Brides of Aberdar (13 page)

‘Believe at least that my heart breaks for you,’ said the Squire.

‘I must marry. I must have a woman in my arms. I must have warmth and companionship, I must have such love in my life as is left to me. And at the same time, put it out of my power to bring more Hilbourne children into this world.’ He came over swiftly and knelt down beside the couch and as that other had done, took the Squire’s frail hand and held it against his cheek. ‘Have no more fear,’ he said. ‘There is a way out.’

M
ISS TETTERMAN, MEANWHILE WAS
met at the station by Sir Charles himself, who in the darkness of the carriage put his arm about her shoulders and kissed the disfigured cheek. She put up her gloved hand to it. ‘Oh, no—you must not!’

‘I had rather kiss this scarred cheek, my dear, than the smoothest in all the world.’ He sat back away from her, gazing into her face. ‘How wonderful to see you—how good of you to come, and so soon!’

‘Of course, I would come if you sent for me.’

‘My heart of gold! But—you are well, Alys? You look so fresh-faced and blooming—you are not the same thin, sad girl who crept away from this place. And this spa where you went when you left here—’

‘—sent there through your generosity—’

‘What less could I offer you?—and such competence as you would accept. But, indeed they’ve done well with their treatment of the scar.’

‘I put it out of my mind—most of the time. But you have never been out of my mind. Nor out of my heart.’ And now she asked: ‘Is her case hopeless?’

‘So the doctors tell us: and they’ve been frank with her, she has demanded it. It will not be yet, not even very soon perhaps. But with the knowledge, she has changed. There will be no hard words now. She wishes to see you before she dies.’

Smiling faces greeted her, willing hands assisted her in alighting from the carriage. She stepped in through the familiar door into the great hall, marble flagged, went up the lovely graceful curve of the stairs. An elderly maid waited upon her, all smiles; she took off her bonnet and cloak, tea was brought up to her there, with tiny sandwiches and a profusion of little cakes, ‘Cookie remembers, Miss, how you used to like them. But, oh, Miss Alys—the poor mistress!’

‘Sir Charles holds out little hope for her. But it won’t be yet.’

‘It is sad for him, poor gentleman. What will he do in his loneliness? Our darling Miss Charlotte gone and now there’ll be nobody. But as to our own ladyship, Miss Alys, she won’t be too sorry to go. She’s never got over the accident. Our poor Miss Charlotte—I never did take to that horse-riding, but she was that wilful! And now you, Miss, left with this great scar. Not but what it’s better than when you—when you left here. As to that—’

‘There was a misunderstanding,’ she said. ‘That was all. And now I must go…’

To another death-bed. But as yet there was no outward sign of what was to be. Lady Arden reclined upon the day-bed in her boudoir but she was dressed, in a loose gown certainly, but with all her own old exquisite care. ‘Oh, dear Alys! How good of you to come to me!’

She said, trying not to seem too stiff and cold: ‘Of course, I would come when your ladyship asked for me.’

‘I’m so sorry, Alys! How have I treated you—?’

‘I have been looked after my lady. I make no complaint. Sir Charles—’

‘Yes, he has told me now all his care for you after you left here. He sent you to the doctors at Cheltenham till your poor scar had sufficiently healed, and he has written to you constantly? You told them nothing, of course, of all this?—in your new place. I know my Alys: so loyal and discreet.’

‘No, indeed, nothing. When curiosity grew, I asked him to use an accommodation address. I came in the end,’ she said, at last frankly smiling, ‘to be suspected of harbouring an admirer. The Madame there, a Belgian woman, brought in when the children’s mother died—’

‘Ah, she was
jalouse
, I daresay! Of an old grandfather, did she but know it, seventy years of age!’

‘He has been like a grandfather to me, my lady. You know that he gave me to bring away her ring, our darling’s little “regard” ring, his last present to her—with her initials carved inside it, Charlotte Bell Arden, her lovely name.’

‘She was named after him, and after her father. My husband was Charles too, of course—my dear lost love. Perhaps after all, I need blame myself not too severely, Alys, left a widow so young and then to have my own precious treasure killed in this terrible way. But my poor Alys!—your sweet, pretty face—’

‘I think nothing of it, my lady. It was a small thing, if only I could have prevailed.’

‘I suppose I have—resented it; that you should live while our darling died. And yet I know that you would have given your own life, I know that you risked your life. I believed—I wouldn’t allow myself to un-believe, that you had been responsible for the horse bolting…’

‘I wasn’t even there, my lady. The groom was with her. I saw the horse tearing across the meadow, I rushed down the hill to intercept it. I had him by the bit but he was too strong for me, he reared up and I suppose his hoof must have struck me. I fell down unconscious…’

‘I know, I know: this is what they told me but in my grief I must hit out at somebody. That I should have chosen you! But your generous heart will forgive me.’

‘Of course.’ But she said frankly: ‘I was bitter: bitterly hurt by your—’

‘Ingratitude.’

‘I had offered my life; or rather, I’ll say that at that moment my life meant nothing to me. And as it transpired, though my life was spared, it was with a disfigurement that made it, for that time at least, almost worthless to me. After this to be reviled and rejected by you…’

‘How could you have understood—?’

‘
I
should have understood. I think in your place I might have done the same—in my grief, struck out wildly and savagely, wounding and destroying. I recognise it in myself.’

‘Well, yes. For all you pass through life such a quiet little dove, you have strong passions beneath the surface. Your dear old saintly father used to speak to me of it.’

‘I think it is true,’ she admitted. ‘In love and in war.’ To conceal the rise of colour in her cheeks, she rose from her kneeling position, found a chair for herself and sat down, composing her hands in her lap. It gave her time to re-slant the conversation. ‘Sir Charles has been so good, I have been so grateful to him; especially at first, it meant so much to me in my loneliness—kind letters, all the news, of yourself, of Greatoaks, things going on in the village; and the little gifts, always with the same theme, remembrance—trifles that she had valued…’

‘He was always fond of you as we all were. And after that terrible day… You were right when you said that he has been like a grandfather to you.’ She hesitated, her voice altered a tone. ‘This was partly the reason why I’ve sent for you, my dear. Before the time comes for me to die, while I’m still able to think clearly and speak sense… Poor old man—bereft of his much-loved son, his heir, and then of the light of his eyes, the light of all our eyes, our darling—and now of myself, who, though only his daughter-in-law, have been to him like his own child. What is to become of him?’

She would not pretend to be stupid. ‘Oh, my lady—I am so much needed where I come from now.’

‘You have been there something more than a year, Alys.
We
have known you from your childhood in the village. You were in and out of this house, you were the little girl who filled in for Sir Charles between his son’s marriage and our departure to a home of our own, and my return here with Charlotte after my husband died. From then on, you lived and worked in this house—if you could call it work, this loving service in a happy home. What is a twelvemonth compared with all that?’

‘There are the children, they have no one else. And their father is soon to die, leaving them friendless.’

‘So am I soon to die—leaving your kind old master friendless.’

‘Would not Mr George then come to Greatoaks? He is now the heir.’

‘He won’t come until he inherits. He is content on his own estates. So, Alys—’

‘My lady, these are two little girls—’

‘Who will grow up and marry and then where will you be? An ageing governess looking out for another post where things may be less congenial; and another and another. You might have married, my poor pretty Alys, but…’ Her finger traced without repulsion the terrible scar. ‘Let us make up to you for this. Return to your happy home here—you say that Sir Edward Hilbourne is soon to die—could you not have the children here with you, make it a second home to them? When my father-in-law dies you may return with them to Aberdar if you must, but you could well remain here. George Arden will take over, but he and his Kitty have always been so fond of you—might they not pass on to you the use of the Dower House—?’

She interrupted. ‘Oh, my lady, I can’t—I can’t!’

It was said that this sickness altered the character and here was a character quick to an ugly anger, which had once been only gentle and sweet. ‘What more do you want then?’ And after a moment’s thought: ‘Ah, it is real wealth, is it?—not just a competence. It is marriage—a brief year or two, he won’t long survive these blows—and you a rich widow, the Dower House at your disposal…’

(She was not doing too badly, little penniless Miss Tetterman, with her humble background and her poor, scarred face. Here at her feet, wealth and a title; and, though she might not yet be aware of it, the possibility that a few brief weeks, days even, of unfulfilled wedlock might yet make her mistress of estates ten times the size of Greatoaks Park! But…)

But… Oh, my love, she thought, my only-ever and for-ever love, my shining one!—what wealth and grandeur would compare with what you might one day offer me? A true love, a true marriage, a home that would be truly mine, our children and the—release of this desire, this craving for your arms about me, this sickness of my longing for you! She said at last: ‘That you should suspect me of greed, of a sort of blackmail, my lady, is simply to revert to your earlier low opinion of me. You are ill, and I won’t let myself resent it as I might. The simple truth is that… There is—there is a man—’

‘A man!
You
have a lover?’

She put her hand to her scarred cheek. She said with angry pride: ‘Of course, it is impossible to suppose that any man could since I am become—have made of myself—a thing so revolting that none could bear even to look at me…’ Lady Arden cried out in horrified repudiation, but she over-rode her. ‘It may be that you are right; it may be that I am not loved and must wear out my heart in longing. But at any rate, I won’t remain here to be taunted for the very sacrifice I made for your sakes. I will go where there is no cruelty except from one or two whom I may despise.’

Tears, pleadings, a total self-abasement. ‘Alys, forgive me, forgive me! my situation is so cruel, dearest, forgive me if I say cruel things…’ She consented at last to remain the few days she had promised to Sir Charles. ‘But no word shall be spoken of my future wherever it may lie: but reconcile yourself to the fact, my lady, make what arrangements you can—it will not lie here.’ Very sick and weary, she retired to her room: four days later, forced herself to genuinely loving farewells and with a heart uplifted in hope, started back for what to her had now become home.

Now no pony-trap met her at the station, but the family carriage with Sir Edward’s two beautiful bays; and, to her alarm, Dr Meredith was there and old Mr Johnson the family lawyer. She gasped out: ‘The Squire?’

‘His condition is grave. We will explain while we go.’ As the carriage started up, the doctor repeated: ‘Very grave. A matter of days, a day or two perhaps, hours perhaps.’

‘He had a relapse?’

‘He has been fading steadily. From what cause, I don’t pretend to know. Ever since that blow on the head when the door fell back against him…’ He shook his head, bewildered. ‘It is a strange family. So much remains unexplained. But Mr Johnson wishes to speak to you.’

‘The Squire lies on his death-bed, Miss Tetterman. All arrangements are made—the Vicar is with him now, a new will has been drawn up ready for his signature; he is desperately ill but Dr Meredith and I attest to his being of sound mind, there can be no later complications. Sir Edward wishes you to marry him before he dies.’

She cried out in desperate repudiation. ‘I couldn’t! I couldn’t!’

‘For God’s sake, girl—what have you to lose?’

The old, hopeless merry-go-round of argument. She said flatly: ‘I am in love with another man.’

The lawyer’s head fell forward in a gesture of defeat. He had known and cared for the family for many years. The doctor said, crisply: ‘In a matter of hours, my dear young lady, you will be a widow.’

Mr Johnson looked up again. ‘Not so fast! There is no pretence but that the marriage would be for any reason but the benefit of the two children: to give them a guardian. What use, if she is then to marry elsewhere and leave them?’

‘She would be their step-mother. She might take them with her.’

‘He is absolutely adamant that they must not alter their residence, they must not—ever—leave Aberdar Manor.’ But after a moment, the old man said slowly: ‘I wonder if I might guess, Miss Tetterman—that your attachment need not bring about any move from Aberdar?’

‘Ah? Well? Might you not be tempted then, my dear,’ said the doctor, ‘to eat your cake and have it?’

‘To do a great, great kindness,’ said Mr Johnson. ‘To give these children their only chance of security, to send a good man in peace to his death, instead of in torment, and in due course to find your own happiness with no sort or kind of blame attaching to you, in the eyes of any man who might love you. And the man I am thinking of—surely he, who cares so deeply for the Squire and these two little girls—surely he would be the first to urge you to this course, at whatever temporary sacrifice to yourself and him?’ As the carriage drew up at the door of the Manor, he implored: ‘At least before you refuse this request, speak to—this man: discuss it with him!’

The house looked very squat and heavy after the austere beauties of Greatoaks Park and the chill as she entered the hall came as almost a shock. The cobweb hands that just occasionally had seemed to touch her face now brushed roughly against her cheek, it seemed as though for a moment the wound broke open and bled again. And with its bleeding, her heart bled also, a bitter bile of the old resentment and rage at the treatment that had been meted out to her when that wound was new. ‘
You? You
have a lover?’ Lady Arden had said to her in astonishment, and, ‘It may well be,’ she had replied, ‘that I have been made into a thing so revolting that no man could bear to look at me.’ That one man had looked at her and with eyes of love, she could not bring herself to doubt and yet now found herself questioning, almost with resentment,—‘or is it only with eyes of pity?’ The children greeted her rapturously but she found herself oddly unable to respond and they fell back, hurt and puzzled. ‘It is only that I am so cold,’ she said, but felt that she spoke irritably. ‘I have taken some chill…’