That night I said to David: “I’m surprised your father allowed you to marry me.”
“What?” cried David.
“I brought you nothing. Everything we had was lost in France. How strange that he should raise no objections to our marriage.”
David laughed. “If he had, it would have happened just the same.”
“What if you had been cut off with a shilling!”
“I’d rather have you and a shilling than Eversleigh.”
“That’s a pleasant note to retire on,” I said.
But I kept thinking about Jonathan, who would be Millicent’s husband tomorrow—and I could not entirely forget Evie Mather.
Jonathan and Millicent were married on the following day. The ceremony passed without a hitch. Millicent looked beautiful in her white satin gown with the Pettigrew pearls about her neck and Jonathan was a very handsome bridegroom.
We went back for the reception and during it Lord Pettigrew made a speech in which he formally announced the engagement of Harry Farringdon to Fiona Browning.
Toasts were drunk, more speeches made, and Jonathan and Millicent left for London. The guests who had come for the day began to leave and only those staying in the house remained.
It had been a wonderful wedding, everyone proclaimed; and now that the bride and groom had disappeared, there seemed little reason to continue the rejoicing.
My mother said we should go the next day. She hated to leave Jessica long, and I certainly felt the same about Amaryllis.
When I went to my room I found Mary Lee putting my things together; she told me my mother had sent her to do what she could for me.
“There’s very little, Mary,” I said. “I can manage.”
She went on folding my things.
“I shall be glad to get back,” I said.
“Yes, Madam. To see the little babies.”
“They’ll soon be old enough to travel with us.”
“The wedding was beautiful, wasn’t it, Madam?”
I nodded. I could not bring myself to speak of it. Beautiful! Jonathan so cynical… realistic, he would say; and Millicent, was she the same? I think there was a little more to it for Millicent. In spite of her rather worldly approach and an attitude which might have indicated indifference, I had caught a gleam in her eyes as they rested on Jonathan. He was an extremely attractive man. Was it possible that he had found a way to Millicent’s heart which I had thought must be a replica of her mother’s, only to be softened by conquest and material advantage?
“And what a surprise about Mr. Harry and Miss Fiona.”
“Yes, it was.”
“They talk downstairs,” she said. “They say Mr. Harry was one for shilly-shallying. He never seemed to be able to make up his mind.”
“Well, he has now, Mary.”
“Madam, I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s about Miss Mather at Grasslands. At one time we thought… well, we all thought something was coming of that.”
“Well, we were wrong, Mary.”
“I wonder… what Miss Mather will think…”
It was what I had been wondering about. However, I changed the subject and said that I could well manage the rest, which was dismissal, and Mary was too well trained a maid not to realize that.
We returned to Eversleigh the day after the wedding.
My mother and I went straight to the nursery, where we were delighted to find that all was well in the good hands of Grace Soper.
We played with the babies and marvelled at the manner in which they had grown, and delighted in their intelligence, which we were sure was more than that of normal children.
Yes, it was good to be home, and I wished, as I had so many times, that my life was less complicated—as it would have been if Jonathan had never intruded into it.
Try as I might I could not forget him and he was often in my thoughts. I wondered about Millicent and wondered whether she was going to be bitterly hurt. I had always felt that she was a young woman who could take good care of herself; but when I thought of that potent charm of Jonathan’s—so like that which had brought his father so many conquests and what he wanted in life—I did wonder.
I tried to interest myself more in David’s ways. We read together and talked for hours on our favourite subjects; he taught me a little archaeology and again we still discussed the possibility of going to Italy when the war was over.
I made a habit of riding round the estate with him. I wanted to know all that was happening; I wanted to share his life and atone for my infidelity. That was not possible, but I could try.
I went to see Aunt Sophie to tell her about Jonathan’s wedding. She scarcely ever left her room, Jeanne told me. “Alberic’s death is a terrible setback for her.”
“Is she still brooding on it?”
“She mentions it every day. She gets quite angry about wanton murderers being allowed to escape justice.”
“Shall I go and see her?”
“Yes, do go up. She likes to see you—although she doesn’t always seem welcoming. Dolly Mather is with her now.”
“Is she here often?”
“Oh yes. She’s always been about. You know Mademoiselle d’Aubigné has taken a great liking to her. She is so sorry for her.”
“I understand that.”
“And I’m glad. The girl cheers her a good deal.”
“Jeanne,” I asked, “have you seen anything of her sister, Evie?”
“No, I have not. She used to come here sometimes with Dolly, but Mademoiselle never cared for her in the same way. No, I can’t say I have seen Evie lately.”
“I’ll go up.
Aunt Sophie was seated in a chair which had been placed by the bed; she wore a long mauve dressing gown with a hood of the same colour to hide the damaged side of her face.
I went to her and kissed her. I smiled at Dolly. “How are you?”
“I am well, thank you,” said Dolly quietly.
“That’s good. I’ve come to tell you about the wedding, Aunt Sophie.”
“Get a chair for Mrs. Frenshaw, Dolly,” said Aunt Sophie, and Dolly immediately obeyed.
I described the rehearsal and the wedding reception. Dolly listened intently, her eyes never leaving my face. I always felt a little uncomfortable under her scrutiny, and I often avoided looking at her, for I found my eyes unconsciously resting on that strangely drawn-down eye.
“A great deal of excitement, I am sure,” said Aunt Sophie. “You didn’t hear anything while you were away, I suppose?”
“Hear anything? You mean about the war? They talk about little else.”
“I meant about Alberic.”
“Why, Aunt Sophie…”
“I mean about finding his murderer. It is a sorry state of affairs when innocent people are shot at and drowned and nothing is done about it.”
“I think they tried…”
“Tried! They don’t care. They thought he was just a poor émigré. But one day I am going to find out who murdered him… and when I do…”
She paused and I wanted to say: Yes, Aunt Sophie, what will you do? What would you do if you knew the truth?
She said: “I would kill the one who murdered that poor innocent boy. Yes, I would… with my own hands.”
She looked down at her hands as she spoke, long, tapering fingers, very pale, the hands of one who has never in the slightest way laboured physically.
Poor Aunt Sophie, she looked so defenceless… tired and old, except for the shine in her eyes and the determination in her voice.
“Oh yes,” she went on, “nothing would deter me. And I shan’t rest until those who did this wicked thing are brought to justice.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “It is someone here… someone close to us… Think of it! We have a murderer in our midst… and I shall not rest until I have found that murderer.”
“Aunt Sophie, you must not upset yourself. It is bad for you.”