Dark inheritance (22 page)

Barbara laid a hand on her arm. "Please tell me— please."

Emily looked at her levelly. "Mrs. Rockwood was mad," she said quietly.

There was a short, sharp silence.

"You mean
"

"I mean that if it hadn't been for Mr. Dominic she would have died in a mental hospital. But he wouldn't let them take her away." She saw the stunned look on the girl's face and pointed to a chair. "Sit down. As I've told you so much you may as well know the whole story."

She went to the hob, poured another cup of coffee from the simmering pot and put it on the table in front of Barbara, seating herself opposite and resting her gnarled hands on the scrubbed deal boards.

"I remember when Mr. Hugh brought his bride home," she began. "She was a lovely creature then, miss —gay and young and so beautiful you never wanted to
stop looking at her. But even then she was wild—her
laughter was always too high and her temper too violent and easily roused. But no one took any notice because she was always so sorry afterwards—everyone put it down to high spirits. For the first year Mr. Hugh was happy; then it seemed as if he began to realize that everything was not quite well with her. She would go for weeks as submissive as a bird, and then suddenly break out into uncontrollable rages that would turn her into a fiend and leave her so exhausted that she was really ill."

"Didn't he consult any doctors?"

The woman shrugged. "The house was full of them, but no one could do anything for her. I remember the
night they took her away to a nursing home for the first
time. Mr. Hugh said something to me then that I've
never forgotten. 'Emily, he said, 'the minute poor Meg was born it was too late for doctors'." She put her hands
together and studied their palms. "She'd come back from the nursing home quite well again and everyone would hope she was cured. But she always had to go back in the end, until during one of her sane periods she begged him never to send her away again. I don't know what she said that went so deep, but from then on
he had a nurse permanently in the house and she never
went back to the home. Mr. Hugh often used to go away
himself, but when he decided to keep Mrs. Rockwood at home she began begging him to take her with him,
and eventually I suppose he felt a change of scene might
do her good, because some time after that he took her away and they didn't come back to Crags' Height for more than a year. When they did it was with Mr. Dominic who was two months old. He was born in the
south where it was warm and sunny—loved the sun, she
did, poor thing, I suppose it helped to clear away the darkness in her mind."

"But surely Mr., Rockwood couldn't have wanted a
child, knowing what its inheritance was likely to be?"
Barbara put in.

"Every man wants a son," the woman said simply. "The Lord givcth and the Lord taketh away, and often you can't understand why He gives any more than you can understand why He takes away. For a little while the baby seemed to help Mrs. Rockwood. She would croon over it by the hour and seemed quite normal for quite long stretches at a time. Mr. Hugh made her live a very quiet life, but she was happy enough and he would treat her like a beloved child, as though she
wasn't much older than the son she had given him. They
never travelled after that and Mr. Hugh devoted himself to her. It was a tragedy when he was killed."

"In a hunting accident, wasn't it?"

"Yes, and a black day it was for Crags' Height. Mr.
Dominic was
still
at college and only came home for the
funeral. He hadn't spent much time at home—I think his father wanted to keep the truth about his mother's illness away from him as long as he could."

"But surely that was impossible?"

"Oh no, miss. Mr. Dominic knew she was an invalid, but don't forget that from the time he was old enough to understand she seemed to get better. It was only
when Mr. Hugh died that she went to pieces again and
started leading the sort of life he had always forbidden, giving parties and going abroad for trips with her sister."

Barbara regarded her thoughtfully. "Did Miss Berresford ever show any of the same symptoms?"

"Not exactly, miss. Where Mrs. Rockwood was wild her sister was simple, and it made her just the wrong kind of companion for someone so highly strung and wayward, giving in to every whim and caprice."

"But surely Mr. Dominic must have known the way things were going?"

"He did in the end. That was why he left college before taking his degree. He wanted to be a barrister, you know, but he threw up all his ambitions and came home to devote himself to his mother. He put a stop t all the parties and the trips abroad and made her live the same sort of life as his father had. It broke my heart to watch his youthfulness disappear and see him grow old before his time."

Barbara's heart contracted with pity. "What a-terrible thing for him to bear all alone! His father should have warned him what to expect."

"I daresay he would have done, but he was killed too
suddenly."

"How old was he when his mother died?"

"It was about ten years—he must have been about twenty-six."

"And his aunt?"

"He arranged for her to live here permanently. She was already deteriorating and he was afraid she'd go the same way as his mother. Indeed I think in his heart he blames her for encouraging his mother's wildness."

"But surely he realized that his aunt was no more accountable for her actions than Mrs. Rockwood was?"

"Miss Berresford was never mad, miss, only a little silly and vacant like she is now. But as you know yourself, she can be very shrewd and observant and I think that's why he despises her and finds it difficult to be
kind. He feels that if she made more effort she could be
more normal."

"I see. You've helped me a great deal, Emily—the puzzle is beginning to fall into place. I suppose that's why he lives like a hermit."

"Yes, and that's way he's never married, miss," the woman went on. "Many's the time I've wished he could find some happiness for himself, but I suppose he's afraid of what he might bestow on his children."

Barbara stood up suddenly. "Of course!" Impulsively she bent and kissed the woman's cheek. "Oh. Emily, you've helped me more than you'll ever know!"

Here was the explanation for Dominic's supposed dislike of children, of his unwillingness to love and be loved. No wonder Crags' Height held bitter memories; no wonder the minute he had set foot in it again he had reverted to the man he had been before they went away She ran out of the room and across the hall, her heart full of tumultuous emotion. Breathless, she reached the study door and knocked, then without waiting for an answer opened it and ran in.

Rockwood was sitting at his desk and looked up as the door burst open. "What do you want?"

"Dominic, I know the truth!" she burst out.

For an instant he regarded her without speaking. Then: "That doesn't surprise me in the least. I realized you'd worm it out of Emily sooner or later and there was nothing I could do about it."

"But you needn't pretend any more, Dominic! I know
the truth, I tell you—I know why you were so different
when we were away and why the minute you got back
here everything closed in on you." She faced him across
(he desk, her eyes alight with eagerness and hope. "I know why you tried to make me believe you didn't love me any longer, why you kept pushing me away from
you. But you needn't pretend any more! Oh, my darling,
you've wasted so much of your life already—let's have the courage to take what we can from the future. Children don't matter to mc, Dominic, as long as we have each other, I love you for yourself and not for what you can give me."

A strange expression came into his eyes, but it lingered only for a moment and then was gone. "Very pretty, my dear, but as usual you have let your tongue run away with you. I'm afraid I don't agree with your facile solution. Oh, I know at the moment you don't think it would matter"—he raised his hand to stop her
protest—"but you're young and impulsive and you think you're in love with me. Perhaps the idea of sacrificing
yourself appeals to you?"

"I don't look upon it as a sacrifice."

"At the moment, possibly not. But would you think the same in five or ten years' time when the first
glamour of marriage has worn off? What would you feel,
isolated with mc here year after year with no outlet for your maternal instinct? If you saw a child come running up to clutch at your skirts wouldn't you long to have
one of your own? Wouldn't your love for me eventually
turn to something like hatred?"

"You're building your arguments purely on supposition," she broke out. "Thousands of women don't
have any children and still have happy marriages. Any
way, we could always adopt one."

"Adopt one!" His laugh was bitter. "How do you think it would make me feel to see you holding an
adopted child in your arms and know it was I who had
prevented you from having one of your own? Do you think I'd want to bring even an adopted child into this house? That I'd want any child to have to watch me deteriorate in the same way as my mother did?"

"But that's fantastic!" she protested. "You're perfectly normal."

"At the moment, perhaps. But I'm my mother's son and I already have her temper."

"Lots of sane people have worse tempers than yours."

"That's as may be, but it still doesn't refute my argu
ments. I'm sorry you should find it so difficult to realize
that I've made up my mind. You're only making it more difficult and embarrassing for me."

"You never used those arguments when you wanted to marry Gina, did you?" she retorted desperately.

"You and Gina arc quite different. Not every woman is made to have children."

She paused, uncertain what to say next, only knowing
that his words were closing the door on any chance of future together. "But, Dominic, I can't believe "

The shrill peal of the telephone bell cut her short and he reached over and took up the receiver. "Hullo? Yes, I've put through a personal call. Good." There was a
short pause. "Hullo, is that you, Gina? Dominic Rock-
wood here. Yes, I heard the news. That's why I'm ringing you. I thought perhaps you might like to come here and stay for a while. It would do you good to get away."

For an instant Barbara stood rooted to the spot, un
able to believe her ears. It was as if Dominic had struck
her a physical blow, and she stared at him uncompre
hendingly, hearing the lightness of his tone and seeing
the sudden blandness of his expression. Then without a backward glance she walked out of the room and closed
the door.

She was unable to face anyone at that moment. Without even stopping to fetch her coat she went out of
the front door and down the drive towards the mountain path, going where her steps led, unaware of direction or
purpose. Dominic's final rejection was still too much of a shock for her to feel humiliation—that was to come later. She only knew that she had offered her love for the first time in her life and it had been refused.

To stay at Crags' Height with Gina in the house was
impossible, and she walked up the steep mountain road with only one thought in her mind—to leave whether Dominic had replaced her or not.

She might have continued walking for hours if black
clouds had not suddenly begun to chase across the sky, and heavy drops of rain started to fall, increasing to a deluge which forced her to turn back. But she was glad of the rain, for it restored her sense of balance and she
held up her face to the cold torrent, feeling it on her lips and against her eyelids, heedless that it was soaking her
hair and her dress.

The storm was abating when she reached the house and let herself in at the front door. As she crossed the stone flags Emily appeared and threw up her hands at the sight of her.

"Good gracious, miss, have you been out in all that rain? You're soaked to the skin!"

"Am I?" she said dully. "I suppose I'd better go u and change."

"Yes, indeed, and have a hot bath too, or you'd b getting a chill."

Barbara shivered. "Yes, Pm cold." She went slowly up the stairs, her clothes clinging to her and her footsteps leaving wet marks on the stone.

After her bath she was able to think more clearly, but her only coherent thought was still that she must leave
Crags' Height as
sooq
as possible, and she went method
ically round her room, emptying the drawers and ward-