How could it have happened? How could such love and happiness have led to such misery and despair?
My hands clenched themselves into balls, and I began to wish I had not come.
The coach rolled on, past the scene of such happiness, and continued along the road. Before long it was pulling into the inn yard. There were the usual cries of the ostlers as they changed the horses. The door was opened and the steps pulled up. I waited whilst a well-dressed woman and her daughter climbed out and then I followed them, looking about me.
The inn was very much the same, with its half timbering and its freshly painted sign, and the yard, though larger, was still clean and well run. I had no difficulty in hiring a horse to take me on, and I was gratified that Bill Sanders, who still worked at the inn, remembered me.
‘If it isn’t Master James!’ he said, his face creasing in deep lines — his only appearance of age — as I asked him for a horse. ‘You’re looking well. Been in the Indies, have you? ’ he asked.
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Thought so by the colour of your skin. Shouldn’t like it myself, but they do say it’s an interesting place.’
We exchanged news, and he assured me that he would tell his wife he had seen me, for she would be pleased to know I was keeping well, and then I mounted the horse — ‘the best the stable has to offer, Master James, a real beauty, with a soft mouth and a sweet temperament, but spirited with it’ — and was away.
The day was cold but bright, with a weak sun shining from a slate-blue sky, and every moment brought with it a new memory as I travelled the familiar road, each one more painful than the last.
I turned into the drive at last and halted for a moment, too overcome with emotion to go on, though whether the emotion was anger, fear or sorrow I could not say. And then I continued up the drive, with the parkland stretching away on either side of me; that same parkland where Eliza and I had played as children, chasing kites, throwing a ball, running, laughing. Always laughing.
I saw the house rising up before me with feelings so painful I could hardly bear them. There was her window, with the vine beneath it; there the terrace where she had walked.
I came to a halt in the turning circle and dismounted. No groom ran forward, as he would have done in my father’s time. With deep misgivings I climbed the steps to the house. The tall windows flanking the doors were dirty. I rang the bell, which clanged with a cracked note. And then the door was opened by a servant I did not know.
He asked my name and then he stood aside to let me in, and I entered the house. As I stepped over the threshold, I saw the same signs of neglect that I had seen outside. There were no flowers in the vases. The mirrors were dull and the console tables were filmed with dust.
I was shown into the drawing room, and I was overcome once again with memories as I saw the familiar wallpaper and the Aubusson carpet. I stood a moment looking round, and then my eyes came to rest on my brother. He was heavier than the last time I had seen him, with the signs of dissipation already on him. His skin was an unhealthy colour and his eyes were dull. His clothes had an unkempt look, and as he rose to his feet, he almost fell back again. I smelt his breath and knew that he was already drunk. He righted himself, smirking as he said, ‘Well, well. James. The prodigal son returns. Our father is dead — ’
‘I know.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘You know why I have come.’
‘To ask after that harlot who was once my wife, I suppose,’ he said.
I took a step towards him and he laughed, then poured himself a drink. He waved the decanter towards me in invitation.
‘Not at ten o’clock in the morning, I thank you, no,’ I said scathingly.
‘You are as self-righteous as ever,’ he said mockingly. ‘I see the Indies have done you no good. It seems that not even foreign climes could make a man of you. So, what do you want to know?’
He sat down, lolling in his seat; I doubt if he could have sat upright.
I had intended only to ask him where she was, but in the familiar surroundings where the memories of Eliza were all around me, from the vases that she had filled with flowers, to the carpet on which she had danced, all my feelings rose up inside me and my anger poured out of me in a torrent.
‘Why did you marry her? You were never in love with her. Why did you ruin her life? Why did you take her from me? ’
‘Because she was rich. Why else?’ he said. ‘The estate was encumbered and we needed her money. But you know all this.’
‘But why Eliza?’ I demanded. ‘Why not some other heiress? Some woman who would have sold herself happily in order to gain a respectable name and an old estate? Someone old enough to have given up on all idea of love, or someone too practical to look for it in the first place? Why Eliza, who would be crushed by such a marriage, her health and happiness destroyed?’
‘Why go to all the trouble of courting a stranger when Eliza was right here?’
‘Did you have no feelings for her? No tenderness? No pity? You had known her all her life. Did you have nothing inside you that said, “No, I will not do this. Not to Eliza”? ’
He looked at me as though I was speaking a language that was unknown to him and then said, ‘No. Not at all.’
‘How could you! How could you do it?’
He took a drink.
‘How you do rant on! Anyone would think I forced her to marry me at gunpoint. She knew what I was, and yet she married me anyway. She deserved what she got.’
‘If you were not my brother, I would call you out,’ I said, shaking with rage.
‘If you were not my brother, I would throw you out,’ he returned.
‘You are welcome to try.’
He reached out his hand to the bell.
‘Ah, I see,’ I said scathingly. ‘You mean you would have someone else throw me out.’
‘Of course. That is why I have servants. To do the things I cannot, or will not, do myself.’
I mastered my emotion, for it was doing nothing but hurting me and amusing him.
‘Then tell me this, and I will go,’ I said. ‘Where is she now?’
He shrugged.
‘I have no idea.’
‘But you must have. You must write to her from time to time — ’ He laughed in derision. ‘At the very least you must have an address to which you send her allowance.’
‘I did, to begin with, but no longer. She made her allowance over to someone else several months ago.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She sold it, or gave it away.’
I was horrified.
‘And you allowed this?’ I demanded.
‘It was her money. She had a perfect right to give it to anyone she pleased,’ he said calmly.
‘But why should she do such a thing? She must have been coerced.’
‘If she was coerced, it was by necessity. She was always extravagant. I have no doubt that she lived above her income and then, when her debtors pressed her, she had to have money quickly and so she sold her allowance.’
‘She will not have received a tenth of its value, and without an allowance, how is she to live?’ I asked.
‘I have no idea,’ he said carelessly, getting up to pour himself another drink.
‘And you do not care,’ I said. ‘Have you no compassion in you at all? She was your wife, Harry. Your wife!’
‘And she betrayed me,’ he said, with the first hint of emotion I had heard in his voice. He had no sympathy for her, but he had plenty for himself.
‘Because of your cruelty,’ I said.
‘Cruelty! I gave her everything,’ he snapped.
‘Everything? You gave her love, friendship, affection?’
He laughed at me.
‘I gave her something better than that. I gave her a town house and plenty of clothes.’