak, of much later period than the table, but as strong and sturdy. She chose these strong pieces for use while they were in the house. The rest of the office did not match the table and chair. An exquisite piece of tapestry hung on the wall. I knew it to be of the Flemish school, and guessed it would not be there for long; and crowded together were heavy oak pieces from Germany side by side with a delicate French eighteenth-century commode and two pieces in the Boulle tradition. I noticed the change in myself. I could sum up the contents of a room, date them and note their qualities even while I was eager to know what this summons meant.

“Sit down,” said Aunt Charlotte, and her expression was more grim than usual.

I sat and she went on in her brusque way. “Your mother is dead. It was cholera.”

How like her to shatter my future with two brief sentences. The thought of reunion had been like a lifebelt, which had prevented my being submerged in the misery of my loneliness. And she said it calmly like that. Dead…of cholera.

She looked at me fearfully; she hated any display of emotion.

“Go to your room. I'll send Ellen up with some hot milk.”

Hot milk! Did she think that could console me?

“I've no doubt,” she said, “your father will be writing to you. He will have made arrangements.”

I hated her then, which was wrong for she was breaking the news in the only way she considered possible. She was offering me hot milk and my father's arrangements to console me for the loss of my beloved mother.

My father did write to me. We shared our grief, he said; he would not dwell on that. The death of his beloved wife and my dear mother had meant his making great changes. He was thankful that I was in the hands of his dear sister, my Aunt Charlotte, on whose good sense and great virtue he relied. It was a great comfort to him to know that I was in such hands. He trusted I was suitably grateful. He thought he would be leaving India shortly. He had asked to be transferred and he had good friends at the War Office. He had received the utmost sympathy and as there was trouble brewing in other parts of the world, he believed that very soon he would be doing his duty in another field.

I felt as though I were caught in a web, as though the house was laughing at me. “You belong to us now!” it seemed to say. “Don't imagine because your Aunt Charlotte has filled the house with these alien ghosts you have ousted us.” What foolish thoughts. It was fortunate that I kept them to myself. Only Ellen and Mrs. Buckle thought me an odd child, but even Mrs. Morton had some sympathy for me. I heard her say to Miss Beringer that people shouldn't have children unless they could look after them. It wasn't natural for fathers and mothers to be on one side of the world and their children on another in the hands of those who knew nothing of them and paid more attention to a piece of wood—and often riddled with the worm at that! As for me I had to face the fact that I should never see my mother again. I kept remembering scraps of her conversation; I idealized her beauty. I saw her in the figures on a Grecian vase, in the carving of a tallboy, in the gilded beauty supporting a seventeenth-century mirror. I would never forget her; the hope of that wonderful life she had promised me had gone and I was certain now that the ugly duckling would never turn into a swan. Sometimes when I had looked into old mirrors—some of metal, others of mottled glass—I had seen her face, not my own rather sallow one with the heavy dark hair which was the same color as hers. My deep-set dark eyes were like hers too; but the resemblance ended there for my face was too thin, my nose a little too sharp. How was it that two people who were fundamentally alike could look so different? I lacked her sparkle, her gaiety, but when she was alive I could imagine myself growing like her. After she was dead I could not.

“It's a long time since you've seen her,” soothed Ellen, seeking to offer comfort with the hot milk.

“Children forget, quick as lightning,” I heard her say to Mrs. Buckle.

And I thought: Never. Never. I shall always remember.

Everyone tried to be kind—even Aunt Charlotte. She offered me the greatest consolation she could think of.

“I have to go along to see a piece. I'll take you with me. It's at Castle Crediton.”

“Are they selling something?” I stammered.

“Why else should we go there?” demanded Aunt Charlotte.

For the first time since my mother's death I forgot her. I was sorry afterward and apologized to my reflection in the mirror where instead of my own face I made myself see hers, but I could not help the excitement which came to me at the prospect of visiting Castle Crediton. I remembered vividly the first time I had seen it and my mother's comments and I wanted to know more about that important family.

It was fortunate that I had learned to hide my emotions and that Aunt Charlotte had no notion of how I was feeling as we drove under the stone gatehouse and looked up at the conical turrets.

“Fake!” snapped Aunt Charlotte. It was the biggest insult she could offer.

I wanted to laugh when I entered that house. The inside of Castle Crediton should have been the inside of the Queen's House. The Creditons had made a great effort to produce a Tudor interior and had succeeded. There was the big hall with long refectory table on which stood a large pewter bowl. There were firearms on the walls and the inevitable suit of armor at the foot of the staircase. Aunt Charlotte saw only the furniture.

“I supplied the table,” she said. “It came from a castle in Kent.”

“It looks very well here,” I commented.

Aunt Charlotte did not answer. The manservant returned to say that Lady Crediton would receive Miss Brett. He looked at me questioningly and Aunt Charlotte said quickly: “You may wait here for a while!” in such a manner as to defy the servant to object.

So I waited in the hall and I looked at the thick stone walls partially covered with tapestries—lovely French Gobelin type in beautiful blues and stone color. I went up and examined one. It depicted the labors of Hercules. I was studying it intently when a voice behind me said: “Like it?”

I turned and saw that a man was standing close to me. I was startled. He looked so tall and I wasn't quite sure what he was thinking of me. The color heightened in my cheeks but I said coolly, “It's beautiful. Is it really Gobelin?”

He lifted his shoulders and I noticed the interesting way his eyes seemed to turn up at the corners when his lips did. He was scarcely handsome but with the blond hair bleached by sun at the temples and blue eyes that were rather small and crinkled as though he had lived in brilliant sunlight, his was the sort of face which I felt I would not easily forget.

“I might ask,” he said, “what you are doing here. But I won't…unless you want to tell me.”

“I'm waiting for my aunt, Miss Brett. She has come to see some furniture. We're from the Queen's House,” I said.

“Oh, that place!”

I fancied there was a hint of mockery in his voice and was warm in its defense. “It's a fascinating house. Queen Elizabeth once slept there.”

“Such a habit that lady had for sleeping in other people's houses!”

“Well, she slept in ours, which is more…”

“Than you can say for this one. No, we're imitation Norman, I admit. But we're firm and solid and this is the house that will withstand the winds of time. We're built on a rock.”

“Ours has proved it could do that. But I find it very interesting here.”

“I'm delighted to hear it.”

“Do you live here?”

“When I'm ashore. Mostly I'm not.”

“Oh…you're a sailor.”

“How discerning you are.”

“I'm not really about people. Though I am learning about some things.”

“Tapestries?”

“And old furniture.”

“Going to follow in Auntie's footsteps?”

“No. No!” I spoke with great vehemence.

“I expect you will. Most of us go where we're led. And think what you already know about Gobelin tapestry.”

“Did you…go where you were led?”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling in a manner which, for no reason I could think of, I found very attractive. “I suppose you could say that I did.”

I was filled with a desire to know more about him. He was just the sort of person I should have expected to meet in Castle Crediton and he excited me as though he were an unusual piece of furniture.

“What should I call you?” I asked.

“Should you call me?”

“I mean…I should like to know your name.”

“It's Redvers Stretton—usually known as Red.”

“Oh!” I was disappointed and showed it.

“You don't like it?”

“Well, Red is not very dignified.”

“Don't forget it is really Redvers which you must admit is more so.”

“I've never heard that name before.”

“I must say in its defense that it's a good old West Country name.”

“Is it? And I thought it should go with Crediton.”

That amused him secretly. “I couldn't agree more,” he said.

I had a notion that he was laughing at me and that I was being very naive.

He said: “I must ask yours, mustn't I, otherwise you may think me impolite.”

“I shouldn't but if you really want to know…”

“Oh, I do.”

“It's Anna Brett.”

“Anna Brett!” He repeated it as though memorizing it. “How old are you, Miss Anna Brett?”

“I'm twelve.”

“So young…and so knowledgeable.”

“It's living in the Queen's House.”

“It must be like living in a museum.”

“It is in a way.”

“It makes you old before your time. You make me feel young and frivolous.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Please don't be. I like it. I'm seven years older than you.”

“So much?”

He nodded and his eyes seemed to disappear when he laughed.

The manservant had come back into the hall.

“Her ladyship is requesting the young lady's presence,” he said. “Will you follow me, miss?”

As I turned away Redvers Stretton said: “We'll meet again…less briefly, I hope.”

“I shall hope so too,” I replied sedately and sincerely.

The manservant gave no indication that he considered Redvers Stretton's behavior in the least strange and I followed him past the suit of armor up the wide staircase. I was almost certain that the vase at the turn of the staircase was of the Ming reign because of the rich violet color of the porcelain. I could not prevent myself gazing at it, then I turned and saw Redvers Stretton standing looking up at me, legs slightly apart, hands in pockets. He bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment I had paid him by turning round and I wished I hadn't because I felt it showed a rather childish curiosity. I turned away and hurried after the servant. We came to a gallery hung with oil paintings, and I felt a little impatient with myself because I could not assess their value. The largest of the pictures in the center of the gallery was of a man and I was able to guess that it had been painted some fifty years before. I was certain it was Sir Edward Crediton, the founder of the shipping line, the dead husband of the woman I was shortly to see. How I wished I might have paused longer to study it; as it was I caught a fleeting glimpse of that rugged face—powerful, ruthless, perhaps yes, and with a slight tip-tilt of the eyes which was so pronounced in the man I had met a few minutes ago. But he was not a Crediton. He must be a nephew or some such relation. It was the only answer.

The servant had paused and tapped on a door. He threw it open and announced: “The young lady, my lady.”

I entered the room. Aunt Charlotte was seated on a chair, very straight-backed, expression grim, in her best bargaining mood. I had seen her like this often.

Seated on a large ornamental chair—Restoration period with the finely scrolled arms and the crown emblems—sat a woman, also large but scarcely ornamental. She was very dark, her skin sallow and her eyes looked as black as currants and as alert as a monkey's. They were young eyes and defied her wrinkles—young and shrewd. Her lips were thin and tight; they reminded me of a steel trap. Her large hands, quite smooth and white were adorned by several rings—diamonds and rubies. They lay on her voluminous lap and from the folds of her skirt jet-beaded satin slippers were visible.

I was immediately overawed and my respect for Aunt Charlotte rose because she could sit there looking so unperturbed in the presence of this formidable woman.

“My niece, Lady Crediton.”

I curtsied and Lady Crediton gave me the full attention of her marmoset eyes for a few seconds.

“She is learning to know antiques,” went on Aunt Charlotte, “and will be accompanying me now and then.”

Was I? I thought. It was the first time it had been stated, although I realized that for some time it had been implied. It was enough explanation of me. They both turned their attention to the escritoire which they had evidently been discussing when I entered. I listened intently.

“I must call your attention, Lady Crediton,” Aunt Charlotte was saying almost maliciously I thought, “to the fact that it is only accredited to Boulle. It has the richly scrolled corner pieces, true. But I am of the opinion that it is of a slightly later period.”

It was a beautiful piece, I could recognize that, but Aunt Charlotte would not have it so. “It is definitely marked,” she said. Lady Crediton had no idea how difficult it was to dispose of furniture that was not in first class condition.

Lady Crediton was sure that any defects could be put right by any man who knew his business.

Aunt Charlotte gave a hoarse cackle.

The man who knew that business had been dead more than a hundred years—that is if André-Charles Boulle was really responsible, which Aunt Charlotte gravely doubted.

And so they went on—Lady Crediton pointing out its virtues, Aunt Charlotte its defects.

“I don't think there is another piece like it in England,” declared Lady Crediton.

“Would you give me a commission to find you one?” demanded Aunt Charlotte triumphantly.

“Miss Brett, I am disposing of this one because I have no use for it.”

“I doubt whether I could find an easy buyer.”

“Perhaps another dealer might not agree with you.”

I listened and all the time I was thinking of the man downstairs and wondering about the relationship between him and this woman and the man in the portrait in the gallery.

Finally they came to an agreement. Aunt Charlotte had offered a price which she admitted was folly on her part and Lady Crediton could not understand why she should make such a sacrifice.

I thought: They are two of a kind. Hard both of them. But the matter was completed and the escritoire would arrive at the Queen's House in the next few days.

“My patience me!” said Aunt Charlotte as we drove away. “She makes a hard bargain.”

“You paid too much for it, Aunt?”

Aunt Charlotte smiled grimly. “I expect to make a fair profit when the right buyer comes along.”

She was smiling and I knew she was thinking that she had got the better of Lady Crediton; and I wished that I could have crept back to Castle Crediton and heard Lady Crediton's comments.

***

The man I had met in the hall of the Castle would not be dismissed from my mind so I judiciously set about discovering if Ellen knew anything about him.