It was unforgiveable of Andrew, Marianne fumed. If he hadn’t let the cat out of the bag, she could have carried the secret with her to the grave, and would never have had to meet … Confronting the woman who had turned up yesterday had been like coming face to face with a part of the past she’d believed to be buried beyond recall, most upsetting. Thankfully, she’d succeeded in fooling the creature, though no doubt she’d be back demanding to be told the truth, and Ruairidh and his wife might not be so conveniently away next time.
Wait, though! Ruth Laverton, as she had called herself, could only have been wanting to get her hands on some of the Bruce-Lyall money, though she hadn’t mentioned blackmail, so it might be a good idea to offer her some, to pay her to keep her mouth shut. It would have to be enough to do the trick, Marianne decided, which would be a bit of a problem since there was no cash in the coffers. The end of the war had been a blow for the mill. It was the end of the Ministry of Defence orders, and Fair Isle garments had gone out of fashion, so the mill was struggling and Ruairidh had ploughed all his resources into trying to get it back on its feet. The family, once so wealthy, was now in debt.
‘With Dorothea gone,’ he had said sadly, ‘I have nobody to leave my money to, anyway.’
Marianne could feel the old tightness in her throat, the heaviness in her heart. Losing her dear Hamish had been almost unbearable, and Dorothea’s death so soon after she’d gone to London had almost finished her. In a truly vulnerable state now, she toyed with the idea of publicly acknowledging Ruth Laverton as her granddaughter, and it took several minutes for her to discard it. She could not resurrect her son’s illegitimate child and be the cause of endless scandal for him. Nor could she submit to blackmail, not that the woman had mentioned such a thing.
From the very start, when she’d first learned that Ruairidh and Melda had done something they shouldn’t, her only thought had been to save the fact coming out. She had lied about the infant dying soon after birth, but only to save the family name from being besmirched. The family name, and all it encompassed, meant everything to her, more than it did to Ruairidh, more than it had to Hamish really, and she hadn’t even been born into it.
Her daughter-in-law, of course, didn’t care tuppence that they’d soon have to open the castle as an ancient monument and allow members of the public to roam through the place … except for the west wing, because Ruairidh had put his foot down about that. The family had to have some privacy, after all. But Melda would happily live in poverty as long as Ruairidh was with her. She had been devastated by Dorothea’s death, and it had made her hard, fortifying her against any other tragedies that may befall her, but how would she react when, if, she learned that at least one of her first two children was still alive? She might erupt with the force of a long-dormant volcano … with the fire directed at the person who had tricked her into believing there had been only one child – which had died.
And yet, Marianne mused, her luck had held good so far. When that female had turned up like a nasty insect crawling out of the woodwork to disrupt her tranquillity, she had been alone in the house except for a recently engaged maid, who didn’t count – it was difficult to get staff since the war; nobody wanted to go into service – and her bluff had worked. Ruth Laverton had gone away, perhaps not convinced that she was on the wrong track but surely a bit doubtful that Melda was her mother. She hadn’t mentioned her sister, and she, Marianne, had not let on that she knew there was a twin, but Andrew knew and he’d likely insist on tying things up so that they’d be sure of getting their fair share of any money when their father passed on.
Sitting down at the old desk – her mind so occupied that it did not occur to her that this antique item alone would fetch a fortune if it were sold – Marianne left a message on the telephone with Andrew’s housekeeper, asking him to come to see her the next afternoon – more of an order than an invitation, really. Ruairidh and Melda would not be back from the exhibition they’d gone to see in London until Monday, and Bessie always took all day Sunday off. She had to get Andrew on his own. He was older than she was, and had been very frail the last time she saw him, so it shouldn’t be difficult to browbeat him into telling the woman, and the other twin, if she turned up, they were not who they thought they were. She could quite easily convince the fortune-hunters that some mistake had been made, that they were not Melda’s children, that she, Lady Glendarril, had actually been there when those two doomed infants died.
Having told her solicitor which train to take, Marianne sent Gilchrist to meet him in the Bentley, and was delighted to see how doddery Andrew was when her chauffeur helped him out of the car and up the steps.
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.