Читать книгу Eleanor - Sylvia Andrew - Страница 7

Eleanor found herself without a word. The morning’s revelations had been a shock and she was experiencing great difficulty in retaining her outward appearance of calm. She wanted to leave that neat little room, to refuse to listen to the ugly story which was being unfolded in it. But this was impossible. She must stay.

Mrs Anstey mistook her silence for embarrassment and said nervously, ‘I’m sorry—your aunt did ask—’

‘In her own words, my niece is not a child, Mrs Anstey! And I wish her to hear everything,’ said Lady Walcot grimly.

Eleanor rallied and found her voice. ‘But she is married to Mr Oliver?’

Mrs Anstey lowered her head and said, ‘Yes. It is shameful, is it not? He…he agreed to marry her in return for a sum of money—paid by Guthrie.’

‘Why didn’t Mr Guthrie marry her himself? Why didn’t your husband insist?’

‘By the time her condition was discovered my husband was dead, and we were on the verge of bankruptcy.’ Mrs Anstey’s voice faded again and Lady Walcot took over the story.

‘Mrs Anstey found herself without anyone to advise or help her and the one man who might have been her support proved to be her worst enemy. He refused to marry Miss Anstey—at first he even denied that the child was his! Then, when he was forced to admit the truth, he paid another man to shoulder his responsibilities.’

‘How did Mr Oliver come to agree to this dreadful scheme? He was a partner in the firm, too. Why did he not take up your defence?’

‘Jonas was…was more masterful. He knows how to get people to do as he wishes—I can’t explain how,’ said Mrs Anstey, ‘and Mr Oliver was in severe financial difficulties himself. He had always been fond of Evadne and he was happy to marry her—but without the money it would have been out of the question.’

‘It has proved impossible to find out why the firm foundered, Eleanor,’ said Lady Walcot. ‘The books disappeared after Henry Anstey shot himself. But Mrs Anstey saw them in Guthrie’s possession the day before they vanished and she believes he still has them—or has destroyed them. And is it not significant that he seems to have survived the firm’s collapse with his own fortune intact?’

‘Conscience money,’ said Mrs Anstey sadly. ‘He paid conscience money. He made a fool of my husband, and a paramour of my daughter, and he thinks that he has solved everything when he buys a husband for Evadne. But how could he do it to us—to Evadne, to me? We loved him! We trusted him!’ She shook her head mournfully. ‘He was such a dear little boy!’

‘Are you absolutely certain that Mr Guthrie is the villain?’ Eleanor heard the slightly desperate note in her own voice and tried to speak more calmly. ‘It seems so strange. Is there no one else?’

‘It was strange, Miss Southeran! At first I refused to believe that he had cheated us, I refused to believe that he could be so wicked—so like his father! I begged, I pleaded with him to explain what had happened.’ Mrs Anstey dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and continued, ‘But he pushed me away. He said we could think what we liked, that he had found a husband for Evadne, and enough money to pay for a passage to England for Marianne and me. That should be enough. His manner was so…so hard! It was as if he couldn’t bear to look at us…’ She paused, then added, ‘The only other person involved was Mr Oliver, who was as poor as we were until Guthrie paid him to…to marry Evadne.’ She shook her head obstinately. ‘In the end he was just like his father. No, Miss Southeran, Jonas Guthrie is the cause of all our troubles. What else can I think?’

‘Indeed, what else can anyone think, Eleanor?’ said her aunt sternly.

‘I…I’m not sure…He left you entirely without resources?’

‘He must have had some vestige of feeling. He paid for our passage to England, he arranged for someone to meet us when we landed and take us to our Vereker cousins in Berkeley Square. They have been very good to us. But we have not spoken to Jonas since we arrived in England. Indeed, we have avoided meeting each other since we came to London, and, though I understand he was a frequent visitor at Berkeley Square before Marianne and I came from America, he has not been there since.’ Mrs Anstey blinked down at her hands. ‘I…I still find it difficult to believe…’

She stood up. ‘I’m afraid you will have to excuse me. I must go and fetch Marianne from her lesson; she will wonder where I am.’ She hesitated and then said timidly, ‘Miss Southeran, I agreed to talk to you today because Lady Walcot has been so very good to Marianne and me. I do not know what I would have done without her. Thanks to the help from my cousins and your aunt’s kindness in sponsoring Marianne in London, I now have hope that one of my daughters at least will make the marriage she deserves. Lord Morrissey has been so very attentive. But any scandal…I know I can be sure of your discretion.’

‘Of course,’ said poor Eleanor, pulling herself together. ‘And I see now why my aunt wished me to hear your story. I am grateful to you for being so frank with me, Mrs Anstey.’

‘I saw it as my duty,’ said Mrs Anstey simply.

As they got into the carriage again Eleanor was conscious that her aunt was waiting for her to say something. But what was there to say? Mr Guthrie was a complete villain, it appeared—there was no mistaking the sincerity of Mrs Anstey’s feelings. Before talking to her Eleanor had thought, hoped even, that the woman might be a charlatan—it wouldn’t be the first time that a poor widow with a beautiful daughter had tricked her way into society. But unless Mrs Anstey was a consummate actress, which Eleanor very much doubted, she had been telling the truth. This was no scandalmonger, no vindictive gorgon—this was a woman patently sincere in her distress and shame. Mrs Anstey was completely convinced of Guthrie’s guilt, and very unhappy that it was so.

‘Well, Eleanor?’ said Lady Walcot finally.

‘Please, Aunt Hetty, could we wait till we are back in the house? I feel…I feel a little dazed at the moment. It was a shock.’

‘Of course, my child. We’ll soon be there, and you shall do just as you wish—talk to me, or spend some time in your room.’

The rest of the journey passed in silence, but this gave Eleanor a chance to recover her equilibrium and she was quite ready to talk to her aunt when they arrived. They went into the little parlour, and here Eleanor sat down, gave a great sigh and said, ‘You were right, Aunt Hetty, and I was mistaken. I am sorry to have put you to so much trouble.’

‘I am to take it that there will be no further tête-à-têtes in secluded spots with Mr Guthrie?’

‘I…I cannot imagine why I was so indiscreet.’

‘When you are on one of your crusades, Eleanor, there is no knowing what you might do! However, I think this particular crusade is finished, is it not?’

‘It is finished, Aunt Hetty.’

Something of her niece’s misery must have communicated itself to Lady Walcot, for she gave Eleanor a hug, then got up and said briskly, ‘Come, you must now try to put it all behind you. You must enjoy what is left of your time in London. Would you like to rest now, or shall we go shopping? Have you bought a present for your mother yet?’

Eleanor pulled herself firmly together and declared that she was ready to do some shopping. She and Lady Walcot decided that a note should be written to Mr Guthrie which made it clear that she did not wish to see him again. This they did, and once it had been dispatched she felt as if a burden had been lifted from her, though she still felt a secret regret. If Mr Guthrie had been the man she had thought him, she would have enjoyed his company, and fought to maintain her right to it. But as it was she need never have anything more to do with him. She sighed and then consoled herself with the thought that in a few days’ time she would be returning to Stanyards. She was looking forward to it more and more.

However, Eleanor was mistaken in thinking that she had finished with Mr Guthrie. She was to meet him again before she left London, and in very odd circumstances.

On the day before her departure she went out for one last ride. Ever since the conversation with Mrs Anstey she had taken to riding at a later hour than before, in order to avoid the embarrassment of meeting Mr Guthrie. Thus far she had been successful. It meant, of course, that she and John had to venture further in order to find less frequented areas of the park, since at the later time more people were abroad. On this occasion they had ridden almost to the western edge, and they were just about to return when they heard a faint groan coming from the bushes at the side of the path. John slid off his horse and went to investigate. He returned, saying urgently, ‘It’s Mr Guthrie, Miss Southeran. He’s lying groaning something horrible! I think ’e must ’ave fallen off ’is ’orse.’

Eleanor dismounted and followed John. Mr Guthrie was apparently in the process of regaining consciousness. He was trying to sit up, then groaning again and holding his head in his hands.

‘Fetch help, John. I’ll stay here. Do as I say; I shall be perfectly safe. Mr Guthrie needs urgent assistance, and I cannot be sure of finding the shortest way back. Go quickly—you know the way better than I do.’

John hesitated, but saw the sense of what Eleanor had said. He ran to his horse and rode off. Eleanor looked down at Mr Guthrie. He was now lying with his eyes closed. She knelt down beside him. His eyes flew open, and he said, ‘What the devil are you doing here? Where’s John?’

‘He’s gone for help.’

‘He shouldn’t have left you alone…Did you see anyone else?’

‘Here? I don’t think anyone else was here—’

‘Of course there was! Why else do you suppose I’m lying flat on my back like this?’ His tone was irritable, but that was perhaps understandable. His head was obviously hurting quite badly, and she could see a huge bruise developing over one eye.

‘I thought you might have taken a toss. People do,’ she said calmly.

‘I am not so careless. And “people” don’t usually ride into a piece of wire stretched across the path, do they? Look!’ He struggled to sit up and pointed at a length of wire lying beside the path. Eleanor got up to examine it. ‘I came off when the horse stopped dead. There was someone else here, though—I saw him standing a short way off before I fell. He looked as if he was waiting…He started coming towards me—and then the next thing I knew John was there. Confound it, you must have seen him! I wasn’t out for more than a minute.’

Eleanor looked nervously about her. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t see anyone, nor can I see anyone now. Do you think it was footpads, or highwaymen?’ Her voice had risen slightly.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start getting hysterical! I’m perfectly capable of defending us both, if necessary.’ With some difficulty Mr Guthrie drew a pistol out of the capacious pocket of his riding coat.

Eleanor said tartly, ‘I have no intention of indulging in hysterics. And if you will permit me to say so, that pistol wasn’t of very great help a moment ago—nor is it reassuring to watch you handle it now!’

‘Don’t talk rubbish. I was off my guard. And you are perfectly safe from it. What is more to the point—have you seen Captain?’

‘Captain? Captain who?’

‘My horse, my horse! He must be hurt, too. That wire caught him right across his legs.’

‘Is that him? Over there?’

‘Go and fetch him, there’s a good girl. I’ll have a look at him.’ He started to get up, but stopped on one knee. Eleanor could hear him swearing quietly to himself. She went to help him, but he waved her away impatiently. ‘Don’t twitter over me! Make yourself useful by getting the horse, woman!’

Eleanor refrained from comment, though there was much that she would have liked to say. The man was clearly in great pain. She went slowly over to Captain. He was in a highly nervous state and it took her some minutes to calm him sufficiently to catch hold of his bridle, which was fortunately still in place. She led him slowly over to Mr Guthrie, who by this time had managed to stand.

‘That was very well done,’ he said with reluctant approval. ‘You have a way with horses as well as with men, that’s obvious. Now, Captain, my beauty, what have we here?’

Fortunately the wire had not been well anchored at one end and had given way before doing the horse any serious damage. By the time John returned with help, Mr Guthrie was leading Captain along the path, exhorting Miss Southeran to ride on without him. She had up to this point ignored him, merely continuing to walk alongside, leading her own bay. In any case, how on earth did he expect her to mount a fully grown horse without the benefit of groom or mounting-block? But when she saw John and the others approaching she breathed a sigh of relief and turned to her companion.

‘Goodbye again, Mr Guthrie. I hope you have not suffered any lasting damage.’

‘I am obliged to you, Miss Southeran. I think you might have saved my life, albeit unintentionally.’ Eleanor looked at him doubtfully, but he was serious.

‘If you think so, then I am happy to have been of service.’

‘I’ve missed our rides,’ he said abruptly.

Eleanor coloured, but said nothing. He gave a wry smile and went on, ‘Well, I look forward to our next meeting—in more auspicious circumstances, I hope!’

‘As I think my aunt said in her note, Mr Guthrie, I don’t think another meeting is at all likely. I have now heard Mrs Anstey’s story, you see—the full one. I shall take pains to avoid you in future.’

‘You may try, by all means. Don’t count on success, however,’ he said coolly. ‘I suppose you have no doubts, no uncertainties about my guilt?’

Eleanor felt a sudden flicker of hope.

‘Do you…do you deny the truth of what she said?’

He hesitated for a moment, then he drawled, ‘Since I wasn’t there, how can I possibly know what she said? She may well have been right. In any case, ma’am, why on earth should I deny anything? What business is it of yours, I should like to know?’

Eleanor was so incensed that she almost ran towards John, requesting him to help her to mount. Then she rode off without waiting to hear any more.

Eleanor went on fuming about Mr Guthrie throughout that last day in London—when she wasn’t puzzling over the curious circumstances of the morning’s meeting. In spite of everything, she still found it very difficult to reconcile the black-hearted villain of Mrs Anstey’s tale with the man she had met. Her feelings were so confused that she was heartily glad to be leaving for Somerset the next day. She told herself she would forget everything to do with him once she was back at Stanyards.

On the day of her departure the whole household, including her aunt, rose early to see her off. She was fortunate enough to be able to travel with some friends of Bella’s new husband, who lived near Lyme Regis, and who had hired a post-chaise. When they appeared in South Audley Street, Eleanor thanked her uncle, embraced her aunt warmly and prepared to climb into the carriage. Her aunt held her sleeve.

‘I have done my best to change you into a conformable young lady, Eleanor, but I cannot pride myself on my success.’

‘And I, for one, am glad of it,’ said her uncle, embracing his niece.

‘Well, there have been times when I could have shaken you for your behaviour—but we shall miss you. Life is never dull when you are there,’ said Lady Walcot, smiling at her niece. ‘Remember! When the time comes, you have only to say the word and I shall still spare no effort to find you a suitable husband!’

‘Thank you, darling Aunt Hetty! But I’m afraid the task would be too difficult, even for you! Besides, there’s too much to do at Stanyards! Come down and see us when you grow tired of the season. I shall miss you both! Goodbye!’

The chaise rolled off, and Eleanor waved until they turned the corner and the Walcots were lost to sight.

The journey passed pleasantly enough—the roads were dry and the weather favourable. But by the end of the second day she was heartily glad to stretch her legs at the posting house in Axminster, say goodbye to her kind friends, and join the carriage from Stanyards which would take her the rest of the way. Within an hour she was at the beginning of the long avenue of chestnuts which led to the house. She was home!

As soon as the carriage drew up at the door, Eleanor jumped out, ran up the low flight of steps and clasped her mother in her arms. After a rapturous greeting, Eleanor stood back and surveyed her. ‘I ought to scold you for standing in the evening air,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you stay inside?’

‘Daniel saw the carriage and told us you were coming. I couldn’t wait to see you, Nell—and anyway I’m feeling very well at the moment, so you needn’t scold me at all! Oh, it’s delightful to have you home again! Cousin Louisa has been very kind, but I’ve missed you a great deal. Come in, come in!’

Eleanor followed her mother across the huge, stone-flagged hall into a room which opened off to the side. Here the low ceilings, ingle-nooks and casement windows set in thick walls proclaimed the great age of the house. But the log fire in the handsome fireplace and the books and tapestries around the walls gave it an air of warmth and comfort.

‘I hope you don’t die of a heatstroke, Nell. Cousin Louisa insisted on the fire.’

‘Your mother hasn’t enough flesh on her bones to keep her warm even on the hottest day of summer! And this room never really gets the chill off it, you know that. I am glad to see you, Eleanor. How was your journey? No, don’t start talking before you have some food in you; I dare swear you have had nothing sensible for the past month. I’ve told Betty to bring a tray and we’ll put it on the table by the window—the dining-room is far too damp unless you have a fire there, too, which would be wickedly extravagant.

‘Anthea, I’ve drawn your sofa nearer the fire. It was foolish of you to stand outside in the night air for so long. Eleanor could well have waited another two minutes to see you; you look quite chilled. I’ll ask Betty to bring you something warm, too—Drat the woman, you may wait till Domesday for what you want. I’ll just see what she is doing.’ Cousin Louisa went bustling out. Her cry of, ‘Betty!’ echoed through the hall as she went.

‘She means well,’ said Mrs Southeran with a wry smile.

‘I know she does. Has it been very hard?’

‘Not at all. But tell me about the journey, and when Cousin Louisa returns you can tell us both about Hetty and Bella and the wedding. Did you like the Wyndhams? It’s a long journey to be cooped up with strangers.’

They spent the rest of the evening exchanging news and gossip. Candles were necessary quite soon, for daylight always faded early in the house, even in summer, and the three ladies sat cosily in the soft light till the tea-tray was brought in. But in all her descriptions of her life in London Eleanor never once mentioned the name of Guthrie.

The following day Eleanor woke early, and wondered for the moment where she was. There was a totally different quality to the air, and in the distance she could hear sounds of the country. She was home! She rose quickly, and quietly took herself out into the early morning sunshine. She had forgotten how lovely Stan-yards was. For the next half-hour she wandered over the familiar paths and fields round her home, finding herself at length at the end of the chestnut drive.

‘Good marnin’, Miss Nell!’ It was Daniel driving the cart up from the village. ‘Would ’un like a lift up to the house?’

‘No, thank you, Daniel—I’m enjoying the walk. The chestnuts look magnificent this year!’

‘You be careful of ’un, Miss Nell! There’s a good few as needs chopping down, I reckon. You have a look at the branch that’s lyin’ up by the bend. Nearly got old Betty last week, ’un did. Had to skip a bit, did Bet!’ He grinned, showing blackened teeth, and drove on.

Eleanor refused to be daunted. The trees were said to be over a hundred years old—it was natural that they should be feeling their age. But they were beautiful. The early morning breeze caused the leaves to whisper and flutter in the summer air, now revealing tiny glimpses of a pale blue sky or the slanting rays of the morning sun, now closing over her head like a heavy canopy. It had always been airless in the city. Here at Stanyards it was cool and fresh. She felt a sudden uplift of spirits as she realised she really was home! Stanyards was where she wanted to stay for the rest of her life, and if the choice was to be between this house and a husband, then Stanyards was what she would choose. Her aunt was wrong to pity her, for she was a fortunate woman.

But as she reached the bend in the drive she stopped and stared. How could she have missed this last night? A huge branch was leaning drunkenly between two of the trees, just off the drive, its leaves drooping and a great jagged, bleached wound at one end. There were signs that the branch had been dragged a few feet, presumably to keep the drive clear. It was an unwelcome reminder that time was taking its toll of her beloved avenue of trees. Daniel was right—some of them at least would soon have to be chopped down.

She stood staring at the branch for some minutes, her happiness at being home again slowly seeping away, tempered by a small shadow of uncertainty. Stanyards was in desperate need of repair and restoration. It wasn’t just the drive—the whole estate needed attention. For a black moment she began to doubt her own strength and determination. For years she had done what she could, jiggling account books, robbing Peter to pay Paul, trying to be in three different places every hour of the working day, but suddenly she was terribly afraid that she was slowly but inexorably losing the battle.

What nonsense! she chided herself. It only needed a little more patience, a touch more perseverance and energy. She was still tired after her long journey, but she would soon find the necessary energy and hope. Things would be better this year, she was sure. She threw back her shoulders and marched on up the drive.

In the afternoon Cousin Louisa returned to her own home, in the next village, and after she had gone Mrs Southeran told Eleanor several times how kind, how good, how very helpful Cousin Louisa had been.

‘I’m sure she was, Mama—but why are you protesting so much? I already know how worthy Cousin Louisa is!’

‘That’s it! She’s worthy! Oh, Nell, I have been so bored! And I haven’t written a line since you left!’

‘Now that is serious. Well, I am back now and you must start immediately—where are your things? I’ll fetch them and you shall not leave your sofa until you have written at least ten lines! I shall be neither good nor kind until you comply!’

Mrs Southeran was a poet with quite a reputation in the West Country, and even beyond. She wrote under a pseudonym and few of her neighbours knew of her talent, but writing was as necessary to her as breathing. The news that she had been neglecting it was worrying.

‘Don’t be too concerned, Nell. It wasn’t just because of Cousin Louisa or your absence. I’ve been doing some serious thinking and have even taken some action. Sit down, my dear. Now that we are alone again, I want to tell you something.’

Her mother’s voice was so earnest that Eleanor’s heart missed a beat. Had the doctor been making gloomier prognostications again? ‘I knew I shouldn’t have left you! You’re feeling worse?’

‘It isn’t my health, it’s you! I’ve been worried over you for some time now, and while you’ve been away I’ve decided that we must do something about it. Running this house and estate is sapping all your energy…all your youth. Your life is taken up with worry and work and little else—’

‘Mama! I have just spent four weeks doing little else but enjoying myself!’

‘And when was the last time you left Stanyards before that? Or went to a ball or a party? Wore pretty dresses? You have forgotten, and so have I. Well, it must not continue—and I have taken steps to see that it does not.’

‘But I am quite happy living here and running Stan-yards! I don’t want to change anything—except perhaps to see you in better health again!’

‘Stanyards is destroying your youth and looks, Eleanor, and it is taking away my health. I know, I know what you are about to say! Stanyards has been in the Southeran family for four hundred years or more, and is steeped in tradition and history. But Tom’s death—’ Mrs Southeran’s voice faltered.

‘Don’t, Mama! Don’t talk about it! It will make you ill.’

‘I must! I have refused to face the consequences for far too long! When Tom was killed, Nell, the family name died out. You are not a man, however much you have played the man’s part since Tom died.’

‘And before,’ muttered Eleanor.

‘Yes, and before. It was a matter of regret to all of us that your brother never had your interest in Stanyards.’ Mrs Southeran paused again, but this time Eleanor made no effort to speak. How could she say anything, when her feelings were so hopelessly tangled? Even after seven years she still felt love and grief for her handsome, laughing brother, was still angry at the recklessness which had caused his death and still resentful that he had cared so little for his heritage. Tom had only ever taken, never given.

Mrs Southeran looked at Eleanor’s stormy face and sighed. But then she continued in a more determined voice, ‘When you marry, or die, there will be no more Southerans of Stanyards.’

‘What are you trying to say, Mama?’

‘Not even you can claim that this house is comfortable to live in. Not in its present state. It is old, dark and damp. And we don’t have the resources to change it. I have done what I must.’

Eleanor’s throat was dry. She said in a strained voice, ‘Mama, what have you done?’

Mrs Southeran looked at her with pity in her eyes. ‘You will not like it, Nell, but it was for us both. I seized an opportunity which came out of the blue, and I cannot be sorry. I have sold Stanyards.’

For a moment Eleanor sat in stunned silence. Then she whispered, ‘No, no! It’s not true!’ She threw herself down by her mother’s sofa and her breath caught on a sob as she pleaded, ‘Tell me it’s not true, Mama! You can’t have s-sold it!’

Mrs Southeran’s face was troubled as she gazed at her daughter. But she said steadily, ‘It is true, Eleanor. In two weeks Stanyards will have a new owner.’

‘How could you? How could you, Mama? You must cancel the sale at once!’

‘I did it for us both, Nell,’ repeated Mrs Southeran. ‘And I will not change my mind.’

Eleanor got up. Without looking at her mother she said, ‘I feel…I feel sick, Mama. Excuse me, please.’ She ran out of the room.