Читать книгу Her Sister's Baby - Alison Fraser, Alison Fraser - Страница 8

CASS didn’t call North Dean Hall to be picked up at the station. Instead she took a taxi and barely made the crematorium in time.

The Carlisles were en masse at the front. Drayton Carlisle saw her enter and indicated she should join them but she slipped into a chair at the back of the chapel. She wasn’t family, not really.

The service was a curiously sterile affair. The clergyman spoke of Pen as a devoted wife and homemaker and young mother-to-be, his eulogy full of platitudes and quite erroneous virtues, followed by a dirge of a hymn that Pen would have giggled through if she’d been there beside Cass.

It was thinking of the real Pen that made tears gather at the back of Cass’s eyes and she swallowed hard. If she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

There were others sniffing into handkerchiefs, perhaps friends of Pen from the exclusive country club she and Tom had frequented. Cass noticed two heavily pregnant women and wondered if Pen’s death had left them anxious.

Cass could have reassured them: few women died in childbirth these days. Just ones with conditions like Pen’s which took the medical profession by surprise. And Pen’s shouldn’t have.

Pen had known the facts. Cass had explained them again last autumn. Pen had lost her first baby due to a womb abnormality and stood a fair chance of losing any others—and her life. Pen had known and chosen to play Russian roulette.

Cass focused on that thought, and kept focusing on it as the priest gave the final blessing and the curtains opened and the coffin slid behind. But it didn’t help. She still wanted to shout out at the unfairness of it, cry for the loss of her pretty young sister, scarcely into adulthood.

She wasn’t sure if the service was over, but she needed air. She scraped back her chair and made for the door.

She didn’t plan it, but, once outside, she had a need to escape altogether. She almost made it—was in sight of the crematorium gates when pursuing footsteps caught up with her.

Drayton Carlisle dispensed with any greeting and went straight to demanding, ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

Cass would have said it was obvious. ‘Back to London.’

‘No, you’re not!’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Not yet, anyway. You promised to speak to Tom, remember?’

‘I’m not sure what you expect,’ she countered. ‘I don’t know your brother well, and I’m not great at words of comfort.’

He laughed, a brief, harsh sound. ‘I can believe that…I don’t think it’s comfort Tom wants from you. He seems to think you’ll know why Pen died.’

Cass frowned. ‘Haven’t the doctors told him?’

‘The medical terms, yes.’

‘He wants me to explain those?’

He slid her a look that questioned if she was being deliberately absurd.

‘I wouldn’t think so,’ he returned impatiently. ‘Whatever you do at St Wherever, I doubt you’re qualified for that.’

‘How do you know?’ Cass threw back. ‘In fact, what do you really know about me? I’ll tell you what—’

‘Nothing,’ he cut in, ‘I know nothing about you. I admit it. But this isn’t about you and me, it’s about Tom. He’s holding onto his sanity by a thread, and he seems to believe you’re his lifeline. So whatever you think of me, or I think of you, can keep,’ he continued, gripping her arm to stop her walking away. ‘For now, you come back to North Dean with me and speak to Tom and be damn sure you say the right thing!’

‘You can’t make me!’ Cass protested, even as she found herself being frogmarched back up the drive.

‘Can’t I?’ he muttered through clenched teeth and, as they rejoined the mourners, added in a hiss, ‘These people were your sister’s friends. At least, behave for her sake.’

Cass felt her face go a dull, angry red. He was treating her like a naughty schoolgirl. He made no allowance for her grief, her loss.

When he finally released her, she considered another escape bid but then she saw Tom standing with their Uncle Charles and she was too shocked by the sight of him to move. Deep lines were etched on his forehead, ageing him by ten years or more.

He stared at her dully for a moment, then his face contorted on recognition.

‘Cass.’ He rushed towards her. ‘Thank God you came. I need to talk to you. I have to ask you things. You will come back to the house?’

His eyes pleaded with her and there was a desperation in them that had her saying, ‘Yes, if you want.’

‘Thank you.’ He grasped her hands in gratitude. ‘And you’ll take her away, won’t you?’

‘Sorry?’ Cass made no sense of his question. ‘What do you—?’

‘Tom, we can’t talk about this here,’ Dray Carlisle cut in. ‘We’ll go back to the house…Uncle Charles, will you drive Cassandra?’

‘Of course,’ his uncle agreed readily.

‘You will come?’ Drayton directed at her.

She nodded slowly.

His expression remained distrustful, but he didn’t press her further. His priority was to get an agitated Tom out of public view.

Cass stared after them, still puzzling over Tom’s final words: You’ll take her away. The her, she assumed, was Pen—or, at least, Pen’s ashes. But why? Why would he want her to do that unless he’d discovered the truth? She hoped she was wrong.

Uncle Charles lightly touched her arm and she let him guide her towards an elderly grey saloon car. Eventually they joined the line of cars leaving.

‘Good show of people,’ Charles remarked.

‘Yes.’ There had certainly been more mourners than at their mother’s funeral.

‘Not surprised,’ he added gruffly. ‘Lovely girl. Always thought so. Poor Tom.’

It came out in short bursts. Their uncle always talked like this. He’d been a naval man and accustomed to issuing information in bulletins.

‘He seems very distressed,’ Cass concurred.

‘Distressed, quite!’ Uncle Charles approved the word. ‘Still, when he talks to you…’ He trailed off on a hopeful note.

Cass said nothing. She couldn’t see what she could tell Tom that would make him feel any better.

‘How are you?’ The sympathetic note in his voice recognised her bereaved state.

Cass realised his concern was genuine but her feelings were too complex to express. There was anger in amongst the grief, pity and self-pity, guilt and every other emotion Pen used to draw from her, good and bad. She just needed to bottle it all up so she could get through this bloody awful day.

‘Bearing up.’ She used a phrase Uncle Charles would understand.

It drew a nod of approval. ‘That’s all one can do… You will stay overnight?’

Cass feigned polite regret, ‘I can’t, I’m afraid,’ before asking, ‘Are you still living in the lodge house?’

‘Yes, still there,’ he confirmed. ‘Don’t think I’ll be moving now. Ideal for one person. Don’t envy Dray, rattling around in that big place on his own.’

‘He’s not married yet?’ Cass had wondered because Pen might not necessarily have told her.

‘No, nor likely to be,’ was said in fond exasperation. ‘Plays the field. Pretty wide one, too, I believe. Not that he tells me much.’

‘No one serious, then,’ she concluded.

‘There was someone a year or so ago,’ he relayed. ‘Sophie Palmer-Lyons. Grand girl. Good family. Seemed it might come to something.’

Cass told herself she wasn’t interested but still asked, ‘What happened?’

‘Dragged his feet—’ his uncle sighed ‘—so she went off and married someone else… And you? Still seeing the same chap?’

‘I—I…no, not now.’ Cass was thrown slightly. It was almost two years since her last relationship.

‘Oh, well, plenty of time yet,’ Uncle Charles reassured her.

To catch a husband, Cass understood he meant, but let it pass. He was from a generation that believed marriage was a woman’s goal in life. Forget that his nephew was getting fairly dusty on his own shelf.

Still it was some shelf, Cass reflected as they turned into the gates of North Dean Hall and followed the long drive to the Carlisle country house which was even bigger than she remembered.

There were already several cars parked in the forecourt and people gathered round the doorway where Dray and Tom Carlisle stood.

‘Dray’s arranged a light buffet for close friends and family,’ Uncle Charles relayed as they climbed out of his car.

Cass didn’t hide her dismay. Polite conversation and sympathy from people she didn’t know. ‘I’d rather just have that word with Tom, then go.’

‘But surely…well, if that’s what you prefer…’ He was clearly in a quandary. ‘I’ll see what Dray says.’