The Chain Garden (12 page)

‘Everyone thinks that, Grace. The death of someone close, especially when it’s sudden, is attended by all kinds of powerful feelings. Of course there’s grief, but there’s guilt and anger as well.’

Her gaze was intent, searching.

He looked down, forcing himself to release her hand. ‘I’m not going to say I know how you feel. No one can know that, because each person’s loss is unique. But I do know that every bereaved person experiences the emotions you are experiencing. They don’t mean you are strange or wicked. They are a normal response to a devastating event.’

Clasping her arms across her stomach she began to rock. ‘I’m so afraid.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.

‘Of what?’

Compressing her lips she shook her head.

He would have tried to draw her out, but footsteps and the clink and rattle of china heralded the arrival of Kate with a tray. A few moments later there was a knock on the door and Violet peered in.

‘Beg pardon, Miss Grace, Reverend. I’m some sorry to interrupt, but Mrs Chenoweth want the minister. In some state she is.’

As Grace’s face closed and she replaced her half-full cup on the tray, Edwin turned to the maid.

‘Tell Mrs Chenoweth I’ll be along in a few minutes.’

‘No,’ Grace said wearily. ‘You’d better go. Now she knows you’re here you’ll get no peace. She’ll only send Violet back again.’

Reluctantly he stood and set his cup on the tray. When he turned back Grace had lain down again, curled up like a child, her face to the wall.

Dorcas stood in her cottage doorway, the afternoon sun warm on her upturned face. Louise Damerel had adored her garden and on a glorious day in summer gardens were at their best. So perhaps it was fitting that she should be laid to rest beneath blue skies and sunshine.

Opening her eyes Dorcas replaced her glasses and surveyed the brilliant swathes of colour. A gentle breeze carried the twitter of birds and the lazy drone of bees.

Henry had come to her the morning after Louise’s death. Listening as he talked out his disbelief and confusion she had been sucked into painful memories of Zander’s death and its aftermath. But she had said nothing. Though long expected, Henry’s bereavement was still so new that her experience would seem irrelevant. Besides, he was jealous of her life with Zander and did not like her speaking of it.

Her time with Zander had been short. But he had been her
bright particular star,
the love of her life. Though she loved Henry and had been faithful to him for thirty years, it was a different kind of love.

She looked down at the letter and photographs she still held, the tenuous link across thousands of miles separating her from her son. Since John had confirmed her fears she found herself missing Hal in a way she hadn’t done before. She wished it were possible, before her sight failed completely, for her to see him as the man he was now.

When he had left for South America, vowing to raise enough capital to develop the pumping engines Henry deemed too advanced and too costly to be commercially viable, she had sent him on his way with her love and her blessing. It had never occurred to her that when eventually he returned, as he promised he would, she might need to rely solely on touch to discern the changes time and experience had wrought on his cherished features.

Inhaling deeply she closed her eyes and tilted her head once more to the sun might dry tears that traced cool tracks beneath the glasses and down her face. Henry still didn’t know. When he had come to tell her about Louise she had sensed there was something else. After gentle coaxing he had poured out the disaster of the failed pump. It would have been cruel to add to the burdens he already carried.

While he clung to her, as if she alone were keeping him afloat in his raging sea of troubles, she thought about the future. His wife’s ill health had been such an integral part of their lives that she had never imagined Henry being free. Now, suddenly, he was. Knowing him as she did she was certain that after a decent interval he would bring up the subject of marriage again.

In the past she had laughed it off, saying she was perfectly content with their arrangement. But so much had changed. She had meant what she’d said to John Ainsley about continuing to paint. Though it would require a complete change of technique the challenge would stretch her both as an artist and a woman. Painting was so much a part of who she was that to stop was unthinkable. As long as she could develop a new way of expressing herself through art it would not be quite so hard to forfeit independence in other aspects of her life.

Her face felt tight where salt tears had evaporated. The sun’s warmth was a benediction. What could not be cured must be endured. If change was inevitable she would embrace it, make it work on her terms. The next time Henry talked of marriage she would accept.

Chapter Twelve

Standing by the drawing room fireplace nursing a crystal tumbler half full of whisky, Henry Damerel watched family and friends talking.

Mary appeared beside him. ‘It was a lovely service.’ Taking a glass of sherry from Patrick’s tray she waited until the butler had moved on then added, ‘I imagine you’re glad it’s over.’

Henry’s brows rose, surprise tinged with relief.

‘When my parents died,’ she confided softly, ‘I was acutely aware of people watching me to see how I was coping. I overheard comments about my bravery in the face of tragic loss. The fact was my parents were old and sick. Death was a merciful release for them both. I actually said this to one person.’

As Henry’s brows climbed higher Mary raised a hand to shield her mouth so only he could see her smile. ‘You’re right. It was a dreadful mistake. Her expression condemned me as an unnatural daughter totally lacking in proper feeling. After that I simply thanked people for their kindness and waited for it all to be over. Grief is a private matter.’ She paused. ‘Though some appear to derive greater comfort from sharing their feelings with others.’

Henry followed her gaze towards his mother-in-law. Propped in one corner of the rose damask sofa Hester Chenoweth, shrouded in black bombazine, clutched a wisp of lace handkerchief in the bony hand pressed to her flat bosom while with the other she gripped the arm of the woman sitting beside her.

‘Poor Mrs Laity,’ Mary murmured. ‘Should I rescue her?’

Henry saw that though the woman’s face wore an expression of sympathy, her posture betrayed her desire to escape. ‘No need, just watch.’ As he spoke, Mrs Laity gently detached Hester’s hand, patted it, and backed gracefully away out of sight behind another group. ‘See? I told you. You stay here. Then no one else will come and bother me.’

An impish smile flitted across her face. ‘Such a comfort to know I’m useful.’

‘No, I – that wasn’t–’

‘It’s all right, Henry. I know what you meant.’

He felt himself begin to relax. He knew most would interpret his stony expression as a stiff upper lip. But the truth was he didn’t know what he felt
apart from relief
, and guilt because of it. ‘You’re more than useful. I couldn’t have stood any more fuss. For years – You reach a point where –’ he broke off, knowing he’d said more than he should. He cleared his throat. ‘You did a good job with all this.’ He gestured with his glass.

‘There’s nothing like Charity committees to refine one’s organizational skills. I sit on several. It’s one of the hazards of being unencumbered by family responsibilities. As I result I’ve found I’m naturally bossy.’

‘I’ve never found you so.’

‘Good heavens! I must be better at it than I thought.’ Her quick smile faded and she sighed. ‘Besides, Louise was my friend so I consider it a privilege to be useful at a difficult time. I shall miss the chats she and I used to have in the chain garden. I imaging Grace will look after it now.’

Henry grunted. ‘She’ll have to pull herself together first. At the moment she’s no use to man or beast.’ He downed half his drink. ‘What in God’s name is she at? Taking to her bed and leaving all this for you to arrange.’ He shook his head and looked towards the dining room where guests had begun to help themselves from the platters and dishes arrayed on the long table.

‘All I did was work out the number expected and discuss a menu. It was Rose Trott who produced the wonderful spread. That woman is a treasure.’

‘That’s as may be. But Grace has no right to be so selfish. She knows the pressure I’m under.’ As his voice rose Mary touched his arm lightly in warning. He drained the glass, feeling the spirit burn his throat then loosen the knot in his belly. ‘Sorry. It’s just –’

‘I know,’ Mary soothed. ‘Henry, try to be patient with her. Grace has spent most of her life taking care of her mother. The shock of finding her… She probably feels she has failed in some way.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Not to her.’ Her gently smile robbed the words of any sting.

He watched her survey the milling people. She was a paradox: unremarkable in her gown of dark grey silk, her brown hair neatly rather than fashionably dressed. Yet her contained public manner was totally at odds with the quick wit and ironic sense of humour she revealed to her friends.

‘Only another hour,’ she murmured, ‘and they will all be on their way. Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but being an only child with few relatives, all of them delightfully distant, has its compensations.’

Henry’s muffled snort of laughter took them both by surprise.

‘That’s better.’ She darted him a swift smile. ‘I’m so glad Zoe was able to get home, even if she can’t stay long. That was a beautiful solo. She has an exquisite voice. Her presence has certainly mellowed Mrs Chenoweth. I imagine John Ainsley and Edwin Philpotts will both be hoping the improvement is permanent.’

Henry’s mouth twitched.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But surely I can be honest with an old friend?’

As their eyes met an awareness of something shared warmed Henry.
Honest with an old friend.
She had given him the opening he needed: an opportunity he could not afford to ignore.

‘Mary, I – er–’ Doubts crowded in. He panicked and broke off, clearing his throat.

‘Yes, Henry?’

‘I – I’d like to talk to you. Not now, in a week or two maybe? I just have to –’

‘Take all the time you need, Henry.’ A faint flush coloured her cheeks but her voice remained perfectly calm.

If only it were that easy.
But as he nodded he felt his mood lift. He gazed at his younger daughter, a slim golden-haired beauty striking yet ethereal in black silk and lace.

‘She is lovely,’ Mary said. ‘You must be very proud of her. Indeed you have reason to be proud of all your children.’

Henry didn’t reply. He was absorbed in an idea that initially had shocked him. Yet the more he considered it the more sense it made. Dorcas would understand. After all, nothing had changed for them. Nor would it. Dorcas was part of his life, part of him.
Mary was a wealthy woman
.

His plan had been to ask her to join the adventurers. But her advisors would never countenance more than minimal investment and that was simply not enough. However, if he
married
her – he shifted uncomfortably, ashamed of such thoughts at a time like this. Yet what choice did he have? Louise was dead. Meanwhile, for him, for the family and everyone dependent on the mine, life had to go on. Problems had to be overcome by any means available.

If he married Mary he would have access to considerable wealth. With that kind of money he could replace the pumping engine; buy water-cooled drills; perhaps even repay the bank the money he’d borrowed using the house as security.
Would she have him?
They had always got along well. The family liked her. She was intelligent and level headed. Most important – apart from the money – she enjoyed excellent health.

Though she made light of being single and even extolled its advantages, what woman would forego the status and comfort of marriage in favour of lonely old age?
It was far too soon.
Waiting a respectable year was a convention he literally could not afford. Even so, he mustn’t rush his fences. Mary was a woman of breeding and class. He would need to treat her very carefully.

‘What was that? Oh yes. Colonel Hawkins tells me the boys are making quite a name for themselves in the gardening world.’

Standing unnoticed at one side of the doorway, Grace watched her sister move from group to group accepting with a deprecating smile and downcast eyes the compliments showered on her.Zoe was sophisticated and beautiful and talented and loved. While she
– could not enter the room.
Swallowing nausea that made her hot and dizzy, Grace fled upstairs to her room.

Henry felt drained yet edgy. It had been an exhausting week. The engineering works at Hayle had supplied the necessary parts for the pump only after he had promised payment – in cash – by the end of the month. The impertinence still rankled. Yet in his heart he couldn’t blame them.

After working day and night over the weekend his men had got the pump operating once more. Three days later miners had been able to return to the lower levels. Now everything depended on their skill in picking up the lodes again.

They would be drilling horizontally, which made far more dust than stoping. But other than reminding the captains to tell the men to cover their noses and mouths there was nothing he could do about it. The tin was there. The tributers would find it. They had to.

Standing at his study window he saw her drive up. His heart gave a sudden thud and he drew back quickly, irritated and unsettled by his reaction. He went to his desk and sat down then immediately got up again and crossed to the door, opening it as Patrick knocked.

‘Miss Prideaux, sir.’

‘Mary, do come in.’ Her choice of lavender silk rather than the deep black of mourning inspired both relief and hope.

‘A tray of tea, sir?’

‘What? Oh, yes.’ As the door closed on the maid he turned, rubbing his hands together. ‘A pleasant journey?’

‘Very pleasant, thank you.’ She sat down.

Beneath the brim of her hat her cheeks were pink. This startled and reassured him. But as she folded her hands and looked up waiting for him to speak, he wondered if he’d made a mistake, misjudged her. Doubt jolted confidence that was already shaky. He paced the room wondering how – where – to start. Telling himself not to be so ridiculous he coughed.

‘Mary, I – I –’ he stopped. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to continue.

She raised one hand, her colour deepening. ‘Would it help if I were to tell you I have an idea of what it is you wish to say?’

‘You do?’ he blurted. ‘Forgive me. It’s just –’ he shook his head. ‘Should I continue? Or would you prefer –’

‘No, please go on. But – and please don’t take offence – I would appreciate total honesty.’ She must have seen the shock he couldn’t hide for she added gently, ‘I like to think we are friends, Henry. Between friends there should be no misunderstanding.’

‘You’re right.’ He owed her that. Abandoning his planned approach he paused to gather his thoughts. Then just as he drew breath to begin there was a knock. With a snort of irritation he threw open the door.

‘Your tea, sir.’

‘Thank you. Put it on the desk.’ He turned away as Kate set the tray down.

‘Shall I –?’ the housemaid began.

‘No. That will be all.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Bobbing a curtsy Kate scuttled out.

‘Would you?’ he indicated the tray.

‘In a moment. You were about to say?’

Resuming his pacing he told her the unvarnished truth about his desperate need for money if he were to hold onto the house, maintain the family’s standard of living and keep the mine functioning.

She listened without interruption. When he’d finished he passed a hand over his cropped head feeling helpless, angry and ashamed.

‘Henry, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

‘I should hope not. It’s hardly something to be proud of.’

Turning towards the tray she poured the tea. Then to his astonishment she added a dash of milk and half a teaspoonful of sugar to one. As she held it out to him she dipped her head so her hat hid her face. He thanked her, her awareness of his taste kindling a fresh spark of hope.

After taking a sip of her own tea she replaced the cup and saucer on the desk and folded her hands once more in her lap. Though she appeared calm her knuckles betrayed her.

‘Henry, we wouldn’t be having this conversation were it not for my considerable wealth. I am willing to invest a substantial amount of money in Wheal Providence. However, there is a condition.’ She stopped. ‘Henry, do you think you could sit down?’ One hand strayed to her throat and she gave a breathless laugh. ‘This is not easy for either of us. To watch you pacing like a caged animal doesn’t help.’

Setting his cup and saucer down with a clatter he subsided into the chair opposite hers. Relief made him tremble.

‘A condition? Only one? Name it. I am already in your debt for the way you dealt with everything after – When Grace took to her bed. Your handling of my mother-in-law has been masterly.’

‘Thank you. Such kind remarks make it easier for me to –’ Rising, she moved towards the window. ‘As you know much of my life was devoted to nursing my parents.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I would not have you think I begrudged one moment. Indeed it was a privilege to be able to return the love and care they lavished on me while I was growing up. While they needed me marriage was not an option. After they died I was no longer in the first flush of youth and it was not my person but my fortune that attracted suitors.’

She turned to face him. ‘Despite increasing loneliness I found myself unable to consider offers from men I either could not respect, or for whom I did not feel that depth of affection one hopes for with a life partner.’

She stopped again to moisten her lips. Henry was intrigued. He had never seen Mary other than totally in command of herself.

‘The welcome I have received in the Damerel household has brought be more happiness than words can express. I was deeply fond of Louise.’ She stopped speaking and gazed out of the window.

Henry waited, literally biting his tongue.

‘However, spending as much time with her as I did, I could not help being aware – For a man such as yourself, strong and active, marriage to someone of such frail constitution cannot have been easy.’ She turned to face him, straight-backed, her cheeks stained crimson. But her gaze was unflinching. ‘My own health I’m pleased to say has always been exceptionally robust.’

Henry stared at her momentarily dumbfounded. Thrown by her quiet dignity and request for total honesty he had abandoned his planned proposal. He had laid his financial problems before her and hoped for no more than an offer of investment. But she was proposing… Good God, she was proposing. Marriage was her condition for giving him the money he needed.

As all the implications of her final remark registered he realized with a jolt that she wanted more than his name and the status of being Mrs rather than Miss. She wanted a full marriage with the possibility of children. She wanted him. Astonishment gave way to pride and darting excitement. It was years since he had experienced either.