House of Shadows (25 page)

At the official reopening exhibition, my six new works, including the painting depicting the haunted face in the window, were put on display, with lights fixed above each picture to reflect the colours and the nuances of light, and to highlight the progression of shadow and brightness across the canvas.

There were paintings by some old masters too, including one owned by Diane that I'd seen hanging in her sitting room in the guest house. It must have been a real wrench to part with it, but I knew that Diane needed to make a living as much as I did. Mr Readings would have left her well-provided for, I knew that, but perhaps there was some hold up with releasing all his private fortune to her? Diane had not confided in me, but that she had to sell one of her precious paintings told me enough to know she was short of immediate funds. This thought inspired me to vow to work harder once I returned home.

The exhibition was well attended, both by the curious and by those who genuinely wanted to buy. Silk gowns and fur capes shone under the glittering chandeliers and diamonds sparkled on white fingers: the art-loving crowd from London were out to show how prosperous they were. Nowadays, they arrived in cars, but in the olden days carriages with finely decorated horses would have been waiting outside in the stables, and suddenly I was inspired to paint something from the past.

Diane seemed to dance around the room. There was a smile on her face and a glass of champagne in her hand, though I noticed she didn't drink much of it. And underlying her smile was an air of sadness, because she'd lost the man she loved.

I, on the other hand, was determined to forget Tom. Why should I continue to waste my love and my passion on him when he had disappeared from my life yet again? And yet I ached for him. Not just for his touch, but for the familiarity and friendship we used to share, sitting under the cloisters in the garden Tom and his men had worked to bring into some kind of order.

‘Excuse me, Miss Evans. I'm Justin. I'm supposed to paint your portrait, remember?'

I looked up to see a handsome man about my own age staring into my eyes.

‘Your work is so atmospheric,' he said. ‘Even more so than when I saw it at an earlier exhibition. I have bought one of your new paintings, and may I say that although the face in the picture is ghostly and haunted, the image reminds me of my late father?'

‘Your father!' I was fearful and suddenly wary. ‘Who was your father?'

‘Edwin Mansel-Atherton,' he said. ‘Unfortunately, my father is dead, so he's the
late
Edwin Mansel-Atherton. Did Mr Readings mention it when we last met?'

I saw him suddenly as a threat to my future in Aberglasney. After all, might he not be the rightful heir? I liked him very much, but I didn't want him taking my home from me. ‘So you've bought my painting?' I said with false brightness.

Just then Diane came and took my arm. ‘Some people want to meet the talented lady artist,' she said, hurrying me away. ‘You must mingle, dear. You can't stand talking to the most eligible man in London all night, even though he
is
gorgeous!' There was a proprietary air about the way she spoke of Justin, and I imagined she'd met him many times before.

My head was ringing with confusion and questions: most importantly, was Justin the legal heir to my house? I stopped Diane as she made a beeline for the other art lovers. ‘Wait! I'll meet your other clients later. What do you know about Justin Mansel-Atherton?'

Diane appeared puzzled. ‘He was a friend of dear Mr Readings. Why? Are you interested in him?'

‘In a way,' I said softly, ‘but not romantically. I'll tell you all about it after the exhibition.' I'd arranged to stay the night in London with Diane. I could trust Diane and confide in her. She'd find out all she could about Justin – and use her discretion into the bargain. Once I got home I would also question Beatrice about the man, although I would have to be tactful and careful.

Most of the paintings sold that night, leaving only three – one of them mine. I knew I could look forward to some money to spend on the house. Providing, I thought, the house was really mine.

I knew I'd bought it legally, but if Beatrice had no right to sell it then I'd be in trouble. I knew some of these old mansions used to be entailed to the eldest son; I could only hope that wasn't the case with dear old Aberglasney.

Diane was sympathetic and comforting. ‘If you've a legal document signed by the owner you must be all right, dear,' she said firmly.

‘Yes, but was Beatrice the legal owner? What if Edwin left the house to his eldest son?'

‘Don't panic.' Diane poured me a glass of the leftover champagne. ‘Justin might be illegitimate. Have you thought of that?'

‘I've thought of nothing else.' I sank into a chair with my glass.

Diane sat opposite me. ‘I wish dear Mr Readings was here. He'd know who to contact and what the legal position was,' she said. She gave a wan smile. ‘And the dear man would have celebrated such a good sale too.'

And
I
wished that Tom was here and was truly mine, instead of blowing hot and cold and vanishing at every turn, and that Justin would disappear from the face of the earth. Unfortunately, wishes didn't always come true.

‘Don't worry about it, dear.' Diane's voice intruded on my thoughts. ‘At least you've sold your paintings, and you always have that – your talent to paint evocative scenes of Aberglasney.'

‘The house is my inspiration,' I said, and I knew I sounded despondent, but I was tired and it was time I went to bed. I kissed Diane's cheek and went to my room, and there I climbed into bed, turned my face into the pillow, and cried bitter, self-pitying tears.

In the morning, everything seemed clearer and much more hopeful. I had a legal document that confirmed I was the owner of Aberglasney. It had been signed and sealed by Beatrice, by me, and by the solicitor. Of course I was the legal owner, and no one could take the house from me.

TWENTY-NINE

S
ome days later, when I'd returned home, Justin came to visit. The house seemed to crackle with hostility, and Beatrice, who I'd longed to question about Justin, was away on one of her frequent jaunts. I still couldn't help but wonder where she disappeared to, but whenever I asked her she was vague and unwilling to talk about her life, and I couldn't say I blamed her for that. Still, I dearly wanted to know about Justin and his history.

‘Come into the sitting room.' I forced a pleasant smile as Justin handed Mrs Ward his cap. Today he looked like a country squire; I wouldn't have been surprised to see him carrying a gun beneath his arm.

‘A tray of coffee, madam?' Mrs Ward was staring suspiciously at Justin, and I wondered if she'd seen him before or if she knew anything about him. I was surprised at her formality; she usually addressed me by my Christian name.

‘That would be lovely, Mrs Ward.' I gestured to the sofa. ‘Please take a seat Mr . . . er . . . Justin.'

He was staring round at the high ceilings and the beautifully moulded cornice, and I felt an instant antagonism to him. ‘You like my house?' I emphasized the ‘my', and he smiled as he took a seat.

‘I rather think the old place is mine.' His words fell into the room like cold chips of ice. Mrs Ward almost dropped the tray of coffee she was carrying into the room. She frowned, and I shook my head, hoping she wouldn't say anything. She took the hint and retreated, glaring at the visitor.

‘I don't understand you,' I said vaguely, unwilling to argue such an important point without professional advice.

‘It's quite simple. I am the only son of Edwin Mansel-Atherton, therefore I am his heir.'

‘Then why have you taken so long to come to see me or the house – or, for that matter, a solicitor? Is there a will to that effect – that you are heir, I mean?'

‘As it happens, I haven't searched for one, and what's more I live in a very fine house in London. What would I do with this place? It takes so much money, and to what effect?' He took a seat as if he owned the place. ‘A little bit of tidying and building isn't going to change the bad ambience of the place, is it?' He paused to drink some coffee, and with a grimace of distaste he put down his cup. ‘Chicory coffee from a bottle, I take it?'

‘The war hasn't long ended, and we are still on rations,' I pointed out, beginning to dislike Justin very much.

‘I could let you rent the old place, of course.' He sounded smug.

I stood up, forcing my hands together to stop them shaking. I felt a cold fury turn to a fire in my belly. ‘How dare you come here and patronize and whine and then offer me the tenancy of my own house?' My tone was raised.

Justin came towards me and I flinched, expecting a torrent of abuse. I'd got used to being roughly spoken to since I'd bought the house. Instead, Justin took me in his arms and kissed me, deeply and passionately, before I instinctively pushed him away.

‘We'll talk again when you are a bit calmer,' he said. He left me, and I heard the door slam after him as I almost fell into a chair.

I painted for the rest of the day, but my heart wasn't in it. I went to bed early, wanting the night to pass.

In the morning, an early sun was shining and I felt refreshed. Feverishly, I searched for the document Beatrice had given me when I'd bought the house, and I sighed with relief when I found it filed away in my desk drawer. I read through it avidly, line by line, trying to learn if there was any loophole in the agreement. After reading and rereading, I could find nothing to disprove the legality of the document. Tomorrow I'd go into Swansea and see the solicitor who had witnessed my signature, I decided, just to be certain. I was still shaking, however, when I put the agreement away carefully and locked the drawer, hiding the key beneath the clock on the mantelpiece.

A knocking on the door made me freeze. I knew it was Justin before Mrs Ward announced him.

‘Do come in.' My tone was frosty as I led the way into the sitting room. ‘Please tell me what I can do for you. I'm very busy today.' I sat well away from him, with a low ornate table as a barrier between us. Mrs Ward brought us coffee, and I held my cup like a guard against his undoubted charm and good looks.

‘There's no doubt the house is mine,' he said without preamble, ‘but I have a solution, seeing as you don't want to rent the old place from me.'

‘The house is mine,' I said firmly, ‘and I have no intention of arguing about it.'

‘What I was thinking,' he said, continuing as if I hadn't spoken, ‘is that it would solve everything if we got married. Then there would be no dispute, and the house would belong to both of us.'

I was breathless with the cheek of it. ‘What makes you think I would want to marry you?' My tone was angry, and I felt the heat come into my cheeks at his arrogance.

‘Well, you would be Mrs Mansel-Atherton for a start. You would have rights to the house, indisputable rights, and no one could take it from you.'

‘And you. What would
you
hope to get from such a marriage? My money? A very easy living?' I asked, my voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘I've checked, and you have very little money except what you win at cards. You rent a good address in London and put yourself about as a man of means.'

‘I have charm and respectability, and
I've
done some checking too. You are – what shall we say? – a fallen woman, aren't you? Rumour has it that you've had at least one man in your bed, not to put too fine a point on it, and some say these weekends you run are an excuse for all sorts of goings on. Didn't one of the girls here have an illegitimate child, for instance?'

I was so angry I could have picked up one of the heavier flower vases and hit him over the head with it. What really upset me was that there was some truth amid all the slander he was spitting out. I put down my cup and got to my feet. ‘If you don't leave
my
property at once, I will send Mrs Ward for the police.'

He got up, but laughed irritatingly. ‘Poor old Sergeant Price on his bike will take an age to get here, Miss Evans. This is not London, you know, with efficient police cars able to cover the miles quickly – horns blazing out, and blue lights flashing. Face it! You might just lose everything if I take the legal way out of this dilemma.'

I took a deep breath. ‘Why don't you come along to the next ghost-haunting weekend and see for yourself what really happens?' I spoke sweetly, and he looked at me suspiciously.

‘And be murdered in my bed? I think not.'

‘Don't be hysterical and absurd. Alert the police, your friends, the London public to your visit, if you like. Bring cameras, newspaper men, anyone of your dubious circle of acquaintances you like, so that your whereabouts will be well accounted for.' I was issuing a challenge, and he would look weak and silly if he wasn't man enough to take it.

At last, he nodded. ‘Very well, I will accept your invitation. And don't worry, I will bring some friends with me.'

‘There will be the usual charge, of course.' I wrote the date down for him on a card, and then met his dark eyes. ‘Now, if you wouldn't mind leaving, I have a great deal of work to do.'

When he'd gone, I helped myself to some hot coffee and sat thinking about all he'd said. ‘How on earth did Justin know about me and Tom? He could easily have learned about Rosie from village gossip, but I had told no one about my one night of passion with Tom except Diane, who I now counted as a close personal friend. Perhaps Mrs Ward knew? But then she was the soul of discretion!

I sat in a chair with my head in my hands and tried to stop the hot tears from brimming in my eyes. If ever I needed Tom's arms around me, his deep reassuring voice, it was now – but as usual he was not with me when I needed him most.

Later I went into town to see Beatrice's solicitor, Mr Jeremy, and to my relief he told me there were no legitimate heirs and that Aberglasney was indisputably and legally mine.