Sons and Daughters (38 page)

‘I – see,’ she said slowly, but of course she didn’t understand at all. And yet, as they parted company, there was something nagging at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t quite think what it was.

As she walked back towards the farm, she was deep in thought. Then suddenly, in the middle of the lane, she stopped and said aloud, ‘A deathbed confession? Why, that’d be old Harry Warren. It must be.’ She remembered suddenly that Peggy had told her of old Harry’s agitation shortly before he died. And – he’d asked to see the vicar.

During the eighteen months since Harry had died, there’d been only two deaths of people Charlotte knew, which had also involved Cuthbert’s church. One, Flora Brown, had been a non-believer ever since she’d lost her husband and two sons in the Great War. She’d raged at a God who could let that happen – and not only to her. Another had been a young man killed in a horrific accident with a traction engine. There’d been two or three old people in Ravensfleet who’d died, and whom Charlotte had known slightly, but she’d understood that they’d been chapel-goers and if they’d called for anyone on their deathbeds, it would have been the Methodist minister.

Miles
, she decided as she reached the gate of Buckthorn Farm,
I’ll ask Miles
. She remembered that he’d hinted at something. She would ask him.

Her heart lifted at the thought of an excuse to see him.

He was standing on the terrace when she walked to the manor later that week. He was looking out over the flat land, most of which he owned, apart from Buckthorn Farm’s acres. But, she thought, even those would one day belong to his family.

He turned and saw her walking towards him. ‘Charlotte – how lovely. Just in time for afternoon tea when Georgie gets home from school. Brewster has just gone to fetch him.’ He laughed. ‘I think Georgie is the most popular boy in the school when my motor car turns up. Brewster says he can hardly drive sometimes for the number of excitable boys squashed into the vehicle. I’m not sure it’s entirely safe, but there you are. Thank goodness for quiet country roads!’

Charlotte laughed. ‘I think your motor car is one of the few round here, so I shouldn’t worry.’

‘Can you stay for tea?’

‘I’d love to, but first, before Georgie gets home, there’s something I want to ask you. Did you know that the Reverend Iveson is leaving?’

Miles raised his eyebrows. ‘No, I didn’t. Why? I thought that business with your father was all sorted out after I wrote to the bishop.’

She nodded. ‘I don’t think it’s because of that particular letter my father sent to the bishop.’ She frowned. ‘There’s something else troubling the vicar, but I think it has something to do with my father. Indirectly. He said it was a deathbed confession that is troubling him. He wouldn’t – couldn’t – tell me more, of course, and I respect that, but I’ve been thinking . . .’

‘And?’

‘The only person I can think of who’s died in the last year or so and who I know asked to see Mr Iveson and who also had a connection with my father is old Harry Warren.’

‘Aaah.’ Miles let out a deep breath as if, suddenly, everything had become clear. ‘Charlotte, my dear . . .’ He put his arm about her shoulders and led her down the stone steps towards a garden seat set in the rose garden just below the terrace.

She trembled at his nearness. They sat down side by side and he took her hands in his. ‘My dear, I began to suspect some – shall we say, skulduggery – when you came home and confided in me that you’d met your mother whom you’d been led to believe was dead all these years.’ His tone hardened at the cruelty of such an act. Cruelty, not only to the child Charlotte had been then, but to the mother, too. ‘The mystery of your mother’s supposed grave in the churchyard and why Harry Warren demanded to be buried beside her. Why he’d bought the plot next to her in – in readiness?’

Charlotte bit her lip and lowered her gaze. ‘I wondered about that myself. I – I thought perhaps there’d been something between them. Between my mother and Harry. An affair, perhaps. And that was why my father was so bitter. My mother’s never said anything, but then, perhaps she wouldn’t confess to such a thing. Not even to me. That’s why – for a while – I didn’t want to know. But now . . .’’

Miles squeezed her hands gently. ‘I don’t think it was anything like that at all. What I think happened – and I don’t believe even Joe knows this – was that your mother did leave your father, just as she told you, because of his cruelty to her. But her leaving happened at the same time – by sheer happy coincidence from your father’s point of view – as Harry’s wife died.’

Charlotte gasped and stared at him, her mind working feverishly. ‘You – you mean it’s old Mrs Warren who’s buried in that grave?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘But – but how could they do that? I mean, the vicar would know. And the undertakers. They’d all have known. They must have done.’

‘I expect so. But your father has always got his own way, hasn’t he? By fair means or foul, he manipulates people. Bribes them, threatens them. Who was the vicar here then?’

Charlotte frowned. ‘I can hardly remember. An old man, I think. I can’t remember his name now. He – he left soon afterwards . . .’ Her voice faded away as she began to realize that the incredible picture Miles was painting was perhaps possible. Even probable. It all seemed to fit.

‘So, you think Harry was – was
involved
– and that’s what he wanted to confide in the vicar before he died so that Mr Iveson would understand why he insisted on being buried next to my mother’s – well, what we thought was my mother’s – grave?’

Miles nodded. ‘And that knowledge is hanging heavily on poor Mr Iveson’s conscience, so much so that he can’t bear to stay here with the daily reminder. The grave isn’t far from the path he treads every day from the vicarage to the church. Poor fellow, he can’t betray the confidences of a dying man. And apart from that, I’m sure he wouldn’t want to upset Joe and his family.’

‘They know nothing, I’m sure, because when Harry died they couldn’t understand why he’d bought that particular plot and—’

‘Father – Father! Oh, Miss Charlotte!’

They both turned to see Georgie scampering down the steps. Miles released her and Charlotte felt a sense of loss. Her hands – and her heart – were suddenly chilled.

‘By the way,’ Miles whispered with a chuckle, ‘now that both his brothers are away, Georgie feels himself “second in command”, so he’s calling me “Father” now, and no longer the childish name of “Papa”.’

‘What a shame,’ Charlotte murmured, before she had stopped to think. ‘They grow up so quickly, don’t they?’

‘Yes,’ Miles said with a wistful tone. ‘That’s just what I feel, too.’

But they could say no more, for the young boy was hopping up and down in front of them. ‘Come and play, Miss Charlotte. Tommy has come to tea. And Sammy Barker too. We’ll have a party.’

And indeed they did. It was a merry, impromptu tea party, all the more enjoyable because it was unexpected. Almost, Charlotte thought, letting her imagination and her longing run riot, like a proper family; a mother, father and three little boys . . .

Afterwards, they played a noisy game of football on the lawn and when it was time for the boys to leave, Miles walked down the lane with her towards Buckthorn Farm.

‘What do you think we should do?’ she asked, coming back to the topic of their earlier conversation.

‘I think Joe should know. He thinks his poor mother is buried in Lincoln.’

‘Yes,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘And that’s another thing. Joe told me that when their mother died, his father wouldn’t let any of the family go to Lincoln with him to see her buried – ostensibly with her family.’

‘I expect that was all a charade. I don’t think there ever was a burial in Lincoln. The funeral director must have been in on the secret, provided an empty coffin and, well, just acted as if they were going to the city. For one thing,’ Miles went on, ‘I doubt someone like Harry Warren could have afforded to pay for his wife to be buried so far away. Think of the cost. Don’t you have to pay something to each parish the coffin passes through or something?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

They walked in silence for a while until Charlotte said, ‘Yes, I think you’re right. We should tell Joe.’

‘Want me to come with you?’

‘Please,’ she said without hesitation. She didn’t really need him there. She knew the family so well that she could talk to them about anything. But it was another excuse to be with him again.

‘We’ll go tomorrow afternoon. I’ll pick you up in the motor car. About two?’

‘Well, that certainly solves a mystery, Mr Thornton,’ Joe said, running his hand through his hair. ‘Dun’t it, Peg?’

They were sitting in the huge kitchen at Purslane Farm, surrounded by an appetizing smell of freshly baked bread. Teacakes, scones and a sponge cake were laid out on the dresser top to cool. Peggy set out half a dozen scones, jam and fresh cream on the table and bade them help themselves as she poured out cups of tea and then sat down to join them.

‘It does, Joe. We always wondered why he’d bought the plot next to your mother, Miss Charlotte.’

Charlotte had confided in Peggy and Joe that she’d met her mother. They’d been genuinely shocked and Peggy shook her head, saying yet again, ‘I can’t believe she’s been alive all this time. And that wicked old man has kept you apart. Oh, begging your pardon, miss, I know he’s your father, but . . .’

‘Don’t apologize, Peggy,’ Charlotte said grimly.

‘And you say Mary and Edward knew?’

Charlotte nodded.

‘I reckon that shocks me more than anything else. That Mary’s kept quiet all these years. Never told you . . .’

‘Don’t blame her, Peggy. He’s threatened them. She did what she thought was right to protect me. In a way, I’m glad I didn’t know, because if he’d found out she’d told me, he would have dismissed them both and then where would I have been?’

‘I suppose so,’ Peggy agreed reluctantly. ‘But I don’t think I could have carried such a burden all these years.’

‘You,’ Joe teased, ‘keep secrets? That’d be a first.’

He was rewarded by a playful slap from his wife, but everyone smiled.

Joe was thoughtful. ‘Do you reckon if we tell the vicar – unburden him, like – he’d stay?’

‘I think it’s better to let him go,’ Miles said. ‘Like we said, it’s a constant reminder for the poor chap whilst he’s here. And you knowing might embarrass him even further.’

Joe was looking straight at Charlotte. ‘But do
you
mind him going, miss?’

‘Me?’ Charlotte was startled.

Miles frowned. ‘Why should Miss Charlotte mind?’

Joe and Peggy exchanged a smile.

‘Because,’ Peggy said softly, ‘we always thought Mr Iveson was sweet on our Miss Charlotte. And she’d make a lovely vicar’s wife.’

‘Did you indeed?’ Miles murmured, so softly that only Charlotte, seated next to him heard.

On the way home Miles was quiet and withdrawn. As she alighted from the car, he gave her a cursory nod and drove away at once. Heavy hearted, Charlotte went into the house to find Mary in a state of panic and wringing her hands.

‘Miss Charlotte, thank goodness you’re home. Your aunt and uncle are here. And there’s such a row going on. Your father’s so angry. He’s shouting—’

‘Oh no! She – she hasn’t told him, has she?’

Flinging open the door of the sitting room, Charlotte stopped to take in the scene before her.

Her father was standing behind his chair, but hanging on to it for support. Euphemia stood before him, her head thrown back, her bosom heaving with righteous indignation. Percy, meanwhile, had withdrawn as far as the front window, keeping out of the argument as much as he was allowed.

‘Aunt Euphemia . . .’ Charlotte moved forward, trying to ignore the raging row, but her father, purple in the face, shook his free fist at her. ‘Keep out of this, girl. Go to your room. This minute.’

She ignored his order and went to his side. Gently, she said, ‘Father, sit down. You’re distressing yourself.’

His whole body was shaking, his eyes bulging, his face puce.

‘Please, do sit down,’ she urged him again. As his handhold slipped, he fell against her and she manoeuvred him into his chair. Then she turned to face her aunt.

‘Please, Aunt, this is not good for him . . .’ She stopped, appalled as she saw the expression on her aunt’s face. It was no longer the kindly, smiling face of the generous woman. Euphemia’s face was twisted in fury with an expression so like her brother’s that Charlotte was deeply shocked. She moved towards her to beg her, too, ‘Please, Aunt, don’t distress yourself. I don’t know what this is about, but—’

‘It’s about you, my dear. You – and your
mother
.’

Startled, Charlotte gasped. ‘Please – don’t. I beg you – ’ She lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. ‘You haven’t told him, have you? You haven’t told him that—’

Behind them, Charlotte heard a strange gurgling sound and turned to see her father slumped in the chair, his eyes staring, his mouth gagging open.