The Chain Garden (22 page)

The shrieking gulls and the rhythmic creak and splash of the oars sounded loud. The weather was changing. Soon the wind would spring to life, ruffling the water then whipping it into choppy waves. Curtains of rain would hide a departing ship. When they parted and the sun came out once more the ship would be long gone. So would she.

For a while she had thought about giving up. Oblivion had seemed infinitely tempting after the loss of everything that had given her life shape and purpose. What had stopped her was Hal: her memories of him as a baby, a child, and a young man. What would it do to him if she were to kill herself? He would feel that it was his fault for taking a job so far away. He would be hurt and angry and suffused with guilt. How could she, who loved him so much, deliberately inflict such unwarranted punishment?

Gradually she had realized that though the life she had known was over, there could be another life. A door had two sides. One faced the past the other the future. She was losing her sight but she had all her other senses and was in good physical health. Recent arrangements had substantially reduced her wealth but she still had more than enough to take her in comfort wherever she wanted to go. At the moment she could manage alone. When a time came that she needed permanent assistance she would be able to afford it.

The decision to leave Cornwall had been a difficult one evoking mixed feelings. But if she wanted to see Hal and add to her treasured memories visual images of the man he had become, it was the only way. Wherever she went – starting with South America – the village, Cornwall and Zander would be with her in spirit. Perhaps in time when the wounds had healed, as all wounds eventually did, she would be able to remember happier times with Henry.

‘I’m feeling a lot better, truly,’ Grace said.

John Ainsley’s expression was dubious. ‘You’re still pale. I’d also like to see a little more flesh on those bones. Are you eating properly?’

Grace groaned. ‘I’m doing my best, Uncle John. Rose and Kate bully me unmercifully. I know what a goose being fattened up for Christmas must feel like.’ She looked round as the morning room door opened and Kate entered carrying a tray. A crisp white apron covered her black dress and a frilled white cap perched on her fair hair.

‘Hot chocolate for you, Miss Grace. Coffee for the doctor.’ She set the tray down on a side table.

Grace sighed. ‘Kate, I didn’t ask for whipped cream.’

‘Didn’t you, Miss?’ Kate’s face was open and innocent. ‘Want me to take it back, do you? Rose said it would build you up a bit. She’ve been some worried. Still, if you don’t want it …’

‘No, that’s all right. I wouldn’t want to upset Rose.’ Grace shot a meaningful look at her uncle, who turned to the maid with a smile.

‘How’s your grandfather, Kate?’

‘Not too bad, thank you, Doctor. He said that there stuff you gave him taste so horrible it must be doing him good. He do feel a bit down sometimes. But I’ve told him I won’t walk down the aisle without I got his arm to hold. Now the date is fixed and the hall booked for the reception, if he’s going to keep to his bed he’ll have to tell Ben hisself, ‘cos I aren’t going to.’

John Ainsley’s brows rose towards his hairline. ‘Will that threat work?’

Kate nodded briskly. ‘It have so far. Ben’s a lovely quiet man most of the time. But if this wedding got to be put off he’s going to be awful mad. Granfer won’t want that.’

Grace compressed her lips to hide a grin as she caught her uncle’s eye.

‘No, I shouldn’t think he would.’

‘I’m trying to get him to go down to the quay on Saturday. He haven’t missed the regatta in sixty years. Ron who live next door said if Granfer couldn’t walk he’d push him down in the wheelbarrow.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Hell to go there was. Begging your pardon, Miss. Now, want anything else do you? Could you fancy a bit of saffron cake? Or –?’

‘No, Kate. Thank you.’

As the maid closed the door Grace picked up her hot chocolate.

‘Why don’t you go down to the regatta?’ John suggested. ‘It would do you good to get away from here for an hour or two.’

Grace’s fingers tightened around the cup. Edwin would be there. Would he want to see her? He hadn’t been back since – since they had each bared their souls. He had shown her such kindness, such sympathy. Had she done as much for him? She had tried. But after telling her of his shame for wanting, just for a moment, to kill Lewis Preston, he had left too quickly. Before she’d had time to properly take it in, much less frame a response. Did he regret telling her? Was that why he hadn’t come back?

‘Grace?’ her uncle prompted.

‘I’m – not sure.’

‘Will you at least think about it?’

‘Yes.’

The door opened and Hester Chenoweth entered leaning heavily on Violet’s supporting arm. ‘There you are, John. I’ve been an hour waiting for you to come and see how I am.’

Noting the pinched and bitter line of her grandmother’s mouth Grace steeled herself.

‘Really, Grace,’ Hester snapped. ‘I’m surprised at you keeping John talking when you knew I wanted to see him.’

‘I didn’t –’

‘Though now I think about it I’m not surprised at all. You’re getting some very mistaken ideas about your own importance. Putting everyone to so much trouble.’ Saliva gathered at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were narrowed, her tone venomous. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, Louise was my daughter. You have no idea what I’ve been through.’

‘Granny, I –’

‘It’s all right, Grace.’ Setting his cup down and rising to his feet in one smooth movement John put his hand under his mother-in-law’s elbow. ‘Come along, ma’am. Let’s go back upstairs where we can chat without any interruptions. How did you sleep last night? Are those drops I prescribed helping at all?’

As her grandmother’s complaining tone and her uncle’s soothing responses faded, Grace took deep breaths to try and slow her racing heart. Her grandmother’s attacks still unnerved her. She turned to the maid.

‘She’s finding it very difficult –’

‘She isn’t the only one.’ Violet folded her hands under her bosom. ‘With respect, Miss, I can’t take no more. I never heard nothing like it in all my born days.’

Grace tried to catch up. ‘I’m sorry, Violet, what –?’

‘Her spite, Miss. That’s what it is, plain spite. I know she’s grieving. But so are all of us. ‘Tis never right she should be saying such things to you. Or that I should be hearing them. Over twenty years I been here, Miss Grace. Your mother was a dear soul. Always grateful for anything we done for her. I do miss her awful. You know I aren’t one to complain, Miss Grace, but –’

‘I know you aren’t, Violet.’ Jumping up from her seat, Grace seized the maid’s work worn hands. ‘You’ve been strong and brave and – and absolutely marvellous. I’ll ask my uncle to speak to Granny. She may not realize –’

Violet snorted. ‘She realize all right.’

‘Yes, well,’ Grace admitted. ‘I’d try talking to her myself but –’ she grimaced. ‘I don’t think it would do any good. She’ll listen to him because he’s a man as well as being her physician. Please, Violet, give me a chance to speak to him.’

‘All right, Miss Grace. If that’s what you want. But I got to tell you, if she don’t stop her carrying on, then I’m going.’

Chapter Twenty Two

Rain drummed on the glass roof of the greenhouse and trickled like tears down the panes. Standing in front of a deep bench that held trays of propagated cuttings he was supposed to be examining for any sign of disease or infestation, Bryce stared out through the rain-streaked glass. He gazed blindly past the rows of cold frames to the elms and beeches thrashing the tips of their leafy branches in the wind.

In the past two days the sharp pain in his ribs and shoulder had dulled to an ache, a scab had formed over the cut on his head, and though large areas of his skin were purple and crimson the bruises were hidden beneath his clothes. His claim that his horse had shied and thrown him had been accepted. Though he had brushed aside Grace’s sympathy he appreciated her concern.

He hated lying to her. But that was preferable to burdening her with information she was bound to find deeply upsetting. If he were honest, he could not bear the thought of watching as she tried to hide shock and disgust. He loved her and had felt closer to her than their mother. He was leaving anyway and wanted her memories of him to remain untarnished.

The first twenty-four hours had been the worst as shock and his body’s physical response to the beating took their toll in sweats, bouts of trembling and an overall feeling of sick weakness. Now, provided he was careful, he could move without wincing.

Last night after everyone had gone to bed and the house was silent he had written to Tarun.

The greenhouse door opened and Richard burst in, turning to shake the rain off his umbrella before shutting the door.

‘Percy wants me to give him a hand digging out the first of the specimen trees for Kew.’

‘Rich, it’s bucketing down.’

‘I know, but at least the rain will have given the tree a good soaking as well as loosening the earth around the roots. Besides, Percy is sure the sky is lightening and the rain will have stopped within half an hour.’ Richard’s shrug and grin signalled long familiarity with the head gardener’s reading of weather signs. ‘Anyway I just stopped by to let you know where I’ll be. And to see if you were OK.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You look like a corpse.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Look, why don’t you leave that? It can wait. Go back home and soak your bruises in a hot bath. Let Grace fuss over you a bit.’

‘I might in a minute. Rich –’ He might as well get it over with. ‘This probably isn’t the best time or even the best place – though perhaps it is in a way. The thing is I’ve decided to go back to India.’

Richard stared at him. ‘Oh.’

Bryce wiped his hands on the brown workman’s apron covering his waistcoat, shirt and trousers. ‘That’s it? Just
oh
?’

‘No, of course it isn’t. But you caught me on the hop. Why?’

‘Why am I going? Because all this –’ Bryce indicated the seedlings, ‘and that,’ he pointed to the cold frames, ‘it’s you, Rich. You’re happy here. I’m not. I don’t feel I belong here any more. It’s – I want to go back to – I want to go back.’

Reactions crossed Richard’s face like cloud shadows on a breezy day. Eventually he spoke. ‘I’ll miss you.’

Bryce aimed for the mockery that characterised their relationship and masked the deep bond between them.

‘No you won’t. You’re going to marry Sophie and raise a family. Colonel Hawkins will be grooming you to take over the nursery. And with Percy talking about retirement you’ll be far too busy to miss me.’

The silence stretched. Then Richard asked the question Bryce had guessed would come. ‘Will you be contacting Tarun? You and he made a good team.’

Trying to decide how best to answer had kept him awake for much of the night. ‘I’ve written to him. I hope he’ll join me.’ Bryce was proud that his voice remained rock-steady. ‘I shall go anyway.’

Richard nodded. ‘I will miss you. But I can see you have to go. You’ve not been yourself since we got on the boat at Calcutta.’

‘I miss the mountains, Rich. There’s so much contrast. Jungle in the river valleys, densely forested slopes, and wild windswept plateaux and peaks. The sky is bigger and the air is so clear. It’s wild and dangerous and beautiful and – and I can breathe there.’

Richard grinned. ‘My brother, the adventurer.’ Taking a couple of quick steps forward he hugged his brother. ‘Look after yourself, OK?’

Bryce caught his breath and immediately Richard tried to draw back.

‘Sorry, sorry, I forgot.’

‘It’s all right. It doesn’t matter.’ Bryce held him close, blinded by tears.

Richard lightly patted his brother’s broad back. ‘Five years should get the wonder lust out of your system. Then you’ll be desperate to come home, settle down, and live a quiet life like me.’

‘You could be right,’ Bryce croaked, playing the game. When he boarded the train he would be making a one-way journey. He would not see his twin, or Cornwall, again.

At the sound of hooves on the drive Grace leapt up from the velvet-covered stool in front of her dressing table and hurried to the window. Looking out across the lawn to the wooded skyline she waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. This was foolish. Who else but the postman would call at eight forty-five in the morning?

The previous day’s rain had washed dust from trees and shrubs so that the colours had a jewel-like depth and brilliance: emerald grass, sapphire sky.

She watched the postman ride away. Then came the distant thud of the front door closing and a moment later her brothers appeared at the bottom of the porch steps, talking together as they walked briskly along the drive towards the stables, bound for Polwellan.

Her thoughts returned to the problem that for days had occupied her every waking moment and denied her sleep. She understood Edwin’s reasons for telling her the circumstances that had brought him back to Cornwall. But what had compelled him to confess his brief urge to kill Lewis Preston? That was not something she could ever have discovered by accident. Had his intention been to drive her away?

A memory of his face filled her vision as clearly as if he were standing before her. She heard the torment in his voice, the anguish as he laid bare his shame sparing himself nothing. She recalled the tension cording his neck, the rigidity in his shoulders. She remembered the look in his eyes.

Grace covered her mouth with quivering fingers. What courage it must have taken. For if she rejected him he could not hide. Inevitably their paths would cross: in the village, in school, or at chapel. Each time they met they would both remember his confession and his shame.

Suddenly she realised. He had told her because he knew from her experience and his own how dangerous secrets were. Sooner or later they seeped out, stealing beneath the surface of relationships to erode trust and spread suspicion.

He could not have missed her enormous relief after confiding her shock and confusion about the chain garden, the reality of her parents’ relationship, Dorcas’s revelations and the discovery that Hal was her half-brother. Had he felt that same sense of release after confiding in her? She hoped so. But he had hurried away so quickly she couldn’t be sure.

Hearing the man she knew as gentle and compassionate admitting a violent urge to destroy another human being had shocked her. This shock had deepened as, looking into her own heart, painful honesty forced her to recognize fragments of similar feelings.

This realization inspired aching sympathy for Edwin. He had admired Lewis Preston: believed him a trusted friend. The little boy had already suffered so dreadfully in his short life. To be abused and terrorised by someone supposedly caring for him, someone he could not escape, unable to speak so unable to tell. Grace’s eyes burned and she caught her lower lip between her teeth. What if
she
had made such a discovery? How would
she
have reacted?
Exactly as Edwin did.

Resting her forehead against the folds of the curtain she felt the hard window frame beneath. More than anything else she wanted to be Edwin’s wife. To share his life, support him in his work and, if it pleased God, to bear his children. Did she want this in spite of, or because of, his confession? She wasn’t sure.

Uncertain of how she would react or what she would decide, he had told her because he believed she should know. He had trusted her to honour his confidence, as he would honour hers. What happened next was up to her.

Did Edwin want to marry her but felt unable to ask until she knew the worst and had time to discover her true feelings?

Her heart fluttered, making her catch her breath. She turned from the window. Today she would go to the folly and collect up all her mother’s gardening books. It was time to let go of the past.

As she started down the stairs it occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Mary for several days. There was probably a lot for her to catch up on at home as well as preparing for her wedding.

Grace’s steps faltered. Did Mary know about Dorcas? If she did then presumably she had accepted the situation. What if she didn’t know? Should she be told?
By whom?
Perhaps her father considered his past actions were not Mary’s business.

Yet by that standard she need not have told Edwin what had driven her to destroy the chain garden. Edwin need not have confessed his desire to kill Lewis Preston. Yet in doing so each had shown that their trust in each other was deeper and of far greater significance than their relationships with other people.

Grace was utterly still as she recognised what her train of thought had revealed.
She and Edwin trusted each other more than they trusted anyone else.
But the decision to confide had been hers and Edwin’s. No one could impose such action on others. Her father’s relationship with Mary was their private business. She had no right to interfere.

Swallowing the last mouthful of scrambled egg and bacon Henry set down his knife and fork, pushed aside his plate, and reached for his cup. The coffee was strong, steaming and richly fragrant, exactly the way he liked it. He sighed, infused with a sense of well-being and scooped up his mail from the proffered salver with a grunt of thanks. Patrick laid the two remaining letters beside Grace’s plate then withdrew.

As Henry glanced through the envelopes one caught his attention. Slitting it open he extracted the thick sheet, picked up his cup, and settled back to read.

His violent start slopped coffee over his hand and onto the polished table. He clattered the bone china cup clumsily onto its saucer, scalded fingers clutching his napkin as he stared at the copperplate script. His heartbeat thudded loudly in his ears. His skin tingled. Shock drained the blood from his face and everything went black. He gasped, shaking his head to clear it.

His gaze flew back to the top of the page and he read the short paragraphs again, shock eclipsed by galvanising terror. Hurling his napkin onto the table he hurried from the room, the letter crushed in his fist.

‘Patrick!’

The butler appeared in the doorway leading to the servants’ quarters and kitchen. ‘Sir?’

‘My horse, at once.’

‘Not the gig, Sir?’

Henry tried to think. Which was more important this morning? Speed, or maintaining the façade of wealth and success? Speed won.

‘No. My horse. Immediately.’

With a brief nod, Patrick vanished again.

‘Good morning, Papa.’

Glancing up Henry saw Grace’s smile fade.

‘Is everything –?’

‘Not now.’ Cutting her short he strode towards the front door, stuffing the letter into his jacket pocket as Patrick hurried forward with his hat.

He took every possible shortcut through the back lanes. The forced pace thoroughly unsettled his normally placid mount. Soon Henry’s wrists and shoulders ached from trying to control the tossing head as the cob fought the metal bit.

Where there was no alternative to the main roads, common sense forced him down to a steady trot on stretches busy with other traffic. The last thing he wanted was to excite gossip. Even as it occurred, the thought provoked a harsh, desperate laugh. For if the letter were not the result of some foolish misunderstanding, the gossips would soon be feasting like carrion crows on the corpse of his life’s work.

Sweating as much from fear as from exertion he was racked by convulsive shivers. He would not accept that. It
must
be a mistake. It had to be. He couldn’t even consider the alternative.

As the door opened he held his breath, only releasing it as the manservant took a step back inviting him to enter. So intense was his relief that nausea rose in his throat and he had to swallow repeatedly. His legs felt weak and shaky. He removed his hat with trembling fingers.

He would find out what had happened and ensure that the person responsible received a reprimand of such severity it would never, ever, be forgotten.

He was shown into the drawing room. The manservant withdrew without offering to take his hat. Henry barely noticed this omission. Too tense and anxious to relax he remained standing. Vases of roses and sweet peas scented the air. Polished wood gleamed, rugs and carpet had been freshly brushed.

The room looked exactly as it had on his last visit. He knew Mary to be methodical and organised but he would have expected some small sign of disruption as she set aside the items she would be bringing with her to Damerel House.

The door opened, jerking him from that train of thought and back to his reason for coming.

As Mary closed the door and turned towards him, neat and elegant in dove-grey, he started forward. But she lifted her hand to stop him. There was no smile of greeting. Her face was alabaster pale except for her eyes. These were pink-rimmed and slightly swollen.

‘I know why you’re here, Henry,’ she said before he could speak. ‘If you need confirmation from my own lips, then yes, it’s true.’ Her gaze flicked to the crumpled letter he had extracted from his pocket. ‘I have instructed Mr Bartlett not to proceed with the transfer. I will not fund you. Nor will I marry you. Please don’t insult my intelligence any further by asking why.’

‘Mary, listen, I don’t know what’s happened. But whatever it is we can –’

‘I’ll tell you what happened, shall I, Henry? Three days ago I received a visit from a close – no, let us not be coy – an
intimate
friend of yours, Mrs Dorcas Renowden. Need I go on?’