Angel With Two Faces (3 page)

‘Good God – that’s awful.’

‘I know. It makes you wonder what the family did in a former life, doesn’t it?’

‘Where was the other sister?’

‘Morwenna? She was away from home, thank God. She’d started to work at the Union over in Helston by then. It’s a sort of poorhouse-cum-refuge, and she was on a night shift. As you can imagine, she’s had her share of shocks in life, and she’s still a way off thirty. So you’re right, I suppose – Harry’s recklessness
was
selfish.’

‘Things could have been so much worse if it hadn’t been for your father, though.’

‘Yes, although he always shakes it off. He didn’t even tell Lettice and me that he was the one who’d saved them – we found out from the Snipe, who found out from her brother-in-law. He’s always taken his responsibilities to that estate and everyone on it very personally – although I think diving into burning buildings is carrying things too far. He won’t be told, though. He’s paid for Harry’s funeral, of course, and he’ll find a way to ensure that Loveday and Morwenna are all right without making them feel like charity cases.’

‘It must be a nightmare overseeing something that size,’ said Josephine, thinking of all the once grand estates that she read about which had fallen on hard times in recent years, ‘especially since the war. And I can’t imagine anything worse than having all those livelihoods dependent upon you.’

‘It
is
difficult,’ Ronnie admitted. ‘God knows how many people live and work on the estate, and I don’t even want to think about what’s going to happen when Pa’s gone. I can’t see that Lettice and I have inherited sufficient stoicism and dedication to carry on what he does, and Archie certainly wouldn’t want it. Touch wood, though, he’s got more energy than people half his age, and he works twice as hard.’

‘And that you
have
inherited from him. I’m looking forward
to meeting your father – I want to see what else I can trace back to him.’

‘I think you’ll find there’s quite a bit of him in each of us. And a lot of my mother, too, of course. We’ve been lucky with both of them.’

Not for the first time, Josephine reflected on the degree to which life had blessed the Motley sisters with exactly the right balance of comfort, eccentricity and tragedy for them to flourish in the theatrical world they had chosen to make their living from. She knew that their mother, Veronique, had died when they were still young, grief-stricken by the death of her eldest child, Teddy, who had gone down with his ship before the war was six months old, but she had often heard them speak of her and knew how much they had been influenced by her creativity and flouting of convention. She remembered Lettice once telling her that their mother had brought them up to believe they could do anything, and it was that which had given them the confidence to take on the unwritten laws of the West End, and change them for the better. ‘Has your father never been tempted to marry again?’ she asked.

‘Good grief, no,’ Ronnie said. ‘He’s not been short of admirers, but I honestly think he’s still too in love with my mother even to notice when someone’s setting her cap at him.’ She smiled sadly. ‘It’s a refreshing change from all the bravado people come out with about getting back in the saddle and moving on with your life. Lettice and I do worry about him, but there’s something rather noble about a grief that lasts for life, isn’t there?’ Josephine nodded, and wondered what it would take to make her want to share her life so wholeheartedly with someone. ‘Anyway, Pa’s other woman is the Loe estate,’ Ronnie continued, ‘and she’s very demanding.’

The road they were on had parted from the sea, and they drove down into a small village, skirting a pretty, sheltered inner harbour before climbing again into open countryside. ‘How does Archie fit into life down here?’ Josephine asked. ‘He’s always been a bit vague about it whenever I’ve asked him.’

‘To be entirely honest, I’m not sure he knows himself how he fits in,’ Ronnie replied, ‘or if he does at all. You know that the Loe estate used to be in his father’s family, don’t you?’

Josephine shook her head, intrigued. ‘I thought his only connection with it was by marriage, through his mother.’

‘No, he only missed being Lord of the Manor by two or three generations. Our great-great-grandfathers were best friends out in the Indies together. The Penroses had the land and the Motleys had the money, so they came to a very sensible arrangement: Penrose transferred the estate and all responsibility for the upkeep of it to his friend, in exchange for a house and living on the estate in perpetuity. Everyone got what they wanted and the estate’s future was secured. It’s all worked out very nicely, even down to a uniting of the clans when Archie’s mother – Pa’s younger sister – married a Penrose.’ Josephine was quiet for a moment, trying to get the family tree straight in her mind while Ronnie went on. ‘So, in answer to your question, Archie fits in rather uncomfortably – he’s not the boss, but he’s not one of the workers either. And of course a Cambridge education and a job at the Yard haven’t helped bridge the gap. The law down here is very much a subjective thing, and something to be worked out privately.’

As the lane bent sharply round to the left, Ronnie took a right turn through some wooden gates, on to a private road shrouded in rhododendrons and variegated laurels. ‘Here we are, although I hope you’re not expecting the grand country
house,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid it’s a rather haphazard affair, and the Penroses were very shrewd to get rid of it; the estate just eats money, and it’s the house that’s suffered – things get patched and mended in order of urgency, and the Forth Bridge doesn’t come into it. There’s always some sort of panic on. Don’t worry, though,’ she added reassuringly, ‘it
is
beautiful, and you’ll get the peace you need. Archie’s moved back in with us for a bit so that you can have the Lodge – it’ll be quieter for you to work in, and you can come up to the chaos whenever you feel like a bit of light relief.’

Josephine was about to thank her but, as they rounded another bend and emerged from the trees, the first glimpse of Loe Pool stopped her short. She had lived all her life just a few miles from Loch Ness and the magic of light on water held no novelty for her, but the Loe had a stillness and beauty all of its own. The combination of ornamental parkland in the foreground and a patchwork of fields to the rear gave the scene in front of her an intimate domesticity which could not have been more different from the ostentatious drama of the Monadhliath mountains, but which was no less magnificent. And at the centre of it all, flanked by rich, green woodland, was the lake itself – quiet, smoky-black at the edges where the sun could not reach, and drawing each disparate corner of the landscape effortlessly into one perfect whole.

Delighted, she turned to Ronnie and was moved to see that her cynical, world-weary friend had not become immune to its charms.

‘Come on, I’ll drop you at the Lodge for a wash and brushup,’ Ronnie said. ‘Wander over for dinner when you’re ready.’

Nathaniel Shoebridge leant against the back door of the cottage that Harry had shared with his sisters, clutching a mug of cheap whisky and hoping that the solid stone walls might restore some of the strength which had deserted him the moment he stepped up to the lectern. He didn’t often drink, and the liquid burnt a harsh, sour path to the pit of his stomach, but he needed something to dull the memory of the service and the humiliation of standing in front of his own congregation without a single word of comfort to offer them. He had only been in the pulpit for a few minutes, but it had been long enough to remind him of how things used to be and he doubted that the confidence he had worked so hard to find would be quick to return.

His shyness had dogged him for years, clouding most of his childhood with a horror of being noticed that amounted almost to a phobia. He loved learning, but dreaded going to school in case he was singled out to answer a question or read in class, and the pretty, white washed laundry cottage that William Motley had converted into a schoolroom for the estate’s youngest children came to represent all that he feared most; just the sight of its slate roof through the trees was enough to send his stomach into spasms, and it made no difference that he was bright or that his classmates were friendly and his teacher kind. His education continued to be a
wretched experience until, on Empire Day 1920, almost a year after he had transferred to the small secondary school in the village, everything changed. The teacher, Morveth Wearne, must have been in her fifties even then, but she had an intelligent, gentle manner that created its own discipline and the children were instantly at ease with her, Nathaniel included. As unorthodox in her lessons as in other areas of her life, Morveth had decided to follow the usual flag-waving and patriotic singing with a school play, and – in what Nathaniel later recognised as her own comment on colonialism – had chosen
The
Tempest
. He had dreaded that day for weeks, knowing that there were not enough pupils in the class for him to avoid taking a part, and had even feigned illness to get out of it. Fortunately, his parents weren’t fooled; if they had been, he would have missed out on the most important day of his life. In his first encounter with Shakespeare, he found something that seemed more real to him than fear. So engrossed was he in the magic of the play and the beauty of the language that he lost all self-consciousness and, by the time he was called upon to speak Ferdinand’s opening lines, the words were the only thing that mattered.

After the play, and while the euphoria was still with him, Nathaniel had gone up to Morveth and asked nervously if she might give him something else to read. She looked at him for a long time, as if sensing how important this was to him, then smiled and took an old brown book with faded gold lettering from the back of the drawer in her desk. That was fifteen years ago, almost to the day, but he could still remember the faint smell of leather and the way the prayer book opened at particular passages that Morveth must have read over and over again. He had rushed through his tea that night, scarcely able
to wait until he was alone in his room and able to take his time over turning its pages. Some of the words were difficult and strange at first, but the prose – which the Reverend Motley’s hurried, half-hearted delivery never brought to life in church – slowly began to speak to him through its rhythms, and he was fascinated by the markers of a man’s life which the different sections traced. From that day on, he read the book when he went to bed each night and it came to symbolise a magic even greater than Shakespeare; this, too, was theatre, but it was theatre for every day, written not just for actors but for ordinary people like him and his family and, as he grew older, he empathised with all the emotions it portrayed – anger and confusion as well as love and praise. He was drawn so strongly to these simple phrases, spoken for hundreds of years – phrases that offered a connection to the past as strong as the landscape he had grown up with – that he knew instantly what he wanted to do with his life, no matter how difficult it proved. He kept the leather-bound volume with Morveth’s blessing, and it was still the prayer book he used in church; he was forever grateful for the way in which its contents had shown him how to deal with the world and his place in it.

The murmur of voices inside the cottage was growing steadily louder now as more people arrived for the wake and drink loosened the tongues of those who had been there for some time. He knew he should go back in, but another few minutes of air might clear his head and give him the confidence to face everyone again. What would his life have been like, he wondered, if he had never been shown an alternative path to the one that was expected of him? Easier, certainly, especially in those early days. His parents had always assumed that he would work on the farm like his brothers; when he
finally plucked up the courage to talk to them about his future, they greeted his intention to enter the Church with a mixture of consternation and pain. Nathaniel understood their concerns – the present incumbent of St Winwaloe’s was hardly well placed to defend the institution against accusations of corruption and greed, and people of his class were not obvious candidates for ordination – but he was intelligent and dedicated, and he stubbornly stood his ground. Gradually, with patience and a conviction which astonished them all, he brought his family round to the idea. Each time he returned home from his hard-earned college training, happier and more settled than ever, they softened a little, and were won over completely when they realised that his commitment was to the estate and not to the souls of strangers, that – rather than alienate him from them – the Church would bind him to his community more tightly than putting a spade in his hand ever could.

On a day like today, though, such certainties seemed to belong to another life. First alive, and now dead, Harry Pinching had managed to undermine everything that Nathaniel had ever been sure of. They had been friends for as long as he could remember, drawn to each other’s company by a shared love of the Loe estate and by contrasting but complementary personalities. The bond was strong and undemanding, and had fitted easily into each of their lives until one morning, just a few months earlier, when they were out riding together, racing along the sand at Loe Bar as they often did in fine weather. Nathaniel was a good horseman, one of the few people on the estate who could match Harry stride for stride. On this occasion, he had gone one better, reaching the line of rocks which acted as a finishing post a good ten seconds in
front. As his friend caught up with him – his eyes bright with the exhilaration of speed and competition, his smile generous in defeat – Nathaniel was astonished to realise that what he felt for him – what he had always felt for Harry – was love. It was a moment of conviction as powerful and overwhelming as when he had first opened the prayer book, but so utterly at odds with it that he had been unable to do anything other than turn his horse and ride quickly for home, flustered and convinced that his shame was written all over his face.

Harry had known, he was sure of it, and could not resist using the power it gave him. For the first time, Nathaniel noticed a self-consciousness about his friend’s easy sexuality; perhaps it was his imagination, but Harry seemed to go out of his way to slap him on the back or shake his hand, until the briefest of touches was enough to send a jolt of desire right through him. Bewildered by his own feelings, Nathaniel found it impossible to read Harry’s. He was unwilling to believe that Harry would taunt him maliciously, but the thought that his love might be reciprocated was too dangerous even to contemplate. Eventually, unable to stand it any longer, he had simply kept away. When his family asked what had happened, he blamed his own commitment to the Church for the estrangement; the unjustified slur on Harry’s loyalty seemed a small act of betrayal in comparison with the truth.

If Nathaniel had not suspected – albeit reluctantly – that his own vulnerability had laid bare a spiteful streak in Harry, he would have dismissed outright the revelation that had come his way two or three days before the accident – a revelation which had left him wrestling with lust and guilt, love and disgust. At first, he had turned to denial as the best antidote to them but, once the suspicion was there, he could never quite
convince himself that Harry was innocent of the charge laid against him. Perhaps Harry’s death was the best possible outcome – for everyone. Certainly, his own first reaction to news of the accident had been relief, and he had seen God’s hand in a situation which was beyond human intervention. But if that was the case, why did it feel so wrong, and so painful? Was that his punishment for feelings which should never have been acknowledged? Despite the words of comfort that he delivered so sincerely to others, he realised now that it was only possible to make your peace with the dead if you had reconciled your differences with the living.

He took another swig of the whisky, hoping that the sour taste in his mouth might temporarily overshadow the bitterness in his head.

‘Don’t think that will help.’ Morwenna could barely keep her fury in check, and the contempt in her voice hurt him far more than any physical blow could have done. ‘How could you let him down like that? You were supposed to be his friend.’ Nathaniel turned to look at her and, for a moment, it was as though Harry were standing in front of him. How alike they were if you looked closely, he thought, although anger – which had always brought a sulkiness to Harry’s mouth, detracting from the strength of his face – seemed to enhance his sister’s beauty, alleviating the exhaustion which made her look a decade older than her twenty-six years. He could see why so many people were attracted to her. How much easier life would be if only he could have been one of them.

‘I know you’re upset about the funeral,’ he began, ‘but you can’t expect me to stand in church and lie now that I know the truth. I’m sorry if I let
you
down, but I can’t pretend that my feelings for Harry are straightforward.’ That was an understatement,
but he had no intention of letting Morwenna see how much he had loved her brother, or how deeply he was grieving for the loss of everything he had believed Harry to be. ‘I couldn’t find the words you wanted to hear,’ he added, knowing he was doing no better now, ‘and I wouldn’t have trusted myself to speak them anyway.’

‘It’s a shame you haven’t always been so tongue-tied,’ Morwenna said bitterly. ‘Why did you have to say anything, Nathaniel? Couldn’t you just pretend you hadn’t heard and carry on as normal? Isn’t that what they teach in your Christian schools – how to turn the other cheek?’ She looked away from him, and he could see what an effort she was making to prevent her anger from dissolving into tears. ‘I thought you were different, but you stand up there like all the rest of them, armed with your self-righteousness and your phrase-book of forgiveness, and when you have the perfect opportunity to practise what you preach, you don’t have the strength even to
try
to understand. Well, let
me
give
you
a lesson in absolution – there is
no
atonement for what you’ve started. Harry’s dead, and it’s too late to make amends.’

Nathaniel’s head was heavy with heat and whisky, and his temper got the better of him. ‘So ignorance is best, is it?’ He was shouting now, and the change in him took Morwenna by surprise. ‘You’d rather I let him get away with it than shatter your fantasy of a perfect brother? There’s a big difference between turning the other cheek and blindly refusing to see – and Harry went too far for either.’ He softened a little, trying to put himself in Morwenna’s shoes; if he was guilty about his estrangement from Harry, how must she feel? The memory of those final, angry words she had exchanged with her brother would be almost too much to bear. ‘Look, I told you what
I’d heard because I thought you’d want to know. You can’t blame yourself for the accident or anything that happened before it.’

She rounded on him suddenly and, for a moment, he honestly thought she was going to strike him. ‘I don’t blame myself for Harry’s death,’ she replied, her face just inches from his. ‘I blame you. And according to your precious textbook of right and wrong, the way he died was as great a sin as anything he did in life.’

Archie took a cup of tea out to the garden and waited for Morwenna to seek him out. She had been continuously surrounded by people since the funeral party arrived back at Loe Cottage, and he hadn’t even tried to speak to her: what she wanted to say to him could clearly not be said in public. In any case, the silence during the long walk back from the church had been uncomfortable rather than respectful and he was glad of a moment or two on his own, free from the tensions that had seeped into a community which he remembered as harmonious and good-natured. A lot seemed to have changed here in just a few months – but then he only ever came home fleetingly these days, so perhaps it had been different for some time and he had simply never noticed. More than ever, he looked forward to seeing Josephine; things might have been difficult between them, but at least the awkwardness was familiar; the drama that he sensed here made him feel like an understudy who had learnt the lines for the wrong play.

As brief as his visits were, though, he was sure he would have noticed how shabby and neglected the cottage had become if it had been that way when he was last here. The flowerbeds which Mary and Sam Pinching had taken such a pride in, and
which Morwenna always tended meticulously as a tribute to her parents, were now overgrown and full of weeds; terracotta pots remained empty and covered in the dark-green moss of a damp winter, and the trailing honeysuckle which covered the south-facing gable end seemed to have given up hope of anyone noticing that its trellis had come loose from the wall and was crushing the branches into the ground with its weight. The house – which his uncle and some of the men from the estate had restored after the fire – had fared no better. Stubborn orange rust marks circled the hinges of doors and windows, weeds grew out of the thatch, and the paintwork looked tired and dirty. Loe Cottage seemed to Archie to share the family’s grief, although he couldn’t help feeling that to get to this state the deterioration must have begun some time before Harry’s death. He had always admired the strength with which the twins had kept the family together after their parents’ death, but lately they must have let things go. Why, he wondered? Some lines from Tennyson came into his head – one of those merciless evocations of sadness and isolation that the poet was so good at. This was hardly a moated grange but the dreariness was the same, and Morwenna certainly looked every bit as weary as the Mariana of the poem’s title – weary, and tired of life.