When Mary and John Hamilton said their goodbyes on the steps of Drumsollen on the last day of June, the sky a perfect blue, the breeze warm even at the early hour of their departure, they had secured a promise from Clare and Andrew to come and visit them in Norfolk at the first possible opportunity. It was a promise happily given. After three days in which they’d shared every hour they could spare with their ‘family guests’, they felt they’d made a friendship that would extend far into the future.
‘My goodness, can you believe all that’s happened in six months?’ Clare said, turning to Andrew as the little car disappeared round the bend in the drive. ‘Have you time to walk up to the summerhouse with me? I’m not on breakfast duty this morning.’
‘Fine. Nothing waiting for me that won’t wait a bit longer,’ Andrew replied. ‘Besides, it’s only eight o’clock. Charles never gets in before ten.’
‘I was thinking of how awful it was in January,’ Clare went on, ‘those frozen pipes we thought might burst and the awful chill of the empty bedrooms and corridors. Do you remember how dangerous the car park was and how we slithered and slid and worried about the few visitors we did have?’
‘I seem to remember you consulting me about our proprietor’s liability, which I had to go and read up. Not my department at all,’ he said, looking at her sideways. ‘My dear, beloved Clare,’ he began, shaking his head. ‘Can you please tell me why, on this glorious morning, you are thinking about the most God awful winter anyone in these parts can ever remember?’
Clare laughed and nodded.
‘I’m not actually being negative, you know. I’m celebrating the way things can come good even if they’ve been grim. Oh, I suppose it goes the other way too, but I keep thinking of this last week. First the good news about breaking even, then Mary and John arriving and all the splendid talk we had with them. Like the sun coming out, suddenly life is brighter and easier and it’s wonderful. Don’t you think?’
When he didn’t reply, she assumed he was just as much out of breath as she was. In their enthusiasm to gaze out over the luxuriant green countryside and scan the mountains of Tyrone and Donegal, they had climbed the steep steps far too quickly.
‘Andrew?’ she prompted.
‘Do you really think we can make a go of it?’ he asked. ‘I mean, like we had planned.’
The tight tone and the tell-tale creases at the corners of his mouth, sure signs of anxiety, warned her to tread cautiously.
‘Well, yes, I do. Weren’t you happy with the figures when I showed them to you?’
He made a visible effort to collect himself.
‘Oh yes, absolutely,’ he said quickly. ‘I just haven’t taken it all in yet I suppose. You really think I could give up the job in another year or so?’
‘Unless the situation changes markedly,’ she replied. ‘There are no signs of that at the moment. So we have to proceed on the assumption that it won’t. If it does, that’ll be the time to take stock and think again.’
‘What shall we do to celebrate?’ he asked, suddenly sounding more cheerful.
‘Bit early in the day for champagne,’ she said, keeping an absolutely straight face and hoping to make him laugh.
To her delight, he did. She breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever dark shadow had moved up towards consciousness it had vanished as quickly as it had come.
‘I was taking a more long-term view,’ he said, successfully mimicking their accountant, who was full of his own importance and inclined to be pompous. ‘What about the other half of the parterre, or the left-hand rose bed by any other name? I’m sure it’s not the right time for planting roses but they come in containers these days which must make a difference. I’ve seen them in the market in Armagh. Could we afford fifty? If you bargain for them I’m sure we could.’
‘What a lovely idea, Andrew,’ she replied, beaming at him. ‘Like the chandelier,’ she went on. ‘A gesture, a palpable gesture. Let’s do it. We can plant them ourselves, this time, now there are two of us.’
‘And then we’ll have a weekend away,’ he added, glancing at his watch. ‘No. I’m not joking. I have a plan. Tell you tonight,’ he said, kissing her quickly and setting off briskly down the steps, a smile on his face as he disappeared round the side of the house.
Throughout the arc of the summer, days of bright sunshine and brilliant blue sky alternated with days when heavy clouds piled up on the green hills, the air grew thick and oppressive, before giving way to sudden drenching showers accompanied by the occasional rumble of thunder.
According to Charlie Running, the regulars at his favourite pub in Loughgall had been predicting a summer as extreme in its sunshine and warmth as the winter had been in its snow, ice and bitter cold. They were wrong and their disappointment was obvious.
‘Shure there’ll be no good stories out of a summer like this,’ Charlie explained on one of Clare’s regular visits. ‘What ye need for these boys is the apples so thick the branches are near breaking, the hay three feet high, the dahlias the size of dinner plates and the roses like wee cabbages.’
Whatever the disappointment for Charlie’s drinking companions there was none for Clare and Andrew. Whether it was rain or shine, the weeks of that summer were memorable, filled with a pleasure and delight they were sure they would never forget.
However long and demanding the day had been and however late it was by the time they’d completed the day’s tasks, evening after evening, they walked down the front steps and round their garden in the lingering dusk. Ostensibly, they were keeping an eye on the newly-planted roses, but what they were really doing was celebrating all that had happened to so encourage them in their hopes and plans for the coming year.
‘But how can we go away, Andrew, even for a weekend, never mind a week?’ she protested, when he first spoke about the possibility. ‘You know we’re understaffed. If we’re not here to fill in the gaps evenings and weekends, goods and services break down.’
‘Absolutely true,’ he nodded, looking pleased with himself. ‘But you would agree there’s nothing we do that is highly skilled, apart from you masterminding our finance. Anyone can make beds or run the washing machines or clear out the drain when it blocks. June and Helen could cook a full house of breakfasts, if ever we were to need it.’
‘But they can’t do all the jobs we do as well as what they do already,’ Clare protested.
‘Of course not. But if we take the first week in October, Helen won’t have gone back to Queens, nor will Jennifer have started and John has two weeks due to him from Robinsons’ farm. He’s saving up to change his car. He says he’d be well pleased to do a whole week here.’
‘So we’d have FOUR Wileys instead of two and a bit,’ said Clare thoughtfully. ‘Well, we do advertise ourselves as a family business. We don’t have to say which family runs the place.’
‘So you agree?’
‘Well, I can now see it is possible, but where did you think we could afford to go?’
‘A small but stately home in Fermanagh, with its own extensive gardens, woodland and a lake. With a boat. And Great-Uncle Hector who has been pestering me for three years now to bring my beautiful bride to Killydrennan.’
‘Killydrennan, what a lovely name,’ she said, her eyes lighting up. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Mean? I haven’t the faintest idea. I thought it was just a name. But you would like it, I’m sure you would. And Hector is a good sort. Bit of a ladies’ man in his youth, married three times apparently, but he’s been a widower for thirty years.’
‘Andrew,’ she gasped. ‘What age is he now?’
‘Getting on for ninety as far as I know, but he’s got all his marbles,’ he added reassuringly. ‘I’d love us to go.’
To her surprise, Clare caught a distinct hint of wistfulness in Andrew’s tone. She remembered he’d visited Fermanagh several times while she’d still been at Queens, because there’d been some complicated dispute over land. Whether it was his uncle’s land or a neighbour’s, she couldn’t now remember. She had no idea either who Great-Uncle Hector was and how he fitted in to the Richardson side of the family but Andrew had got on really well with him.
‘Right then, we’ll go. What do I have to pack for a stately home?’
‘Anything you like by day,’ he said, smiling, ‘and we’ll need weather gear for the paths down to the lake and the boat, but I do have to tell you Hector still dresses for dinner. I’m sure he’d love it if you dressed up for him.’
‘Shall I take the emeralds?’
‘Why not,’ he laughed, ‘and that short dress that matches them so well. Maybe your wedding dress too, if you’ve done what you planned to do to it. Pity not to wear some of your lovely Paris creations. I’m afraid I don’t provide many opportunities for dressing up, apart from the Hospitals Dance in Armagh every New Year.’
‘Once a year does very nicely, thank you, until we’re further on. Going off together is such a lovely thought. The more I think about it, the better I like it. I’m looking forward to it already.’
Once Andrew had cleared the outskirts of Dungannon and picked up the good main road to Ballygawley, Clare unfolded her map.
‘I do actually know the way,’ he said helpfully, as he glanced briefly down at her lap.
‘Of course you do,’ she replied, laughing. ‘But I don’t. And if I haven’t got a map I’m sure to miss some place whose name I heard long ago, or I’ve met in my reading.’
She paused, while she carefully consulted the next fold in the sheet she was holding.
‘We are now in Tyrone,’ she declared. ‘Did you know that Tyrone is known as Tyrone among the bushes?’
‘Does your map tell you that?’
‘Of course it doesn’t, silly, but it does have many old Irish names and they always tell you something about the land. Most of the names about here, though, seem to be Scots or English.’
She pointed to a signpost they were passing.
‘Fivemiletown, you see. One of my uncles is the station sergeant there. He was posted from Moy just recently. We passed his old barracks just before the egg packing station. I was going to point it out to you, but you were stuck behind that ancient tractor and trying to pass.’
‘How do you know all this about place names?’ he asked, without taking his eyes off the road.
‘Charlie is working on a place name project. He says it’s a way of keeping up his Irish. No one now speaks it round the Grange. He told me the old names describe features of the land. Like Inishbane. That’s Inish, an island, and bane, white. So, white island. Probably white with blackthorn. So if you study thousands of names you keep up a lot of information about the past.
‘Isn’t your Uncle Alex doing some research as well?’
‘Oh yes. He’s got two strings to his bow,’ she replied, laughing. ‘The export of orphans, like himself. You know about that. But he’s working on family history as well. Mary and John told me he’s been contacting Hamiltons all over the place and then he writes to them and tells them what he’s found out. All kinds of fascinating things turn up.’
‘So you get your family news via Australia?’
‘And America. Via Dublin. Aunt Emily has a friend in Dublin, a bookseller called Brendan McGinley and he’s in touch with the New York McGinleys, the nephews and nieces of Rose, my great-grandmother . . .’
Clare broke off as the road narrowed and they found themselves driving between tall hedgerows. Overhead, the mature trees met and almost touched. The sunlight splashed down through the canopy they created and threw bright, shimmering patches on the road ahead.
‘Oh Andrew, aren’t these trees marvellous? The chestnuts here are far further on than ours at home.’
She looked up through the arching branches into the clear blue of the early October day. At last they were on their way, just the two of them, driving south and west to Fermanagh, for a week, a whole week with nothing to do but be good guests at Killydrennan. She felt her spirits lift yet further as if this memorable autumn day were a sign that all would be well and their best hopes come to pass.
‘I though you said it was small,’ Clare protested, as they emerged from a driveway that ran between mature trees and dense shrubbery. Ahead of them lay a wide gravelled area in front of a handsome house, the main part Georgian, but with later additions sprawling untidily to left and right. It stood on a slight rise and overlooked parkland with clumps of trees and a distant view of mountains.
‘It’s small enough, as these things go around here. Think of Castle Coole or Florence Court,’ he said, glancing round as they slowed to a standstill. ‘It has only twenty bedrooms or so. You should have seen the one that was burnt down,’ he added wryly, as he switched off the engine. ‘It had fifty or sixty, I’m told. I think this one was built originally as a dower house but added on to in the last century to accommodate a proliferating family. Hector lived here with his first wife and he never liked the big house. He didn’t shed any tears about it when it went up in flames, but he’d had good warning which gave him time to move out all the stuff that really mattered to him.’
Clare stared at him in amazement.
‘Do you mean the big house was deliberately burnt down?’
‘Oh yes. During the Troubles. Lots of the big houses were torched, but as Hector was well-liked and had Catholics as well as Protestants on his staff, someone tipped the wink to a parlourmaid and the family got out with their valuables . . . and their lives. Not everyone was so lucky,’ he added, as he got out and went round to open the boot of the car.
‘Andrew, there’s someone watching you,’ Clare whispered as she came to join him, her hand poised for the nearest suitcase.
‘Is that Uncle Hector?’ she asked, as Andrew glanced towards the small, dark figure who’d strode out of the pillared entrance and was now standing firmly to attention at the top of the wide stone steps.
Andrew looked up, smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
‘That’s Russell, Hector’s butler,’ he replied. ‘He’s getting on a bit too. Don’t touch the cases. If he’s come out, he’ll send a boy,’ he said quietly. ‘Just take your handbag.’
‘Russell, how splendid to see you. Keeping well, I hope,’ said Andrew as they climbed the steps to meet him. ‘This is my wife, Clare.’
‘You are welcome to Killydrennan, ma’am,’ said Russell with a deep bow. ‘My Lord sends his apologies that he is not here to greet you. He had an early morning engagement and is taking a short rest before dinner. I have ordered tea to be served in Lady Rothwell’s sitting-room. I shall lead the way.’
Clare murmured her thanks and noted that a young man had descended upon the car and was now disappearing round the back of the house loaded with suitcases and grips. She had never in her life travelled with more than one suitcase, but then she’d never in her life been greeted by a butler and addressed as ma’am.
Russell marched them briskly through the entrance hall. The sunlight poured down from a domed cupola high above, the walls were hung with spears and guns, the gleaming marble floor spread with richly coloured rugs. He strode ahead, swept open the door to the sitting room and stood holding it in place until they caught up. A log fire blazed in the hearth. On a low table between two pink and gold armchairs an array of gleaming silver covers suggested there were scones and cake to welcome family guests.
‘Should you require anything, sir, the bell is to the right of the fireplace. Dinner is at eight o’clock and the dressing bell is at seven thirty.’
With a small bow, Russell disappeared, leaving Clare amazed and delighted as she gazed round a room entirely decorated in toning shades of deep pink offset by the gold of mouldings and massive, carved picture frames. It was filled with paintings and objets d’art that would leave Harry green with envy and longing to acquire them for the gallery. As they walked together towards the welcoming fire she saw their reflection in the huge gold overmantel. It was a moment she was sure she would never forget.
Despite the picnic lunch they’d enjoyed under a tree in a quiet side road overlooking one of the many small loughs not even named on Clare’s map, they were grateful for the generous spread. Andrew appeared to be ravenous, ate appreciatively and then jumped to his feet, his long legs stiff from the drive. Clare found herself watching him as he stood in front of the fire, teacup in hand, now appearing very much at ease.
‘You look as if you owned the place,’ she said, half serious, half teasing him.
‘The next Lord Rothwell, you mean?’ he said soberly, as he put his cup down, picked up the teapot and poured more tea for both of them.
‘Where did the name Rothwell come from?’ she asked. ‘I know Hector is a Richardson but I’m puzzled as to how Lords get their labels. Do they choose them? Oh, I know they get handed down, but somewhere in the mists of time there must have been a first Richardson who became Lord Rothwell. How did he get the Rothwell?’
‘Yes, there was a first one. A Richardson from Yorkshire, that is. As far as we know, he came over with Cromwell, was given land in payment for services rendered, then made a lot of money. I don’t know exactly how he did it, investing in merchant venturing, I suspect, but it takes a lot of money to get a Lordship. Clearly, he managed it. Rothwell is a village in North Yorkshire. Perhaps it was his old home. Seems unlikely that was where he made his money. His son made his money in Kenya, hence all the wild beasties in the hall. The Richardsons have had a Kenya connection since goodness knows when.’
‘Andrew, why have you never told me any of this?’
‘You never asked.’
‘Andrew, that won’t do,’ she retorted, trying not to be cross. ‘I have tried to find out about your family, but the first time I ever heard ANYTHING very much was when you told Mary and John about that nice Aunt Joan in Wiveton. I knew you had an aunt, because you went over once and painted her kitchen, but that was Aunt Bee who died and you’d never mentioned Joan. I know I made a joke about you and family history when Mary and John were with us, but there’s something here that isn’t funny. It’s important, Andrew. I want to know properly why you’ve never talked about your family.’
As soon as she’d spoken, Clare regretted it. In a moment, his ease had vanished and so bleak an expression came over his face, he looked stricken. They’d had such a splendid day. They’d been easy and happy, talking about everything and anything, delighted to have time to do just whatever they felt like. And now her words had brought on a familiar distress, like a sudden dark shadow over the day.
To her great surprise and relief, he smiled briefly, nodded and sighed. She saw the dark cloud dissolve.
‘You’re right. You always are about me. Well, about the things that really matter, that is. Do you remember when I was at Cambridge, how you put up with me sending you postcards, because I couldn’t face writing letters?’
She nodded and watched him carefully.
‘Being asked to write a letter home the day after my parents were killed was traumatic. You understood that, but no one else ever seemed to. I thought it was just up to me to get over it. In the same way, there are so many things I can’t face and my family is one of them. I try not to think about them, unless I’m forced to, but Hector is different and so was Aunt Bee, and Aunt Joan, of course . . .’
He broke off and came and sat beside her, his shoulders drooping, his lips pressed together.
‘There are things I’ve been thinking about that I should have told you, but I haven’t,’ he confessed. ‘I didn’t want to think about them in the first place. But I will. I promise. But not now. Don’t let’s spoil today, or our holiday. If it’s waited this long, it can wait a bit longer.’
She put her arm round him and kissed his cheek.
‘No, we won’t spoil our holiday. Don’t worry about it. Whatever it is, we’ll find some way of making it better. Remember what Charlie always says: You can’t fix the past, but you can grow past it. We’ve sorted out some nasty things about the past between us. There’s no reason to think we can’t do it again. You ended up writing very good letters, if you remember.’
‘I told you you’d like Hector,’ Andrew said, beaming at her as he shut the bedroom door behind them. ‘But I didn’t realize what a fancy he’d take to you. I’ll have to watch out if he offers you a conducted tour of his trophies. I’ll never forget the look on his face when you complimented him on the wine.’
‘It was most extraordinarily generous to open a bottle as good as that,’ she replied, kicking off her shoes and collapsing into a comfortable armchair. ‘But he is such a generous person. He gives so much of himself. I’ve never known anyone tell such good stories, even when they were not to his credit,’ she went on, smiling to herself. ‘I just never knew what he was going to come out with next. When I was in Mafeking . . . There was this lioness none of us had spotted . . . Honestly, Andrew, I can’t quite believe the experience he’s packed in, even if he is nearly ninety. Africa, royalty, rich American wives. Did he tell you the same stories when you came down five or six years ago?’
‘I’ve heard the one about the lioness and how his cousin lost his leg, but most of the others were new to me. He’s never mentioned Kenya before. I certainly didn’t know he and Galbraith Cole both fought in the Boer War and then went to Kenya and watched the flamingos on Lake Elmenteita. Wasn’t it sad about Galbraith’s arthritis? That would have put an end to his flamingo watching,’ he said sadly.
‘And he chose to be buried overlooking the lake,’ Clare added, looking up at him. ‘So many of the people Hector talked about are long dead. It must get very lonely if you live as long as he has,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘Andrew, who is Nancy? He seems to admire her very much, but who is she?’
‘Nancy is Lady Enniskillen,’ he said, dropping his dinner jacket and black tie on the bed and sitting down opposite her. ‘She and the sixth earl lived up the road at Florence Court, though the fifth earl gave the house to the National Trust. There was a bad fire there in fifty-five. Hector has always said if it hadn’t been for Nancy the damage it did would have been much worse.’
He paused and began to laugh.
‘What’s the joke, Andrew?’
‘Actually, there is a story he might have told about the fire, but he was probably being polite on your first night,’ he began, grinning at her. ‘Apparently, when the fire broke out Nancy took charge and organized everyone. But at some point she decided she’d better contact the Ulster Club in Belfast and break the news to Lord Enniskillen. The story goes he was not pleased at being interrupted and was overheard shouting down the phone: Well, what the Hell do you expect ME to do about it? There are different versions of what exactly he said. Some of them even more explicit!’
Clare yawned and shook her head. ‘I am not bored, my love, but suddenly I just can’t keep my eyes open. Are you really going off at dawn with Hector?’
‘Oh yes,’ he replied enthusiastically. ‘The first few white-fronted arrived yesterday and Hector says the main group might well arrive overnight. I’ve never seen white-fronted geese. They come all the way from Greenland and don’t usually pass east of Fermanagh, but they might move on from the lake here. You don’t mind, do you?’
The first days of their holiday passed very slowly and peacefully as they adjusted to the leisurely pace of life at Killydrennan. They went for long walks, sat talking under the trees down by the lake, drove to Lough Navar Forest and stood on the edge of the Cliffs of Magho surveying the whole of Lower Lough Erne with its brilliant blue water and scatter of islands.
Crossing to White Island by boat, they stared at the strangely carved figures lined up against an old stone wall. On Boa Island they walked round a Janus-faced figure about which nothing whatever had yet been written. As always, they puzzled about what they saw and wondered from what period in history such remnants had survived.
The remains of the old wartime airbase at Castle Archdale was not a puzzle, however. John Hamilton had told them all about it and said that Hugh Sinton, Aunt Sarah’s son by her first marriage, had worked there, improving the design of the Sunderlands used for anti-submarine patrols off the Irish coast. It was these flying-boats, developed or modified at Castle Archdale, that had been so successful in hunting the U-boats lurking off the coast to intercept the stream of convoys carrying vital war supplies from America.
Hector had breakfast with them each morning, but he seldom appeared for lunch. With great tact, Russell indicated to Clare that his Lordship spent a great deal of time in the Library during the day, but he would always join them for dinner and look forward to hearing of their day’s adventures.
True to Russell’s words, Hector appeared, evening after evening, his tiny, emaciated figure moving briskly, his eyes bright with delight when they told him where they’d been and what they’d seen. One evening, he did admit that he’d always been a night bird and indeed it was Clare who sometimes found she was flagging as it drew close to midnight and Hector was still in full flight.
As the days passed, she was intrigued by how much information he had managed to acquire about her life and about Andrew’s. His questions were perceptive and detailed, yet she never felt he was being intrusive. His interest was so genuine that by the end of the week she’d told him about her time in France and even about her life with her grandfather. She was touched when he began to refer to Charlie Running or June Wiley as people who were now as familiar to him as Viola, Duchess of Westminster or Lord and Lady Enniskillen.
He insisted they were free to do anything they felt like doing, but at the same time he was anxious they shouldn’t miss anything worth seeing. To Andrew’s great amusement, he was so determined they view Florence Court, he made them promise that should they arrive and discover it was not one of the Trust’s official opening days, they would go straight round to the kitchen door and ask for the Housekeeper.
‘Tell Mrs What’s-her-name Hector Richardson sent you. She’s my Mrs Watkins’ sister, but I’m dammed if I can remember her name. The pair of them married a couple of soldiers billeted here during the last war.’
Florence Court was officially open, however, on the wild and blowy afternoon they drove over and they returned triumphant having taken the guided tour, seen all the public rooms and studied the magnificent plasterwork ceiling Hector had particularly wanted them to see. It appeared there was a story to tell about that very ceiling.
‘You can thank my friend Viola for that ceiling,’ he said, as they sat down to enjoy one more splendid meal. ‘Great girl, Viola. Flying Officer in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force during the war. Mentioned in despatches. If she hadn’t got on the phone to the builder chappie during the fire and got him to come and drill those holes in the ceiling, the weight of water in the room above would have brought the whole lot down. Quick thinking, that was.’
Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, it seemed time had foreshortened. Days disappeared as if someone had set the clock running more swiftly. As Clare sat at her dressing table on the Friday morning, she could hardly believe their last day had come.
She found herself suddenly so sad she wondered how she would get through breakfast. She was even more upset when they went down together to find that Hector wasn’t there. Russell himself was serving and reassured her that his lordship was quite well. Before he left them to themselves, he presented her with a note on a silver tray.
She unfolded the single sheet and looked at Andrew doubtfully when she registered the large, scrawling hand.
‘Hector wants me to have tea with him in Lizzie’s sitting room at four o’clock,’ she said slowly.
‘Hmmm,’ said Andrew, raising an eyebrow and then grinning at her. ‘You won’t mind if I go and have a last look at the geese, will you?’
Tea was already laid when Clare arrived at just before four and sat by the fire in the room the former Lady Elizabeth Monn had furnished after her marriage to Hector in 1899. An American woman with style and taste, Clare reflected. Clearly wealthy to have been able to choose such beautiful decoration and objects. Suddenly, she realized with a shock that in all Hector’s talk, he had never spoken of her. It was only looking at an old photograph album that gave her a name and a birthplace in Connecticut.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear Clare. Glad to see you’ve despatched that husband of yours. I want you all to myself,’ Hector said briskly as he breezed into the room. ‘Would you mind sitting in this other chair. This is where Lizzie always sat,’ he explained. ‘Said she could see my face better if I was here. Then she’d know what I was up to.’
He settled himself comfortably, took the cup of tea she handed him and then piled up his plate with sandwiches.
‘Slept through lunchtime again. Russell knows better than to wake me when that happens. Something I wanted to say to you. You remind me of Lizzie. She was the only woman I ever loved you know,’ he began abruptly. ‘Met her in Mombasa when I hadn’t a penny to my name. She didn’t give a damn. Said she’d marry me anyway if I’d just get on and ask her. So I did. She always knew me better than I knew myself. We were so happy together,’ he went on more slowly. ‘The only thing that bothered her was not having a son. We had the four girls you know and she so wanted to give me a boy.’
He shook his head sadly and demolished a whole sandwich before he went on.
‘It was a boy too. But it was Lizzie I wanted, not the boy. And I got so lonely, I married this girl I’d always known, but it didn’t work out. Then the other one married me when I wasn’t paying much attention. In the end, she got bored and went off. Couldn’t stand Fermanagh. Said it gave her rheumatism. Used to send me a Christmas card every year, but she’s been dead now for years.
‘There was only one woman in my life, whatever anyone says. I like women. Far more interesting than most men. Women like Viola, or Nancy, or you. I only saw Andrew a couple of times when he was a boy. That wretched woman at Drumsollen would never let him come here. She kept him as far away from Ireland as she could, though I have to say Adeline’s family did give him a good education. But that’s not everything,’ he said firmly, holding out his teacup.
‘He’s mad about you, like I was about Lizzie, but one of these days you’re going to have to tell him what to do. He’s just like I was. I never knew what to do. When my brother died and Killydrennan came to me it was the last thing I wanted. But we had the four girls by then and a lot of friends around here. I would have gone back to Kenya to get away from the whole Lord Rothwell bit, but it just didn’t make sense. So here I am,’ he said flatly, filling up his plate again as she handed him the sandwiches.
‘You’re right about Andrew,’ she said slowly, as he munched his way through them. ‘He’s always had difficulty making up his mind. I thought it was because no one had ever asked him what he really wanted, they just assumed he’d do what was suitable for a Richardson, even one with no money. But maybe I’m quite wrong about that.’
‘No, you’re not far wide of the mark. My brother was the heir to the title and he was trained up for it. Great chap he was too, I liked him. But my father didn’t think much of me and he didn’t like Lizzie, didn’t like Americans on principle, in fact, so when he thought poor old Charles might not inherit he set up a trust. I got the estate all right, but nothing was mine. Entailed everything so I could never leave. Or if I did I’d be penniless. Lizzie had an income, but that went when she died and I had the four girls to bring up.’
He stopped abruptly, leapt to his feet and passed her the cake.
‘You’ve eaten hardly anything. Come on, this is Mrs Watkins’ seed cake. You have some of that and I’ll shut up. I’ve told you it all anyway. I wanted you to know why I can’t leave anything much to you and Andrew, possibly even nothing at all. All I own is what’s in this room, what Lizzie left me and that’s how I’ll provide for Russell and the staff. Except for one thing.’
Clare ate her cake slowly, watching him as he hunted through his pockets. She was surprised when he took a matchbox from his waistcoat.
‘This is mine and it’s for you,’ he said firmly. ‘Lizzie had it from her grandmother and we used it as her engagement ring. Unlike your pretty emeralds, this is the real thing,’ he added, with a little laugh. ‘Sorry about the box, it went in the fire.’
Clare put down her plate, took the matchbox from his bony, long-fingered hand and opened it. Inside on a piece of dusty cotton wool lay a most beautiful sapphire ring.