The Postcard (10 page)

‘Oh, do listen please . . .’ Phoebe pleaded. ‘I had to protect us both. When Arthur knew about you, he made sure we’d have a home, and Sir Lionel has
always—’

‘So he knew the truth all along? I’m his granddaughter, and you let me think all these lies. You ought to be ashamed of yourself . . . Get away from me,’ she screamed in rage,
running towards the house.

Phoebe collapsed on her knees on the gravel path. ‘How could you think I didn’t want you?’ she yelled after her. Yet even as she cried out she knew that part of her was
play-acting a scene out of a melodrama.
Get up, stop this. Everything has a price and now you’re paying yours. Leave the girl to come to and she’ll understand.
Thus spoke her
heart to her mind as she flopped on the bench, staring at a bee buzzing into late blush rose where Cullein lay buried.
You have stripped her bare of all certainties, why shouldn’t she
hate your guts? But you are her mother – her only mother – and you must make amends and rebuild the broken bridge between you. It has to come right. It
must
come
right.

Callie raced from the garden to the stable block where Hector was peering out to greet her. ‘Come on, boy, you and I are going for a ride.’ She flung his saddle
over him and walked him out of the yard, across the field to join the old bridle path she knew so well. She wanted to get as far away from Dalradnor as she could. The revelation was burning into
her brain. Phee was her mother, her own mother, and all this time she’d acted like a distant aunt. It was disgusting, mean and utterly despicable. How she hated her now for lying to her.

Callie felt the wind in her face, the rhythm of the ride calming her down. She mustn’t take out her fury on old Hector. He was all she had left in the world. They rested under a tree and
she walked him to spare him her weight. She sort of knew where she was heading. If she carried on down the bridleway, and crossed the little packhorse bridge over the river, she would come to the
Balfours’ estate, with its grey stone house with castellated roof and turrets. There was just a chance Sir Lionel would be in residence.

Thoughts were buzzing like a swarm of bees in her head. No wonder Sir Lionel knew when her birthday was and brought gifts. It all made sense now, as did the visit to his son’s monument all
those years ago. Sir Lionel’s son was her father and she never knew it.

She jumped off Hector, tethered him by a stream to graze, and walked across the wide lawn and up the steps to the front door. Banging hard, she waited until a servant, in a black jacket, opened
the door.

‘Miss Boardman to see Sir Lionel Seton-Ross.’

‘He’s away with the shoot, miss,’ came the reply.

‘Who is it, Fraser?’ A sharp-faced woman in tweeds came to the door. ‘Oh, it’s you. You’d better come in.’

Callie had never seen the woman before. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you. I’m Caroline Boardman from Dalradnor House.’

‘I know who you are. I wondered when you’d come calling.’ There was a sneer in the woman’s voice as she marched her through the marble hall and into the drawing room.

Callie had enough composure to remember her manners. ‘Excuse me, and who might you be then?’

‘Verity Seton-Ross.’ She plonked herself down on a sofa, motioned Callie to sit opposite and pulled a cigarette case out of her cardigan pocket. ‘What do you want?’ she
snapped.

‘I came to see Sir Lionel. There are things I need to know, but I can wait.’ She stood, too nervous to sit.

‘Hmm, let’s have a look at you.’ Verity beckoned her to a chair by the fireside. ‘So you know, then?’

‘If you mean that I am Sir Lionel’s granddaughter, yes, I’ve just heard . . .’

‘Arthur was my brother, but if you think that makes me your aunt, you can forget any familiarity. Your mother was never welcome in this family. I don’t know what she’s told you
but she set her cap at my brother from the day they first met. You have no claim on our estate. Arthur gave her every penny you’ll ever get from us. If that is what you are here
for?’

Callie shot up, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘I rode here to see if what Aunt Phee has told me could possibly be true. I want nothing from any of you – or her.’ She
paused. ‘And I’ve had enough of aunts to last a lifetime. No one has given me the courtesy of the truth until today. Can you imagine what it feels like to be an uninvited bastard? I
thought I might find an ounce of sympathy here – instead you accuse me of wanting money. I don’t think I can take any more of this. Good day, Miss Seton-Ross.’

She raced out of the door into the hall with its pillars and echoing walls. Verity Seton-Ross was chasing after her. ‘Come back here, young lady!’

‘No I won’t. You can all go to hell!’

Callie fled past the startled servant, flinging wide the front door herself, then out and down the steps towards Hector. ‘I want Marthe, I want Marthe . . .’ she sobbed, but there
was no one but the old pony to comfort her as she rode away, crying into his shaggy mane.

‘What’ll I do now, boy? Where do we go now?’

It was getting dark and Phoebe was worried. Caroline had been away for hours with only a thin shirt and jodhpurs on. She paced the drawing room, continually looking out of the
window.

Mrs Ibell was told only that there’d been a row and the girl had run off. ‘Better to call the bobby,’ she advised. ‘That
wee besom
knows how to pull your bells,
staying out in the dark so late.’

‘We’ll give her a few more minutes. She’ll shelter in a byre somewhere. She wouldn’t want Hector to catch a chill,’ Phoebe reasoned.

The sound of a car on the gravel had her dashing to the door. Out climbed Sir Lionel, still in his gun tweeds, and then his daughter. Phoebe was relieved to see Sir Lionel; he would know what to
do.

‘I’ve just heard. Where is she?’ said the old man, leaning on his stick.

‘Not a sign of her yet. How did you know she’s missing? Ah . . . so she called on you?’

It was Verity who stepped forward. ‘Papa was out so it was I who saw her, gave her piece of my mind, didn’t realize the state she was in. I suppose I didn’t help things one
iota.’ It was the nearest to Verity making an apology that Phoebe had ever heard.

‘If anything happens to that girl . . .’ Sir Lionel turned to Phoebe. ‘So you told her the truth at long last.’

‘What was I to do? She called on my family, heard half the story, then she got it into her head she was adopted. Do sit down. I think it’s time to call in extra forces. Since she
lost Cullein, the pony’s been her only consolation.’

‘I’ll find her another Cairn, if it will help.’ Lionel sat down, wiping the rain from his forehead.

‘I don’t think that will help now, with respect. I did what I thought was right at the time for all of us. I promised not to bring your name into disrepute and I needed to protect my
own reputation. Now, I’ve run out of ideas. She trusts you but I don’t think she’ll ever listen to me again. I’m so out of my depth.’ Phoebe looked up her visitors in
despair. ‘What a mess I’ve made of this.’

‘She’s at that awkward age,’ Verity offered. ‘A change of scenery might help. Is she still at St Maggie’s?’

‘I had thought of sending her abroad for a while, to a finishing school, but now I’m not sure,’ Phoebe sighed, knowing their next encounters would be frosty and awkward if she
didn’t get this right.

‘If I can give you one word of advice, Miss Faye . . .? This poor girl has been left out of all the major decisions in her life. I think she is old enough now to be asked just what she
wants rather than to be told, don’t you think?. Co-operation gets better results in my experience,’ Sir Lionel offered.

‘I don’t think she’s going to listen to anything I say,’ Phoebe replied, tears threatening.

‘But she might well listen to me. Verity, what do you think?’

‘She’s quite a wilful young filly, headstrong, plain-speaking, and not afraid to stand up for herself. She didn’t deserve my outburst, but she took in on the chin.
There’s a lot of potential there. She’s no shrinking violet, and so like Arthur in looks, it choked me at first to see her standing there. If Miss Faye thinks Caroline’s going
abroad might help, then it’s worth a try. She’ll survive all this, you’ll see.’

‘Let’s just pray she doesn’t do anything silly . . .’

The door opened and Nan Ibell put her head round the door with a smile. ‘Just to let you know there’s a drowned rat come to my kitchen door. I’ve given her hot soup and rolls,
and I’ll pack her off to bed with a hot-water bottle. I think the girl’s had enough lectures for one day. Better she sleeps it off. Shall I bring you a wee dram, Sir Lionel?’

‘Make it three, please, Mrs Ibell,’ ordered Phoebe, sinking back in relief. ‘Thank God she’s safe.’

Tomorrow perhaps she’d take Lionel’s advice and listen instead of lecturing. There was no escaping her responsibilities. The two of them had to make a fresh start together if they
were to salvage anything from the wreckage of the past few hours, though it wasn’t going to be easy. She recalled Kitty’s warnings all those years ago, the warnings she’d ignored.
How on earth was she going to bridge the gulf between herself and her daughter now?

1933–34

Callie’s reward for all the upheaval and upset of her discovery was to leave school and spend her time at Dalradnor and in London, having an extended holiday. Then at
Easter, she was to go to a finishing school, close to Marthe and André, in a château in West Flanders. It had been to her nursemaid that she poured out her heart when she found out the
truth. Marthe wrote back with kind words:

Marthe always made things sound better, just like Primmy.

Aunt Phee did her best to smooth over the tensions between them, but at first she tried too hard, always checking on her. When she had a film part, it was much more relaxed as she had no time to
fuss, Then there was Aunt Maisie’s dancing school, where she spent the rest of her time.

Château Grooten lay north-west of Brussels, not far from Bruges, set in gracious parkland with a lake behind it. It was a spectacular fairy-tale French castle in pink stone. It had towers
and turrets, and wonderful dormer windows jutting out of the rooftops in what Callie knew now was Gothic style. There were graduated steps leading up to the entrance and a carved portico in white
stone, which glinted in the sunlight. It was a palace in miniature. Marthe, however, was not impressed. She had met her at the station and taken over from her escort. Callie stayed just for two
nights in their terraced house in Brussels and delighted in playing peep-o with little Mathilde, singing her the lullabies she could still recall from her own childhood days.

‘Isn’t this enormous? Callie exclaimed as they walked up the path from the bus stop.

‘It could all do with a fresh coat of paint, and the windows need vinegar,’ Marthe observed critically. ‘There are weeds on the gravel path. Are you sure this is the right
place?’

‘It belongs to the Countess van Grooten – yes, this is the house.’

‘If there’s a problem you must write to me and come back to us. I shall come in with you, just in case.’

Dear Marthe, she always made her feel so safe and so at ease. If only she felt like that with Phee, Callie thought.

They rang the bell and a petite woman of about fifty with an elegant chignon at the nape of her neck and a long string of heavy pearls opened the door.

‘Ah, I'Anglaise . . . entrez . . . et vous?’
She stared up at Marthe. ‘Your maid?’ she asked in English.

‘Mais non, je suis Madame Kortrik.
A friend of the family,’ Marthe added in English.

‘Belgique . . .?
’

‘Exactement .
. .’

The countess dismissed poor Marthe with a sniff and she made to leave, but not before she whispered in Callie’s ear in Flemish, ‘Beware of this dragon.’

Callie stood with her suitcase in the elaborately tiled hall, eyeing the silver armour and swords on the walls.

‘The other girls have all arrived. You are late. It is not polite to keep your hostess waiting. Go and unpack and we will meet in the dining room at five. I shall read the
rules.’

Callie had no time to do anything but struggle upstairs and find where the chattering she could hear was coming from. She found a huge bedroom with six iron bedsteads on bare floorboards, and
windows draped with silk curtains topped by an elaborate pelmet with frayed fringing dangling down. The room was faded and bare. The five girls, sitting on their beds, stared at her. They’d
left the bed nearest the draughts of the huge window for her.

‘I hope you’ve brought some warm clothes. It’s life in the Frigidaire here,’ said a pretty American girl with black hair. ‘It’s a dump. Wait till Papa finds
out we’re stuck in the eighteenth century. I’m Sophie.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, it’s better than my boarding school dorm in Scotland. We’ll survive. It should be summer soon. It’s rather a beautiful house . . .’ Callie
tried to sound cheery.

‘It’s a wreck; it needs a decorator,’ said another American girl, almost in tears. ‘I’m Vanessa.’

‘Darling, you should see some of the stately homes I’ve slept in . . . This is a palace. I’m Clementine but Madame insists I’m called Clemence,’ said a willowy
English girl, holding out her hand.

Another, plumper, girl stepped forward. ‘I think she’s fallen on hard times. She’s a widow from the war and I heard there were three sons to educate. She only takes us in to
pay the bills, but she’s good. My sister came two years ago. I’m Pamela, by the way, and what name has she given you?’ She smiled at Callie.