Home for Christmas (44 page)

Lady Julieta’s health had been deteriorating for some time, but the old saying about a creaking gate lasting forever seemed to have been ringing true – until a wet winter and the onset of pneumonia. Robert had inherited everything.

The offices of Grafton, Cheeseman and Sachs were situated in a rambling old Regency building in the west end of London.

The day was warm and reminiscent of that brilliant summer of 1914 before the world had tipped into the abyss.

The house in Belgravia had passed to him along with everything else his uncle had left in trust.

He spent the night there, though restlessly, Lydia on his mind.

By day he went about his business in London, liaising with solicitors and accountants, dealing with his parents’ estate and the vast sheep station in Australia. His parents had both died in a typhus epidemic out there. Perhaps that is where I shall go, he thought to himself. Plenty of open space, fresh air and no reminders of that bloody war.

Reminders of war were everywhere in London. Things looked run down and shabby, men selling newspapers standing with the aid of one leg and a crutch, blinded men using white sticks, men rattling tin cups under his nose for a bit of loose change… There were also a lot of widows and orphans.

He dug in his pocket for yet more coins to aid a man who could not get work because of his injuries.

‘So where were you?’ he asked one injured man after another.

‘Ypres.’

‘The Somme.’

‘Cambrai.’

The last response came as a complete surprise.

‘First I was in the Somme, and then I ended up in the German hospital. You’d never believe it would you? I was in the German hospital right here in London.’

Robert smiled sadly. He already knew about this from Doctor Miller. ‘They’re good people.’

After tossing the man another florin, Robert hailed a taxi. He still had to make that appointment with Mr Cheeseman at his solicitors.

The taxi wound its way through milk carts, brewery drays, coal carts and the hansom cabs that were still horse drawn and still in business.

Compared to the years before the war, horse-drawn traffic had diminished, replaced by vehicles powered by petrol engines.

‘It’s gettin’ worse every year,’ grumbled the taxi driver. ‘More and more doin’ away with horses. Bound to ’appen of course, what with the war and all that.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Robert, resigned to the fact that the taxi driver was going to enlighten him.

Eventually, after a long drawn-out lecture on why there were so many more petrol-driven vehicles, which was apparently down to the army selling off its stock, they arrived at his destination.

Mr Cheeseman was dwarfed by the size of the desk he sat behind. His large nose and prominent chin seemed to jut forward of the rest of his face. Dark wisps of hair tickled the edge of his collar, but it was almost entirely absent from the top of his head.

He managed to reach across the desk to shake Robert’s hand, and offered him a drink, which Robert declined.

Robert made himself comfortable. ‘I thought everything with regard to Lady Julieta’s will had been finalised. I take it everything is in order?’

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Cheeseman, holding his head to one side as he nodded. ‘However, a more personal matter has come to light regarding your parents’ will. A personal note in amongst the papers that I …’ His bright black eyes scrutinised his client as though weighing up his suitability to hear this personal news.

Robert fidgeted in his chair. Besides the death of his aunt, this year had also seen the passing of his mother. His father had preceded her by only a few months. He’d thought everything was finalised, mostly by the lawyers in Australia, the papers finally coming to England for final ratification and probate.

‘So what was overlooked?’ Robert asked.

Mr Cheeseman’s smile was conciliatory. ‘Nothing was overlooked by the firm of Grafton, Cheeseman and Sachs, I can assure you,’ he replied indignantly. He followed his remark by tossing his head in the same odd sideways motion as when he’d nodded.

Perhaps he has an impediment of some kind, thought Robert. Not that it mattered much to him. On the whole Cheeseman did a good job, but he wanted it over with. He wanted to get on with his life, such as it would be without the woman he loved.

‘Your mother left this letter to be passed to you after her death. It was written some time ago and deposited here at this office.’

‘Not in Australia?’ Robert was taken by surprise. It wasn’t often that either of his parents came to London. They’d abandoned England a long time ago after making arrangements for his education. He’d rarely seen them since.

Mr Cheeseman made a big issue of clearing his throat. ‘Your mother wrote the letter a short time after you were born. She told me it was to be by way of a deathbed confession – just in case …’ He paused again, his lips and jaw moving as though chewing over what he had to say – and what had to be said.

‘I think you’d better read it yourself.’

Robert took the letter that was handed to him, unfolded the letter and began to read.

My dear Robert
,

I have given instructions that this letter is to be read after my death, which I hope will not be for a very long time yet. I trust also by that time the inheritance I foresee coming to you will have happened. Sir Avis is, I think, a man of his word even though his morals can be somewhat lax on occasion.

The truth is that the child I longed for never came to be. Your father, that is the man whose name appears on your birth certificate, could not give me the child I longed for. I grew impatient and, distraught, I fell into the arms of my brother-in-law, Avis. The man you regarded as your father was unaware of this so when you came to be, he was overjoyed and I was glad. He never knew the truth and I never told him. However, I did not want you displaced by any child born of Sir Avis’s marriage to that dreadful American woman. I wrote this letter as proof that you are the undisputed heir and that Heathlands and everything else would come to you. Do forgive me for shocking you and also for leaving you in England whilst I supported my husband in Australia. I felt it was the least I could do just in case he should look at you and see his brother. All my love.

Robert refolded the letter, aware that Cheeseman was seeking some sign of distress or even of anger in his face. He felt neither of these emotions. In an odd way he’d always suspected there was a reason why he was left throughout most of his childhood in England whilst his parents – those whose names appeared on his birth certificate – stayed on the other side of the world. They’d been like strangers to him and in a way he could understand why. Perhaps in an effort to come to terms with what she’d done, his mother had never left his father’s side, and his father had never left Australia.

Tucking the letter away in an inside pocket, he rose to his feet. ‘I trust our discourse is at an end?’

Cheeseman got to his feet too, extending his hand. ‘We are indeed. I do apologise for dragging you across London, but the letter was of a somewhat personal nature. Your mother was a lovely lady. She confided in me,’ he said in answer to the questioning look on Robert’s face. ‘I take it you’ll be off to the front again shortly once you’ve finalised your affairs in London.’

‘I will, but first I have a wedding to attend. A dear friend of mine is getting married.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I should make it in time.’

‘Well, I dare say they’ll forgive you if you are a little late,’ Cheeseman said cheerfully.

‘I doubt that. I’m the best man.’

Agnes was a picture in a cream satin gown with a thick lace peplum and matching trimming on the shoulders. A circlet of silk flowers and pale green leaves served to heighten the colour of her hair. Her complexion glowed, a blush the size of a rosebud on each cheek.

Major Darius Emerson was wearing full dress uniform.

The two of them exchanged smiles at the altar before the vicar intoned the old familiar words: ‘Dearly beloved …’

The wedding reception was being held at a hotel only a few yards from the church. Robert stopped for a smoke outside the church, watching as the guests made their way chattering and laughing to where the food awaited them.

He was just imagining what his own wedding might have been like, when he saw Sir Avis’s old butler, Quartermaster, leaning carefully on his stick to place a bunch of flowers on a grave.

After putting out his cigarette, Robert shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered over.

‘Sir!’ Quartermaster exclaimed, his old face more wrinkled now than ever, but still brightening with the warmth of his smile. ‘So nice to see you again.’

They shook hands. In doing so, Robert glanced down at the grave.

‘A relative of yours I take it,’ he said amiably.

Quartermaster shook his head. ‘No. Just old Mrs Stacey. She was the cook before Sarah came. It was a Stacey before that of course. As you know, Sir, it’s traditional for staff in certain positions to pass their names on to their successor.’

Robert controlled his expression. Inside it felt as though something had exploded. ‘So Sarah inherited the name?’

Quartermaster nodded. ‘That’s right, Sir.’

He took his pocket watch out and looked at it. ‘Better be getting along, Sir, or there’ll be no food left. Are you coming, Sir?’

‘Yes.’ Robert took only one step. The suspicion that had suddenly exploded in his brain needed addressing by somebody who might know the truth. Quartermaster was that person.

‘Reg,’ he said, using Quartermaster’s real name as he gently clutched at the butler’s sleeve. ‘Are you saying that there never was a Tom Stacey? That Sarah never had a husband?’

A look of dismay froze the old butler’s features. His nod of agreement was barely perceptible; because there’s more, thought Robert. There’s a lot more.

‘Tell me,’ said Robert, not relinquishing his grip on the old man’s sleeve.

The old man was unbowed. He took a deep breath and straightened. ‘No adverse gossip will escape my lips. You must draw your own conclusions.’

‘Sir Avis was Agnes’s father?’

Quartermaster eyed Robert’s arm. ‘If I could ask you to unhand me, Sir …’

The steady look in the butler’s eyes said it all. He hadn’t answered Robert’s question with words. One look, that was all it took to tell Robert that Agnes and he shared the same father. It explained why Sir Avis had been so fond of Agnes, willing to discuss anything she’d expressed interest in.

In November the war finally ended. Robert never returned to combat.

Two weeks before Christmas – 1918

Agnes walked in a circle around the thick rug covering only a small portion of the wide oak floorboards. She paused to give herself time to imagine a gathering of Puritans sitting around the refectory table at one end of the room. Surely she’d seen the same grouping in a painting somewhere?

‘Heathlands hasn’t changed much,’ she said, tilting her head back to take in the ceiling’s ornate plasterwork; globules of stalactites ending in a Tudor rose. ‘There isn’t much time to get it ready for Christmas, but if you insist, I dare say we’ll do our best and all pull together. Domestic servants to tackle a house this size are thin on the ground nowadays. The war changed all that.’

She glanced at the handsome man standing in the middle of the hall, his features framed by the light flooding through the window behind him. The window was big and square, the casements’ lead-paned triangles that had survived the centuries without replacement.

Robert Ravening was older and had a more rugged aspect to his features. In all other aspects, he seemed unchanged.

‘I want it to be the way it used to be,’ he said wistfully. ‘Aunt Julieta didn’t go in for big gatherings at Christmas or any other time for that matter. I want to organise a real Christmas just as it used to be before the war when Uncle Avis was alive. Who knows, it could very well be the last of such Christmases, thanks to the war.’

Agnes attempted to reassure him. ‘As I’ve already said, servants are not going to be too easy to get.’

He shrugged. ‘Who can blame them? The factories pay better. Domestic service will never be the way it was. The war changed everything. Everything,’ he added, though softer, more thoughtfully.

Agnes heard the pain in his voice and knew immediately to what – or rather to whom – he was referring.

‘At least she sent you the journal.’

Robert shook his head. ‘I wish I hadn’t left her there. I blame myself.’

Agnes turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. There was no doubt that he’d loved Lydia dearly and so had she.

She sighed. ‘We owe it to her to continue. It’s all we can do.’

He nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

‘I appreciate what you’re doing, Robert. My family are grateful, certainly my mother.’

‘I prefer the familiar,’ he said. ‘We can’t recreate what Heathlands was, but we can go some way to making it a home again.’

Agnes smiled warmly. All of Agnes’s family would be employed by Robert in the house in London and on the Ravening estate.

‘I’m used to you all,’ Robert had said when Ellen Proctor had chewed over the prospect of moving from the East End.

‘Family matters,’ she’d stated at last.

They took it she meant she’d agreed to the plan and, to their relief, found out she had.

Robert looked out through the window at the expanse of parkland surrounding the house. He rubbed at the condensation currently misting the panes. Not that it did much. A wintry mist was hanging like sad veils over the trees.

His thoughts were his own. He would hold Lydia in his memory, not on his shoulder, but in his heart where she had always belonged.

He voiced his hope that she was at rest, though somewhere in his heart of hearts he dared hope for a miracle. Unfortunately, the Germans had not been in the habit of forgiving anyone, not before the execution of Edith Cavell when they realised what a colossal propaganda mistake they’d made.

Like Lydia, Nurse Edith Cavell had served in the war, tending to both friend and foe alike. Eventually, when her hospital had fallen behind enemy lines, she had become involved in a network helping Allied personnel escape. The Germans had found out and shot her for it in 1915. The American newspapers had gone wild with the story.