The Chain Garden Read online

  He was mid-way through his meal when the sound of raised voices brought his head up. A moment later the door was flung open and Bryce Damerel strode in.

  ‘You got no business –’ Flora bleated behind him.

  ‘Be quiet!’ He turned on the minister. ‘Was the message not clear enough? Or is your dinner more important?’

  Startled, Edwin rose, wiping his mouth. ‘I’m sorry? What message? I’ve had no message.’

  ‘Don’t give me that.’ Bryce glared at him. ‘My sister wrote asking you to come to the house as quickly as possible. Patrick sent Jamie Couch down with it. What do you mean, you didn’t receive it?’ At the same instant both men’s eyes turned to the housekeeper.

  ‘Would you excuse me, Mr Damerel?’ Edwin put one hand on Flora’s back and shepherded her towards the door. ‘I won’t keep you a moment.’

  ‘Listen –’

  ‘Please sit down. I’ll be right back,’ Edwin said over his shoulder as he closed the door.

  Seething as he pushed the housekeeper ahead of him he remained silent until they reached the big kitchen. It cost him dearly to keep his tone mild.

  ‘The letter, Miss Bowden?’

  Her thin cheeks flushing she smoothed her apron. ‘Reverend Peters was always very grateful to me for not bothering him just when he was going to sit down to his dinner or his tea.’

  ‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Miss Bowden, but I would prefer to judge for myself the urgency, or otherwise, of any message.’

  ‘But ‘tis never right; expecting you to jump when they call, just like you was a servant.’

  Biting down the sharp retort Edwin replied carefully, ‘That is exactly what I am, Miss Bowden: a servant of the Lord, and of the people who seek his comfort. Where is the message if you please?’

  ‘I was going to give it to you soon as you’d finished your tea.’ She pulled the sealed envelope from her apron pocket and thrust it into his outstretched hand. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes filled. ‘I didn’t mean no harm.’

  Edwin clung to his patience. ‘I’m not Mr Peters. I do things differently. Not only has your action caused Mr Damerel and his family great anxiety and upset, it reflects badly on me.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Oh my dear life, I never meant –’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t. But in future if someone brings a message I want to receive it immediately. If I am not here you may leave it on my desk so I will see it as soon as I return. Should someone come looking for me while I am out, you will kindly write down that person’s name and the time that they called. If I am at home you are to come and tell me at once. Is that quite clear?’

  He glimpsed resentment before shock rounded her red-rimmed eyes. ‘Even if you’re in the middle of your dinner?’

  ‘Even then,’ he said firmly, tearing open the envelope. As he read the brief plea, penned in a shaky scrawl that revealed appalling distress, his heart contracted. Turning abruptly he strode back to the dining room.

  ‘I’ll come at once, Mr Damerel. I can only apologise.’

  ‘Hid the note did she? Someone should have warned you. She’s a jealous old biddy.’

  ‘A misunderstanding,’ Edwin replied, leading the way across the hall to the front door. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ Bryce warned. ‘Being the minister’s housekeeper has given her a taste for power. Because he was a lazy old man who liked his comfort Mr Peters allowed her free rein. She won’t want to give that up.’

  ‘Miss Bowden understands that remaining here as housekeeper requires she adjust to my way of doing things. I intend no criticism of Mr Peters but I believe it’s my responsibility to be available to anyone who needs me whenever that might be.’

  Bryce seemed about to speak, but instead he clicked his tongue, urging the horse into a faster trot.

  Edwin had noted the bruise-like marks of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Bryce Damerel was deeply troubled. But confidences could not be forced. He lifted the note. ‘Mr Damerel, your sister started to write something about your mother.’

  ‘My mother’s dead.’ Bryce said flatly. ‘Grace found her this afternoon. She blames herself.’

  ‘Why?’ The word was out before Edwin could stop it.

  ‘Grace has always taken care of my mother, of all of us.’

  There was a tightening in Edwin’s chest as he pictured her in the village, at the May Fair and in the chapel. Always busy doing for others, always giving. Who cared for her? He cleared his throat.

  ‘Forgive me, but could your grandmother not have helped?’

  ‘You’ve met my grandmother,’ Bryce said. ‘There’s no warmth in her, except for Zoe. But my uncle says she’s taken mother’s death very badly. It’s understandable, I suppose. She only had two daughters and has lost them both. You won’t have an easy time with her. As for Grace.’ He broke off.

  ‘What about her?’ Anxiety made Edwin’s voice sharp.

  ‘She’s been hurt enough.’

  ‘Mr Damerel, I need no such warning. I admire your sister more than–’

  ‘Do you give poetry to all the women you admire?’

  ‘The situation has never arisen. I promise you I would never do anything to hurt her.’

  More than anything he yearned to offer Grace the comfort and support of his love. Yet because of the secret that lay like a dark stain on his soul, he dared not. All he could do was pray for help to find words that might ease her suffering.

  As he approached the front door, dropped off by Bryce, John Ainsley was in the hall about to take his leave.

  ‘Ah, Mr Philpotts,’ the doctor said offering his hand. ‘A sad business. I’ve done all I can. The rest is your province. Mrs Chenoweth is refusing to settle until she has seen you.’

  ‘How is Miss Damerel?’ Edwin enquired steadily.

  The doctor frowned, shaking his head. ‘I must admit to some concern. Grace was aware that this could happen at any time. It was touch and go with her mother on several occasions during the winter months. I have to say I didn’t expect this reaction, not from Grace. She has always been the one on whom the rest of the family relied.’

  To avoid betraying himself Edwin caught the inside of his lower lip between his teeth and tasted the hot saltiness of blood.

  John Ainsley drew a gusty breath. ‘It might not have hit her so hard had there been some warning. I’ve given her a sedative so you might find her a little slow. Hopefully she’ll buck up in a day or two.’ He nodded in farewell. ‘Doubtless we’ll see each other again soon.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Swallowing questions and comments his calling forbade him to voice, Edwin wished him good evening then waited, fighting impatience, for the butler to conduct him upstairs to Grace’s room.

  After knocking and receiving no reply, Patrick opened the door.

  ‘Miss Grace?’

  ‘Please go away.’ Her voice was barely audible and held a flat hopelessness that Edwin found far more moving than tears. Still fully clothed she lay facing the wall, a tartan rug covering her lower body.

  ‘Miss Damerel?’ Edwin said.

  She jerked upright. Her face was ashen but her haunted eyes betrayed far more than relief.

  ‘You came. I thought – I was afraid.’ Covering her mouth with shaking fingers, she shook her head.

  Having just promised her brother he would never hurt her, Edwin knew with terrible certainty that he was going to cause her untold pain. And there was nothing he could do to avoid it.

  Grace looked down to free herself from the entangling blanket. The brief respite allowed Edwin to regain control.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so late.’

  Alongside him the butler cleared his throat. ‘Beg pardon, Miss. Now minister’s here how about I ask Kate to bring you both a nice cup of tea?’

  Knowing she needed it despite the nausea that flitted across her face, Edwin spoke quickly. ‘How very kind. What an excellent idea.’

  Turning to leave Patrick whispered, ‘Try
and get her to take something, sir. They’ll all be looking to her. She’ll never manage if she don’t eat proper.’

  Grace sat hunched on the edge of the bed, her hands tightly clenched, head bowed. Edwin’s fingers curled into his palms as he remained where he was, his jaw aching from tension as drops of perspiration trickled down his back.

  She looked up, her grief stark and raw. ‘Help me.’ The words were wrenched from her, as if her need were something to be ashamed of.

  Crossing the space between them in two swift strides he sat beside her. After an instant’s hesitation he took her hand. Surely it could do no harm? She needed comfort so badly. Her fingers gripped him. ‘I can’t make it better, Grace. Grieving for a loved one is a journey each of us must make alone.’

  As a minister charged with the care of her soul his use of her name was perfectly acceptable. But it was the man’s heart not the minister’s that ached for her grief, ached for her.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ her voice broke.

  ‘That you think it’s your fault?’ he said gently. ‘That if you had done something differently your mother would not have died?’

  Her face contorted in pain too deep for the relief of tears.

  ‘Everyone thinks that, Grace. The death of someone close, especially when it’s sudden, is attended by all kinds of powerful feelings. Of course there’s grief, but there’s guilt and anger as well.’

  Her gaze was intent, searching.

  He looked down, forcing himself to release her hand. ‘I’m not going to say I know how you feel. No one can know that, because each person’s loss is unique. But I do know that every bereaved person experiences the emotions you are experiencing. They don’t mean you are strange or wicked. They are a normal response to a devastating event.’

  Clasping her arms across her stomach she began to rock. ‘I’m so afraid.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘Of what?’

  Compressing her lips she shook her head.

  He would have tried to draw her out, but footsteps and the clink and rattle of china heralded the arrival of Kate with a tray. A few moments later there was a knock on the door and Violet peered in.

  ‘Beg pardon, Miss Grace, Reverend. I’m some sorry to interrupt, but Mrs Chenoweth want the minister. In some state she is.’

  As Grace’s face closed and she replaced her half-full cup on the tray, Edwin turned to the maid.

  ‘Tell Mrs Chenoweth I’ll be along in a few minutes.’

  ‘No,’ Grace said wearily. ‘You’d better go. Now she knows you’re here you’ll get no peace. She’ll only send Violet back again.’

  Reluctantly he stood and set his cup on the tray. When he turned back Grace had lain down again, curled up like a child, her face to the wall.

  Dorcas stood in her cottage doorway, the afternoon sun warm on her upturned face. Louise Damerel had adored her garden and on a glorious day in summer gardens were at their best. So perhaps it was fitting that she should be laid to rest beneath blue skies and sunshine.

  Opening her eyes Dorcas replaced her glasses and surveyed the brilliant swathes of colour. A gentle breeze carried the twitter of birds and the lazy drone of bees.

  Henry had come to her the morning after Louise’s death. Listening as he talked out his disbelief and confusion she had been sucked into painful memories of Zander’s death and its aftermath. But she had said nothing. Though long expected, Henry’s bereavement was still so new that her experience would seem irrelevant. Besides, he was jealous of her life with Zander and did not like her speaking of it.

  Her time with Zander had been short. But he had been her bright particular star,the love of her life. Though she loved Henry and had been faithful to him for thirty years, it was a different kind of love.

  She looked down at the letter and photographs she still held, the tenuous link across thousands of miles separating her from her son. Since John had confirmed her fears she found herself missing Hal in a way she hadn’t done before. She wished it were possible, before her sight failed completely, for her to see him as the man he was now.

  When he had left for South America, vowing to raise enough capital to develop the pumping engines Henry deemed too advanced and too costly to be commercially viable, she had sent him on his way with her love and her blessing. It had never occurred to her that when eventually he returned, as he promised he would, she might need to rely solely on touch to discern the changes time and experience had wrought on his cherished features.

  Inhaling deeply she closed her eyes and tilted her head once more to the sun might dry tears that traced cool tracks beneath the glasses and down her face. Henry still didn’t know. When he had come to tell her about Louise she had sensed there was something else. After gentle coaxing he had poured out the disaster of the failed pump. It would have been cruel to add to the burdens he already carried.

  While he clung to her, as if she alone were keeping him afloat in his raging sea of troubles, she thought about the future. His wife’s ill health had been such an integral part of their lives that she had never imagined Henry being free. Now, suddenly, he was. Knowing him as she did she was certain that after a decent interval he would bring up the subject of marriage again.

  In the past she had laughed it off, saying she was perfectly content with their arrangement. But so much had changed. She had meant what she’d said to John Ainsley about continuing to paint. Though it would require a complete change of technique the challenge would stretch her both as an artist and a woman. Painting was so much a part of who she was that to stop was unthinkable. As long as she could develop a new way of expressing herself through art it would not be quite so hard to forfeit independence in other aspects of her life.

  Her face felt tight where salt tears had evaporated. The sun’s warmth was a benediction. What could not be cured must be endured. If change was inevitable she would embrace it, make it work on her terms. The next time Henry talked of marriage she would accept.

  Chapter Twelve

  Standing by the drawing room fireplace nursing a crystal tumbler half full of whisky, Henry Damerel watched family and friends talking.

  Mary appeared beside him. ‘It was a lovely service.’ Taking a glass of sherry from Patrick’s tray she waited until the butler had moved on then added, ‘I imagine you’re glad it’s over.’

  Henry’s brows rose, surprise tinged with relief.

  ‘When my parents died,’ she confided softly, ‘I was acutely aware of people watching me to see how I was coping. I overheard comments about my bravery in the face of tragic loss. The fact was my parents were old and sick. Death was a merciful release for them both. I actually said this to one person.’

  As Henry’s brows climbed higher Mary raised a hand to shield her mouth so only he could see her smile. ‘You’re right. It was a dreadful mistake. Her expression condemned me as an unnatural daughter totally lacking in proper feeling. After that I simply thanked people for their kindness and waited for it all to be over. Grief is a private matter.’ She paused. ‘Though some appear to derive greater comfort from sharing their feelings with others.’

  Henry followed her gaze towards his mother-in-law. Propped in one corner of the rose damask sofa Hester Chenoweth, shrouded in black bombazine, clutched a wisp of lace handkerchief in the bony hand pressed to her flat bosom while with the other she gripped the arm of the woman sitting beside her.

  ‘Poor Mrs Laity,’ Mary murmured. ‘Should I rescue her?’

  Henry saw that though the woman’s face wore an expression of sympathy, her posture betrayed her desire to escape. ‘No need, just watch.’ As he spoke, Mrs Laity gently detached Hester’s hand, patted it, and backed gracefully away out of sight behind another group. ‘See? I told you. You stay here. Then no one else will come and bother me.’

  An impish smile flitted across her face. ‘Such a comfort to know I’m useful.’

  ‘No, I – that wasn’t–’

  ‘It’s all right, Henry. I know wh
at you meant.’

  He felt himself begin to relax. He knew most would interpret his stony expression as a stiff upper lip. But the truth was he didn’t know what he felt apart from relief, and guilt because of it. ‘You’re more than useful. I couldn’t have stood any more fuss. For years – You reach a point where –’ he broke off, knowing he’d said more than he should. He cleared his throat. ‘You did a good job with all this.’ He gestured with his glass.

  ‘There’s nothing like Charity committees to refine one’s organizational skills. I sit on several. It’s one of the hazards of being unencumbered by family responsibilities. As I result I’ve found I’m naturally bossy.’

  ‘I’ve never found you so.’

  ‘Good heavens! I must be better at it than I thought.’ Her quick smile faded and she sighed. ‘Besides, Louise was my friend so I consider it a privilege to be useful at a difficult time. I shall miss the chats she and I used to have in the chain garden. I imaging Grace will look after it now.’

  Henry grunted. ‘She’ll have to pull herself together first. At the moment she’s no use to man or beast.’ He downed half his drink. ‘What in God’s name is she at? Taking to her bed and leaving all this for you to arrange.’ He shook his head and looked towards the dining room where guests had begun to help themselves from the platters and dishes arrayed on the long table.

  ‘All I did was work out the number expected and discuss a menu. It was Rose Trott who produced the wonderful spread. That woman is a treasure.’

  ‘That’s as may be. But Grace has no right to be so selfish. She knows the pressure I’m under.’ As his voice rose Mary touched his arm lightly in warning. He drained the glass, feeling the spirit burn his throat then loosen the knot in his belly. ‘Sorry. It’s just –’

  ‘I know,’ Mary soothed. ‘Henry, try to be patient with her. Grace has spent most of her life taking care of her mother. The shock of finding her… She probably feels she has failed in some way.’