Roderick and I have a son and a daughter. Roger is four years old, Catherine nearly three. They are beautiful children, and when I watch them playing in the gardens or riding round the paddock on their ponies, I am almost content.
Then I go into the house and pass that room which had been Lisa’s. There is no visible trace of her there … but somehow she remains.
My father visits us now and then. He is very proud of his grandchildren, and he has often told me what a happy day it was for him when I came looking for him. He gets on very well with Charlie, and I think they often talk of my mother.
I was deeply touched when he gave me the statue of the Dancing Maiden. He wanted me to have it, he told me. It was his dearest possession. I was loth to take it from him, but he insisted. “I used to feel that she was there when I looked at it,” he told me. “It has been a great comfort to me. But now I have my daughter … and grandchildren. And it is fitting that you should have it.”
It stands in my room. I can see my mother when I look at it. He has caught some likeness … something which is indefinably her. I fancy when I look at it that she is near, smiling, well pleased because I have come through my troubles to the husband I love … and my children.
Lady Constance and I are the best of friends. Her great joy is in her grandchildren. Her nature is not naturally a warm one but occasionally the deep affection she has for me overflows and is apparent; and there is no doubt of her love for the children.
When at length Leverson Manor became our home, Marie-Christine was very contented.
Her interest in archaeology became a passion. At this time she is very friendly with a young archaeologist whom she met through Fiona and Jack. I believe they may soon become engaged.
But the memory of Lisa lingers on, even with Marie-Christine. I wonder if it will always be so. Everyone in the house is aware of it. I know this through Gertie.
A little while ago I had a revealing talk with her. She said: “I was worried when silly Mabel started talking in front of all those people.”
Her words sent a tremor of fear through me, but I said calmly: “She was soon proved to be unreliable.”
“Well, she could have gone too far. She nearly did.”
“Your evidence showed how unbalanced she was, and when she was called back she proved it.”
“She must have heard the servants talking.”
“Talking about … ?”
“Well, they all knew that you was engaged to Mr. Roderick at one time and it was broken off because you thought he was your brother. Then he got married and you found out he wasn’t your brother after all, and you ought to have got married.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Servants always know everything. They pick up bits here and bits there. Then they put it all together and it adds up. They like you. They was looking forward to you and Mr. Roderick getting married. They couldn’t really think much of her. They’d had to put up with Lady Constance all those years, and when I told them you took the blame for that bust, they thought that was really nice. Well, Lady Constance is a great lady … but you can have enough of that. But that Mrs. Claverham … well, she wasn’t enough of a lady. We wanted something in between.”
“You mean … they knew all that, and they didn’t betray it?”
“Well, they answered the questions. They weren’t going to say more than they was asked for.”
“Except Mabel.”
“Well, she wouldn’t know much. She’d picked up bits in her batty way, and she’d got it all muddled.”
“Gertie,” I said, “your evidence made such a difference.”
“I meant it to. I didn’t want trouble no more than any of them did. We didn’t want anything going wrong in the house. Perhaps new people coming … and then what would have become of everyone? And … I never forgot what you did about that bust. I would have been out then … but for you.”
I said: “And what did they really think about Mrs. Claverham’s death?”
“Oh, they reckon she took it herself. It was a mistake, they think. She’d forgotten she had already had it. That’s what they all thought, didn’t they?”
I understood. That was how they wanted it to be. What did they really think was the truth? And did they often think about it?
The shadow of doubt lay across the whole household.
It was a beautiful spring day. I was sitting in the garden with Lady Constance, as I often did. The children were playing on the lawn and I noticed how her eyes followed them.
“They are beautiful children,” she said. “I can see both you and Roderick in them.”
“Can you? I have searched for a resemblance in vain.”
“It’s there. Thank you, my dear. I am so glad you came. I often think back to that time we spent together in our deep dark hole. Now all these people are marvelling at the antiquity as they cross that floor where once we sat, wondering if it was the end for us. It was a turning point in my life, I think.”
“It was the beginning of our friendship, and I was grateful for that.”
“For me it was a revelation.”
Catherine came toddling up to us to show us a daisy she had picked.
“Is that for me?” asked Lady Constance.
Catherine shook her head and held it out to me.
“I have found one, Grandmama.” That was from Roger, who had run up to us. “This is for you.”
I was touched to see her pleasure.
I thought then how completely happy we should be. I glanced over my shoulder at the window of that room which had been Lisa’s. I could almost imagine I saw her there. It was often so. It is six years since it happened, I said to myself. Will it always be like this?
The children had run off.
“It is good that everything turned out as it did,” said Lady Constance.
“We have been happy,” I replied.
“As we never could have been if … We have to forget that time, Noelle. It grows farther and farther from us. But I know you can’t forget … entirely.”
“Can you?”
She shook her head. “I remember at times. It comes back and there it stays. I say: Go away. You have caused enough trouble in your lifetime. I am glad … glad that she died, Noelle. It was best for her … and best for us all.”
“She might have been cured.”
“She would never have been completely well. I could not bear to have been without these grandchildren. There will be Claverhams here for generations to come. It is the future that is important, but I remember, and shall go on remembering.”
She lay back in her chair and did not speak. For some time there was silence, and when I looked, her eyes were closed.
I thought she was sleeping, but after a while I began to grow alarmed.
I spoke to her gently. There was no answer. I laid a hand on her arm. She did not move.
I summoned help. We got her to bed and called the doctor.
She had had a heart attack, but she recovered after a few days. She was still very weak and Dr. Doughty said she must rest.
He talked rather seriously to us. “She’ll have to go carefully,” he said. “She’s doing too much. Make her rest. I know it is not easy to make Lady Constance do anything she doesn’t want to, but I think it is necessary, and you will have to be firm.”
“Do you think she is going to get well?”
“The heart is a vital organ, you know. She had a big shock at the time of the first Mrs. Claverham’s death. I know she appeared to weather the storm, but I noticed it had an effect on her. Make sure she goes very slowly, and let me know at once if there is any sign of trouble.”
She had certainly grown frail. She stayed in her room a great deal. I used to take the children to see her each afternoon. That was the highlight of her day.