Susan Speers (12 page)

I turned the pages of his sketchbooks, so faithfully preserved by Thérèse, and saw his world through his eyes. We made a special shelf for them in the studio. They deserved to come home.

One Sunday after church service Thérèse took me to see his gravestone at the furthest corner of the churchyard. I put a small bouquet of hothouse flowers beneath his name and dates, their petals touching the inscription “
He was dearly loved
”.

“Your mother ordered his headstone,” Thérèse told me, “though she never saw it.”

*

Two days later I had a letter from Amalia Pickety.

“Your father is ill,” she wrote. “He won’t discuss it with me, nor does he ask for your direction, but he comes to tea every few days and gives such speaking looks. Mr. Pickety has made confidential enquiries. It’s believed that your father suffers from congestive heart failure.”

Heart failure, I considered on a cold day in early December. I sat on the same garden bench I’d shared with Jeremy. His heart is failing him too. Mrs. Pickety had not asked anything of me, but I began to consider a journey I never thought to make again: a journey back to Hethering.

Within the week a messenger boy on his bicycle brought a wire from my former governess.

“
Your father is dying
,” it read. “
If you will come, come now.
”

*

I remember less of my journey to Hethering than I do the troubled look in Thérèse’s eyes as she bid me au revoir. She believed I might not return to St. Ives, though I assured her I would.

Our butler, Henry, opened the door for me. The house was just the same, so unchanged I believed a young Jemmy or Clarry might run past me shrieking in a childish game.

“Is Mr. Jeremy here?” I couldn’t stop my words.

“Been and gone, Miss. The Master dismissed him. He’s waiting for you.” Henry crimped his lips into a firm line, but there were tears in his eyes.

I climbed the stairs and entered Richard Marchmont’s bedchamber. He lay back against his pillows, his eyes sunken, his complexion so pale it appeared blue in the firelight. His breath labored and rattled.

His eyes opened when I closed the door behind me.

“Father,” I said, and took his hand.

His eyes opened slowly and he blinked at me. “Marissa?” He called me by my mother’s name. “Have you come for me?”

“It’s Clarissa, Father.”

He opened his eyes wider. “Of course, Clarissa. I was dreaming. So you’ve come home to Hethering.”

“Mrs. Pickety wrote to tell me you were ill.”

“Where have you been?”

“In London for a time, then Cornwall. I have a property there.”

“From Edward Dane.”

My stomach plummeted. “You knew,” I whispered when I wanted to scream it. “You always knew.”

“I would do anything to make your mother happy.” His thin thread of a voice was quieter still.

“But you parted me from Jeremy, even when you knew there was no danger.”

“Perception is everything.” He paused to draw in a painful wheezy breath. “Hethering’s heir must be without question.”

“You broke my heart for perception?” I had known that attending Richard Marchmont’s death bed would cause me pain, but this was excruciating.

“There was still the slight connection through your mother.”

I turned and left the room. Henry stood just outside the door so I could not bang it shut behind me.

“He drifts, Miss,” he said. “From year to year, from the past to now. Don’t take his words to heart.”

But I did. Father had known about my mother and Edward Dane, about Cornwall. He knew he wasn’t my natural father. He knew there was little impediment for Jemmy and me to wed. He sacrificed our happiness for Hethering. I hated him.

Yet I couldn’t leave, not yet. Richard Marchmont raised me as his own child. He’d allowed my mother great happiness at his own expense. I didn’t know the man who could make such a sacrifice. I only knew the cold hearted shell that survived my mother’s death.

For a week’s time I remained at Hethering. I slept in my girlhood bedroom. I walked the old paths in the park, the plantings and trees stripped of any comfort in the death throes of the year. I spent hours alone in my mother’s sitting room. I played her music on her piano.

I looked in on my father every day when I knew he slept. What possible conversation could we have now?

“He knows you’re here, Miss,” Henry told me. I think Henry believed I was disappointed never to find the Master awake.

On the last day of the year, the doctor came to find me.

“Not much longer now,” he said.

I went to my father’s bedside. His eyes opened. “Will you play for me, Marissa?” I nodded and went to fetch music from my mother’s piano. All through that long winter’s afternoon I sat at the piano in the hall and played
Für Elise,
over and over again. Father’s bedroom door was kept open so that he might hear.

Near dusk, Henry came to me. “It’s over,” he said. I saw tears in his eyes and realized that Father would have one true mourner. It wasn’t until I left the house for the blessed comfort of a walk that I felt the biting wind freeze the wetness on my face.

*****

Jeremy and I sat one foot apart from each other in the family pew at Father’s funeral service, our eyes fixed on the vicar. Carolyn was in London awaiting her baby’s birth. Daisy and her mother and her brothers sat behind us. People from the village came, largely out of respect, though I did see one or two black handkerchiefs employed. The servants huddled together at the back of the church. Their grief was genuine.

Jeremy looked once or twice in my direction, but I looked down, unwilling to meet his gaze. During the final hymn I looked at him, I couldn’t help it, and our eyes met. An electric bolt of feeling lashed my flayed senses. It was true that nothing had changed between us. It was also true no future beckoned us.

I decided to leave Hethering while Jeremy and the other men followed the coffin to its gravesite. In the front hall I encountered Abel Hicks, Father’s solicitor. The will would be read when Jeremy returned to the house.

“You are leaving, Miss Clarissa?”

“Is there any reason for me to remain?” I was certain Father had disinherited me.

I saw Mr. Hicks’ belief in proper legal procedure struggle with his regard for me. In the end, he sighed and said “No, Miss Marchmont.”

Snow impeded every part of my journey back to Cornwall, but I was glad of it. The struggle to find rail connections occupied my mind, I let the cold numb my heart. When I arrived at Edward Dane’s house in St. Ives, Thérèse opened the door for me.

“Welcome home,” she said.

Throughout the winter and the glorious spring of 1914, I remained at home with Thérèse. I completed my illustrations for my publisher. He was effusive with praise and sent me two more manuscripts to consider. Thérèse and I completed the redecoration of our home and I painted a small sign to be posted by the front door.
The Refuge
, it read.

“Le Refuge,” her little fingers traced the curly black letters. “C’est vrai.”

She didn’t remark further on my quiet life, though it was unusual for one so young as I. Henry Putnam’s regular letters expressed gentle regrets that I would not return to London. He came to visit me again in April.

“This is a beautiful place,” he said. “A refuge indeed.” I took him to see my walled garden returning to life. I had two gardeners. An old man taught me about plantings that flourished in cold salt air, a young boy did the digging and heavy work.

While we sipped our tea and enjoyed Thérèse’s petits fours, Henry smiled. “I received an interesting document for you.” He gave me a deed and a letter.

I ignored the deed, because the envelope had my name on it, written in Jeremy’s bold spiky hand. I opened it. One sheet of paper. “
You will always be part of Hethering”,
it read.

“The deed describes a small cottage, a tract of meadowland and a pond,” Henry said.

“Oh, Jeremy,” I said, as if he sat beside me instead of my solicitor. My finger traced the words that gave me Willow’s legacy. I despised the cold wealth of Leighton House, the property my father’s will denied me. Jeremy chose for me the part of Hethering I loved best. He did live in my heart, he knew it better than I.

*****

Caroline’s baby was born in the cold beginning of 1914. Amalia Pickety wrote to tell me Jeremy’s wife was delivered of a little son named Arthur. It was odd, I reflected, I thought of this new soul as Caroline’s baby, denying Jeremy’s involvement. Amalia’s letter was delayed, lost in transit until May, and I was thankful I’d had the gift of Willow’s place to soften the blow that another woman gave Jeremy a child.

In June, Genie Caleph arrived for a visit. She marveled at the quaint comfort of my Refuge and delighted in Thérèse’s Gallic personality and cuisine. I could see Thérèse approved of my good friend as well.

Genie and I took long walks along the lanes and over the sand by the bay. She was enthusiastic about St. Ives and her high spirits were catching. I began to see the village through her eyes, and for the first time considered it something other than a place of exile. When we stopped in a shop that sold art supplies, she found a hand lettered card advertising a small group who met to discuss art and the “issues of the day”.

“You should attend a meeting,” she said.

“I know little of politics,” I mused while examining a new shipment of sable paintbrushes.

“You must learn,” she said, her amiable voice growing stern. “This London season is the gayest ever, but every newspaper screams of war with Germany.”

“Richard Marchmont said war would come,” I told her, “but by then my faith in him was gone and I disbelieved it.”

“He was right in this matter,” Genie said. “Every man I meet assures me if war comes it will be ‘over by Christmas’. Their excitement blinds them to war’s true price. Misery, pestilence, death.” Her last word was a painful whisper.

We had left the shop and her tearless eyes fixed on the azure waters at the horizon, but I saw the bleak planes of her face and remembered her fiancé, dead in the Boer War. Then I remembered Richard Marchmont’s assumption that Jeremy would fight, and his worry over Hethering’s heir. Jeremy had a son now, but my heart sank at the thought of losing my dearest love as Genie had lost hers.

We were apart, but he was still on this earth. Our noble separation now seemed a fools’ pact. I wanted to board the next London bound train, to find him and beg him not to fight. His death would be the last sword thrust in my heart, the final killing blow. My smothered love for him rose up in my throat to choke me and I kicked a pebble across the empty street in frustration.

Genie looked at me with complete understanding. “Be careful, Clarry,” she said. “War changes everything.”

*****

When Genie returned to London, I followed her advice and joined the group of artists who met in members’ homes. Tea was served, work was displayed to polite comment and then political discussions began. They were heated, as artists did not hesitate to voice their opinions and try to influence the undecided, me. Half our number believed war with Germany was inevitable and as such, a sacred cause. Of the rest, most were pacifists to varying degrees. Some disagreed with the notion of war, but would fight for king and country. The most fervent preferred prison to warfare.

In my heart I wanted Jeremy among their number. In my head, I knew he would fight for Hethering. I allowed myself, just for a moment, to imagine him living there with Caroline, their baby tucked away in the nursery that sheltered me. These images didn’t trouble me overmuch, because they seemed so unreal, but when I pictured Jeremy and Caroline walking the grounds, arm in arm, a lightning flash of pain stopped my breath and I pushed both hands against my forehead to end my imaginings.

“Mademoiselle?” Thérèse stood before me, and I turned away to compose myself. She waited, then said. “A gentleman is here to see you.” She gave me his card. I looked at it and nodded.

In a moment, she brought Dickon Scard into my salon.

“How wonderful to see you,” I said. “What brings you to St. Ives?”

“I’m on holiday,” he said, “and I’ve heard tell the inhabitants of this town are congenial.” He looked at my face. “Have I come at a bad time?”

“You’ve come at the best time,” I said. “I couldn’t be happier to see you.”

He didn’t press for an explanation of my reddened eyes, but gave me news of Genie and Helen who’d supplied him with my direction.

“They approve of me,” he said. “I entertained them with exaggerated tales of our youth. They love to hear me describe you running wild down the meadow, two braids flying behind.” He looked at my pinned up hair with frank admiration and I blushed.

For a very happy fortnight, Dickon stayed at a local inn. We recreated our childhood days exploring the cliffs and forests surrounding St. Ives, picnic lunches packed away in his motor. He loved to walk along the shore, chasing waves out and being chased back in turn. He dared me to do the same and was chagrined when I proved so adept my skirts were never damped. We dined at home on Thérèse’s finest cuisine.

When I teased her about climbing new culinary heights for Dickon, she replied “He is un vrai gentilhome. He deserves the best.” I saw a small reproach in her eyes. What else did Dickon deserve?

The next morning the post boy delivered a wire.

I need you at Hethering. Please come at once. Jeremy.

I gave sincere regrets to Dickon, but said little about my journey. Thérèse made us a delicious farewell dinner punctuated by sniffs of disapproval over my leaving.

Dickon was kind and graceful in his disappointment. He didn’t stay long after dinner, only kissed my cheek and said “Every time I find you, Clarry, I lose you.”

*****

I left my bags at the train station to be brought to the manse. Mr. Pickety, once curate, was now vicar with a curate of his own. I walked over the fields to Hethering, wanting to approach at a measured pace, to allow its beauty to envelop me with slow, sweet happiness. I paused on the final ridge of land overlooking my former home. The parkland and house were in perfect order, yet there was an emptiness in its bounds, an unfamiliar stillness.