After Clare Read online

  The Heeren children, then, had grown up in England, cared for by his housekeeper, once his daughters’ old nanny, and becoming to all intents and purposes wholly English. It had never occurred to Emily, when she became the house’s owner on her father’s death, that she should not allow them to stay at Leysmorton, occupants and custodians, for as long as they wished. She was still living abroad, with no reason to believe she would ever return. Every reason indeed why she should stay away.

  But when Dirk had decided to pursue his career in London and Marta, evidently unwilling to live at Leysmorton alone, had joined him, the house was left alone for the first time in its history. With some trepidation, Emily had agreed to it being leased, furnished, to the Beresfords. It had turned out to be a short-lived tenancy, though their eventual departure fortunately coincided with the taking over of the house by the army for use as a convalescent home for wounded soldiers.

  She had been puzzled by Dirk’s initial reluctance, when the war was finally over, to move back to Leysmorton. It had, after all, been his home for most of his life, and since Emily, the last of the Vavasours, was childless, the house, not to mention her fortune, would eventually come to him. Perhaps he had not wished to appear too eager to let it be seen he had an eye on his inheritance. In the end, though, he had returned, bringing Marta, still unmarried, with him.

  Now, observing the ease with which he sat in a chair that was obviously ‘his’, Emily wondered what he felt about her return, and was relieved when he broached the subject himself.

  ‘It’s good to see you here,’ he began, when the small talk languished somewhat. ‘I hope, Emily—’ and then he stopped, uncharacteristically hesitant, fiddling with those spectacles, an annoying habit he seemed to have. ‘I wouldn’t like you to think that I – we – don’t still regard Leysmorton as your home, you know, and if you wish to come back and live here, Marta and I would leave—’

  ‘My dear Dirk, don’t be absurd! I have no plans for that.’ Indeed, when Paddy had died, she had stayed where she was, unwilling, or perhaps afraid, to leave her island home. ‘In any case, do you think I would dream of turning you out, as long as you’re content to stay here?’

  But he did not know her well enough to know what she might do, any more than she had insight into his wishes on the subject. That one time when they had met she had felt he was something of an unknown quantity, and now she was not sure whether it was relief or something else that showed on his face at her reply.

  Her young cousin had succeeded in carving out a place for himself as an established author, reinvented as Dirk Stronglove. ‘Heeren won’t do, these days,’ he’d remarked then, with a touch of cynicism. ‘Could be German, as far as most English folk are concerned, and being thought German is hardly a thing to encourage in view of the feelings against the Kaiser and his countrymen at the moment.’

  She knew he was right. The suspicion, if not downright antagonism with which the British regarded anything German had reached them even in Madeira; it was all part of the simmering cauldron of European politics that was boiling up in countries with unpronounceable names, and would soon disrupt the peace of the whole of Europe.

  ‘At any rate,’ he had concluded, attempting a lighter tone, ‘the name Heeren wouldn’t help to sell the books – not the sort I write, anyway.’

  They were popular novels, set in exotic places, eagerly bought and read by men and women alike. Fast-paced adventure stories with a spice of romance and plots that often stretched credulity, they made no pretence to great literature, but they were easy reading, not too long, had colourful jackets and extravagant blurbs and featured an author photograph on the back flap that was not unlike the heroes of the books – dark and somewhat brooding, hinting at masterful, perhaps arrogant, tendencies. No doubt women still fell at Dirk’s feet – especially when he chose to use that disarming, totally charming smile. He smiled at her now, and she smiled back, but she had learnt to be wary of charm.

  ‘More tea, Lady Fitzallan?’

  ‘Thank you, I believe I will.’

  Marta Heeren was clumsier with the teapot than Dirk was with his cup and saucer, and left a slight splash of tea on the cloth, which she did not seem to notice. Nerves – though what had she to be nervous about?

  She was older than Dirk, well over fifty. Already faded-looking, with that sort of fairish hair, frizzed by nature or design, which always looked dusty to Emily. A woman of few words, self-effacing, polite, she was strongly built, with a round Dutch face and a square Dutch body, dowdily dressed in a dismal grey blouse and a shapeless skirt, as though she had decided she wasn’t worth the effort. She pressed Emily to take a slice of Dundee cake she did not want, or another scone and some elderberry jam which it appeared Marta had made herself.

  ‘It’s very good,’ Emily said politely.

  ‘I don’t do all the cooking. Nellie Dobson from the village comes in for that, but I grow all the vegetables and herbs and make cordials and remedies, occasionally jams,’ Marta remarked diffidently, and after that lapsed into silence, her round, rather protuberant pale eyes downcast.

  Awkwardness like hers might be due to shyness, but it was contagious, making conversation difficult. Judging another few minutes would fulfil polite requirements before she might decently excuse herself, Emily enquired about Dirk’s current book.

  He reached again for his spectacles and put them on, the hugely thick lenses masking his expression. He offered her a black Russian cigarette and when she declined, lit one himself, filling the room with rich smoke, still not replying. Fair enough. She knew authors were often reluctant to talk about work in progress, but after a moment he shrugged. ‘Oh,’ he said discontentedly, ‘the political climate has hardly been auspicious for travelling of late.’

  It seemed to her that that had never prevented him from using foreign backgrounds for his previous books. Like Paddy, he knew that such situations could be used to advantage, though rarely, in Paddy’s case, with conspicuous success.

  ‘Things will be different soon,’ she said. ‘One day we shall have put all this behind us.’ We, she thought, and again felt herself consumed with guilt that she and Paddy had not been here, in Europe, to share the suffering, even though she knew they had both been too old – and Paddy too ill – to have made any contribution.

  And she could not help thinking of the London she had passed through on her way here, the frenetic gaiety amongst its young people, a determination to forget the last years; she had also been shocked at the level of unemployment, beggars on the streets, newspapers predicting strikes and lockouts – in a nation which had sacrificed so much, nearly bankrupted by the war.

  Evidently this was something Dirk did not wish to discuss. He shrugged and she took the opportunity to escape. ‘If you’ll forgive me, perhaps I should rest before this evening.’

  Marta jumped up. ‘I’ll show you to your room.’

  ‘Please don’t trouble. I believe I might still be able to find the way.’

  Without returning the smile, Marta insisted. ‘I’ll just make sure you have everything you need.’

  The house had always wrapped its own distinctive but indescribable aura of relaxed comfort around one as soon as one set foot in the door. Yet now, walking up the twisting stairs on carpets that were in places worn nearly down to the threads, Emily received the odd impression that Leysmorton was not at ease with itself.

  To make room for beds during its time as a hospital, furniture must have been banished to join the centuries’ old accumulated confusion of unnecessary objects previously consigned to attics and cellars. It was a well-known fact that for generations no Vavasour had ever thrown anything away, and pieces Emily remembered as being discarded had now reappeared, with bewildering results. Furniture stood in awkward juxtaposition: an ill-advised Victorian monstrosity of a chiffonier was totally out of place and occupying too much room; there were pictures in all the wrong places; a cherrywood bureau, her mother’s most prized possession, had been shoved int
o a corner. In the library, Emily’s critical eye had already noticed the chair covers, which could not possibly be the same ones she had known – ye Gods, yes, they were, still holding together, but only by a prayer – had moved onto the scuffed paintwork and curtains frayed at the edges, the old wallpaper above the panelling, darkened with age, and registered that something needed to be done. More money had evidently been needed than she had regularly provided for upkeep. She chided herself for not thinking of this.

  Marta had apparently taken on the role of unpaid housekeeper. As if sensing criticism, she murmured, ‘You must find things very changed. I know there are things that should be done, I really do, but . . .’ It seemed she was not cut out to be decisive enough to take the initiative and ask, and Dirk, manlike, had most likely never noticed anything amiss.

  Emily merely smiled and pushed open the door to her old room. Behind her, Marta immediately began to fuss. That Emily had asked to use this room had evidently put her out: it wasn’t set up as a guest room, she said – kept shut up for years, of course . . . Aware she’d made a gaffe, Marta looked down at her feet, then rushed on. She was afraid it would be draughty, but at least she had made sure the bed wasn’t damp. But are you certain you wouldn’t rather have had the blue room, Lady Fitzallan?

  The blue room. Silk curtains and a four-poster, no less. Everything needed for the comfort of a guest. The blue room was not where Emily wanted to sleep. ‘No, no thank you, Marta. And I think it had better be Cousin Emily – better still, just Emily – don’t you?’

  She wished Marta would go. She wanted to be alone in the old, familiar room she had shared with Clare. Yet an eerie feeling of having stepped back in time sent an unexpected chill down her spine. She might even have shivered involuntarily, because Marta immediately said, ‘I should have had a fire laid. The nights can still be cold.’

  She meant well, no doubt, but her excessive politeness only succeeded in being irritating. The idea of a fire was ridiculous: the big space was warmed by the June sun, heat was trapped in the heavy hangings and the walls. It smelled as it always had, of old, dry wood, beeswax and potpourri. The room, with its odd, shadowy corners, had been well prepared for a guest: Emily’s luggage had already been unpacked, her silver-topped toilet bottles and jars ranged on the dressing table and her clothes hung in the huge French armoire, whose doors still had to be wedged shut with a fold of card, due to the uneven floorboards. The sheets on the bed would no doubt be scented with lavender – the big double bed where as children she and Clare had lain close together like spoons, whispering and giggling until they fell asleep.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you have everything . . .’ Marta fiddled with the soap dish, ran a finger over the polished surface of a chest, found no dust. Leysmorton was well looked after, though there were no live-in maids now, only women who came in from the village. She opened her mouth to say something, changed her mind, then it came out in a rush: ‘I – I think there’s something you should know. About Dirk . . .’ She stopped, and swallowed.

  ‘His eyesight?’

  ‘Oh.’ Surprised, but clearly relieved. ‘You noticed then?’

  ‘I didn’t think,’ Emily said gently, ‘that he wore those heavy glasses from choice. Was it some war injury I haven’t heard of?’

  ‘Dirk was never in the fighting, his duties lay behind the lines.’ She put a hand up to her dusty hair and Emily saw it was trembling.

  ‘Do sit down, Marta.’

  But she remained standing in the middle of the room, stocky, plain, ill at ease. ‘It’s all very difficult. He won’t talk about it. But someone is bound to tell you and it might as well be me. Everyone knows he is losing his sight.’

  ‘What? I am so sorry. When – when did he find this out?’

  ‘Not definitely until about a year ago. He was beginning to have difficulties with seeing before the war, and that’s why they wouldn’t let him fight, but it’s grown worse.’

  ‘Is there nothing that can be done? An operation?’

  ‘He has eye drops to dilate the pupil. And those spectacles . . . they help a little, but shapes and colours are still distorted. It makes writing and reading very difficult and he gets serious headaches. And yes, his ophthalmologist has recommended surgery, but he has warned that there is a poor outcome. There’s every possibility that he could lose his sight altogether.’ She sounded so worried, so fiercely protective, that Emily forgot her irritation and put out a hand.

  Marta did not seem to see it. ‘He’s refusing to see the specialist any more. But I shall get him there, I’ll make him see sense,’ she went on, with a sudden air of confidence and authority that made Emily feel she might have underestimated Marta Heeren. ‘Well, that’s how it is. I suppose it may still all come right.’

  ‘Pray that it will.’

  Marta nodded, a full stop to the conversation, as if she had regretted speaking. She turned to go, saying they would leave for dinner at Steadings at about seven. Emily finally watched her stump to the door. It closed very quietly behind her and Emily was left alone at last.

  After she had washed her hands and face and tidied her hair, she stood for a moment in the bay window overlooking the garden, thinking about what she’d just heard. She recognized now the unfathomable look in Dirk’s eyes when he’d taken off his glasses as the dark anguish of a man who fears he is going blind. Her own preoccupations seemed suddenly slight.

  She leaned against the casement and the soft, scented air laid a caress on her cheek as she let the old, well-remembered scene work its own particular soothing alchemy.

  Vavasours had lived here for centuries, landowners and local squires, but her grandfather, Henry, had also ventured successfully into business and made a great deal of money. Too busy to care about maintaining many acres and several outlying farms, he had sold them off piecemeal. By the time Anthony inherited, as a very young man, the estate as such had dwindled to the extensive gardens surrounding the house, a small area of woodland and a few fields, which was, however, enough for Anthony. He did not ask for more than he had: his garden and sufficient funds to live the leisured life of a wealthy gentleman.

  Leysmorton lay before her, its Rose Walk, its lily pond, and there, right at the end of the garden, by the high brick perimeter wall, the great yew Clare had named the Hecate tree. Beyond the wall was a meadow and the narrow, mouse-brown ribbon of the River Ley; hardly a river, not much more than a slow, shallow stream, overhung with willows. They had dragged it all the same when Clare had disappeared.

  A rainy afternoon in the library. The two little girls are hugging their knees before the fire, listening to the story of the polished wooden drinking cup that stands in the recess above the stone fireplace in the hall, a most precious possession, they have now learnt. It’s called a chalice, Anthony tells them, and has been made from the richly red heartwood of the yew, and is so old it might possibly have been used by those Druids who worshipped the tree for its magical properties.

  ‘Go on. Please, Papa, go on.’ Clare’s hands are clasped together, her wide, green-gold eyes are fixed on Anthony, fierce and compelling, begging for more.

  Slightly alarmed at the intensity of feeling he has induced, even Anthony, who will normally allow Clare to wheedle him into anything, looks sorry now at what he has started. ‘No, that’s enough.’

  Not for Clare. She pesters for more stories and when he refuses, she later rummages among the old books on the library shelves and finds out for herself. ‘“The tree has powers of perpetual renewal, for it goes on living, and expanding in girth, to an inestimable age,”’ she reads out, thrilled, to Emily, who is by no means thrilled.

  ‘“It used to be associated with death, yet—”’ Emily, not naturally a timid child, shivers and wants to clap her hands over her ears, but Clare goes on, ‘“—yet its powers of healing and regeneration come through its exceptional ability to regrow and rejuvenate itself. This most ancient of trees is often known as the death tree, sacred to Hecate, the dark goddess
of both rebirth and death,”’ she finishes in sepulchral tones. But she goes on to inform Emily that the yew must have been planted where it is because of the two old paths which cross nearby. Hecate was the goddess who stood with her torch at the crossroads to the Otherworld, to guide travellers through the darkness, as she had guided Demeter through Hades to find her daughter, Persephone.

  ‘Stop, Clare, I don’t like it!’ cries poor Emily. ‘Please!’

  ‘There, I’ve frightened you, little Em, though I didn’t mean to.’ Clare takes pity on her little sister and finally shuts the book.

  But some days later she insists they perform a ceremony with some small, pearly white stones she has found in the pebbly shallows of the river, stones which she says are magic, which will tell whether it is auspicious to give the giant yew in the clearing the name of Hecate. Apparently it is, but the idea of naming any tree after Hecate makes Emily’s skin goose pimple and she feels really frightened, a different kind of feeling than the delicious terror that comes when Miss Jennett, to pay them back for some naughtiness, reads them the scary tales of the Brothers Grimm.

  Even now, childhood left so very far behind, the tree succeeded in projecting its own menace. Despite the warm ambience of the beloved old room, Emily fancied she felt touched by its cold, distant fingers. She turned quickly from the window and, in doing so, caught a gleam of sunshine on the wall, touching the small framed pencil drawing almost hidden in the corner. The unexpectedness of it sent her heart to her mouth in a suffocating leap. Who had put that there?

  It was framed in narrow gilt. The cream-laid paper it had been drawn on was warm-toned, fine, even-grained, a little foxed by now, but the drawing had lost none of its appeal. Two young girls, heads almost touching, their long hair dressed in the fashion of the day, waving to their shoulders, each with a fringe and a bow at the side. It was one of two their mother had asked that young man who was there for the summer to draw, and he had managed to catch, even in monotone, their singular differences and likenesses, though truth ended there. Sisters, obviously, the younger one vividly dark, but shown to be more conventionally pretty than ever her lively nature and mobile features allowed; the other ethereally fair, touched with grace, as if too good for this world. They had laughed at the idealized drawings, their mother too, but she had loved them all the same. ‘You could always try to live up to them!’ she smiled, putting her arms around their shoulders, drawing them close. In one sketch, the girls were turned slightly to the right; in its companion they faced left. Leila had hung the drawings, facing each other, on the chimney breast of the fireplace in her bedroom, opposite her bed.