The Chain Garden Page 19

  Refolding the duster she bent to the next row of pews. After another hour she had finished. She changed the water in the flower vases, dusted the plain pulpit and the lectern. There was nothing left to do. He hadn’t come.

  Her disappointment was crushing. Chewing the inside of her lip she took off her apron, put on her hat, picked up her basket and let herself out. Locking the door behind her she put the key under the flowerpot. Mr Rogers, the steward, would collect it later. Turning her bicycle she started pushing it up the hill.

  Why hadn’t he come? In the past he had often dropped in when she was there. Of course he’d always had a reason: something to collect or leave in the vestry or a message for one of the ladies.

  It was over a fortnight since he had called at the house. Perhaps he had been needed at one of the other villages on his circuit.

  Mary had sounded so sure that Edwin’s interest was deeper than mere friendship. Because of Mary’s certainty, she had allowed herself to hope.

  Yet though he only slept away from the manse on alternate weekends he had not come to call on her. Nor had she seen him around the village. She would have expected their paths to cross somewhere.

  She had picked up the threads of her life: in the classroom, the chapel, at Sunday school, visiting the sick and elderly. She craved a sense of worth. She yearned for just a fraction of the admiration, warmth and smiles that Zoe’s name evoked. But as each day passed she started to feel oddly detached. She seemed somehow set apart from everyone else and the distance was increasing.

  Each night she climbed into bed trembling with fatigue but unable to settle, tormented by a vivid and ever-changing kaleidoscope of images that tangled distant and recent past. When at last sleep claimed her it was not peaceful or restoring, but full of fractured dreams from which she would wake with a wet face and tear-soaked pillow.

  Each day it took more and more effort to get out of bed. But the twins greeted her with smiles and exclamations of relief at seeing her back to normal. One morning her father even patted her shoulder and nodded his approval. So she had to carry on.

  She felt as brittle as glass. Her strength was leaking away. She spoke less and less. Yet busy with their own concerns no one seemed to notice. Inside her head she was screaming.

  One warm sunny afternoon she mounted her bicycle and set off down the drive to honour Mrs Williams’ request. Blowsy white clouds rode the fresh breeze across a forget-me-not blue sky. Her throat was dry and her heart thudded against her ribs. But this time the cause was not hope or anticipation. It was the aftermath of another unpleasant scene with her grandmother who had called her cold-hearted and selfish, a wicked girl who cared nothing for the sufferings of others.

  Waking late after a disturbed night caused by two helpings of curried lobster at dinner, Hester Chenoweth had demanded a plain lunch of coddled egg and a slice of plum tart. Within an hour she had returned to bed complaining of severe pain and sent Violet for Grace.

  ‘Heartburn, that’s all it is.’ Violet rolled her eyes. ‘I warned her about having plum tart but she wouldn’t listen.’

  Hester lay on her bed clutching a lace handkerchief, her free hand pressed to her thin chest.

  ‘I’m ill. I need a doctor. Send for John at once. You’d better fetch the minister as well. Hurry up, girl. Don’t just stand there.’ She closed her eyes moaning softly.

  Grace had longed for a reason to call at the manse. But despite her yearning to see Edwin again she would not call him out on a fool’s errand. Her gentle suggestion of carbonate of soda with ginger and camomile to ease the discomfort met with shrieked invective from spittle-flecked lips. She stood rigid and silent until, running out of breath, Hester collapsed against the mound of pillows wailing. Violet’s arrival with a soothing draft of magnesia, cinnamon-water and spirits of lavender had permitted escape.

  Outside in the passage, overcome by dizziness, Grace had leaned against the wall fighting for breath. She would not weep. Granny Hester hadn’t really meant all she’d said. She was old, she felt ill and she was grieving.

  In her room, though all she wanted to do was lie down and sleep, Grace bathed her face and tidied her hair then went downstairs to fetch her bicycle.

  The hayfields had already been cut by rows of men wielding scythes. After turning and drying, the clover and sweet grass had been raked up and stacked in bulky ricks.

  Now it was the turn of this year’s wheat. She could see the mechanical reaper drawn by two heavy horses working its way down the field, cutting and tying the heavy-headed golden stalks into bundles. Men followed behind, wading through the pale stubble to prop the bundles into shocks. The reaper was half way across the field and everyone would work on into the evening until it reached the far side and harvested the remaining crop.

  In the past Grace had always enjoyed harvest time. Apples were ripe in the orchards. Cherries and plums already picked had been made into preserves, or bottled to provide a taste of summer during the cold winter months. Blackcurrants, gooseberries, raspberries and strawberries were still fruiting on bushes and in beds. There were blackberries still to come. All had sprung from tiny seeds.

  Was it the same in life? Were joy and tragedy just random events striking purely by chance? Or were they reward or retribution for past actions: the fruits of some long-buried seed. If that was so, was she still being punished for causing her mother a lifetime’s ill health? Why else would she feel so isolated, so lonely? Yet now her mother was dead how could she ever make amends?

  Dismounting she rested her bicycle against the hedge. Opening the squeaking gate she walked into Dorcas’s garden. As she rounded the corner she spotted the easel and alongside it a low table cluttered with tubes, rags, and a pot of brushes. She stopped, reluctant to interrupt. But there was no sign of Dorcas.

  Unusually the cottage door was closed. Grace hesitated. Still, having made the effort to come she might as well find out if Dorcas was at home. Following the path up to the door she knocked lightly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She heard movement, the soft thud of something dropped, a chair leg scraping against wooden floorboards. Then the door flew open to reveal Dorcas beaming with pleasure and relief. ‘I thought you had –’ She stopped, her face losing all expression. ‘Oh.’ Then with visible effort she smiled again. ‘Grace. ‘

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Renowden. I hope I haven’t – is this an inconvenient time?’ Her anxious glance took in the thick glasses that made Dorcas’s face look older, more tired somehow, and definitely thinner. She couldn’t help noticing that the older woman looked slightly unkempt. Her upswept hair was untidy and there were food spots on the front of her blouse.

  ‘Not at all, it’s always a pleasure to see you.’ As Dorcas stepped back and gestured for her to enter Grace’s spirits rose fractionally. She sounded as though she really meant it. ‘Come in. Sit down. Would you like some lemonade?’

  ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. I made some fresh this morning.’

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your mother,’ Dorcas called from the kitchen. ‘You must miss her.’

  Yes because she was my mother, because I cannot remember a time without her, because my life was inextricably bound up with hers. No because I had grown so tired. Now I’m even more tired. Grace said nothing, listening to cupboard doors open and close. She heard the rattle and clink of glass then Dorcas reappeared carrying a jug and two tumblers on a tray spread with a small square of finely embroidered linen. ‘These past weeks will have been very hard for you.’

  ‘Mmmn.’ Grace swallowed the sudden stiffness in her throat.

  As Dorcas bent to set the tray on a side table her face was momentarily hidden. ‘How is your father?’

  An image of her father’s face filled Grace’s vision, frowning and discomfited as he instructed her to dispose of her mother’s clothes. This merged into one of Mary blushing radiantl
y as, half-joyful, half-anxious she confided to Grace her father’s proposal of marriage.

  She swallowed. ‘He’s well. Though I’ve seen very little of him lately. He’s been terribly busy travelling all over the county on business.’

  ‘Ah.’ Dorcas straightened. Grace glimpsed which seemed so unlikely and out of place she knew she must be mistaken. ‘Men have always used work to distance themselves from emotions they find hard to deal with.’relief,

  Grace’s experience of men was restricted to her father, her brothers and Uncle John. Even that was confined to their behaviour within the family circle. What their lives were like outside she had no idea. Not knowing how to respond she simply nodded.

  Then her heart tripped on a beat. Was Edwin burying himself in work as an escape? Escape from what? Was Mary right after all? Did he care for her but thought it too soon to speak? Or was the opposite true? Was he avoiding her to spare both of them embarrassment? Shutting out a thought too painful to contemplate she moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue.

  Sitting down Dorcas reached for the jug. ‘I hope you’ll forgive a personal remark, my dear. But you don’t look at all your usual self. That’s hardly surprising. Your father’s absence must have meant even more responsibility for you.’ As she poured the sharp scent of lemons filled the air.

  Suddenly thirsty Grace took the proffered glass. She shook her head. ‘Actually I’ve done very little. After –after my mother died I – I wasn’t well. If it hadn’t been for Mama’s close friend, Mary Prideaux, I – I don’t know how – She was so kind. She took care of everything. She even managed to calm Granny Hester. I couldn’t. I still can’t,’ she added quietly.

  Vivid memories of her grandmother’s rage rasped across her raw nerves. The glass clattered against her teeth and cool tangy lemonade soothed her parched throat. ‘So really it makes perfect sense. I’m sure everyone else will see it that way too, once they’ve got used to the idea. I must admit I found it difficult at first. But not,’ she added quickly, ‘because of anything against Mary.’

  ‘Grace, my dear,’ Dorcas broke in gently. ‘You’ve lost me. What are you talking about?’ She reached for the second glass.

  ‘I’m so sorry. My head’s in such a muddle.’ Grace watched Dorcas half-fill the tumbler. ‘I’m talking about my father and Mary. He’s proposed to her.’

  The jug crashed down onto the tray and the tumbler slid from Dorcas’s fingers. Grace stared, frozen, as the tumbler rolled and lemonade soaked into the embroidered cloth.

  ‘Your father is going to marry Mary Prideaux?’ Dorcas’s voice and expression were stunned, disbelieving.

  Grace nodded. ‘I was shocked as well when Mary told me. It seemed wrong –too soon’ She clasped both hands around the tumbler. ‘But as Mary pointed out, all the grieving in the world can’t change what’s happened. It won’t bring Mama back. Life hangs by a thread that’s so easily snapped.’ Her voice broke and she cleared her throat. Now she had started talking the words just kept coming.

  ‘I can see what she means. I suppose when you’re older you’re more aware of time and how quickly it passes. The thing is, Mary is wealthy and Papa desperately needs money. Though I’m sure that isn’t the only reason for the marriage. I mean Mary wouldn’t have accepted unless she was gaining something from it too, would she?’

  ‘No.’ Dorcas’s face was the colour of ashes and she sounded as if she were in pain. ‘She’ll gain the status of being Mrs Henry Damerel. She will be mistress of a large house and estate, stepmother to a grown-up family. Perhaps she hopes for children of her own.’ Righting the fallen tumbler, Dorcas poured more lemonade, a violent tremor rattling the lip of the jug against the glass.

  Pretending not to notice, for no doubt Dorcas was already embarrassed by the state of the tray, Grace took another sip of her own drink. ‘So much has changed. When I was a child the mine was prosperous. Even though Mama was often unwell, Papa always managed to stay cheerful. He seemed so strong no matter how bad things were, like when Charlotte and Michael died. He owned property in Falmouth then: a row of four cottages in Quay Hill near the waterfront. He was so proud because it wasn’t inherited like the estate. It was property he had bought himself.’

  Dorcas gulped, almost choking on the tart liquid. On top of the shattering news of Henry’s remarriage, Grace’s innocent remark was a stinging blow. A row of cottages in Quay Hill. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Are they still in his possession?’

  Grace shook her head, her face sad. ‘No. When the price of tin collapsed he sold them and invested the money in the mine.’

  Her fingers numb and unable to feel the tumbler, Dorcas set it down unsteadily. She felt a pain deep in her chest. There was only one row of four cottages in Quay Hill. After Zander’s death she had moved to Falmouth and rented one of them.

  Henry had owned her cottage? But that meant that Henry had been her landlord. Henry had personally arranged her eviction to force her to move here. He had never told her. He had kept it a secret. From her: who for almost thirty years had shared her life and her bed with him, who had borne him a son. His eldest son: the son he had educated but never acknowledged.

  Now he planned to marry Mary Prideaux. He had proposed marriage to another woman. Yet he had not bothered to come and tell her. The enormity of his betrayal was almost too great to comprehend. She felt sick and cold perspiration bathed her body. Shock tingled along her nerves and the room spun. This room where they had spent so many hours together: this room he had always said was his true home. She heard a long low moan of agony and realised it had come from her own throat.

  ‘Mrs Renowden?’ Grace’s voice, thin with anxiety, hauled her back from the brink of unconsciousness. ‘What’s wrong? Are you ill? What can I do?’

  With enormous effort Dorcas raised her head. ‘Was this your father’s idea?’ Her voice was raw with grief and pain. ‘Could he not at least have found the courage to come and tell me himself?’

  ‘I don’t understand. Tell you what? About his marriage?’ Grace’s face betrayed her bewilderment. ‘Why should he tell you at all?’

  Dorcas drew a shuddering breath. ‘Because –’ her chin rose. ‘Because for thirty years I have been your father’s mistress.’

  All colour drained from Grace’s face leaving it grey-white. ‘M – m –’ she couldn’t form the word, couldn’t get it past bloodless lips. ‘Thirty years? You and my father? But – but –’

  Dorcas’s laugh was brief and bitter. ‘You never guessed.’ It was a flat statement. ‘No one did. I was very discreet. I discouraged casual callers. And because I earned my living as a painter my desire for solitude was accepted as an artist’s eccentricity.’

  ‘But how – when –?’

  It was painfully clear to Dorcas that Grace didn’t want to believe what she was hearing, yet recognised it as the truth.

  ‘I met your father when I was living in one of those cottages in Quay Hill. I didn’t know he owned them. He never told me. Not then. Not ever. I had just found out I was pregnant when a fire at the gallery that sold my work destroyed most of my paintings. Soon afterwards I received a solicitor’s letter informing me my cottage had been sold and I would have to leave. I had no money, no home, and I was expecting a child.’ She paused. ‘Your father’s child.’

  Trembling uncontrollably Grace hugged herself. ‘Hal?’

  ‘Hal is your father’s eldest son and your half-brother. He doesn’t know. He believes his father died before he was born. He believes that because I lied to him, to my own son, in order to protect your father, and you, and the rest of your family. Yet now–’ She pressed shaking fingers to quivering lips and shook her head, choked with grief and rage and loss.

  ‘It was your father’s idea that I moved here. I didn’t want to but he insisted. He said it was for my safety. I have loved him and been faithful to him for thirty years. He sometimes talked of marriage, of what we would do if he were free. But he wasn’t. I never expected or as
ked for what he could not give. Your mother’s death changed everything. He was free. Free to marry me. Yet not only has he chosen someone else.’ Her voice thinned, cracked. ‘He didn’t even have the decency to come and tell me himself.’

  ‘I – I don’t know what to say,’ Grace whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry?’ Dorcas was suddenly weary to the marrow of her bones. ‘Why should you be sorry? You’ve done nothing wrong. Nor are you responsible for your father. I have told you things you need never have known. It’s I who should apologise. I hope some day you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.’ She drew another deep shuddering sigh and pushed herself out of her chair. She felt weak and shaky, as if she had been – was – deathly ill. ‘I’ll make some tea. I think we both need –’

  ‘No.’ Grace rose. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer, but you cannot want me here.’

  Too tired to argue Dorcas gestured acceptance. ‘As you wish.’ She followed Grace to the door. ‘Why did you come here this afternoon?’

  Grace turned. ‘Mrs Williams asked me to. It’s the Regatta next week and she was hoping you might be willing to draw portraits again.’

  ‘Portraits?’ Removing her glasses Dorcas passed a shaking hand across her forehead as hysteria bubbled and swelled in her chest. ‘No, Grace. Please convey my regrets to Mrs Williams.’

  ‘Of course. You won’t want – won’t feel like –’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Dorcas broke in. ‘It’s not that I don’t wantto. God knows I would give anything –’ she swallowed. If she said the words aloud, brought them out into the world, shared them with another person, she had to accept them as truth. Once she did that she could no longer pretend, no longer cling to the stupid, stubborn, desperatehope that somehow the clock might be stopped, the deterioration reversed.

  She replaced her spectacles, feeling their weight press into the groove on the bridge of her nose. It wasn’t going to happen.