Gather the Bones (17 page)

Taking a deep breath, she picked up the
Woman’s Weekly
magazine she had picked up in Birmingham the previous day and ventured down to the library. A note had been pinned to the door.

“
Bring a hat. We will take tea in the
garden
.”

The sound of an operatic aria sung by a tenor rose to meet her as she crossed the garden bridge over the moat. Sarah had told her before the war, there had been two full time gardeners and two laborers. Now one boy from the village maintained the once lovely gardens.

Helen followed the music down the weedy gravel paths and overgrown rose beds.

“How wonderful. Thank you,” she said when she found the source of the music, a wind up gramophone. In the time she had taken to restore herself to normality Paul had set up a rough picnic in an old pergola at the bottom of the garden and now lounged on a folding deckchair of dubious age with his feet crossed at the ankles and a straw hat over his face.

“It was too beautiful to spend the afternoon indoors,” he said removing his hat and sitting up. “I think we both deserve an hour off. There’s tea in the flask and I found some cake in the pantry. Help yourself.”

Helen poured milky tea from the flask into a battered, enamel mug and picked up an inelegant hunk of cake from the chipped enamel plate. She smiled. Paul’s idea of tea in the garden, while practical, lacked finesse.

“Where did you find the gramophone?”

“It was Charlie’s so I suppose strictly speaking it’s yours now. Charlie’s taste, as I’m sure you know, ran more to Gilbert and Sullivan. On the other hand, Edmond Clement is my choice.” Paul leaned back in the deckchair and closed his eyes. He held up his hand. “Just listen to this. His rendition of the ‘Dream Aria’ from Massenet’s
Manon
is quite sublime.”

Helen sat down gingerly in the other deck chair, quite sure the aged fabric would give under her weight but it held. Closing her eyes the music drifted over her.

“There you are.” Evelyn’s voice jerked them both out of reverie as the lady strode across the lawn toward them.

“Good afternoon, Evelyn. Have you had a pleasant day?” Paul rose to his feet as she reached them.

Evelyn ignored him, fixing her eyes on Helen. “I thought you had a headache. Instead, I find you lounging around the garden without a care in the world. How dare you walk out on Lady Hartfield this afternoon, leaving your tennis partner completely in the lurch.”

Helen’s stomach churned at the ferocity of her mother-in-law’s anger.

“I genuinely wasn’t feeling well,” she said. “I made my apologies to Lady Hartfield.”

“Helen, I don’t think you understand your position at all. This is extremely difficult for me to say. I am very fond of you and you are Charlie’s widow, but you have a certain informality in your manner that is easily misinterpreted.”

“Evelyn.” Paul growled a warning but Evelyn was in full flight now. In the background the gramophone ground to a crackling halt.

“What do you mean?” Helen bristled.

“To speak frankly,” Evelyn continued, “you have an unfortunate way of leading men on.”

“What men?” Helen felt the heat rushing to her cheeks.

“Tony Scarvell for instance. You flirted outrageously with him last night and today. Everyone noticed.”

“I wasn’t flirting!” Helen protested, mortified as tears of shame pricked her eyes. “I don’t have designs on Tony Scarvell, or any man for that matter. He is just a friend.”

“And James Massey was furious to be left in the lurch like that. Scandalous behavior, Helen.”

“James Massey...” Helen began and could not continue. James Massey’s anger had been directed at his failure to seduce her and win whatever wager he had laid.

“Massey is a fool,” Paul said. “Evelyn, you’ve gone too far. You owe Helen an apology.”

“Lady Morrow.” A band of iron tightened around Helen’s chest and she had to force the words through a dry mouth. “I assure you I did not come to England in the hope of snaring a husband, and I am shocked you should think so little of me.”

“It’s not me, Helen. It’s others who talk.” Evelyn looked away.

“It’s not like you to listen to gossip, let alone relay it in this way,” Paul interceded. “You’re no better than Maude and that bunch of cats who start the whispers in the first place.”

“It had to be said, Paul. I’m sorry, Helen, but I only have your best interests at heart. All I am asking is that you please be a little more circumspect in your behavior.”

Stricken, Helen stared at her mother-in-law. The tears surfaced again, spilling down her cheeks.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled and walked away without looking at either Evelyn or Paul, and then broke into a run.

Evelyn called after her, but she was in no mood to face another barrage. Upstairs in her bedroom, she curled up on the green silk bedspread, the unwelcome tears soaking the faded silk. The curtains billowed in the soft breeze and a sigh whispered through the room, every bit as heavy as her heart felt.

“Not now, Suzanna,” she whispered. “Not now.”

Chapter 11

Every Sunday, Lady Morrow attended the service at the church and had made it clear that Helen and Alice would join her. Sitting in the Morrow family pew within a few feet of the gleaming brass of the war memorial, Helen bowed her head to her hymnbook and tried not to look at Charlie’s name.

Evelyn had made no mention of the previous day’s exchange over breakfast but Helen, still bruised and hurt by the events at Wellmore, could barely bring herself to respond to Evelyn’s attempt at conversation.

The familiar words of the Morning Prayer service provided the balm she sought and by the end of the service, she felt that she had a better perspective on what had occurred, how it had been perceived and how circumspect she needed to be in future.

Evelyn had a meeting about the church fete after the service and Helen took Alice’s hand and walked along the ill-kept path toward the hall. As she put her hand on the rusty gate between the church and the Holdston lands she heard Angela Lambton call her name and looked up to see Angela and Paul walking down the path toward her.

“How was God this morning?” Angela said as they joined her at the gate. “I hope you put in a good word for me? I need someone on my side. Where’s Evelyn?”

“Church fete meeting,” Helen said. “Angela, have you met my daughter, Alice?”

“Yes, I have. She owes me a rematch over Snap,” Angela smiled at Alice. Glancing up at Paul, she said, “We’ve just been for a walk. This weather is glorious. Almost makes one like the countryside.” She looked up at the church. “You know, I haven’t been into this church for years. When I was a little girl, I always thought it would be the church I would like to get married in. Let’s go inside shall we?”

Before Helen could reply, Angela took her arm and propelled her back toward the church. The parishioners had dispersed and the massive oak door stood open. Angela led them back inside and they walked slowly down the chancel, the women’s heels and Paul’s uneven step echoing in the empty building.

“Have you seen the Morrow family vault, Helen?” Angela said with a mischievous smile. “They’re all there, right up to Sir Gerald.” Her face sobered. “God, that was a dismal funeral. You were–” she glanced at Paul, “–fortunate to miss it.”

Helen recalled Sir Gerald had died not long after Charlie’s death, at a time when Paul would still have been hospitalized. For Evelyn to have lost her son and then her husband in rapid succession must have been heartbreaking.

“Do you have the key to the vault, Paul?” Angela asked.

“Why would I carry a key to the vault?” Paul responded tersely. “You don’t really want to go down there, do you?”

“Of course I do. It’s so deliciously creepy. Alice will love it, won’t you?” She addressed the child who was tracing the carved face of the first Morrow at Holdston, Sir Albury, with her finger. “The Scarvell family vault is positively antiseptic in comparison.”

Paul sighed. “The verger’s outside. Alice, can you go and ask if we can borrow the keys?”

Alice skipped off in search of the verger and returned with a heavy iron key which she presented to Paul. He tossed it to Angela.

“There you go, be my guest.”

Angela caught the key and slid it into the lock. It turned stiffly and she swung the grating open. Beyond the gate was a wooden door with a heavy latch but no padlock. Angela lifted it and the door swung back on creaking hinges.

She looked back. “Anyone else coming?”

“Not me.” Paul leaned against the nearest pew.

“Helen?”

Helen looked at Paul, but his attention was fixed on the beams of the ceiling.

“See if you can find a candle, Helen,” Angela said. “It’s as black as pitch in here.”

Curiosity overcame natural revulsion and Helen had no difficulty finding a box of half-burned candles near the prayer books at the back of the church. Angela lit two with her cigarette lighter and they stepped into the vault. Alice looked up at her, her eyes wide with excitement.

“May I come too?”

“Certainly not,” Helen said. “You may wait here with Uncle Paul.”

Alice’s face fell and she sank into a sulky heap on the nearest pew.

The air in the vault smelled close and musty and Helen’s nose twitched. Death, even old death, had a particular scent. Angela held up her candle. The stone-flagged room was lined on two sides with stone shelves on which rested a large number of coffins. From what Helen could see, the older coffins were pushed to one side to make room for the newer. The overall effect was one of careless neglect as if the more recent occupants had been shoved in where they would fit.

The oppressive atmosphere closed in on her and her candle went out as a breath of icy air touched the back of her neck.

Helen shivered. “That’s enough for me,” she said.

“Don’t you want to find the secret tunnel?” Angela said.

“No thank you,” Helen said. “I’m going back up.”

Compared to the gloom of the crypt, the church seemed filled with warmth and light. Helen ran a hand through her hair as she rejoined Paul. “I would hate to be buried down there.” Paul nodded. “I agree with you.”

“I’m glad Charlie isn’t in there,” Helen said.

He looked down at her but his eyes were in shadow and unreadable.

“So am I.”

“What are you two talking about?” Angela emerged from the vault, blowing out her candle. She shut the door, locked the grate and gave the key back to Alice. “Take that back to Mr. Potter, Alice.”

“If you’ve seen enough, I would like to breathe some of that fresh air now.” Paul strode from the church. In the churchyard, he took a deep breath and leaned against the wall.

“Do you believe there is a tunnel from the house to the church?” Helen asked as they strolled back along the path to the house.

Paul shrugged. “An old house, an old church. It’s possible. Charlie and I looked for it when we were boys but we never found it.”

Alice, trailing behind the adults, piped up. “Mummy? Where’s Daddy?”

All three adults stopped quite still. Helen and Angela turned to look at the child. Paul didn’t move. Helen glanced at him and saw the color had drained from his face.

Alice looked up at her mother with large, serious eyes. “I mean,” she continued, oblivious to the adults’ discomfiture. “I know he’s dead, but I was just wondering if we could go and visit him?”

Helen swallowed. “Daddy doesn’t have a grave like these,” she said, sweeping a hand over the tombstones. “He...he’s somewhere in Belgium where the war was fought. I don’t know where.”

“Oh,” Alice said. “Never mind.”

Angela looked up at the church clock. “Oh, good lord, is that time? I’m expected back at Wellmore for lunch. With any luck, those dreary debutantes will have dispersed. Paul, be a dear and walk me to the stables.”

When Paul didn’t respond, Helen touched his elbow. He seemed lost, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. “Paul?

Paul looked down at her, the green eyes refocusing on her face.

“Sorry,” he said. “Something about stables, Ange?”

Angela tucked her arm into his and they walked together in the direction of the stables.

Alice, bored with the company of adults, ran on ahead. She turned and looked back.

“Coming, Mummy?”

“I left my riding gloves in the stable this morning, Alice. I’ll just fetch them,” Helen said and followed the path others had taken.

She stopped at the entrance to the stableyard, drawing back into the shadows as she saw Paul and Angela beside the mounting block. Angela had the reins of her horse looped over her arm and unaware of Helen’s presence, they turned to face each other. Angela lifted her hand and touched Paul’s cheek in a gesture that was at once tender and solicitous.

Paul bent his head and kissed the woman, a light kiss on the mouth that Angela responded to by placing her hands on his shoulder. As Angela climbed into the saddle she bent down and said something to Paul. He laughed in response and slapped the horse on the rump.