The Proposal (35 page)

‘I know it’s difficult to accept what happened, but . . .’

Georgia looked at Amy, her chin raised defiantly.

‘But what?’

‘Well, isn’t it about time you let it go?’

‘Let it go?’ said Georgia in disbelief. ‘But she was evil. Clarissa was evil.’

‘Evil?’

‘She lied, don’t you see that?’ said Georgia. ‘She lied about everything. Edward didn’t rape her.’

‘So you still don’t believe her story? None of it?’ asked Amy carefully. She didn’t want to upset her friend any more than she had to, but at the same time, it wouldn’t do Georgia any good to see out the rest of her days being so angry, lonely and estranged.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Georgia said quietly. ‘Which is easier to believe: that a young man gets drunk and sexually assaults a woman at a party, or that a woman is prepared to destroy a man’s life by claiming that he did?’

Amy didn’t know the answer to that one. Both crimes were heinous.

‘Well, I never accepted Clarissa’s story for one minute, and I never will,’ said Georgia, her voice fraught with emotion. ‘I never believed that Edward did what she said – no, it’s more than that. I always knew deep in my heart that he would never have done that. And he swore to me in his letters that nothing had ever happened with Clarissa. He said that yes, he had come into the walled garden looking for me, but he had gone straight out again when I wasn’t there.’

‘Then why did she do it? Even if she was that wicked, why do it? The scandal would have had an impact on her life, her prospects of marriage.’

‘You are absolutely right.’ Georgia looked at Amy with a new respect. ‘Clarissa didn’t mean for Edward to die. I think her plan spiralled out of control,’ she said, her mouth fixing like concrete.

She settled her hands back in her lap and took a deep breath.

‘Like you, I couldn’t fit the pieces together at first. And remember, this was the fifties; rape was much more difficult to prove – and to disprove. There was certainly no DNA testing. It really did come down to one person’s word against another’s.’

‘So no one was ever sure if Clarissa was raped?’

‘Exactly. This wasn’t about whether she consented to sex with Edward; it was whether she had sex with him all.’

‘Wasn’t she examined?’

‘By a doctor, yes. But again, back then, they simply confirmed that she’d had sex. Even that was hard to prove because she had been swimming. The doctor examined Edward too, and confirmed that he had recently ejaculated, but Edward confessed that he’d recently had sex with me.’

‘But if she hadn’t had sex – of any kind – with Edward, who
had
she had sex with?’ asked Amy.

Georgia sighed.

‘About a year after Edward’s death, I heard that Clarissa was dating Christopher Carlyle. I immediately thought that was strange. I mean, her story was that she had been horribly traumatised by Christopher’s brother – would you want a daily reminder of what had happened? Would you want someone who looked like him to come anywhere near you?’

There was a definite logic to that, thought Amy. If it was her, she certainly wouldn’t, but again, it wasn’t proof.

‘Maybe they just fell in love,’ she said.

‘Maybe,’ replied Georgia without conviction. ‘Either way, within another six months they had announced their engagement. I had just gone up to Cambridge, and one day in the quad I met an old friend of Christopher’s. He told me that he’d seen Clarissa and Christopher together in the summer of ’58. They definitely knew each other then. I remember seeing them together at my birthday dance.’

‘What does that prove? Surely they would have bumped into each other – they were on the same social circuit, weren’t they?’

Georgia shook her head.

‘Christopher had confided in him – he and Clarissa were an item. So I think the person Clarissa had sex with that night was Christopher, not Edward.’

‘But why on earth would she accuse Edward of something so awful?’

‘Envy? Greed? Spite?’ she said softly. ‘I’ve been asking myself that question for the past fifty years.’

She fell silent for a moment, seeming to gather her thoughts.

‘Whatever the reason, Clarissa got what she wanted: a good marriage. A great one, in fact. The Carlyles were one of the most prominent families in England at the time. When I found out about Clarissa and Christopher, I did a bit of digging around. I spoke to a few debs who had done the Season the same year as Clarissa. It turns out she’d been after Edward Carlyle – “set her cap” at him, as we used to say. I mean, to be honest, Edward was the catch of the Season – rich, titled, handsome and clever, he was the one all the girls were after. But according to her friends, Clarissa was obsessed.’

Amy shook her head.

‘But she didn’t get Edward, did she?’

‘No, but Christopher was the next best thing. With Edward out of the way, Christopher moved up the pecking order to elder son. And as Christopher’s wife, she became chatelaine of that great house: a real lady. Although only in name, of course, not in the ways that count.’

Amy tried to take it all in. It was a big accusation that Georgia was making; no wonder it had caused such a bitter rift in the family, and no wonder Will had said they didn’t want any whisper of the scandal getting out.

‘Did you tell them what you thought had happened?’

Georgia nodded.

‘Of course, how could I keep that to myself? My family thought I was wicked for even thinking such a thing. I was an outcast. Even my mother thought I was deluded. She knew how much I wanted Edward to be innocent, but like everyone else, she believed Clarissa. Why wouldn’t she? So my relationship with Estella never really recovered either.’

‘What happened to you? What did you do?’

The old woman shrugged.

‘What could I do? I left home, got a job. At night I studied. I lost myself in a world of books and kept thinking about university and how Edward said I’d be happy there, how I would flourish. I took the Cambridge exam and got in. I didn’t apply to Oxford. It would have been too painful for me. I went up to Newnham College and I made a new life for myself.’

She spread her hands.

‘And here we are.’

Amy looked around the apartment. When she had first come here, it had looked so impressive, all the art, all the books, the wonderful view. Now she could see it as Georgia must have done from time to time down the years: big and lonely, a consolation prize at best, a pale substitute for the grand house and the happy life she should have had – the life she should have shared with the man she adored.

‘Have you seen Clarissa since?’ she asked.

Georgia shook her head.

‘There was one occasion when I saw her on Regent Street. I know she saw me too, but she looked the other way. She knows what she’s guilty of, so it suits her to have
deluded
cousin Georgia wiped from her life. She doesn’t want a reminder of what she did. A reminder of the guilt, the shame, the fear.’

‘Fear?’

Georgia gave a low snort.

‘The fear of getting found out, fear of scandal.’

She was crying now, tears running down her pale, elegant face.

‘Edward proposed to me that night, he put a ring on my finger. We talked about our wedding day, about our honeymoon, the life we were going to have in New York. Does that sound like a man about to commit a terrible crime?’

Amy shook her head slowly.

Georgia beat her frail hand against her chest.

‘He did not lie, Amy, he just didn’t. He wouldn’t have done that. Not then, not any night. And if you don’t believe that, then you don’t believe in love.’

She bowed her head, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed. Amy moved closer to her on the sofa and put an arm around her.

‘So now you know,’ sniffed Georgia. ‘That’s why I am reduced to advertising for a companion in a magazine. That’s why I have no desire to spend Christmas with my family.’

‘And it’s why you’ve never been to New York.’

‘I think I was the only senior person in the publishing industry who had never been,’ she said with a sorry laugh. ‘But I could never go to the one place I could have been truly happy.’

‘Oh Georgia, I’m so sorry.’

The old woman took a deep breath and pushed herself up.

‘Well, let’s not spoil the day. It’s all water under the bridge anyway. Nothing’s going to bring Edward back, however many tears are shed.’

She bent to pick up the jug of flowers.

‘These are beautiful, you know,’ she said. ‘I am going to put them by the window.’

She took two steps, then seemed to stagger and pitch forward, one hand reaching for the window ledge.

‘Georgia!’ cried Amy as the vase tumbled in a slow-motion arc, clattering to the floor and spilling the flowers. She scrambled across and hooked her arms under the old woman’s shoulders, half lifting, half pulling her into an armchair.

‘I’m fine. I’m fine,’ said Georgia.

‘No you are not fine,’ said Amy, hands on hips. ‘I am going to call a doctor.’

‘Please, Amy, no.’

‘Georgia, I think something is wrong. I really think we should get someone to look at you.’

‘No,’ she said fiercely.

Amy was already at the phone.

‘Tell me the name of your doctors. I’m phoning them.’

‘There’s no point.’

‘No point?’ said Amy, her concern making her snap. ‘This is your health we’re talking about.’

‘There’s no point because I know what’s wrong with me. My doctors know what’s wrong with me.’

Amy felt the temperature in the room drop.

‘What is it?’ she said, her voice almost a whisper.

Georgia waved a pale hand, as if it was nothing of concern.

‘I was having headaches, the odd fall, so I had all the tests. In the end, they found something. It’s being managed.’

‘What’s being managed?’ Amy hardly dared to breathe.

Georgia fell silent, as if she didn’t want to say the words.

‘You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?’ asked Amy, rooted to the floor.

‘Well, they can’t operate, too far gone apparently.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Amy, her voice shaking in panic.

‘I means I’m going to die,’ said Georgia, quite simply. ‘It happens to us all, doesn’t it? For me it will just be sooner rather than later. That’s why I had to go to New York.’

‘Your bucket list,’ said Amy in a voice so soft she could barely hear it herself.

‘It was the only thing left in my life I had to do.’

At least it wasn’t raining. Amy squinted up at the grey sky, searching the building across the road.
There
. The socks were still hanging on the balcony. Counting the windows across and the floors down, she worked out the number of Will’s flat and walked to the entrance.
Ah
, she thought. The names were on the buzzers anyway.

She pressed the button next to ‘Hamilton, W.’ and was rewarded by a familiar baritone.

‘It’s Amy,’ she said. ‘From the coffee shop.’

‘If this is about the socks, I was just about to bring them in.’

‘Just let me in, okay?’ she said crisply.

Compared to the grand chandelier and staircase of Georgia’s entrance hall, the communal area for Will’s building was small and gloomy. She took the two flights of stairs to where Will was waiting on the landing and handed him a fistful of envelopes she’d grabbed down in the hallway.

‘Your post,’ she said, making for the open door of his apartment.

‘Come in,’ said Will sarcastically under his breath.

Inside, a narrow corridor led to a small, crowded living room. It was untidy, of course – this was a man who left his washing out for a whole season – but the few pieces of furniture in the room – a sofa, coffee table covered with heavyweight magazines, and a heaving bookcase – were smart and tasteful. There were framed film posters on the walls: bold technicolour prints of Billy Wilder classics –
Some Like It Hot
,
The Apartment
and
Sunset Boulevard
. It was not a room that was ever going to appear in an interiors magazine, but it was a space that hummed with the personality of its owner.

‘I like those movies too,’ said Amy, suddenly feeling nervous. After all, she had barged into his inner sanctum without an invitation – very unladylike behaviour, she recognised, by any standard – and now she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to deal with all the issues her morning at Georgia’s place had thrown up.

‘I was just over at Georgia’s, Will,’ she said, realising that now she was here, she could hardly back out again. ‘She’s not well. She had a fall when I was there, and it meant I found out a whole heap of stuff I’m not even sure you know about.’

‘What?’ he said, looking alarmed. ‘What kind of fall? Is she all right?’

‘She’s dying, Will,’ she said, feeling her hands begin to shake.

Will looked at her incredulously as Amy told him what had happened at the apartment. When she had finished, he sank into a chair and ran his fingers through his dark hair.

‘Shit,’ he repeated again and again, then looked up at Amy. ‘How long has she got?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Are we talking months? Years?’ he said impatiently.

‘Will, I don’t know.’ She felt overwhelmed with emotion. ‘She doesn’t want to talk about it, but it’s not good. And it’s all the more reason to do something about your family. She might not be around for too much longer.’