House of Shadows (10 page)

‘It's very late, dear. You'd better stay in town,' Mr Readings said. His concern, I suspected, was because of the money he could earn from my work, not for my personal safety. ‘There is a nice little guest house just along the road, owned by a lady friend of mine. I shall put you up there for the night.'

‘Very kind.' I truly was grateful. I didn't fancy the drive home through the dark lonely streets and lanes that led from London to Swansea.

The guest house was warm and comfortable, and Miss Treherne who owned it was obviously besotted by Mr Readings. I really looked at him for the first time. He was tall and quite handsome with grey wings of hair pointing the way to a silver beard. It was clear to me that he would also stay the night at Miss Treherne's little guest house.

I couldn't sleep at first – the house, I realized, was too quiet without the creaks and groans of old Aberglasney – but at last I drifted off: warm and comfortable and filled with cocoa and biscuits, not to mention the champagne.

Miss Treherne herself drove us back to the gallery where I'd left my old van. Her means of transport was an old-fashioned Ford car, but at least it meant I could see something of London itself. Some of the buildings were razed to the ground from the bombing, and yet the early morning cries of the street vendors were cheerful and clear, even in the fog from the smoking chimneys.

I drove back to Swansea at a leisurely pace, eager to get back to my home and yet enjoying the sun as I left the town and encountered the broad countryside. I tested the brakes of the van several times. I'd had enough strange experiences to be wary now, fearing someone was trying to hurt or even kill me. Why? It wasn't for my wealth, that was sure. Before the exhibition I'd had little money, and I was still nowhere near rich.

Was it an effort to stop me finding out the truth about Aberglasney and the deaths of the young maids? That seemed the most likely reason, but then that meant that someone with the guilt of it all, and the knowledge of what really happened, was still in the vicinity of the big old house, the mansion that had become my home . . .

At last, my thoughts turned to Tom, and I felt warm and comforted. Tom would always protect me; he cared about me, and even though we saw things differently at the moment he was a good friend. More than friends, on my part, which I wouldn't let my mind acknowledge. Our little disagreement would soon be over and done with. We were too close to allow other people's problems to spoil what we had built up.

I remembered how we sat in the shade of the cloisters, the old stone arching above us as solid as the day when the cloisters had been built. What hands had worked on those stones, on the gardens, making a paradise of the private world that surrounded Aberglasney?

And then I thought of Tom's warmth close to mine, his arm touching mine and his occasional kisses . . . they were friendly, but such kisses could quickly turn to passion. Or was I dreaming, wishing, wanting more than Tom had ever thought of offering?

I stopped to drink my bottled water and eat the small sandwiches Miss Treherne had prepared for me. This morning she'd had the glow of a woman who had slept in a lover's arms, and I envied her.

It was peaceful sitting near the grass verge, with the pale sun and the slight chill of the country breeze freshening my skin. I rested a little and then, with a sigh of resignation, I climbed in the van and drove the rest of the way home without stopping.

Tom was standing near the door of the house and my heart lurched as I expected a smile of welcome. Instead, Tom was frowning. ‘I was worried about you, Riana. Where have you been all night?' He sounded like an angry father, or at least an older brother.

‘I stayed in London, of course.' I was irked. I wasn't a child, I was an artist, the owner of property. What right did he have to question me?

‘So you found a man to look after you then?'

‘Mr Readings looked after me – the owner of the gallery – so I stayed in London. Have you any objections?' I forced myself to be calmer. ‘All my paintings have sold, so at least the trip was worth it.'

‘So you celebrated by staying with Mr Readings all night.'

Angry again, I faced him. ‘Yes, I stayed all night, but not in the way you are implying.'

‘And what do you think I am implying, Miss High-And-Mighty?'

‘How dare you lecture me, Tom? You are not my keeper, and you are on my land, so please go back to your billet and stop interfering in my affairs.'

‘Affairs being the operative word.'

His sarcasm hurt. ‘Oh, just go away! Go on, clear off. You are not welcome at my house!'

I'd said too much. White faced, Tom marched away, his broad shoulders squared, outrage in every line of his tall body. I wanted to call him back, but the words stuck in my throat. How dare he assume that I would stay the night with a man I hardly knew? With any man, for that matter.

I entered the hallway of Aberglasney and was immediately in love with my house again, washed by the tranquillity of the pale thin sunlight falling through the stained tall windows. The house creaked and groaned though there was no one in sight. Even Beatrice seemed to be absent on one of her trips. I wondered where she'd gone, as I often did when she disappeared, but then she was part of the package that came with buying the house. I'd agreed to her staying over sometimes, though she seemed more often here with me than anywhere else, and right now I missed her.

I made some tea and sat in the spotless kitchen drinking it, feeling suddenly alone. Mrs Ward had been here cleaning while I was in London – that was evident in the sparkling cleanliness of the glass in the panelled corner cupboard and the well-swept wooden floor.

I wandered up to my studio taking my cup with me, warming my hands around the china more for comfort than because I was cold. On the landing, I thought I caught a glimpse of white cotton and the drift of floating hair, but when I blinked the corridor was empty.
I'm tired from the long drive
, I thought.
I'd better not begin a new painting today. Perhaps a rest will do me good?

In my room, I finished the dregs of my tea and then lay back against the pillows. I must have slept because I thought a lover came to me . . . he was Tom but not Tom. A man a few years older than Tom. A man with laughter lines round his eyes.

When I woke, I wondered what it was all about, and then I stopped worrying about the dream and remembered that Tom and I had quarrelled.

FOURTEEN

I
saw Carl Jenkins myself. I didn't want any more quarrels with Tom.

Carl looked shamefaced but mutinous. ‘Sorry, Miss Evans, but I took what was freely offered. No man could resist such a lovely young girl. It's just asking too much of humankind.'

‘You took precautions to protect her, did you? She was a virgin, wasn't she?' I stumbled over speaking such plain language, but Carl's head bent even lower.

‘I didn't know she was a good girl, ma'am. I met her in a public house and –' he shrugged – ‘well, I just thought.' He stopped when he saw my expression.

‘Was Rosie in the bar?'

‘Why, no. She was in a tiny room at the back.'

‘The snug?' I didn't wait for a reply. ‘It's where the ladies go, officer. It is the custom for respectable women to sit together in a room away from the men and talk and relax. The snug is not a place into which a man usually strays.'

‘I didn't know that,' Carl said in a low deep voice.

‘So you ruined the girl's reputation, and what are you going to do about it?' He didn't reply. I persisted: ‘Can you imagine the shame of bringing an illegitimate child into the village?'

He nodded silently.

‘What are you going to do about it?' I demanded.

‘What can I do, Miss Evans? I got a wife and children of my own back home. I got enough mouths to feed as it is.'

‘Well, isn't that hard luck for you then?'

‘What do you mean, ma'am?'

‘I mean, this child is going to be your responsibility and so is Rosie. She's talking about having an abortion! It's against the law and dangerous as well. What if she died?'

Carl's head was almost touching his chest now. He was behaving like a chastised child.

‘Sort something out.' I almost whispered the words, but they sounded like a clarion call in the pale misty morning air.

‘Excuse me, Miss Evans.' Tom loomed out of the mist. ‘Where do you think you get off chastising my men?'

‘Someone has to if you won't.' I felt myself grow tense. I didn't want to quarrel any more with Tom, but he couldn't speak to me like that and get away with it. ‘Jenkins has a responsibility to Rosie, and so have you. I can't let her risk an abortion, and I don't think you can either. Think of the bad publicity the Americans would get if it got into the papers.'

‘Are you blackmailing me, Miss Evans?' His voice was icy. I thought of the times Tom and I had sat together close, warm in the summer twilight under the arch of the cloisters, and I felt like crying.

‘I suppose I am.' My voice was equally cold. ‘Your officer has ruined a girl's reputation. He's insulted her because he didn't know our habits. Here in the village respectable old women and young ladies can sit in what we call the “snug” without being labelled “loose women” . . . but that's what officer Jenkins did, isn't it?'

‘That's a matter of opinion.'

‘No, it is not!' I would have stamped my foot if I hadn't been standing on grass. ‘Rosie was
respectable
,' I said. ‘Just ask your officer; he took her innocence.'

Jenkins looked at his feet, and Tom had no choice but to believe what I was saying was true.

There was silence, and then Carl Jenkins spoke in his deep Southern drawl. ‘I'll take care of it, sir,' he said, lifting his head. ‘I'll take Rosie back home with me, and we'll sort something out for her.'

I sighed in relief. I couldn't wait to see Rosie and tell her it would be all right. Tom, however, turned away and walked off without a word to me. In my mind I made excuses for him: he was embarrassed, upset, feeling guilty at not believing me. And yet, as I turned to go home to Aberglasney, I felt tears cooling as they ran down my hot face.

Once I was home I managed to tell Rosie the good news, and she closed her eyes in relief. ‘I knew he wouldn't let me down,' she breathed. ‘He loves me, and I love him. It's going to be all right.'

But the next day Carl Jenkins was killed trying a new modification to one of the plane engines.

FIFTEEN

T
he next ghost hunt in September was another success. Even more people attended, and though the bedrooms were not quite finished I managed to fit fifty people into Aberglasney House.

Mrs Ward and Rosie did their usual cooking and waiting on tables, and even though Rosie could not hide her devastation at Carl's untimely death she rouged her cheeks and managed to look almost pretty.

One of the ghost hunters, a young man from Yorkshire, took a liking to Rosie's by now rather voluptuous figure and flirted outrageously with her all weekend. Even though Mrs Ward frowned, and tried to freeze young William with a look every time she saw him, he persisted in his attentions until at last, in spite of her mother's displeasure, Rosie agreed to sit with him in the dining room after supper and have a glass of sherry with him.

Later I talked to her. Her blue eyes were shadowed, her face pale beneath her rouge, and in spite of her burgeoning size her mother hadn't yet guessed her condition.

‘You have to talk to your mother,' I said. ‘Look, I'll help you. I'll have the baby here as much as I can.'

‘But –' Rosie was almost in tears – ‘there
can't
be a baby. You can imagine how my mum would take it if I brought shame on her!'

‘You can't still want to abort it.'

‘Why not?' Rosie was uncomprehending.

‘It's too late to get rid of it,' I said firmly. ‘No doctor will do it now. You are much too far gone. Six or seven months, is it?'

Rosie shrugged helplessly. ‘I don't really know.'

Mrs Ward came into the room her dark, bird like eyes bright with suspicion. She put her hand on her daughter's shoulders and shook her. ‘You've fallen for a baby, haven't you? Tell me the truth, Rosie, before I smack it out of you.' Rosie started to cry, and her mother shook her roughly once more.

My heart was in my mouth. Mrs Ward was a formidable lady, but I had to speak out. It was clear Rosie couldn't say anything. ‘Mrs Ward, please stop manhandling your daughter! You might harm her and the baby.'

Mrs Ward's mouth was a tight line, but she forced herself to speak. ‘It would be the best thing. Who's the father, Rosie? Tell me.'

‘He's dead, if you must know.' Rosie's voice was a wail of pain. ‘I loved him, he was going to take me to America with him, but he's dead! Now are you satisfied?'

Mrs Ward froze. ‘An American? Don't tell me your bastard child will be a foreigner!'

‘Oh, Mum, can't you care about me for a change? Worry about
my
feelings, not your own?'

I was so sorry for Rosie, and when her mother didn't move I held Rosie in my arms myself.

She appealed to her mother. ‘Will you help me, Mum?'

‘How
can
I help you?' Mrs Ward was still stiff-backed, but I sensed her attitude had softened.

‘I don't know!' Rosie burst into hysterical tears again, and at last Mrs Ward came to her and took her away from me, holding her tightly.

‘I'll do my best, we'll go away somewhere, it will be all right,' Mrs Ward said, but her tone was rigidly cool, her brow furrowed with a frown. ‘Though how I will be able to support us all without a job, I don't know.'

‘You and Rosie can stay here with me,' I said, not being entirely unselfish because I knew I couldn't manage without the two of them to help me with the weekends. ‘There are downstairs rooms at the back of the house, unused. We'll do those up between us.'