I told him about my stay in France, about Robert, his sister … and Gerard, whom I might have married.
I said: “There were times when I thought I could make something of my life in France, and then memories of Roderick would come back to me. Well, it was decided for me.”
He was thoughtful. “Noelle, I shall give you those letters,” he said. “You will need them as proof. Perhaps you will come and see me sometimes.”
“I will,” I promised. “I will.”
“I wish fervently that you had come before, that I could have known you before it was too late.”
“Oh … so do I. But it was not to be.”
“It would have broken her heart if she knew what she had done.”
It was late in the afternoon when I rode back to the Dancing Maidens. I was still bemused.
I had found my father and confirmed my suspicions. I need never have lost the man I loved.
KENT
Return to Leverson
We went back to London, and I felt saddened rather than elated by the success of our venture. Marie-Christine was a great comfort. She seemed much older than her years and, understanding my feelings, tried to comfort me. She did to a great extent, and I kept telling myself how fortunate I was to have won her affections.
The future looked blank. I wondered what it held. During that time I often thought I might have made a good life in Parisian bohemian circles. It would have been a substitute; but knowing Gerard, and caring for him in a way, had brought home to me the truth that there would never be anyone for me but Roderick.
Oh, why had we not found those letters at the time of my mother’s death? Why had I not told her of my growing friendship with Roderick? How different my life might have been. Marie-Christine threw herself into the project of changing my mother’s room which had been abandoned when we left for Cornwall. But nothing could expunge her memory. It had all been brought back as vividly as ever by my encounter with my father. I was constantly recalling the words she had written. How her love for me came over in those letters! She had not so much defied conventions as ignored them. How often had Dolly cried in exasperation: “You are mad, mad, mad!” But she had blithely pursued some course which might seem wildly preposterous to some, but which was completely logical to her.
It had worked out as she had planned. Charlie had regarded me as his daughter. How could she have foreseen the consequences that would bring?
For several weeks life went on uneventfully, and then Charlie called.
I was delighted to see him. I had been pondering whether I should tell him what I had discovered. I thought it was only right that he, being so involved, should know. I had wondered what he knew about Robert’s death. That was another matter which I should tell him, but I had shrunk from writing to him. And now here he was.
He came into the drawing room and took my hands into his.
“I have just heard what happened,” he said. “Someone in the City told me. How dreadful to think of Robert … dead. I have been wondering for a long time how you were getting on. I did not know you were in London, and called to see If there was any news here. I was planning to go to Paris to see you, but travel is not easy, as things are still in turmoil in France. How glad I am that you are home and safe.”
“Robert was killed with his sister and her son. It was in the Paris house. I, with Robert’s great-niece, was in the country at the time.”
“Thank God for that! Poor Robert! Such a good fellow. All these years I have known him. But you, Noelle …”
I said: “Robert’s great-niece is with me. Marie-Christine … she lost her family, you see … all of them.”
“Poor child.”
“Charlie,” I said. “I have something of great importance to say to you. I have been asking myself whether I ought to write to you … but I wasn’t sure. It has only just happened. I’ve found my father … my real father. It is not you, Charlie.”
“My dear child, what are you saying? What can you know?”
I told him about the discovery of the letters and my visit to Cornwall.
“I have proof,” I told him. “Ennis Masterman has given me letters she wrote, and in them she sets out quite clearly that he is my father.”
“Then why … ?”
“She did it for me. She was afraid she might die and I should not have all she wanted for me. Ennis Masterman was poor. He lives almost like a hermit in a little cottage on the moors, not far from the village where she used to live, and where she had a miserable childhood. She did not want me to be poor … as she had been. It was an obsession with her. She did get obsessions, you know, Charlie. Her determination to succeed … her plans for me. She was very fond of you. She trusted you more than anyone. I think I should show you her letters. They are written to another man … and I daresay you will find reading them harrowing … but you should know the truth. She had so much love to give—to you, to Robert, to my father … and for me the greatest love of all. For me she would lie, cheat if need be … but it was all for me.”
My voice broke and he said: “My dear Noelle, I always knew that. She never disguised it. Those of us who loved her knew it. We were grateful for what she could give to us. There was never anyone like her.”
“Can you bear to read those letters?” I said. “They will prove to you without a doubt.”
He said he would read them, so I brought them to him. His emotion was obvious as he read.
When he had finished, he composed his features. “It is all clear now then. If only we had known …”
“How is Roderick?” I asked.
“He has changed … he lives behind a mask. I see little of him … as we all do. He is out a great deal … round the estate. He throws himself into work.”
“And Lisa?”
He frowned. “Poor girl. She grows worse. The injury to her spine is permanent, you know. She will never get better. She is in her room most of the time now. Sometimes they carry her down and she lies on the sofa. She is in some pain quite often. The doctors give her something to ease it, but it is not always effective.”
“How terrible for her.”
“They thought it was just a slight injury in the first place, but she soon discovered that was not the case. Putting a stop to her career was a great tragedy for her. She was so despondent … desperate, really. The future must have looked hopeless to her. But he should never have married her, Noelle. She could have been looked after. It was pity, you know. He was always like that … from a child. Easily touched by other people’s misery and ready to go to great lengths to help. This time he went far … very far indeed. He was shattered when he lost you. I think he must have acted on the spur of the moment. There was this girl, with her dreams of fame and fortune gone forever, facing pain and penury. He had lost you … I suppose he thought he would look after her … at least save her. It was a great mistake. We could have seen that she was cared for. But marriage …”
I could imagine it all so clearly—the silent melancholy of that household.
“And Lady Constance?”
“She is bitterly disappointed, and she cannot hide her feelings. She avoids Lisa, but there are occasions when they cannot help coming into contact. She wanted what she considered to be the right marriage for Roderick. She is devoted to him and always has been. And to me, too … though I don’t deserve such devotion. She deplores Roderick’s marriage … first to a girl whose background she considered unsuitable and, more important, she wants grandchildren. It is strange, Noelle, but I believe she wanted you to marry Roderick. I know when you first came to us she was far from welcoming, but she grew fond of you. It was a blow to her when you had to part.”