Dear Trustee (3 page)

“Is there much to explain?” Cecile looked enquiring.

Mr. Carisbrooke did not reply at once. And, after a moment, it was Gregory Picton who said, not unkindly,

“In the literal sense, Cecile, there is not much to discuss. Although your father was a wealthy man when he made his will and appointed the trustees, in the last year or two he used a great deal of capital in order to make some unlucky investments.”

“Then you mean there is nothing much for the trustees to administer?” Cecile seized on that eagerly.

“Not much,” he agreed.

“So that you haven’t got much hold—I mean control—over me?”

“I don’t know that we should ever have had much
hold—
or even control—over you.” Gregory Picton looked amused again. “We are not your legal guardians. But—I can’t answer for my fellow trustees—I myself feel I have some sort of moral responsibility with regard to your welfare, whatever the size of the estate.”

“Very proper,” murmured Mr. Carisbrooke approvingly.

But Cecile merely said flatly and rather rudely, "Why?”

“Because, my dear, your father was very good to me when I was a very young man and needed an older friend,” Gregory Picton told her. “If he thought me a trustworthy person to look after his daughter when he was gone, I have no intention of rejecting that obligation, either because the estate turns out to be a modest affair, after all, or because I seem rather an unpopular choice with the daughter concerned.”

There was silence for a moment, while Cecile considered whether or not this were intended as an olive branch. But she decided that, even if it were, it had been waved altogether too casually under her nose. And so she simply asked, somewhat coldly, “How long does this trust last?”

“Until you are twenty-three.”

“Why not twenty-one? Isn’t that more usual?”

“I suppose your father thought twenty-three a safer age for you to be on your own,” Gregory Picton said, while Mr. Carisbrooke observed that these matters were at the discretion of the deceased.

Then Gregory Picton rose and said he must go.

“Where are you staying, Cecile?”

“At the Stirling House Hotel.”

“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow evening? We can discuss things in more detail then. And perhaps—” he smiled again—“get to know each other better.”

She would have liked to refuse. But, as this was impossible, she thanked him formally and accepted. And, having arranged to fetch her at seven the following evening, he bade Mr. Carisbrooke goodbye. He was actually at the door before he turned and said: “Oh, Cecile, I don’t want to act the heavy guardian, but I would rather you did not attempt to meet your mother until after we have had a talk together.”

Then he went off, apparently under the impression that it was enough for him to make his wishes known. Cecile looked after him and her eyes sparkled dangerously. But she said nothing, for the simple reason that he had not waited long enough for her to do so.

Mr. Carisbrooke then recalled himself to her notice by clearing his throat once more, and then informed her that he would be applying for probate of her father’s will, after which it would be easier to clarify the financial position.

“When Mr. Picton says there isn’t much money left,” said Cecile thoughtfully, “does that mean that I had better set about earning my own living as quickly as possible?”

To this Mr. Carisbrooke gave it as his opinion that there was no immediate urgency, “—though there will certainly not be sufficient for you to live on without augmenting your income,” he hastened to add, before Cecile should get any exaggerated ideas.

“Well, that’s all right.” Cecile was philosophical. “Most people have to do at least that. And it will be more interesting than living in a mouldy old house in Yorkshire. I shall sell the house, of course,” she added with authority.

Mr. Carisbrooke forbore to point out that she would have to consult the trustees, and contented himself with adding, somewhat pessimistically, “If you can find a buyer.”

“
Y
e
s.
And. if there is enough money, I should like our
two maids
to have a small pension each,” Cecile continued f
irmly.
At which Mr. Carisbrooke looked rather alarmed.

"Miss Bernadine, there won’t be enough money to throw about.”

“I shan't throw it about,” Cecile assured him. “But they are old and can’t work, while I am young and can.”

“I see.” Mr. Carisbrooke’s expression softened. “It’s as simple as that, is it?”

Cecile thought it was. And presently, having assured Mr. Carisbrooke that she would be staying in London for some while longer and be available for consultation, she bade him a friendly goodbye and went out once more into the quiet and peaceful atmosphere of the tree-shaded square in which his office was situated.

For some minutes she walked along slowly, reviewing the extraordinary way in which her life had changed since she had entered that office an hour or so ago.

It was characteristic of Gregory Picton, she felt sure, that he should instruct her to wait until
he
decreed the time for a meeting between her and her mother. It was equally characteristic of Cecile that she determined to do nothing of the kind.

In fact, having glanced at her watch, with an air of obstinate determination which would have given Mr. Picton food for thought, she quickened her steps until she came to Fleet Street once more. Here she hailed a taxi and drove straight to the theatre where she had been with Maurice Deeping on the previous evening.

She was trembling as she entered the foyer, but whether with excitement or an obscure sense of guilt she was not sure. Here she briefly studied the list of the cast which hung near the box office.

Mrs. Edenham—that was the name of the character in the play! And opposite it was the disconcertingly unfamiliar name—Laurie Cavendish. Her stage name, of course. But it seemed an incongruous name for one’s mother to have, even for professional purposes, somehow.

Cecile approached the box office and, in as confident a tone as she could manage, asked for the telephone number of Miss Laurie Cavendish.

“We don’t give the phone numbers of the cast,” replied the indifferent young man framed in the small opening. “You can write in.”

“But this is urgent
!
” Suddenly, it seemed to Cecile that it was.

“I’m sorry,” the young man said, without any sign of regret.

“But I—I know her very well.” Strangely untrue, of course, and yet with a sort of moving rightness about it.

“I’m sorry,” said the young man again. “Next, please.”

And Cecile realized that someone was standing behind her, no doubt waiting impatiently to enquire about tickets.

Slowly she moved away. And, as she did so, a door at the end of the foyer opened and a man came out. Her glance passed over him without interest in the first moment. Then sudden, unmistakable recollection came to her. Even without make-up he was easily recognizable. This was Lucas Manning who was walking towards her.

Afterwards Cecile wondered how she found the courage and resolution to address him. Perhaps the sheer necessity of catching the movement or forever losing it prompted her. At any rate, she stepped boldly forward in his path and said, pleadingly, “Mr. Manning—” too late she remembered that Maurice Deeping had said he was Sir Lucas—“please could I speak to you?”

“Yes?” He paused and gave her his famous smile.

“I want to get in touch with someone in your cast—” she spoke quickly, breathlessly—“Miss Laurie Cavendish.”

She was aware suddenly that the famous actor-manager’s glance travelled over her with increased attention and interest.

“If you send in a note at the stage door, it will be given to her,” he said.

“But that means quite a l
o
t of delay. I wouldn’t see her until tomorrow then.”

“And is it so necessary to see her today?”

“Yes. It is,” Cecile insisted, and waited hopefully.

To her surprise, there was quite a pause before Sir Lucas replied. And then he neither denied her request nor granted it He asked, in a rather odd tone of voice:

“Are you a relation of hers?”

“Why, yes.” Cecile was slightly taken aback.

“I thought you must be. You are so like her.”

It was the second time this fact had been remarked upon, and it gave Cecile the extraordinary feeling that she wanted to cry.

“Don’t think me inquisitive,” Sir Lucas went on, “but what relation are you?”

Cecile swallowed, hesitated, and then said, “I’m her daughter.”

“I see.” Sir Lucas bit his lip. “Is she expecting you?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then I think,” he glanced at his watch, “you had better come with me into my office for a moment. As a matter of fact, she is here in the theatre now.”

“
Here
?”
Cecile felt her throat and mouth go dry.

“Yes. We have just had a run-through of the second act. But I don’t think it would be fair, either to her or tonight’s performance, to spring an unexpected daughter upon her without notice.” As he spoke, he had shepherded Cecile through the door at the back of the foyer, along a narrow passage, and into an unexpectedly large and pleasant office.

It was empty. But on the desk was a photograph of the girl Cecile had seen in the box the previous evening, and there was also, Cecile noted with the sharpened sense of clarity which goes with intense excitement, a photograph of two little boys. The younger one angelic and unruffled, the older one grave and responsible looking.

“My wife and my two boys,” explained Sir Lucas, as though he were introducing them. “Sit down and relax.”

Ce
ci
le sat down, but it was beyond her to relax. She gazed anxiously up at Sir Lucas and asked:

“Wh-what did you want to say to me?”

“I’m not quite sure.” He gave a short laugh. “Only I feel some sort of preparation is necessary before what might be called the big scene. How long is it since Laurie—since your mother—has seen you?”

“About fifteen or sixteen years. I don’t remember her at all. But my father died recently and I found out about—about my family circumstances. And this afternoon I discovered that my mother is alive, instead of dead, as I imagined. And—and I want to see her.” Cecile gave an unexpected little gulp which shamed and surprised her.

“Yes, of course. I do understand.” Sir Lucas gave her the look of sympathetic understanding which he used with immense effect in the third act of his current play. "But you will—”

He stopped speaking as there was a knock on the door. And, after a second’s pause, he called out, “Come in.”

Even before the door opened, some instinct warned Cecile what was going to happen, and, although her heart beat unevenly, she was not really surprised that the woman who entered was uncannily like herself. Older, of course, and with an indefinable air of knowledge and experience quite at variance with Cecile’s rather artless expression.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sir Lucas. I thought you were alone—” The woman broke off suddenly and stood staring at Cecile.

There was the most extraordinary moment of complete silence, which seemed to press on one’s ears as acutely as sound. Then she said, slowly and rather huskily:

“Who are you?”

CHAPTER II

F
or a cowardly second Cecile half hoped that Sir Lucas was going to reply for her. Then, when it became obvious that he was not, she drew a quick breath and said:

“I am Cecile.”

“Cecile?” Her mother came slowly over to her, the expression on her face so complicated that it was difficult to tell what emotion predominated. Then she took her daughter by the hand, though she did not attempt to kiss her, and said, “Why have you come?”

“Why, because I—I wanted to see you, of course—to know you. I didn’t even know you were alive until this afternoon, when the lawyer told me. It’s an immense discovery for me.”

“I suppose it must be.” Her mother smiled faintly at last, though she still looked, in some odd way, wary and on the defensive.

“Laurie—” Sir Lucas intervened at this point—“I’m going to leave you both now. This is your big scene, not mine. But stay on in the office if you like. It’s more private than a shared dressing room.
And—try not
to
be too emotional over this, or
you’ll be unfit for tonight’s performance.”

“I’m not being emotional over it at all,” Laurie Cavendish replied. “At least, I don’t think I am.” She pushed back her hair. “All the emotion was years ago. But thank you, Sir Lucas. We shan’t stay long, I imagine.”

“Well, do as you like.” The actor-manager patted Cecile on the shoulder as he passed. “Come and see Laurie in the show one night. She’s good.”

Then he went off, leaving Cecile wondering what she was to do next.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?” She gestured rather diffidently towards a chair. “There’s quite a lot to talk about, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know. Is there?” But her mother sat down in one of Sir Lucas’s comfortable armchairs.

“I suppose you knew that Father died recently?”

“I saw the announcement in the papers.” Incredibly, her mother contrived to sound quite indifferent. “Does that leave you alone in the world, Cecile?”

Cecile hardly liked to say, “Except for you.” So instead she said, “Except for three trustees Father appointed.”

“Three trustees!” Her mother laughed contemptuously. “How like him to overdo things. Why three, for heaven’s sake? And who are they?”

“Aunt Josephine is one of them.”

“Josephine?” An amused, half-reminiscent glint came into her mother’s handsome eyes. “I’d forgotten her very existence until this moment. Who else?”

“A Mr. Deeping. But he is ill and elderly, I understand. So, in actual fact, I think only one trustee will take an active interest, and that is Gregory Picton. He’s a barrister.”

“Gregory Picton?” Again there was that defensive, almost wary look in her mother’s face. “Oh yes, I suppose your father might well choose him.”

“Do you know him?”

“Slightly. I don’t like what I know.”

It was on the tip of Cecile’s tongue to say that was her own position exactly. But some obscure sense of loyalty to her trustee, which surprised herself, held her back. Instead, she said, “I have only just met him.”

“Did he mention me?”

“Oh, yes. He told me I had seen you last night in the play.”

“You saw me last night?” For the first time, her mother displayed lively interest. “What did you think of the show?”