The House of Lyall (54 page)

She kissed her old friend on the cheek, and was inwardly amused to see the roguish twinkle in his rheumy eyes when he slid his arm round her waist. Silly old fool! Surely he didn't still think she wanted him to … no, that was absurd. He hardly had the strength to put one foot past the other, never mind anything else. ‘It's so good to see you, Andrew,' she murmured, squeezing his hand.

Completely under her spell already, he followed her into the large drawing room. ‘D'you know, Marianne,' he said, taking a seat by the window, ‘I can remember sitting here so many times over the years, talking to Hamish and wishing that I had never brought the two of you together. He took the only girl I ever loved.'

She decided to spread the jam on thickly. ‘I wish that, too. I was beginning to love you, Andrew, but he was so charming … and I was so young …'

Andrew was not quite so gullible as she had thought. ‘But not so naïve as you are trying to make out. You knew what you were doing when you married him.'

‘He told me he just wanted me so he could have sons, but I was blinded by the prospect of the wealth he would fall heir to, the idea of being a titled lady in a castle. I admit that, but I did discover that there is more to life than wordly possessions.'

He nodded gravely. ‘Yes, there is, Marianne. There is compassion for your fellow men or women, and honesty, and abiding by the rules, all of which you have totally disregarded throughout your life.'

Stung by criticism from a man she had believed loved her without question, she snapped, ‘And where was your compassion for me when you spun that vile story to that awful Ruth Laverton?'

‘It
was
a vile story,' he agreed, ‘yet true, nevertheless. At the time, I carried out your instructions and excused your heartlessness by telling myself that you were desperately covering up the results of Ruairidh's irresponsibility. When Ruth contacted me, and I realized that she was one of Melda's twins, I was pleased that your daughter-in-law would be reunited with one, at least, even after such a long time. Poor girl, she must often have wondered what had become of them.'

He paused and turned his eyes on Marianne accusingly. ‘I found it extremely hard to believe that she had agreed to their being adopted, but loving you as I did, I could not contemplate the alternative – that you had forced her into it. It strikes me now, however, that there must have been a reason why she did not search for them after Ruairidh married her. How did you arrange that? Did you tell her they had died?'

Bowing to a Fate that seemed to be determined to catch her out, even after so many years, Marianne came to the conclusion that she had better confess. ‘I'm afraid I did – to one anyway, and Melda was never told about the other one.' Feeling that the atmosphere inside had suddenly become oppressive, she said, ‘Why don't we have a walk in the garden? We can talk just as well there, and we can take a seat if we get tired.'

Even in the warmth of the June day, both old people felt the need of a jacket before venturing outside, and so it was another few minutes before Marianne put her arm through Andrew's and guided his tottery feet along the path from the heavy studded door of the west wing to the vast rose garden. ‘My father-in-law had this laid out to mark Edward's accession to the throne,' she informed him as they turned into the walled-in rectangle, adding quickly, ‘Edward the Seventh, I mean. He and Hector were great friends, and he had often come here for the shooting when he was Prince of Wales. I wish I'd been around then, for I've heard so many stories about him with young girls, and I wouldn't have minded being his Princess … but I'm speaking rubbish. I had my dear Hamish, hadn't I?' She stole a sideways glance at her companion and was confused to find him regarding her sadly.

‘How little I knew you,' he sighed. ‘I always hoped that you regretted marrying Hamish.'

‘I never regretted marrying him, and I loved what the marriage brought me,' she declared, honest up to a point.

‘So you … never thought of leaving him … for me?'

Marianne felt a rush of pity for him. For sixty years she had flirted with him at every opportunity, led him to believe that he meant something to her other than her man of business, and he didn't deserve such scurrilous treatment – he was truly a decent man. She changed the subject abruptly. ‘I said I'd tell you about Melda and the two babies. She was just a young thing, and not the kind of girl I wanted as a daughter-in-law, and she took everything on trust. She wouldn't hear of the child being adopted or put in an orphanage, so I threatened her that if she didn't do what I wanted, I would tell Ruairidh she'd been carrying on with one of the soldiers at the camp, and it was
his
baby. Then I started thinking she might wonder how the child was and so, not long after the births – she wasn't told she'd had two and with a difficult labour she wasn't in a fit state to know – I said the baby had died and she believed me. I made her promise never to breathe a word to anybody, especially Ruairidh.'

‘Poor Melda,' muttered Andrew.

‘Not so poor! She was besotted with the idea of marrying into the nobility, and she talked him into it not long after he came home –'

‘Melda's not like you!' Andrew broke in harshly. ‘She had always loved Ruairidh; she wouldn't have cared if he was destitute, and he had always loved her. I can't believe you were so cruel to her, Marianne …'

‘She was just a doctor's daughter, after all. Middle class.'

‘And what were you before my aunts took pity on you? What work did your father do?'

She had the grace to look slightly abashed. ‘He just worked in a sawmill in Tipperton.'

‘Yes, so you were from working stock, and none the worse for it. Your blood instilled new life into the Bruce-Lyalls. Your sons were much sturdier and healthier than their father and their grandfather. But tell me, were you ever sorry for leaving your home?'

‘I had to leave. I told you, remember, I stole some money.' And now, so long afterwards, Marianne felt the shame she had not felt at the time.

‘Yes, I do remember. Five sovereigns, wasn't it, a lot in those days, more than a year's wages in many cases? Um, did you ever take anything from my aunts?'

‘No, never!' She could sense a new coldness in his manner towards her which, after the long years of his constant devotion, pained her more than she could have thought possible. But she could not blame her old friend for despising her, not after all he had done for her in the past.

He had never been just a friend; he had always been a part of her that she could not do without, not a lover in the physical sense, but in a far more lasting capacity.

‘Oh, Andrew, I must have a rest,' she gasped, plumping down on the wooden bench they were passing, one of several at the side of the walkway round the large pond.

She had hoped for at least a slight show of concern, but he sat down beside her without saying a word and it was some time before she ventured, in a small voice, ‘I suppose you're shocked by the things I did, but will you do one last thing for me?'

‘If it lies within my power,' he replied stiffly.

‘Tell Melda's … tell Ruth and her twin, there must have been some mistake and they're not hers at all. Say I was there when both her babies died, and –'

He rose slowly but angrily to his feet, glaring venomously at her as he spat out, ‘Good God, Marianne! I just do not know how you have the effrontery to ask me that!'

Turning, he took a step away from her, and she sprang to her feet to try to pacify him. The abrupt movement made a dizziness come over her, and trying to find something to steady her, she stretched out her arms. Tragically, she knocked Andrew off his feet and, feeling himself falling, he caught hold of her sleeve. Fingers clawing at empty air, it dawned on Marianne that there was nothing she could do to prevent the inevitable.

Falling heavily on top of him, her body ground the fluted tiles edging the path further into his temple, while she splashed face down into the water.

Chapter Thirty-one

The front pages of the Scottish newspapers next day carried some mention of the ‘catastrophic accident', mainly along the lines that it had almost been a double tragedy and speculating as to how it had happened.

The unusual occurrence even warranted articles in the national dailies, the more sensational proclaiming in large headlines:

The ages of the ‘lovers' were not revealed until the end of the articles, within parenthesis and in tiny print which most of the readers passed over as not worth straining their eyes for. Those who did take the trouble were left feeling cheated. A man and woman both in their seventies? They wouldn't remember what passion was, if they'd ever experienced it, which was doubtful.

In less than a week after the funeral, the public's interest had moved on to other scandals, but in an airy office in Aberdeen's Bon Accord Square, Graham Dalgarno was having problems. He had intended executing Andrew Rennie's last will and testament before turning his mind to anything else, but it was not nearly as straightforward as he had imagined. No relatives remaining alive, the old man had left his entire estate to Lady Glendarril's
first two
grandchildren. The peculiar underlining of the words ‘first two' when, as far as Graham knew, there was only one, who had died since the will had been drawn up, combined with the pencilled note at the side which read ‘Ruth and Samuel', made him realize that he would have to go through the Bruce-Lyall papers to find answers to the suspicions which had jumped to his mind.

Andrew Rennie had jealously guarded his right as senior partner to deal with Lady Glendarril's affairs, and on his retiral, he had given orders that any future correspondence relating thereto should be laid aside for his attention. Hence, for the past ten years, he had come in once a month to bring her files up to date, and it was only after his death that Graham had got his hands on the key to the roll-top desk and the power to handle this prestigious account. But having access to what was more or less Lady Glendarril's life history was the beginning of his nightmare!

The first document he had come across was the dowager's will, which Andrew had no doubt helped her to draw up. It was a complicated document, changed several times over the years, first stating that everything she left was to go to her granddaughter, Dorothea Bruce-Lyall, and then a codicil which noted that because of Dorothea's death, Marianne's son, the present Viscount Glendarril, would inherit his mother's entire estate. Graham had thought it strange that no mention was made of the present Lady Glendarril, but this was something he would have to come to terms with when the dowager died.

He had discovered that the Ruth and Samuel, to whom the old man had left all his wordly goods, were not included in their grandmother's will, which, although it did seem very strange, was not something he should worry about meantime. His worry would lie in tracing them, finding out who was their father …

The thought which struck Graham then almost knocked him sideways. Was it possible? If so, it had been the best-kept secret ever, but then people with plenty of money could always find ways and means to cover up any indiscretions.

Graham's suspicions gathered momentum. Andrew was a crafty old beggar! He must have fathered two children on Marianne Bruce-Lyall when they were young and whisked them away somewhere out of sight! Graham had sensed that their relationship went much deeper than solicitor/client, but he had never dreamed …

Wait a minute! If Ruth and Samuel were Marianne's illegitimate
grand
children, she definitely wasn't their mother, and it meant that they had also been the late Hamish's grandchildren, unless … had he impregnated the present Lady Glendarril – the younger one – at some time? The idea of this was quite repugnant to Graham. Esmerelda – he had always thought it a beautiful name for the elegant woman, although he believed she was usually referred to as Melda – was not the kind to have a sordid affair with a man old enough to be her father. There must be another explanation, but he was blowed if he could think of one. He had better put all his other commitments aside to give him the time and the freedom to search the desk for birth certificates or other documents which would enable him to wind up Andrew Rennie's estate as he had wished.

Graham searched the top left drawer slowly and methodically, inwardly thanking his late partner for writing notes to remind himself of things he might otherwise have forgotten, but nothing he came across shed any light on the matter in hand. Disgruntled, he started on the drawer underneath, but found almost at once that it held only correspondence from various tradespeople in answer to complaints Marianne Glendarril had raised, and dating back as far as when she had first become a titled lady.

At four thirty, depressed and tired, and hungry because he had gone without lunch, Graham decided against taking the contents of the bottom drawer home in his briefcase. He would leave it until the morning, when his mind would be fresher and more able to spot anything relevant.

Next day, he gave his secretary instructions that he was not to be disturbed and settled into the swivel chair again. After unlocking the bottom drawer, he saw that it contained a large tin box, black japanned like all the old deed boxes. His pulse quickened when he discovered that it, too, was locked. It seemed promising – a locked box in a locked drawer must conceal something of great importance. His fingers trembling, he took some time to find the correct key, but at last the latch snapped back. The papers he took out led him into a maze of legality – or illegality? – which would need to be sorted out before he could go any further.