Carisbrooke Abbey (21 page)

But still, there was no doubt she had had some terrible things to endure, he thought with a frown. When his father’s madness had driven her to distraction, perhaps she had taken solace in the arms of a normal man. She must have needed warmth and tenderness, love and kindness ... things his poor, mad father was incapable of giving her.

Slowly his feelings began to change. It no longer seemed impossible that his mother might have been unfaithful. And if she had taken solace in the arms of another man, he found he could not blame her for it.

‘So my mother had an affair,’ he said.

‘Certainly not,’ returned Maud. ‘She would never have done such a thing. The ties of marriage were sacred to her. That is why she nursed your father so lovingly through his insanity.’

‘Then I must be Lord Carisbrooke’s son!’ he said in exasperation.

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You are not.’ She took up another ball of wool and tied it to the end of the one she had almost finished. ‘You see, your mother was already with child when she married Lord Carisbrooke.’

‘Then it is even worse. You are saying that she duped him into bringing up another man’s child as his own,’ he said, his voice hollow. He did not like what he was hearing.

‘Not a bit of it,’ she said, her needles clacking. ‘What a low opinion you entertain of your mother.’

‘You leave me no choice!’ he declared. ‘First of all you tell me that I am illegitimate, then that my mother was already with child when she married my ... the man I thought was my father ... tell me, what am I meant to think?’

‘Yes. It is difficult to take in all at once,’ she agreed. ‘But you must not doubt your mother. She was the sweetest, gentlest, most loving woman that ever lived. But this, of course, you know. She never deceived Lord Carisbrooke - or, at least, what is more to the point, she never deceived his mother: for by that time Lord Carisbrooke was too far gone in madness to know what was happening, or even to care.’

Marcus put down his cup. ‘Then you mean ... ‘ He thought. ‘ ... that she was a widow?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘In a manner of speaking?’ he demanded. Instead of growing clearer, her story was growing more obscure.

‘I think I had better start at the beginning. I was your mother’s nurse, as you know. I nursed her all through her childhood, and stayed on as her governess as she grew older. She was a lovely young woman.’ Her knitting needles fell silent as she clearly became lost in a reverie. ‘She was so pretty, and so full of life. It was no wonder your father - your real father - fell in love with her. He was a fine, upstanding young gentleman,’ Maud explained. ‘He was one of your mother’s neighbours, the son of wealthy landowners. It was an excellent match, but it was more than that. Your mother and he were very much in love. They had grown up together, you see. They had played together as children, they had danced together at country balls, and no one was surprised when they fell in love.’

‘Then how ... ?’

‘How did it happen that they never married? They would have done. Your father asked for your mother’s hand, and it was gladly granted. Your grandparents, on both sides of the family, were in favour of the match. The wedding was arranged for the summer of 1780. The preparations were made, the banns were read. And then your father fell ill. It was only a minor indisposition, but the wedding could not go ahead and so it was postponed until the following month. Your father recovered, and everything went on as before. Until the outing.’

She fell silent.

‘The outing?’ Marcus prompted her.

She sighed. ‘Yes. The outing.’ She adjusted the knitted blanket, laying it more comfortably across her knee. ‘It should have been a happy occasion. Your mother and father, together with their parents, were to go on a picnic to a local beauty spot, but in the morning your mother was very sick. It was taken to be a similar illness to the one endured by your father, and though unpleasant, there were no fears as to its outcome. At your mother’s insistence, they went on the picnic without her. She never could bear to spoil anyone’s pleasure. But as she continued to be sick she confided in me, telling me that she and your father had given in to their feelings just before the original date set for their wedding, and that she was now with child. I scolded her, of course, but there was no changing it, and besides, in another week she would be safely married. Or so we thought.’

Marcus began to have a presentiment.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘There was an accident. The picnic spot was at the top of a steep hill. On the way back, one of the wheels came off the carriage. It overturned, killing everyone inside. When your mother was told she was beside herself with grief. In the space of one afternoon she had lost everyone she held dear: her fiancé, her parents, and her future parents-in-law, who were almost as close as her real parents to her. If not for the fact that she was with child, I believe she might have contemplated taking her own life, she was so stricken with grief. I pressed upon her the notion that she had something to live for, and though distraught, she at last began to rally.

‘But then came another blow. Her father had speculated unwisely, and his death brought heavy debts to light. If he had lived, I have no doubt he would have righted himself, but he died at the worst possible moment, when his estate was worth almost nothing. Your mother had lost not only every one she loved, but her home and almost all her means of support as well.

‘It was a bitter time. And to make matters worse, her condition was beginning to show. And so I brought her here, to Lyme. I had come here myself as a child, and been happy here, so I hoped the sea air would lift her spirits. It was then we met Lord Carisbrooke.’

Marcus let out a pent up breath. The events she was unfolding were so unexpected that he had almost forgotten to breathe.

Outside, the light was growing dim.

‘Or perhaps, I should say we met his mother,’ continued Maud.

‘How did it come about?’ asked Marcus. Now that he had begun to come to terms with her revelation, he wanted to know everything he could about his mother, and the trials she had endured.

‘Lord Carisbrooke was in Lyme, brought there by his mother, and for a similar reason. He was ill, and she had hoped he would benefit from the sea air.’

‘He was mad?’

‘He was. Of course, your mother and I did not know that at the time. We took a walk one morning. I can still remember it as though it was yesterday. It was a heavy day. The sky was grey, and the clouds were low. There was a keen wind blowing in from the sea. We were well wrapped up against the cold, and we walked along the beach. As we walked, the sun came out. We sat in a sheltered spot and talked over what was to be done. Your mother was hopeless, and I must confess I almost felt the same. We had next to no money, and when we had spent the tiny amount that was left to us we would be destitute. I spoke to her bracingly, but there was little I could do to relieve her gloom. We stopped speaking as a lady approached us, meaning to resume our conversation once she had gone by. But she did not go by. She said that she had overheard her conversation, and that if we would do her the honour of having dinner with her that evening she hoped she would be able to help us, and that in return we might be able to help her.’

She broke off, and looked at his cup.’ But you are not drinking your tea.’

‘Tea! I hardly think this is a time for tea!’ he exclaimed.

‘Nonsense. It is exactly the time for tea. You have had a nasty shock.’

‘What happened next?’

‘Tea first,’ she said, exactly as though he was still in the nursery. ‘Then I will finish my tale.’

He gave a low growl, but nevertheless he took up his cup.

‘And a biscuit,’ she said.

He gave an exclamation of exasperation, but knew better than to argue with her. He had tried it many times in his childhood, and it had always failed.

He took a biscuit.

‘I had the recipe from Mrs Wilson next door,’ she said, as he ate it. ‘She has several very good recipes, including an excellent one for ginger beer. Yvonne and I are quite taken with it.’

‘It’s very good,’ said Marcus grudgingly. He knew she would not continue until he had expressed an opinion.

‘I will tell Yvonne. She will be so pleased. She baked them herself.’

He dutifully drank his tea, then a second cup which she forced upon him.

‘Now,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Finish your tale.’

‘Please,’ she admonished him.

‘I am not five years old any longer,’ he growled.

‘More’s the pity,’ she rebuked him. ‘You had such lovely manners when you were five.’

‘Hah! You would drive a saint to distraction! Finish your tale, if you please.’

‘Very well.

She pushed her
pince nez
further up her nose, and then took up her story once more.

‘Your mother and I did not know what to do. It seemed strange that an unknown lady should invite us to dinner. Had things been different, your mother would not have dreamt of accepting the invitation, but in the circumstances it seemed wise to do so, particularly as it meant we would eat well that day, at least. We were driven to such extremes at that time. We joined the unknown lady in the private parlour of an inn just outside Lyme and talked of pleasantries whilst the servants were bustling about, but once they had gone she began to speak.

‘Her story was as tragic as your mother’s. She had been married to the Earl of Carisbrooke - your supposed grandfather, the father of the man you thought was your sire - at a young age, and had been very happy with him. She had had three children. Two had died in infancy, leaving her with only one son. She had loved him dearly, and for a time all had been well. Then her husband had started to have what she described as "queer turns". His behaviour had been erratic. He had started to swear and throw things at the servants. But after each "turn" he had settled down again. Bit by bit, though, his "turns" had become more frequent, and each time they had been worse. They had lasted for longer and longer, and had started to include bouts of violence. Both she and her son had been badly hurt by him on several occasions. It was then she had discovered, during one of his periods of lucidity, that there was madness in his family, a taint he had thought he had escaped: only that belief had induced him to marry and father three children. But he had not escaped.

‘She had naturally been shocked by his revelation, but she had cared for him as well as she could, until in a fit of madness he had thrown himself into the river and drowned.

‘So she was left to bring up her son alone. For a time, she hoped the boy had escaped the family curse, but little by little the first signs began to appear. She kept him at the abbey, well looked after by a faithful couple of servants - you have them still, the Lunds - and from time to time she visited Lyme. The sea air made him calmer, and gave her some respite from her troubles. But she was sick at heart. She was going to lose her son, and after that she would have no one. She had been feeling desperate, she told us, when she had gone for a walk that morning. She had been longing for grandchildren to ease her loneliness and brighten her old age, but she could not allow an unsuspecting young woman to marry her son. She herself had been through agonies watching her husband descend into madness, and she would not inflict that on any other woman. And so she had seen nothing ahead for her but the sorrow of her son’s death and a lonely old age. And then she had heard your mother and I talking and an idea had come to her. If your mother agreed to marry her son, your mother would have a home and would be free from want. Moreover, your mother would have a father for her child and would be able to give it the protection of his name. And your grandmother - I call her your grandmother still, for although she was never related to you by blood, she loved you as truly as if she was your real grandmother - would have a child at the abbey, someone to bring sunshine and laughter into her old age. She would have the joy of watching a "grandchild" grow, and she would be able to relax, safe in the knowledge that it would not be tainted by madness.’

Marcus sat back, trying to digest everything he had heard. There had not been only one tragedy in the past, but two. His grandmother, or at least the woman he had called his grandmother, losing her husband and then her son to madness; and his mother, losing everything in one terrible accident. And yet out of both tragedies something good had come. His mother had found a safe haven, and his grandmother had found a family to love.

‘Then I am truly not Lord Carisbrooke’s son.’

At last he believed it. With the knowledge came a huge sense of relief. He felt suddenly lighter, as the enormous burden he had carried on his shoulders all his life lifted and floated away.

He gave a deep sigh.

He would not go mad.

But then his euphoria began to dissipate. Maud’s story had told him much, but there were still many things he wanted to know.

‘What I don’t understand,’ he said at last, ‘is how my mother came by Esmerelda.’

‘Ah, yes. Esmerelda.’ Maud’s hands stilled. ‘That was a dark day. Or perhaps I should say, a dark night.’

Marcus paled. He began to have an understanding of what was about to come.

‘Your father - that is to say, Lord Carisbrooke - was looked after by Lund, but one night Lund was taken ill. With the cunning that was a hallmark of his madness, Lord Carisbrooke took the key of his room from Lund’s waistcoat and escaped. He found your mother in her bedroom.’ She paused. ‘Esmerelda was the result.’

Marcus put his head in his hands.

‘My poor mother.’

She spoke consolingly. ‘Your mother never blamed him for it, and neither should you. It was not the cruel act of a rational man, but the unthinking instinct of a poor, sad creature, who was too far gone in madness to know what he was doing. Besides, your mother loved your sister. She even hoped, for a time, that Esmerelda had escaped the family curse. But it was not to be.’

Outside the window, afternoon was giving way to evening. Daylight was fading, and it was almost dark.