Miss Bell cut out all the notices to preserve them for us, she said; and there was a great deal of activity over what was called “The Black.”
We all had to have new black garments and we should attend the funeral with veils over our faces. We should be in mourning for six months, which was the specified period for a parent; Aunt Imogen escaped with two months since she was a sister merely; but if I knew anything about her she would extend that period.
So Olivia and I should be in our black for six months and then, said Miss Bell, we should emerge gradually into greys perhaps. No bright colours for a whole year.
I said I couldn’t see why one couldn’t mourn just as sincerely in red as black.
Miss Bell said: “Show some respect, Caroline.”
Many of the servants were given black dresses and the men wore crepe armbands.
Everyone—not only in the house but in our circle—talked of the goodness of my father, of his selfless devotion to his philanthropic work which had never flagged even when he suffered ill health and domestic trials.
I was relieved when the day of the funeral arrived.
People gathered in the streets to watch the cortege, which was very impressive. I saw it through my veil which gave a hazy darkness to the scene. The horses magnificently caparisoned in their black velvet and plumes; the solemn black-clad men in their deep mourning clothes and shiny top hats; Olivia seated opposite me, looking white-faced and bewildered and Aunt Imogen upright, stern, now and then putting her black-edged handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away a tear which was not there, while her husband, seated beside her, contorted his face into the right expressions of grief.
And then to the family vault—grim and menacing with its dark entrance and its gargoyle-like figures defacing—rather than decorating —the marble.
I was glad to ride back to the house—far more quickly than we came. There were sherry and biscuits provided for the mourners, and all I guessed were waiting for what I was sure was for them the great event of the day—the reading of the will.
The family was present in the drawing room and Mr. Cheviot, the solicitor, was seated at a table with documents spread out before him.
I listened without paying a great deal of attention to the legacies for various people and the large sums of money which were to be put in trust for some of the societies in which my father was interested.
He expressed appreciation of his dear sister, Imogen Carey, and she was rewarded financially for her support. He was a very wealthy man and I gathered that Olivia would be a considerable heiress. I was surprised when Mr. Cheviot finished reading the will that I had not been mentioned. I was not the only one who was surprised. I was very much aware of the looks which were, somewhat furtively, cast in my direction.
Aunt Imogen came to me and said that Mr. Cheviot would like to see me alone as he had something very important to say to me.
When I sat facing him in that room which had been my father’s study, he looked at me very solemnly and said: “You must prepare yourself for a shock, Miss Tressidor. I have an unpleasant duty to perform and I greatly wish that it was not necessary for me to do so, but duty demands that I should.”
“Please tell me quickly what it is,” I begged.
“Although you have been known as the daughter of Mr. Robert Ellis Tressidor, that is not the case. It is true that you were born after your mother’s marriage to Mr. Tressidor, but your father is a Captain Carmichael.”
“Oh,” I said slowly. “I ought to have guessed.”
He looked at me oddly. He went on: “Your mother admitted that your father was this man, but not for some years after your birth.”
“It was at the time of the Jubilee.”
“June 1887,” said Mr. Cheviot. “It was at that time when your mother made a full confession.”
I nodded, remembering: the locket, my mother’s sudden departure, the manner in which he had ignored me. I could understand it now. He must have hated the sight of me because I was the living evidence of my mother’s infidelity.
“There was a separation at the time,” went on Mr. Cheviot. “Mr. Tressidor could have divorced your mother but he refrained from doing so.”
I said rather defiantly: “He would not have wanted the scandal … for himself.”
Mr. Cheviot bowed his head.
“Understandably he has left you nothing. But you will have a small inheritance from your mother’s father, who left this money in trust for you when you came of age, or on your marriage, or at any time the trustees should consider it should be passed to you. I am happy to tell you that in view of your sudden impoverishment, the money is to be released to you immediately.”
“Some of it has already been released.”
“Yes, that was at the request of Lady Carey.”
“It has been spent on my trousseau … or most of it has.”
“I understand you are shortly to be married. That is very satisfactory and will solve many difficulties, I do not doubt. Mr. Tressidor did say before he died that it was a solution for you who could not after all be blamed for the sins of your parents.”
“But even if I was not to be married he would still have left me with—what is it? Fifty pounds a year. Of course, he is such a good man. He has taken such care of all those philanthropic societies. It is no wonder that he cannot concern himself with his wife’s daughter.”
Mr. Cheviot looked pained. “I am afraid recriminations do not help the situation, Miss Tressidor. Well, I had my duty to perform and I have done that.”
“I understand that, Mr. Cheviot. I … I never thought of money before.” He did not speak, and I went on: “Do you know where my mother is?”
He hesitated and then said: “Yes. There have been occasions when it was necessary, when acting for your father, to be in touch with her. He had made her a small allowance which he considered his duty for in spite of her misdemeanours she was his wife.”
“And you will give me her address?”
“I can see no reason why it should be denied to you now.”
“I should like to see her. I haven’t done so since the time of the Jubilee. She has never written to me or my sister.”
“It was a condition of her receiving the allowance that she did not get in touch with you. Those were Mr. Tressidor’s terms.”
“I see.”
“I will have the address sent to you. She is in the south of France.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cheviot.”
When I left him I went straight to my room. Olivia came to me. She was very distressed.
“It’s terrible, Caroline,” she cried. “He has left me so much … and you nothing.”
I told her what the solicitor had told me. She listened wide-eyed.
“It can’t be true.”
“Don’t you remember how we went to Waterloo Place? It was my fault, Olivia. I blurted out that we’d been there. He saw the locket. Oh, you didn’t know about the locket. Captain Carmichael gave it to me. It had his picture in it. You see, it was his way of telling me he was my father.”
“It’s not the same between us, is it? We’re not the same sisters.”
“We’re half sisters, I suppose.”
“Oh, Caroline!” Her beautiful eyes were full of tears. “I can’t bear it. It’s so unfair to you.”
I said defiantly: “I don’t mind. I’m glad he wasn’t my father. I’d rather have Captain Carmichael than Robert Ellis Tressidor.”