Читать книгу Francesca - Sylvia Andrew - Страница 11

Marcus was astonished to discover that, even after nine years, the strange line of communication between Francesca and himself was still there. The horrors of war, the problems and anxieties of peace, the totally absorbing task of learning to run a huge and prosperous estate had caused him to put her out of his mind, but no sooner had they met again than he was once more caught in a strange web—a curious feeling of kinship with her. It was as infuriating as it was inexplicable.

He stood watching her as she went down the hill, and knew, though he didn’t know how, that, in spite of her gallant attempt to deceive him, she was lying about her aunt, just as she had lied to him all those years ago about her future with her father. Francesca was desperately worried about the future. And if the gossip last night had any foundation, she was right to be worried. The impulse to run after her, to shake her till she admitted the truth, then to reassure her, swear to protect her from harm, was almost irresistible.

It was absurd! It had been absurd nine years ago, when he had been a penniless and inexperienced officer in Wellington’s army. At that time, he had been convinced that Francesca was the love of his life, and only the intervention of his uncle had stopped him from making what would have been a disastrous mistake. His uncle had been right—he had indeed forgotten the girl once he was back with the army!

But to find, now, that he had the same impulse to protect Francesca nine years later was ridiculous. A man of thirty, rich, sophisticated and, not to put too fine a point on it, extremely eligible…how London would laugh! He must take a grip on himself, before he did something he would later regret. Shrugging impatiently, he strode off down the other side of the hill.

When Francesca got back to Shelwood Manor she found Agnes Cotter waiting for her. The woman was clearly distressed.

‘Miss Shelwood has suddenly got much worse. But she won’t hear of sending for Dr Woodruff. I don’t know what to do, Miss Fanny.’ The situation must be grave indeed—this was the first time ever that Agnes had appealed to anyone for help.

‘We must send Silas for him straight away,’ Francesca said calmly.

‘But Miss Shelwood will—’

‘I will take the blame, Agnes. Go back to my aunt but say nothing to her—it would only cause her unnecessary agitation. Stay with her till the doctor comes, then I shall take over.’

Dr Woodruff came with a speed that showed how grave he thought the situation was. ‘I knew this would happen. It is always the same in cases like these.’

‘Cases like what, Dr Woodruff?’

‘You mean you don’t know that your aunt is dying, Miss Fanny? No, I can see she hasn’t told you.’

‘You mean she knows?’

‘Of course. I warned her some months ago, but she refused to believe me. A very determined woman, your aunt, Miss Fanny. I’m afraid that very little can be done for her, except to ease the pain. I prescribed laudanum yesterday—perhaps she will accept it now. Take me to her, if you please.’

Francesca went up the stairs with a heavy heart; when she entered her aunt’s room, she was shocked at the change she saw in her. Miss Shelwood was a ghastly colour, and gasping for breath. Agnes was bathing her mistress’s forehead, but when the doctor came in she glided away.

‘What are you doing here?’

Francesca was not sure whether her aunt was speaking to the doctor or to her. She went up to the bed and said gently, ‘It’s time you had some medicine, Aunt Cassandra. Dr Woodruff has something to make you feel better.’

‘I don’t want his morphine! If I’m going to die, I want to die in my right senses! But you can stay. I have something to say to you. A-ah!’

‘Drink some of this, Miss Shelwood. You won’t feel less alert, but it will take away the worst of the pain. And if you wish to be able to talk to your niece, you will need it.’

‘Very well.’ The voice was but a faint thread of sound.

Dr Woodruff held a small vial to the sick woman’s lips, and then stood back. He said quietly, ‘That should make her feel better for a while. I’ll be in the next room.’

After a moment, Francesca said tentatively, ‘You wished to tell me something, Aunt Cassandra?’

‘Yes. Box on the desk. Fetch it.’ Francesca did as her aunt asked, then on request opened the box. ‘Letter…underneath.’

The letter was dry and yellow. It began, ‘My dear Cassie’…and was signed ‘Richard Beaudon’.

‘Do you wish me to read it?’

‘Later. No time now. It’s from your father. Richard Beaudon. To tell me my sister had stolen him.’ The dark eyes opened, and they were glittering with malice. ‘Why I hated you. Still do.’

‘Aunt Cassandra, don’t! I have never done you any harm, you know that.’

‘Never should have existed. He’d have married me if she hadn’t told him…told him…’ The voice died away again.

‘Shall I fetch Dr Woodruff?’

‘No! Not finished. It’s the money. Chizzle’s got to look after the money. Told him.’

‘Mr Chizzle? The chaplain?’

‘Don’t be stupid. Who else? Do as he tells you. M’father had no right…A pauper—that’s what you ought to be!’ Miss Shelwood raised herself and stared malevolently at her niece. This time she spoke clearly and with intense feeling. ‘You’d better do what Chizzle tells you—you needn’t think anyone will marry you for love! A plain, dull child, you were. Plain, like me! Not like…’ She sank back against the pillows, and her words were faint. ‘Not like Verity. You’ll never be the hon-eytrap she was.’ The lips worked, then she added, ‘Seen your father in you, though. The eyes.’ A dry sob escaped her. ‘God damn him!’

Francesca was appalled. ‘Please, don’t—I’ll send for Mr Chizzle. He ought to be here—he’ll help you.’

A grim smile appeared on her aunt’s pale lips. ‘I won’t be here myself. Remember what I said, Fanny. Plain and dull, that’s you. She called you Francesca—what a stupid name for such a plain child…Rake Beaudon’s child…’

The voice faded away and Miss Shelwood closed her eyes.

Francesca ran to the door. ‘Dr Woodruff!’

But when the doctor saw his patient, he shook his head. ‘It won’t be long now,’ he said. ‘I doubt she’ll be conscious again.’

‘But…’ Francesca gazed at the figure on the bed. ‘She didn’t have time to think! She didn’t have time to make her peace with the world, to forgive those who had hurt her! And those who hadn’t,’ she added forlornly.

‘Miss Shelwood is dying as she lived. A very unhappy woman,’ said Dr Woodruff, adding drily, ‘But God will forgive her. It’s his job, after all.’

These were the most sympathetic words Francesca was to hear about her aunt. Words of respect, of conventional regret, of admiration for her energy and devotion to duty—all these were paid to her memory. Madame Elisabeth came, but her sympathy was for Francesca. Only Agnes Cotter truly mourned Cassandra Shelwood.

Following her aunt’s death, Francesca underwent a time of confusion and shock. Mr Chizzle was much in evidence, though she wished he wasn’t—his attempts to provide consolation were misplaced, to say the least. The funeral was well attended, and though Francesca was surprised at first, on reflection she decided it was to be expected. Although Miss Shelwood had been something of a recluse, she had, after all, been one of the great landowners of the district. But the biggest shock of all came after the funeral, after her aunt’s will had been read.

The will was very much on traditional lines. Various small sums had been left to the servants, in proportion to their length of service. Mr Chizzle, as the local curate and Miss Shelwood’s chaplain, received a modest sum, Agnes Cotter quite a large one. The rest of Miss Shelwood’s estate was left to a fund for building and maintaining almshouses in a neighbouring town. Francesca’s name was not mentioned in the document.

Gasps of astonishment came from the servants—Betsy even voiced her disapproval out loud. But Francesca herself was not at all surprised. It was a blow, but one for which she had been prepared. The question of a post as a governess had now become urgent, and she decided to consult the family lawyer, Mr Barton, on the best way to set about doing this.

The others finally went. Mr Chizzle took his leave so warmly that Francesca began to wonder whether she had been mistaken in him all these years. He was most pressing that he should come again to see her the next day and, though she was reluctant, she eventually gave in, largely because it was the only way she could be rid of him.

But when she mentioned her intention of seeking a post as governess, Mr Barton was astounded. ‘My dear Miss Shelwood! What on earth for? You now have control of the money left by your grandfather.’

‘It is hardly enough to keep me, sir!’

‘Well, that is a matter of opinion. I should have thought that seventy thousand pounds was enough for anyone! Together with what the Shelwood estate brings in, it is a considerable fortune.’

Francesca sat down rather suddenly on a convenient chair. ‘Seventy…? Do you…do you mean to tell me that my grandfather left his whole estate to me?’

‘Most of it. He left a sum of money outright to the late Miss Shelwood, and the rest was put into trust for you until you reached the age of twenty-five, in November of this year. The arrangement was that, during her lifetime, your aunt would run the estate and receive half of the income from it. The other half was put back into the Shelwood trust, which is why it has now grown to such a handsome fortune.’

‘How much did you say it was?’ asked Francesca faintly.

‘About seventy thousand pounds. The trust was set up for the benefit of you and your children, and has certain safeguards which are in the discretion of the trustees. But you will have more than enough to live on, nevertheless. Shelwood is a thriving concern, and should provide you with an income of about ten thousand pounds per annum. Do you mean to say that Miss Shelwood never told you of this?’

‘No. I had no idea…’

Mr Barton looked uneasy. ‘I have been remiss. I agreed with your aunt that you were too young to be burdened with it at the time of your grandfather’s death, but I ought to have made sure you knew later. But I have to say in my own defence that it simply never occurred to me that she would keep it from you. Why should she?’

‘My aunt…my aunt was a secretive woman, Mr Barton,’ was all Francesca said, however. Aunt Cassandra was dead. No good would be done by raking over the past.

‘Hmm. I knew of course that she was dissatisfied with the arrangement, but still…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I can see that you have had a shock and need time to assimilate the news, Miss Shelwood, so I will not weary you. I should perhaps just add that one, somewhat curious, condition of the trust is that no one else—neither your father, Lord Beaudon, as your legal guardian, nor a future husband could benefit from it. Only you or your children may have use of it.’

‘Since my father has never acknowledged me, he could hardly claim legal guardianship!’

‘You are now of age, of course. But until you were twenty-one, he could always have claimed it, had he wished.’

‘Even though I am illegitimate?’

The lawyer was astounded. ‘Whatever gave you that impression, Miss Shelwood?’

‘I…I was told…that is to say, I…was led to believe that there is no record of my parents’ marriage.’

‘What nonsense! Of course there is! I have all the relevant documents in my safe. Your grandfather gave them into my care just before he died.’

‘But Aunt Cassandra said…Did my aunt know of these documents, Mr Barton?’

‘Why, yes. We discussed them after Sir John’s death.’

So Aunt Cassandra had lied to her, had lied to an eleven-year-old child about her parentage. For so many years Francesca had carried a burden of shame around with her, had worried over her future, had made no effort to be received into society or make friends with the surrounding families, sure that she would be rebuffed. Aunt Cassandra had done her best to ruin her niece’s life in the way that her own had been ruined. How could she?

Perhaps, in her twisted unhappiness, she had convinced herself that her lover had really not married her sister, in spite of incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. Or had she been exacting a terrible revenge on the child of those she felt had wronged her?

‘Miss Shelwood?’

‘Forgive me, I…it has been a shock.’

‘A shock? But why should you think…?’ His face changed. He said sternly, ‘Are you telling me that Miss Cassandra Shelwood, your own aunt, gave you to understand that you were not…not legitimate? I find that very hard to believe, Miss Shelwood. Your aunt was not an easy person to know, but she was generally respected throughout the neighbourhood as a just and upright woman.’

‘I am not telling you anything, Mr Barton,’ said Francesca, forcing herself to speak calmly.

‘But you have obviously been under a misapprehension—for many years. Why did you not consult me?’

‘It never occurred to me to do so. I never thought I had any sort of claim on the Shelwoods, except one of charity.’

‘But this is disgraceful!’

With an effort, Francesca put aside her own feelings of outrage. Her aunt was dead—it would do no one any good to reveal how badly she had treated her niece. ‘Mr Barton, whatever…misunderstandings there may have been in the past, the truth is now clear and we will, if you please, leave it at that. The future is now our concern.’

Mr Barton nodded. ‘You are very wise, Miss Shelwood.’

‘Do you…do you know why my father has remained silent all these years, Mr Barton? Unless…unless he is…dead?’

‘I have no reason to believe he is.’

‘Then…why?’

‘When your parents eloped, Miss Shelwood, Sir John Shelwood refused to have any further contact with his daughter Verity. But when she died, he asked me to write to your father, offering to bring you up in England, and make you his heir. This would be on condition that Lord Beaudon should have no further communication whatsoever with you, once you had arrived at Shelwood Manor.

‘I have to say that I disapproved of the arrangement, and was surprised that Lord Beaudon eventually agreed. Of course, the inducement was a strong one. You were motherless; as the Shelwood heiress your future would be assured, and—I have to say—your father’s previous manner of life was not one in which a young child could flourish.’

Francesca said slowly, ‘I suppose so, but…’

‘However, your grandfather and aunt are now both dead, you are of age, and, in my opinion, it would not be improper for you to meet Lord Beaudon, if you wished.’

‘I…I’m not sure…Mr Barton, you must excuse me. I am…overwhelmed by what you have told me. This change in my circumstances has come as a complete surprise, as you see. But tell me, how many others knew of my grandfather’s will? Why did no one ever indicate something of the matter to me, even if my aunt did not?’

‘You said your aunt was a woman who kept her secrets, Miss Shelwood. She always said she was very anxious that your position as a considerable heiress should not lead others to court and flatter you. She required my silence, and led me to believe it was out of a desire to protect you. As you know, you both led a somewhat reclusive life here at Shelwood. I doubt anyone else knows.’

With this Francesca had to be satisfied. She felt she had had enough for the moment, so asked Mr Barton to come again after she had had some time to reflect on the change in her fortunes. They fixed on the morning of the next day but one.

‘You have been so discreet in the past, I know that you will continue to be so, Mr Barton. I need time to think things out for myself. To decide what I am going to do about Shelwood and my own life.’

The lawyer agreed, then took his leave with a deference that demonstrated, more than any words could have done, Francesca’s new importance as owner of Shelwood and all that went with it.

The fact that Miss Fanny had not even been mentioned in her aunt’s will scandalised the countryside. The news soon reached Witham Court, where there was a certain amount of speculation over her fate, now that she had been left penniless, together with some ribald suggestions. But after a while the company grew bored with this and forgot her in other pursuits. Everyone, that is, except Marcus. Once again he had the urge to seek Francesca out and offer what help he could, but the gossip and lewd suggestions about Francesca’s likely future gave him pause.

What could he possibly offer that would not compromise her further? A girl without money, without friends and without respectable background would have to be more than ordinarily circumspect. She could not afford the risk of scandal. After some thought, he decided that Francesca would be safe at Shelwood for a short while until the lawyers sorted things out. Meanwhile, he would consult his sister about her when he returned to London. Sarah might be able to find something suitable for Francesca—a post as a companion, or governess, perhaps?