The Daughters Of Red Hill Hall (25 page)

Don walked through while Ben was at the bar. Gemma beckoned him over. ‘Is that spare room still on offer?’

‘Of course! Does that mean you and Ben…?’

‘Looks like it!’ She smiled happily. ‘Thanks, Don. I’ll get on with the research properly tomorrow.’

‘No rush. I mean, I hope you can get it done before…but no. Doesn’t matter, do it in your own time. Hey, I should say congratulations! Have a great evening.’ He continued on his way through the bar as Ben returned with the bottle of champagne and two glasses.

Chapter 22

September 1838

Rebecca gathered up all the letters and rough drafts into a pile, and laid them on top of Sarah’s journal. Her heart was racing. What would she discover in these documents? They might give her an insight into Sarah’s mind, and why she’d acted as she had in those last weeks of her life. She sighed. They’d been so close. She still found it hard to believe that Sarah meant to hurt her in any way. Perhaps somehow there had been a misunderstanding. But even if there was, it was too late. Nothing could bring Sarah back. She wiped away a tear that had crept unbidden into the corner of her eye. If only she could go back. Back to a time when they were children, and Sarah was her friend. When they’d loved each other as sisters. When she might have welcomed with uncomplicated joy the idea that Sarah might actually
be
her true sister.

‘Miss, are you well?’ asked Tilly. ‘Shall I fetch a clean handkerchief?’

‘It’s all right, I have one.’ Rebecca pulled her handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

‘You must miss her very much, pardon me for saying so,’ Tilly said.

‘Of course. I do. Don’t mind me, Tilly. I’m perfectly all right. You’ve been very helpful, finding the key to the bureau and then the journal. You may leave me now. I shall take these documents to my own sitting room. Perhaps you could bring me some tea there shortly.’

‘Yes, miss, thank you, miss.’ Tilly curtseyed and left the room. Rebecca spent a few more minutes searching the drawers and cupboards of the bureau in case she’d missed anything. No, it didn’t look as though she had, and none of the documents appeared at first glance to be a will. In which case she’d need to look for any evidence of Sarah’s next of kin, as Mr Neville had asked. In other words, painful as it was, she needed to find proof that what Sarah had said in the cellar was true. She gathered together the documents and went to her own sitting room. It had felt too much as though she was intruding, sitting in Sarah’s. The day was dull but there was plenty of light to read by if she sat beside the window, on her favourite lemon, upholstered chair. She put the letters and diary on a small side table, pulled it over beside her chair, and settled down to work through the documents.

What to read first? Her instincts told her the diary would perhaps divulge the most secrets. But what might be in the letters? She decided to start with those. There were letters addressed to Sarah, and also first drafts of Sarah’s letters to others. Sarah had always been in the habit of writing a letter in rough first, then copying it out neatly. Rebecca had not realised Sarah had kept her rough drafts, but how interesting they might be!

She flicked through the letters addressed to Sarah. Some were in her father’s handwriting. Some were from Charles. One or two she had sent herself, years ago. She smiled at the memory. They’d been in their mid teens, and had bemoaned the fact that neither of them ever had any correspondence to read over breakfast, as Rebecca’s parents had. So they’d begun writing to each other, pretending to be foreign princesses, rich suitors or famous novelists. Rebecca still had all the letters Sarah had written during this time, but it seemed Sarah had only kept a few.

She put the letters from her father into date order. Why had her father been writing to Sarah? He did used to go away from home occasionally, but the letters he’d sent home were usually addressed to her mother, or after Mama’s death, to Rebecca. Looking at the dates she realised most of the letters to Sarah were more recent – written in the last few weeks of Papa’s life. He’d been at home during this time. So why had he been writing letters to Sarah? She looked next at the drafts. Some of these were to Papa. They were conveniently dated. She tucked the drafts to Papa in the pile in the right order. Now she could read this correspondence, which apparently started four months before Papa’s death, in sequence.

Dear Papa
, the earliest letter, a rough draft, began.
You will wonder why I am writing to you when surely I could just come down the stairs and tap on your study door, and ask for an interview. You will wonder too, I imagine, why I address you as ‘Papa’ rather than Mr Winton, as I have called you throughout my life to date. The truth is, dear Papa, that I have always thought of you as my father, and Rebecca as my sister. In fact now that I am grown, I would like to be able to openly acknowledge our relationships in this way. That is why I am writing to you like this – to give you time and space to think about your reply rather than responding immediately to the first thing I say, as you would have done had I knocked upon the door of your study
.

Papa, the time has come, I believe, for you to treat me as equal to Rebecca. Perhaps even more than equal, for I am a little older than her. I would like, dear Papa, a larger bedchamber – perhaps the one next to yours? Also a private sitting room, and an allowance at least equal to Rebecca’s. And finally, though the very thought of it pains me, we must surely think ahead to the day when you, dear Papa, are no longer with us. I do not know what provisions have been made for me in your will, but I should like to think my inheritance will be appropriate to my status as your first-born child
.

Regards
,

Your devoted daughter
,

Sarah

Rebecca put the letter down in a daze. What a cheek Sarah had, to ask for such things in that way! She recalled that Sarah had indeed moved into the larger room on the first floor just before Papa’s death, although that had not proved enough, and she’d then taken Rebecca’s suite. She felt a cold hand closing around her insides as she realised that Sarah’s claims made in the cellar must be true. She could no longer put off thinking about it. She both wanted to read on and find the proof that would mean her future was secure, and didn’t want to, so that her past beliefs might remain intact. She steeled herself and picked up the next letter in chronological sequence to read on.

My dear Sarah

I shall reply to your letter in writing, as that seems to be your preferred method of communication. I would ask, however, that you destroy all traces of this correspondence as soon as you have read it, in case it should fall into the wrong hands in the future. I have already burned your letter to me
.

Sarah, I have, as you know, always treated you as though you were my own daughter. I have given you a home, an education and an income. You have a secure future in my house or in Rebecca’s, when she marries. You are well aware of this. I do not see how you can ask for more. The contents of my will are private. You will hear them in due course, but, God willing, not for many years yet
.

Yours
,

Henry Winton

Rebecca’s hands were shaking as she picked up the next draft. This one was full of crossings out, and written in quite a scrawl, as though Sarah had been angry when she wrote it.

Papa, you appear to have misunderstood the meaning of my last letter. Perhaps I wasn’t quite blunt enough. I shall try again
.

Now that your wife is
dead
gone from us, there is no need to continue allowing the rumour that Spencer is my father to be believed. I understand you wanted to protect your reputation and not have your wife know that you were an adulterer, but there is nothing to be lost now by admitting the truth
.

I am
requesting
demanding those things – a larger room, a bigger allowance, provision in your will – because I
know
I am entitled to them. If you
continue
persist in ignoring me then I shall have to make our true relationship public. I shall let the world know that you kept two women – your wife and my mother – for so many years. I shall go further, and say that you did not stop at that. There is much more I could say. I could
damage
destroy your reputation. And yet all I am asking for is equality with my sister. Is that really so very much to ask? I don’t think so
.

I shall not expect an answer immediately. Sit and ponder this a while. Consider the various scenarios that could play out, depending on what you decide. Work out which is the best one for all of us – you, me and Rebecca
.

Your devoted daughter
,

Sarah

The next letter was dated several days later. Papa must have taken Sarah’s advice and thought things through for a while. It was very short.

Sarah
,

You leave me with no choice. I shall comply with your requests, though the manner of them leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I had high regard for you when you were younger but you have destroyed all that. Well, you will get your wishes. Thankfully Rebecca will be settled and happy with Charles de Witt, away from here and away from your malicious influence. I shall advise her not to take you with her as her companion under any circumstances. Spencer, who treated you as his own daughter throughout your life as I requested, would be devastated to learn of this side of your nature. I hope he never does
.

Henry Winton

Blackmail! Rebecca put the letters down and stared into space, letting it all soak in. So Sarah had put pressure on Papa to change his will. He had been so sure Rebecca’s future was certain that he’d left the Red Hill Hall estate to his blackmailer, to protect his reputation. It still seemed a bit extreme. It was one thing to give her a bigger room and a more generous allowance, but to cut his own legitimate daughter off entirely was harsh. Unless there had been other letters, of which Sarah had not written or kept a draft, between those last two? Perhaps she’d found some other way to force him to do as she wished? Whatever, she realised that she must show Mr Neville what she had found, and see if that was evidence enough that she was Sarah’s next of kin. She resolved to write to him and disclose what she had found so far.

Rebecca turned next to the letters between Sarah and Charles. What would they reveal, she wondered? She steeled herself to read them. Charles’s handwriting was so familiar to her. It hurt to see it again, to remember the man, his caresses and kisses, and how happy she’d been while they’d been engaged.

She sorted the letters into sequence as she had done with Papa’s, and was about to start reading when there was a tap at the door, and Tilly entered without waiting to be admitted.

‘Oh miss, sorry miss for disturbing you but I thought you would want to know as soon as possible, for it is terrible!’ Tilly was red in the face and out of breath – she must have run up the stairs.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh miss, the constable is here again and there is news, and I think perhaps you ought to come and hear it direct from him and not from me, if you don’t mind.’ She bobbed a curtsey, and clutched at her cap, which had come loose.

‘Very well. Please tell him I will see him in a few minutes. Have Spencer show him into the drawing room and offer him some refreshment.’

Tilly curtseyed again and left the room. Rebecca bundled the letters and papers together and looked around for somewhere safe to store them, away from prying eyes. Unlike Sarah she did not have a lockable bureau or box in her rooms. She had never felt the need to keep anything secret. In the end she stuffed the papers in the back of a wardrobe. Perhaps she would have Sarah’s bureau moved into her room. If she was to inherit the estate after all, that is.

Downstairs, Constable Barnsworth was standing by the window in the drawing room, his hands behind his back. He bowed as she entered.

‘Miss Winton, I am sorry to call on you without warning. But there has been, ahem, a development.’

‘A development? In what?’

‘In the case of the disappearing shooter. That is to say, the mystery surrounding who killed Miss Cooper.’ The constable pulled himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest.

Rebecca felt herself repelled by his sense of self-importance, but more than that, fearful of what he had discovered. Had he found some clue that
she
was the disappearing shooter? Sometimes she thought it would surely be only a matter of time before the truth was discovered. ‘Well? What has happened?’

‘I have been asking around the village and estate cottages, to see if anyone knew anything or had seen someone running away on the day of the murder, or knew of someone in hiding. My first enquiries drew a blank, but I do not give up easily, Miss Winton. I made a second set of enquiries this week, to see if anyone remembered anything new.’

‘And?’ She tried not to sound too eager. If only he would get to the point!

‘It appears one of the farmhands, who lives in a cottage on your estate, has gone missing. He lives with his sister who has reported him gone. My suspicion is that he is the person who shot Miss Cooper and yourself.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Jed Arthur, ma’am. He’s a rough type. His sister Dorothy says he knew Miss Cooper and sometimes followed her when she went out riding on the estate.’ He nodded sagely.

Rebecca stifled a gasp. She remembered the time she and Charles had seen Sarah kissing Jed Arthur. ‘What on earth would have possessed him to shoot her? And shoot me as well?’

‘I suppose only he would know his true motive. My guess would be that he somehow felt slighted by her. Perhaps he’d made an advance towards her. Excuse me, ma’am, I understand that is an intolerable thing to imagine – that dirty labourer having designs on your dear friend. When she rebuffed him perhaps he thought to have his revenge on her. And maybe you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, as it were.’