Since the earliest days of their marriage Claude and Patience had made Christmas Eve a special day. As the neighbouring families had grown it became a tradition for the Laceys to join the Olivierres for dinner and an evening of entertainments. As soon as they were old enough Henry and William, with their cousin Josephine, had joyfully planned and prepared the games they would all play through the long dark evening.
Though Christmas Eve in the first year after their parents’ deaths was a subdued affair, the passing of the years saw the boys’ enthusiasm return and every December, on their return from Winchester, they were involved in decorating the house with boughs of yew and loading the Yuletide tree with nuts and fruit.
Such was the expectation in The Lodge that Christmas Eve 1839 would be the same as that of 1838 and the preceding years that the failure of the brothers to have returned home by late afternoon was a great worry to Patience, to Josephine and also to Claude.
“Where are the boys?” Josephine had asked her mother as they sat together taking tea in their drawing room. “It’s Christmas Eve. They should have been here days ago.”
“Your father has heard nothing from them.”
“I suppose they think now that they are no longer schoolboys but are undergraduates at Oxford they are too important for our celebrations.”
“And you have done so well with the decorations,” her mother added. “And in the preparation of the games.”
“Perhaps they feel themselves too sophisticated for us,” Josephine said, trying not to sound too disappointed. She always looked forward to William and Henry returning home with news of what she always thought of as ‘the world’. “Perhaps they are reluctant to come home because they know what Father is going to tell them.”
“And what is it that your father is going to tell them?” Claude asked with a tolerant smile.
“He’s going to tell them that they must choose which of them is to marry me.”
*
When they were very young children the three had played together as equals but as they had grown older the boys had imposed their superior status over her to such an extent that, by the time their parents had died when Josephine was twelve years old and the boys not yet eleven, she was third in the hierarchy of three.
She had not known whether to be sad for them at losing their parents or jealous that they were sent away to the north island where they would meet new people and learn about the world. She accepted that, being a girl, she would be expected to learn all she needed in her schoolroom at The Lodge and all she would see of the world was on her weekly trips into Newport.
When the boys had arrived to live at The Lodge after their first term away at Winchester, Josephine had seen the opportunity to regain something of her old equality. Although the boys knew The Lodge well it was Josephine who knew the house rules. It was she who could tell them in which parts of the house they were allowed to be at different times of the day, when they were allowed to talk and when they must stay silent, and it was she who could teach them the behaviour expected when in the presence of her parents. For a year they reluctantly looked to her for guidance and she maintained what power she had by passing this essential information to the boys slowly, drop by drop.
Once they had become more familiar with the routines of the household, however, what Henry considered the natural order of things was re-established. As the elder boy he became the leader with William allowed to be his lieutenant, but Josephine was a girl and therefore no longer to be considered.
As the years passed the brothers had spent less and less time with their cousin. When they spent their holidays riding and shooting she had to stay inside, out of the sun and the wind, though they knew she escaped to walk for miles through the woods and down to the sea when she could. When it rained and they had to sit together reading, the books she was allowed to read had none of the excitement contained in the ones given to the boys.
By the time she was fifteen it was clear to Josephine that men were of a completely different species from women but she was very fond of both her cousins, as she would be of rather irritating younger brothers.
It was on her sixteenth birthday that her mother had told her that one day she would be expected to marry either Henry or William, and she knew that she would have no say in which one it would be. She rather assumed it would be Henry because of the title and the property but it had seemed something so far in the future as to be irrelevant.
On Christmas Eve 1839, however, Josephine was nineteen years and six months old and she knew the decision would be delayed no longer.
*
“Josephine!” Patience tried to sound shocked, but they both knew that Claude had decided that his daughter’s future was to be settled.
“Well it’s true isn’t it? One or other of them is to be my husband.”
“And you are not comfortable with that?”
Josephine was saved from having to answer her mother by the door opening.
“Aunt Patience, Uncle Claude, Cousin Josephine.” William made his bow. “We have arrived.”
“And none too soon.” Patience tried to hide her relief at seeing William with brusqueness. “You have now only two hours to prepare for dinner and it looks like you will need every minute of that to make yourself presentable.”
Josephine returned William’s smile as he lowered his head in a slight bow and left the room.
*
Three hours later the extended family sat down to their Christmas meal. Claude sat at the head of the dining table with Josephine to his right and Henry to his left. William, sitting next to his brother, was to the right of Patience, who faced her husband. It was the way they had been seated for every meal they had shared since the summer of 1832 when the boys had been so small they had had to have cushions on their chairs as they sat uncomfortably and self-consciously at the long table in the oak-lined dining room of The Lodge. Now, grown men, they each sat with the easy grace of familiarity.
“We are so pleased to see you both home again. You must tell us how you have been getting on in Oxford.” Patience spoke gently, her voice betraying neither her earlier worries nor her pleasure at having her family complete once more.
“We had hoped you would arrive with us on Friday.” Claude’s tone was harsher. “That would have allowed more time to prepare for the Christmas celebrations and would have saved your aunt considerable unease.”
“There was so much going on, you understand.” Henry, rudely, did not look at either his aunt or his uncle as he replied, gazing out of the large bay window at the familiar view.
William, trying, as he so often did, to make up for his brother’s lack of manners added hastily, “There was our college dinner on Friday so we couldn’t really leave until yesterday.”
“And we were held up because William insisted on travelling via Maidenhead and the new railway into London. It would have been quicker to have travelled to Portsmouth by coach via Reading but William would have it that we go with his friends to travel by train.”
“Was that exciting?” Josephine asked enthusiastically. “Tell us about it. Was it very dirty and very noisy? And fast? It must have been wonderfully fast!”
But William had no chance to describe the journey.
“However exciting were your travel arrangements you should have made your aunt aware of your intentions.” Claude was not going to let the young men off lightly.
“We are sorry Uncle, Aunt, truly sorry.” William tried to make amends. “But it really was very interesting. It won’t be many years before there’s a railway connection to Portsmouth and even a steam ferry, and then we will be up and down in no time at all. But yes, we should have let you know Aunt Patience. I am very sorry to have caused you concern.”
“Henry, you will also apologise to your aunt. She is the one who has been concerned for your well-being. You should have made us aware of your plans.” Claude looked severely at Henry.
“I am sorry that William’s plans caused worry.” Henry looked neither guardian in the eye as he absolved himself of any guilt.
“Well now that is over with can we be informed as to how you are taking to Oxford?” Josephine tried to lighten the atmosphere and reduce the tension that was threatening to ruin the boys’ homecoming. She looked at both brothers in turn as she spoke, not minding which answered.
“Oxford is such a bore.” Henry spoke in a languid tone that was the current fashion.
“No, Henry, it isn’t, it’s fascinating.” William contradicted his brother with enthusiasm. “There’s so much to see, so much to learn, so many interesting people to meet. And so much that is new, the steam railway is just one of the innovations that will change the world in our lifetimes.”
“You keep your new-fangled innovations to yourself, brother. Horses and carriages have been good enough for generations of Laceys, they will be good enough for me.” Henry wasn’t looking at his uncle so he wasn’t aware of the look of surprise, then of thoughtfulness, that crossed his uncle’s face. “I need my hunters when we return, if we return, to Oxford. It has been a great disadvantage not to have them with me. Someone should have equipped me in a manner proper to my status.”
“Well I will be returning.” William spoke with quiet determination.
“If we return,” and the elder brother put the emphasis on his first word as he turned to glare at his brother, “I shall have Wickens arrange stabling, and I’ll need a groom. I have missed out on some good sport and some excellent hospitality.”
“And what of your studies?” Josephine asked with faux innocence. She had always enjoyed teasing the boys.
“Studies? Why study? I’m there only to meet people of similar status to mine and enjoy myself. What possible use can study be to me?”
“To widen your mind to new thoughts and fresh ideas?” Josephine suggested with studied innocence.
William looked across at Josephine and smiled, trying to convey his agreement with her and approval of her goading of his brother.
When they had arrived at Oxford that Michaelmas, Henry had embarrassed his brother by insisting that he be addressed as ‘Sir Henry’. William had very soon become aware that in their new environment, away from boys and masters who had known him as a child, Henry would allow no one to forget that he was a baronet. William soon understood that Henry felt entitled to the unquestioning respect of those who were lower than he on the social scale and William suspected that Henry considered his brother, his cousin and his aunt and uncle to be in that inferior group.
While William had spent the term absorbing the newness of the world in which they found themselves Henry had fallen in with a group of dandies and young bucks whose time was spent on anything other than study. Henry rarely attended any lecture or seminar, his days being filled with sport and sleep and his nights with drinking and enjoying the company of the less inhibited women of the city. William, although attentive to his study of the Classics, had developed an interest in geology and had spent his weekends walking the Chilterns and Cotswolds, observing the different rocks and listening to his more experienced fellows arguing about the probable forces involved in their formation.
The brothers had consequently, inevitably, grown apart.
“What possible point is there in the study of the Classics, Uncle?” Henry asked, not expecting an answer. “What possible use can it be to me in my life? I will run my estate, when I am finally allowed to take over from Wickens, and in due course I will become a Member of Parliament despite the recent Act decimating the number of seats available on the island. I will marry and produce an heir. William, as the younger son, is fortunate in that he has no such responsibilities. He can do as he pleases.”
“Oh don’t be so pompous.” Josephine had not liked the look Henry had given her when he had mentioned marriage.
“What responsibilities?” William countered. “Wickens is a perfectly efficient Estate Manager who runs everything like clockwork. All you are required to do is approve his actions.”
“Well it’s more responsibility than you have. You shouldn’t be wasting your time digging up rocks, drawing coloured lines on maps and having earnest conversations with your bohemian friends. You should join the army. There are such adventures to be had in Afghanistan and China. I would jump at the chance of obtaining a commission but obviously, as the head of the Lacey family, I must not put myself in harm’s way.”
“Obviously,” Josephine said, hoping her father would fail to hear the sarcasm in her response.
“I would rather join an expedition to Antarctica or the American frontier than fight men who have done me no harm,” William said quietly but firmly.
“They have done harm to our young Queen and the Colonies.”
“How can you say that when we fight spears with guns?”
“I would go if I could, but I—”
“We know, you have told us, you have your responsibilities as the head of the family to marry and have sons. The line must be secured.”
“Now, now Henry, William, today is Christmas Eve,” Patience said with some false joviality, “Let us enjoy this wonderful feast the kitchen has provided and anticipate the entertainments Josephine has organised for us.”
*
The following afternoon was set aside for the programme of games and music devised by Josephine. As Patience watched William throw himself into the entertainments with gusto while Henry held back, apparently assuming an attitude of superiority that set him apart from his brother and cousin, she came to the decision that her husband must not choose Henry for Josephine’s husband.
That evening, as the young ones prepared for dinner, she began her campaign.
“The boys are growing to be very different men are they not, Claude?” Patience said with apparent innocence. “William seems to be the more thoughtful and—”
“Sympathetic? Yes I agree. But I suspect Henry shows more bluster and puff than he intends and being the older, he must be preferred.”
“I fear William feels his inferior position in life most keenly,” Patience suggested.
“I am certain Henry will not shrink from explaining the differences in their positions to all and sundry and at every opportunity. I recognise that, my dear, but despite his character he is the elder. The title is his.” Claude allowed little romance in the decision that was his alone but that he understood his wife was trying to influence.
“And the estate,” Patience added wryly.
“That is an unarguable factor. Although we would never allow William to want for anything he will have to earn his position in life.”
“Such a difference one hour’s chance makes.”
“But there is a difference and therefore Josephine must accept Henry. It was Sir Bernard’s intention that she would, one day, become Lady Lacey.”
“Have you spoken with Henry yet?” Patience hoped that the arrangement had not already been made.
“He knows well enough that it was his father’s wish just as she knows well enough she must have him. It is something that had been accepted since the boys were born. Although he is still a young man, too young yet for the marriage to take place, the engagement must be agreed upon before our daughter is much older.”
“But what would happen if she prefers William?”
“You will not allow her to know which she prefers. Josephine will take Henry.”
Patience was not giving up her position in the argument easily. She did not think she liked the man Henry was becoming. “Delightful as it would be for her to be Lady Lacey I would hate to see her unhappy.”
“What makes you presume she would be unhappy with young Henry and what makes you consider happiness to be an element in any decision regarding marriage? Marriage is a contract, an alliance between families. The happiness of the man, or the woman, does not signify.”
Patience allowed her husband a few moments to appreciate how his words might have hurt her. When he showed no sign of doing so she chose not to comment.
“Have you spoken to him yet?” She repeated her earlier question.
“As I said, I have not. But of course he will agree. He knows as well as she that this was what was always intended for them.”
“Perhaps they have both thought they would not be forced to do anything they did not wish for themselves.” Patience knew she was near to showing her disagreement too strongly on a subject on which she should have no say, so she softened her voice. “She is, of course, aware of our hopes, we have spoken of it and she knows it is what is expected, but she worries.”
“What can she worry about?”
“She worries that whichever is chosen the other will leave. She believes that the decision will cause the brothers to quarrel and she cares enough about them both to want to delay that eventuality for as long as possible. And she is right, is she not?”
Claude paused before he answered. He was remembering things he had long pushed to the back of his mind concerning his last conversation with Sir Bernard. “I believe she might be.”
Allowing her husband time to think, it was some time before his wife continued. “Whichever is chosen the other will leave and I suspect she wants to postpone that day for as long as possible.”
“She would have William?” Claude asked, uncomfortably aware that he should have known his daughter sufficiently well to understand her preference.
“It is too early to say but from the evidence of this one day I believe so. They have changed in their three months in Oxford. Perhaps William is gaining in confidence with his new friends and interests whereas Henry is not finding it so easy to be the top dog he has always been in the past. Perhaps increased maturity is bringing out the best in one and the worst in the other.”
“Perhaps.” Claude was unwilling to admit the truths in his wife’s arguments.
It weighed heavily on his mind that the decision would affect not only his daughter’s happiness but also the control of The Lodge estate, and with it the destiny of Sir Bernard’s diaries, hidden as they were in the chapel in the woods.
“Speak with her. Let me know her thoughts.” He spoke as if it had been his own idea.
“Yes, husband.”
“And I will talk to both Henry and William.”
They both knew Patience had won that small, but critical, battle.
*
“But they are both like brothers to me.” Josephine’s response to her mother’s interrogation was unconvincing. “How can I prefer either as a husband?”
“You are nineteen years old. There are girls of your age married with heirs already presented for their husbands. The decision about your future must be made.” Patience spoke more firmly than was her usual tone. She had a great deal of sympathy for her daughter’s situation.
“But surely the boys are too young to be married? They have three years more at Oxford. Surely neither wants to be tied before their education is complete?”
“Of course the marriage cannot take place immediately but an engagement is necessary.”
“I care for them both, but as brothers, and I can’t imagine feeling for either as a wife should feel for a husband.”
“You read too many romances, Josephine. What you believe you feel cannot come into the choice of husband. I did not know your dear papa well when we married, if I had been consulted I would have said I had no particular feelings for him at the time, but I have grown to admire and respect him and you must know how fond we are of each other.”
“It would be best if they were allowed to choose elsewhere and Papa could find some other match for me. Mama, you could explain it to Papa couldn’t you? I will be friend to them both till the day I die but it would be better if I were wife to neither. It would be far better if Papa settled on someone else. Far better, and I would obey him then. I would. Even if the man he chose was old and fat and stank of tobacco. Just don’t make me marry one of the twins.”
Josephine was determined not to cry so she screwed her hands tight and dug her nails into the palms of her hands.
“He could not force me to marry if I did not wish to.”
“You know your father would not force you, and you know I would not allow that, but he would explain all the circumstances to you, he would explain all the advantages of the match and you would, sooner or later, be made to accept the rightness of his decision.”
*
As Josephine and her mother sat in their parlour sewing their samplers and disagreeing, Henry and William were with their uncle seated around the fire in his library.
“You are men now, no longer boys.” Claude spoke seriously. “You must know how much I have missed your father and how your aunt has missed your mother these past seven years. It will not be long before you attain your majorities. What do you plan to do with your lives?”
“As I have said, I will move into Oakridge.” Henry spoke first. “I will take over the running of the estate, I will interest myself in local activities and act as Member of Parliament. I will, therefore, need a house in London and will divide my time accordingly. It is what I have always known I would do.”
“And what of you William? Have you plans?”
“None so firmly set, sir. I would like to travel, see something of the world—”
“Go to Antarctica?” his brother interrupted with something approaching a sneer.
“There are other continents to explore, so much of the world to see, but America is an exciting continent.”
“And what would you do for money were you to head for the Colonies?” The supercilious note in Henry’s voice was lost on neither Claude nor William.
“My needs have never been as extravagant as yours, Henry, so the income I will have from my father when I am twenty-one will be quite sufficient. To occupy myself I will find work, there are many geological expeditions I could join. But surely there is time enough for a final decision when I know more of my own mind.”
Claude, remembering Sir Bernard’s history decided, on instinct and without much consideration, that it would do the boys good to know more about their father. “You may still have connections in the Americas,” he said quietly.
“Connections, sir?” William realised that his uncle had something of importance to share.
“Your father was from the Colonies.”
Claude waited for the twins to understand the implications of what he had said.
It was Henry who responded first. “Impossible! How could he have been from America? He was a baronet!”
“The two are not mutually exclusive, my boy. Men from all parts of the world settle in this country and, if they give service, as your father did, that service will be recognised by their adopted nation.”
“But an American!” Henry spoke as if he had been told his father had been an escaped convict from one of the newly established penal colonies of Australia.
“Your father was a very brave and a very good man, Henry, I expect you to appreciate that.”
“But he must have been a nobody. My family—”
“You certainly do not come from a long line of blue-blooded aristocrats, if that is what you have believed. Your title does not come from your great-grandmother being bedded by a prince of the realm.” Claude spoke in a tone that failed to hide his long-felt contempt for the system of honouring the sons born on the wrong side of a royal blanket. “Your father’s title was granted after a lifetime of service, the worth of which I cannot expect you to understand but I will demand that you respect.”
Henry was silenced but his understanding of himself had been changed forever. In the moments it took for him to understand the implications of his uncle’s words he determined that he would give no one, at any time, the slightest reason to believe that he did not descend from a long line of highly bred aristocrats. He had never concerned himself with the detail that he was only the second Baronet Lacey of Oakridge, believing that earlier generations of Laceys had simply not been formally honoured.
The effect on his brother was very different.
“Do you know where in America? Do you know from what stock his family came? Were they farmers? Traders? What more can you tell us? I could go to where our grandparents lived. We may have family there, uncles, aunts, cousins may survive.” William’s voice was filled with his excitement and enquiry.
Thinking that perhaps he had made a mistake by mentioning Sir Bernard, Claude turned the subject. “We will talk of all that another time. Now I have something of greater importance to discuss. I wish to speak to you of Josephine.”
“Josephine?” William repeated tentatively.
“You will know that it is my greatest desire, and that of your aunt, as it was the dearest dream of your mother and father, that our families be united through marriage.” His voice betrayed the fact that he felt awkward discussing his daughter in this way, even with two he knew so well. “No, please do not interrupt me.” He had noticed William seemed about to speak. “This is not easy as there are the two of you and I have only one daughter. It is essential that you decide which of you shall be husband to her. She is a girl no more and the matter must be settled before you return to Oxford.”
“She’s our cousin, our sister almost.” William found his answer first but Henry’s soon followed.
“Why should that make any difference?”
“What do you mean Henry? You want her? For your wife?”
His brother didn’t answer.
William did not think he loved Josephine as he understood a man should love his wife, but he loved her as a sister. She had always been kind and gentle to him, even when teasing him the most, and she had reminded him so much of his mother whose memory faded more each year. He did not think Henry would treat her well, however charming he could be when he chose.
“Why, little brother, you want her for yourself.” Henry spoke with understated menace.
Claude looked from one to the other. Patience had been right. His words had focussed the boys’ growing discomfort with each other into a competition that could have no good end and whichever brother was the loser would not take his failure easily.
He also saw that Patience had been accurate in her understanding that, if allowed the choice, their daughter would prefer the younger, gentler and more interesting brother. He also saw that if she were to be allowed to make that choice then Henry would, indeed, cut himself adrift from the family, a situation that could have unthinkable consequences.
When Henry received the letter Sir Bernard had left him he would know of the existence of the diaries. He would demand they were given to him and he would have no hesitation in disobeying his father’s wishes. He would open them and he would read the truth of who and what his, and Josephine’s, family really were. Only if Henry were still at The Lodge or at Oakridge could Claude be in a position to keep Henry from gaining control of the diaries. He needed time to arrange the matter better.
“Perhaps it is too important a decision to make when so much about your future is uncertain. I will give you until your twenty-first birthday. Enjoy your time at Oxford, make good use of it, become the men you will be and then we will decide.”
Claude had no firm idea how he could reconcile his obligations to Sir Bernard with his fear of exposure but he had won many battles in the past by keeping his options open for as long as possible.
*
In the weeks before the celebration of the twins’ twenty-first birthday Claude shut himself in his study and spent many anguished hours finding a solution to what seemed to him to be an insoluble conundrum.
He wanted his daughter to have the status and security of being Lady Lacey of Oakridge but he had seen Henry develop into a man who possessed a character that was neither likeable nor honourable. However, if Josephine were to become Mrs William Lacey she would have the gentler husband but neither fortune nor status. And in his mind the issue was rendered impossible by its being tied to the fate of Sir Bernard’s writings.
Many times Claude wished that Sir Bernard had not committed their secrets to paper. Had he not written everything down the truth would have been lost and no one would be any the wiser. But the diaries had been written and their existence could not be ignored. Claude could not rid himself of the feeling that Josephine’s sons, and their sons, had a right to know the richness of their ancestry. He could not let the truth be known while his daughter still lived, as it was unbearable to him that she would know he had lied to her throughout her life, but when there was no longer a direct link to anyone living, he persuaded himself, no harm could be done.
He had watched as his nemesis the Duke had turned to politics and spent his years in office resisting reform and change but now, in 1843, he was again Commander in Chief of the British Army, Leader of the House of Lords and a minister in Peel’s cabinet. He would be ruthless in his punishment of anyone who threatened his position. Sir Robert and Lady Frances Frensham were prominent members of society, what would the truth do to them and to her son, Lewis, who Claude knew to be his son also? No, Claude said firmly to himself, the truth must not be known while they lived. And that, he recognised, meant he could not allow Henry to know of their existence.
“History is a set of lies agreed upon.” Claude said the words aloud to himself and they reverberated in the silence of the book-lined library. And the lies had been agreed. History could not record that he had cooperated with the English, sharing intelligence and the benefit of his experience to resist revolution and prevent war. To all but a very small number of people living Napoleon Bonaparte had been captured and exiled and had died on St Helena in 1821.
For three years Claude had watched Henry grow into an arrogant and devious man and for three years he wrestled with finding a course of action by which he could protect those people who needed his protection whilst fulfilling his obligations to Sir Bernard. For three years he had procrastinated but with the day of celebration looming, he had to find an answer.
He considered giving Henry the diaries and the letter without the codebook, but he had not read the contents of the folders and had no idea how much of what Sir Bernard had written lay in plain text amongst those hundreds of sheets of closely written paper. He could not trust that there were no uncoded secrets. No, Claude concluded, Henry could not have the folders even without the codebook.
He had the idea of giving Henry the letter alone, unattached to any book or folder. But Henry would learn of the existence of the folders and would demand to know where they were and why they had not been given to him. It would be impossible for Claude to lie, brazenly, that he had no idea where they were. Claude rejected that idea. The letter on its own would not do.
But, perhaps, if the letter were tied with legal pink ribbon to the codebook, it would have the appearance of substance. There would be less curiosity to open and to read.
Claude regretted that his age and the years spent living the comfortable life Sir Bernard had made possible for him had made him less able to trust his instincts. When he was a young man he had been decisive, but, he told himself, that had been long ago and he had been a different man.
Claude finally decided on his course of action in the week before the birthday celebrations. He would give Henry the letter and the codebook tied together and he would give strict instructions to the young man that he was not to open or read the contents of either as they were not for him. He would make Henry swear on his oath as a gentleman that he would not open the notebook and that, whatever happened in his life, he would keep the packet safe and give it to his son with the same instruction.
As he worked through his alternative courses of action he knew he had already accepted that Josephine must be allowed to choose her future and, inevitably, Henry would leave.
Claude had never known his only legitimate son, and he had acknowledged but had never been involved in the lives of two children by mistresses whose faces he had long forgotten. He had watched as Lewis Frensham, who would carry his blood, if not his name, through history, had grown into a fine young man. It had taken all his wiles to put a stop to his wife’s plan for Josephine to make a match of it with Lewis and he was relieved when his engagement to the daughter of an Earl had been announced.
It was Josephine, the child he had not only fathered but also been a father to, who he cared most about. He had been involved in every stage of her transition from infant to woman and he loved her more, even, than her namesake the Empress.
He could not force her to marry Henry and he knew she would not choose him for herself. Henry would undoubtedly leave Oakridge and, if he had not destroyed the packet in a fit of pique, with him would go the letter and the notebook. Even were he to honour his father’s wishes and hand the letter to his son, and he to his, the young man in July 1915 would have no idea how to locate the diaries.
Claude took out the letter and notebook from the locked drawer in his desk.
In order to honour the spirit of Sir Bernard’s request a short trail of clues would have to be left that would lead the opener of the letter to the stone coffin in the chapel in the woods. On a small piece of the thinnest paper he wrote his first clue.
The Lodge, July 1843.
Sir Bernard Lacey Bt. left four volumes of truths. He charged me to pass them to his elder son Henry. I could not do as he bid. I thought to destroy history but did not for the sake of my old friend, and so the volumes lie hidden. I leave it to Providence to decide if they are to be discovered and will not tell of their hiding place. I give you one ball of thread. Whoever you may be, wherever you are, whatever the year, in whatever circumstance lies the world in which you live, look to my Josephine’s locket. I am CO
He carefully placed the note inside the codebook, pressing it hard into the spine so that its existence was well concealed before retying it to the letter with the pink legal ribbon.
It was some minutes before Claude opened the secret drawer in his desk and removed an intricate gold locket on a fine chain.
He had bought it on the occasion of the birth of his daughter Mary Lettice. It was a beautiful piece and the master jeweller had explained how to open the secret mechanism with a twist here and the slight push there, a method that reminded Claude of the way in which his military chest had unlocked.
When Mary Lettice had died he had not had the heart to give the locket to any other but he would now give it to Josephine who would pass it to her daughter, and she to hers. The note in the codebook would lead the finder to the locket and if he had any wit, the folders would be found.
He could not give Josephine titles and kingdoms, as he had given his son, but, as he stroked the chain that would hang around her neck long after he was dead, he was content with his decision to give her control over her future.
*
On the afternoon of their birthday Henry and William sat with their uncle in his study. Both knew what was to be agreed.
William was reminded of the time he had stood in front of his father’s desk in the study in Oakridge Court, the day they were told his mother was dead and his world was changed. Perhaps, he thought, my world will change again today. If Henry were chosen to be Josephine’s husband, as seemed likely, William had decided to travel. It would be unfair to all for him to stay.
Henry did not want to marry his cousin, his taste in women did not include provincial virgins past their first flush of youth, but neither did he want to lose out to William. He had decided that he would marry her, install her in Oakridge Court, sire a son or two and then remove himself to London.
Claude opened the interview with a deceptively casual question. “You are twenty-one years old today and I wished to see you both before we prepare to join the ladies for your celebratory dinner. You will remember I asked you to resolve the question of my daughter’s future. We have not talked of this since as I have trusted you to do as I asked. What is your decision?”
Neither twin spoke, and neither could meet their uncle’s eyes.
“You have discussed this between yourselves as I instructed?” Claude asked more firmly, and his question was met by a heavy, embarrassed silence which William eventually broke.
“We should ask Josephine herself. It is such a step for her. We must allow her to make the decision that she believes will best ensure her happiness.”
“I disagree,” Henry interrupted. “It is not a woman’s decision to make, nor is it ours. As her father you must make the choice, and as her father, with her best interests at heart, you cannot choose the landless second son. It must be me since I offer a position in society, wealth and an estate.”
“But you say nothing of affection,” William said, with suppressed anger in his voice. “Have you ever felt that for anyone? You should certainly feel it for a wife.”
“I am the elder. She must be given to me.”
“She should not be ‘given’ to anyone. She must choose for herself.” William spoke with cold determination.
“Are you not aware of the wording of the marriage ceremony? ‘Who gives this woman?’ She is her father’s to give to whomsoever he chooses.”
“She belongs to no one but herself. She must be allowed to choose her future.”
“How can she?”
Claude contained his anger as he watched the boys argue. When he interrupted it was with a hint of menace. “So you, William, refuse to make the decision I specifically asked of you two winters ago and you, Henry, presume to tell me what I should do?”
William replied first, perhaps surer of his feelings. “I do, sir. I do not feel it is right for us to make such a decision without hearing her preference.”
“How very radical of you, brother. The world as it has been for centuries is not good enough for you? Next you will be calling for abolition of all titles and the dissolution of landed estates. You are now an atheist, are you also a republican? You deny God created the world, would you also revolt like the French who rose against their monarch and cut off his head? No doubt as well as encouraging women to choose their own husbands you would recommend they are allowed a voice in the running of our country.”
“We are ruled over by a Queen, or had you forgotten?”
“You will both be quiet. You will go into the garden. You will discuss this as you should have done through the past years and you will return here in one hour and in one voice. If you have not come to a decision you can both agree on then I will tell you what is to be done.”
Claude watched as the brothers left his study.
He owed much to their father and he had promised that their two families would be linked, but he could not believe that Sir Bernard would have wanted that promise kept if it meant unhappiness for Josephine.
He stood by the large bow window and looked out over the gardens listening for the chimes of the longcase clock in the hall to tell him that the hour was passed.
It was, he felt, the last hour of their lives as they had known them to be for more than a decade.
The knock on the door meant he had no more time.
“Well?” Claude asked without preamble, but it was soon clear that they had not come to an agreement.
Henry answered. “Obviously you must ensure that she does as my father wished. As Lady Lacey she will have the status and security my title will confer. I see that, but William will not concede his claim.”
“I do not have a claim, I just deny that Henry has one. It must be her own choice, one or the other, or neither.”
Claude noticed a reddening around William’s cheek and at the corner of his mouth and briefly wondered what had transpired in the garden. A glance down at Henry’s hand told him all he needed to know. “We will ask her.”
“You agree with him?” Henry accused his uncle. “You agree that a woman should have the right of veto over my father’s wishes?” Henry ignored his uncle’s warning glance. “Who do you think you are, Claude Olivierre, that you think you can overrule Sir Bernard Lacey? You, who came from the Channel Islands with nothing, who was supported and maintained by my father’s generosity? How is it that you believe you can overrule his wishes?”
“Have you learned nothing?” Claude spoke with quiet menace. “Have you remembered nothing?”
“My father was a hero, you said so yourself. He was rewarded for his heroism. You have done nothing. You are nothing, you are nobody. I will not accept your decision. You must give her to me.”
“You go too far.” Claude Olivierre’s voice was low and calm. It was a voice that forty years before had created terror in his household and had reverberated throughout Europe. William detected his uncle’s accent had become stronger as it did when he was either very upset, as when he had told the boys that their father had died in a shooting accident and left them orphans, or very angry, as he had been on a few occasions in the past ten years.
“You go too far Henry. I have made my decision. William, you have my permission to approach your cousin.”
Claude sat down, for he had risen to his feet in his anger, and turned his attention to the papers on his desk. Without looking up he spoke, still with the hard, low, calm voice he used when most angered.
“William, go to your cousin. Henry, you will stay here.”
William left the room swiftly as Henry stood, hands clasped behind his back, determined not to be browbeaten by his elderly guardian but wondering how much damage he had done.
“I will not try to hide my dislike of the conversations of the last hour, Henry. I believe you have shown your true colours, but I will forgive the conceit of youth. Once I, too, was arrogant and believed I was more significant a human being than every other but life has taught me that the important things are not what others think of you, or indeed what station you hold in society, but more how a man deals with his fellows. You know nothing of my history yet you judge me. You have strong opinions based only on prejudice. You believe yourself in the right at all times. These are dangerous traits in your character and I urge you to look at yourself before it is too late. That, I promise you, is the end of the lecture. Sit down, I have something to give you.”
Claude carefully unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out Sir Bernard’s letter tied to the notebook. He handed it to Henry, who was about to untie the ribbon when Claude stopped him.
“Leave it. This letter is not for you to read.”
“Then why do you give it to me?”
“There are strict instructions from your father that he gave me on the day of his death. You are to swear on your oath as a gentleman that you will pass the letter and the packet, both unopened and unread, to your eldest son on his twenty-first birthday with instructions that he is to pass it on, still unopened and unread, to his son in turn until the fifteenth day of July 1915 on which date its contents may be disclosed.”
“What is in it?”
“I do not know.” Claude hoped Henry would not see his lie. “Your father asked me to give it to you on this day. He trusted you to follow his wishes.”
“I may not read what is inside? Am I not to know the contents?”
“You are to remain ignorant. If I believe you will go against his wishes then I cannot hand it to you.”
“You would give that to William too?”
Claude noted the disappointment, not well hidden, in Henry’s words. “No. I would destroy it,” he lied.
“Then I will swear. I will take it and keep it safe and hand it to my son. What happens if I fail in that task as well?”
“You will make sure you do not. You will marry and you will have a son, and one you can recognise as your legitimate son I may add.” Claude was not unaware of Henry’s activities whilst in Oxford. “You make your oath?”
“I do,” Henry said, taking the small parcel from Claude’s hand.
After Henry had left his study Claude turned his chair to face out across the garden to the Solent and the mainland beyond. He had done what he thought was best and he hoped Sir Bernard would have understood why he could not trust Henry with the folders, or indeed, with his daughter.
*
“I cannot marry you William. I really cannot.” Josephine was trying not to cry with the frustration of it all. She knew that this was what her mother wanted, and now her father had given his blessing. “I like you far too much to be married to you. Mama and Papa really should not have put you in the position of having to make me an offer when I know you’d rather not.”
“I always thought it would be Henry.”
“That would be even worse!” she exclaimed without thinking that the words were not complimentary, then she caught his eye and they both grinned.
“Oh Josie, I know you’ve been forced to choose one of us,” William countered, “and you really don’t want either do you?”
“I love you as a brother, Will, you know that, but being—”
“Being my wife would be different?”
“Of course it would be!”
“Is there anyone else? Are you attached elsewhere?”
“No, you know there isn’t and I’m not. I had wondered about Lewis Frensham at one time, we spent so much time together when you were away, but Papa was adamant it was Henry or you. He has no idea how difficult it is.”
“Perhaps time can change your feelings?”
“How do you mean?”
“If I go away, travel and see something of the world I would return a different person. I will change. You will change. Our familiarity will be lost. When I return I will no longer be your annoying little cousin. I will be a different man and you may find it easier to feel a different kind of affection for me.”
“That is a gallant suggestion, Will.”
William had spent an hour with his Aunt Patience and it was she who had suggested the plan. He had agreed to it with relief. He wasn’t ready to marry the girl who had grown up as his sister any more than she was ready to accept him.
“But it might help?” William was hopeful Josephine would agree.
“I think it might, and you could make your fortune. You could return rich as Croesus and independent of your brother’s good will.” They both heard the relief in her voice.
“Henry will never give me a penny that he considers to be his so I will have to make my own way. But I may be gone a long time, Josie. If you find someone you prefer then you mustn’t let this conversation stand in your way. You must not consider that we have an arrangement unless it is useful to you to be spoken for. I will ask your father formally only after we have spoken when I return.”
“Do you think Mama and Papa will agree? I mean, they say I am already becoming something of a lonely old spinster.”
“It was your mama’s idea and I suspect she can persuade your papa. They care for you very much, Josie, they would never make you do anything that would cause you to be unhappy.”
“Where will you go?” Josephine knew she would miss him, but she would not pine. She would be older than many of her circle who were already married but she could mention their informal arrangement if she heard any talk of her being an old maid.
“I have absolutely no idea.”
*
“Henry is not joining us?” William asked as they assembled in the drawing room before the birthday dinner.
“Henry has taken up residence in Oakridge,” Patience replied. “He paid me a short visit this afternoon appraising me of your uncle’s decision and telling me that he was leaving The Lodge and could be contacted at Oakridge Court when sense was seen and the decision was reversed.”
“He’s left us?” William was disappointed but unsurprised.
“He has. He took his leave an hour ago and his boxes are to follow tomorrow. He thanked me for my hospitality as if he had stayed at The Lodge for little more than a few days and asked if he could visit when he could be sure you would not be here.” Patience’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion, and it was impossible for anyone in the room to determine what her true feelings were.
“He will not stay at Oakridge for long. Now he has access to his inheritance and can do as he pleases he will sell up and head for the fascinations of London.” Josephine had had no doubts about Henry’s plans but her certainty surprised her father.
“You believe he would sell his father’s estate?”
“I would be surprised if he were to stay,” William agreed sadly. A heavy silence followed.
“Now to happier topics.” Claude was determined the evening would not be a sad occasion. “There may not be a formal arrangement between you two young people but I would like there to be a symbol of what you will mean to each other in the future.”
He took the locket on the fine chain from his pocket and handed it to William. “Place it around her neck, young man.” Claude and Patience exchanged a glance of satisfaction as William carefully passed the chain over his cousin’s head and kissed her gently on the cheek.
Claude was relieved. He had done what he could to fulfil Sir Bernard’s wishes. The locket was around his daughter’s neck and would be passed from her to her daughter, and then to her daughter through the years. He would arrange for Josephine’s likeness to be painted by one of the prime portraitists of the time and it would hang in The Lodge for generations. Everyone would know ‘Josephine’s locket’ and the reader of the slip of paper in the notebook, wherever it was, would know where to look.
“William, I am told you are to go travelling.” Claude spoke as though he had known nothing of the plan.
“I thought to go to America. There are many opportunities there.”
“But you have nowhere specific in mind?”
William shook his head. “I had thought to book passage to New York and head for Pennsylvania. You see Uncle, I still remember our conversation.”
Claude nodded. “I will tell you everything I know of your American family to help you find them but that will hardly take you any time.”
“I could contact the Royal Geographical Society, I have some contacts there. I am sure some expedition or other will be pushing civilisation westwards. I could join one. There will be many opportunities.”
“What about Africa?” Josephine suggested. “Or Australia?”
“Never mind such adventures now, let us now go in to dinner.”
*
After the ladies had withdrawn leaving Claude and William to share brandy and cigars their conversation took a more serious tone.
“May I ask something of you?” Claude put down his cigar to emphasise the importance of his question.
“Anything.”
“Your father was one of the few men in my life I could call friend. I owe him more than I can ever admit to any man.”
“Certainly more than I will ever know.”
“You are right, William, more than you must ever know. As you see more of life you will understand that all men have secrets. But I will tell you that much of what your father had was through his acquaintance with me and that without that acquaintance I would have had less than nothing. My will, therefore, will be changed to leave everything that is mine to you. It would, of course, become yours on your marriage to Josephine but I wish you to understand that whatever I have is yours of right. I only ask that you undertake to support my daughter should she choose not to marry you and also Patience should I predecease her.” When William tried to interrupt Claude waved his hand dismissively. “These things must be spoken of.”
William nodded. He was aware that under the law everything that was Josephine’s would become his on their marriage but it made him feel more comfortable that his uncle understood the delicacy of the situation.
“Everything that is mine will be yours by direct inheritance not marriage,” Claude repeated and smiled before continuing. “You will, by what I have said, see how confident I am that a marriage between you will take place.”
“I do intend to make something of myself, you know Uncle, I will make my own fortune on my travels so I will not be entirely dependent on your generosity.”
“I understand your need to prove yourself. When I was the age you are now I, too, needed to prove myself, though the circumstances were somewhat different. Suffice to say I advanced in the path I chose and many good men believed my career to be a success. Without telling you more than it is good for you to know I did prove myself, but when I look back I understand that I was not as strong as I should have been. I had a simple belief, to win at… at what I did… and I did win, every time I played the game I won, except that one last time.”
William listened, not understanding half of what was being said but aware that the old man was speaking of things that were of the utmost importance to him. As he listened he decided that as soon as he returned to his room he would to write down everything he could remember of this conversation. He had a feeling that he would never again hear his uncle talk with such honesty and openness.
“Many men’s lives were ruined because of me. I have seen countless men lying dead on the battlefield but I remember one more than any other. As I looked on I thought of the many friends that man would have had, yet he lay there deserted by all but a dog that stood howling by his dead master. Without regret I had given orders which brought death to thousands yet I was stirred to tears by the grief of that dog.”
Tears were in his eyes as he spoke.
William tried to comfort the old man with the only sympathy he could offer. “We cannot imagine what you saw through the French wars.”
“No, William, you cannot and I pray to the God that you cannot believe in that you do not see such sights and are not required to perform such acts as fell to your father and myself in those years.”
“You have never spoken of those times.”
“No, and after today I will not again.” Claude lapsed into silence, his eyes clouded with memories and regrets, and it was some minutes before he could continue. “I will answer for much when I meet my maker but there is another man whose death I remember. A good man died for me. That death hangs on my conscience more than any of the others.” Barely aware of William’s presence Claude continued. “His name was Jolliffe, Ennor Jolliffe. He was a Cornishman. I am sorry Cornishman, for all that they made you do for me.”
Then, as if none of the previous few minutes had occurred, Claude cleared his throat and spoke firmly. “I am going to ask you to do something for me.”
“Of course, anything.” William was relieved to hear the familiar powerful tones in his uncle’s voice.
“On your travels I want you to go to St Helena.”
“The island of Bonaparte’s exile?”
“The same. Your father spoke of him often and I would like to know more of his time in exile. You are a skilled geologist, you will understand and appreciate the land, but you are also observant and will see more than is at the surface. I want you to explore the island, learn some of its secrets and pass them back to me. I will expect regular communications, many ships stop at Jamestown on their way to the Cape and to India, so I shall expect at least a monthly letter.”
“Jamestown? I know nothing of the place.”
“Jamestown is the only town on that small island, but it is a busy and prosperous port. I suggest you spend some months learning what you can and passing on that understanding to me.”
“It is important to you?”
“Shall we just say that I am curious?”
“I will find it fascinating to study an island, unique, isolated and self-regulated, and one so much more remote than Wight.” The opportunities began to open up to William. “I can publish papers.”
“And if you find anything of interest to your family, let me know that too.”
“Something of interest to my family?” William asked, unsure what was meant.
“It is entirely possible that your father visited the island. I should like to know if he did and if there are any memories of him.”
“My father?”
“Sir Bernard was, as I have tried to impress upon you and your brother, an important man. He had, shall we say, ‘connections’ with the man held prisoner on that island. I should like to know if he is remembered.”
“The man held prisoner?” William asked. “You mean Napoleon Bonaparte?”
“As I say, the man held prisoner.” With Ennor Jolliffe in his mind Claude could not bring himself to lie.
When William retired to his room he sat at his writing desk and wrote down everything he could remember of his conversation with Claude. He looked back over his notes time and again, filling in details as he ran through the conversation in his mind. When he was certain he had recalled and recorded everything his uncle had said he placed the pages in the copy of Yarrell’s A History of British Birds that Josephine had given him as a birthday gift and poured himself another brandy. Standing at the window of his room, looking out to the distant lights of boats on the black sea, he wondered at how much of his life had been mapped out in just one day.
He was to travel to St Helena; he was to study and publish papers and become known; and then he was to return to marry Josephine, in due course inheriting The Lodge where he would raise his family and grow old. He had also learned more of his uncle’s life in the day than in all of the previous ten years.
He wondered if, when he returned from his travels, he would learn the whole story.