Read Through Glass Eyes Online
Authors: Margaret Muir
The first evening with Wainwright was very pleasant. Because Cyril had travelled extensively, he and the captain had much to converse about. They stayed up late talking about ships and foreign ports. Lucy was happy to listen and delighted the two men got on so well.
The following morning they breakfasted early. Lucy had planned the day’s outing well in advance. She and Cyril would drive down to Hastings, have an early lunch in the old town, then follow the coast road to Bexhill. If time permitted they would continue on to Eastbourne, arriving back in Tunbridge Wells before dark.
Wainwright declined the invitation to accompany them saying he was looking forward to visiting Southampton docks the following day. Lucy heard him whisper to Cyril about having some shopping to attend to. Something about purchasing a bottle of champagne.
The sprawling house, perched on the cliff top near Bexhill-on-Sea, looked out across the English Channel. The azure sky reflected on the sea, its surface unbroken except for the white sails of passing yachts which dotted the water like wandering gulls. The breeze blowing from the land was light. It was not cold for the time of year.
From the main gate, guarded by a pair of reclining stone lions, the driveway to the house was bordered on both sides by tall young poplars whose autumn leaves littered the gravel. On the east side of the house was a close-mown croquet lawn and on the grass beyond, a set of swings, a see-saw and a child’s wooden play-house. On the cliff edge, a steep path with a hand-rail sloped down to the beach below. In front of the house, the driveway encircled a gold-fish pond and ornamental fountain.
As the car tyres crunched to a stop, Lord Farnley came down the steps to meet his guests. He greeted Lucy with a kiss on the cheek.
‘My husband, Cyril Street,’ she said.
After shaking hands, Archibald Farnley invited them inside. Cyril collected a cardboard box from the boot of the car and carried it under his arm.
As the housekeeper served tea, Lord Farnley turned to Lucy, ‘I was intrigued by your letter, wondering what it is you wanted to see me about.’
Lucy took the parcel and handed it to him. ‘This is for you,’ she said softly. ‘Would you care to open it?’
Lord Farnley looked from her to Cyril before untying the string. Laying the box flat on the mahogany table, he lifted the lid and pulled back the sheets of tissue paper.
‘My goodness!’ he said. ‘What a handsome doll!’
‘Please take it out.’
Gingerly Lord Farnley lifted the doll to an upright position. As he did, the long eyelashes rolled back and a pair of luminous blue eyes gazed out at him.
‘It’s French,’ said Lucy. ‘Made in the 1890s. That’s why her face has some fine lines. Like me, she is beginning to show signs of age.’
The doll’s cape was folded at the back. Lucy reached out and smoothed it down. The velvet, in a rich shade of burgundy, was as soft as the strip of ermine which edged it. Beneath the cape, the spun-silk dress, trimmed with a yoke of Swiss lace, was decorated with tiny pearls. The pale grey wig shone with the lustre of pure mohair and was set into soft bouncing ringlets which fell to the doll’s shoulders. The hat sported three pheasant feathers.
In one lace-gloved hand the doll held a turned wooden walking stick, its handle and ferrule tipped with silver. The kidskin shoes bore the original silver buckles, polished to a fine mirror finish. A tiny gold brooch decorated the neck.
‘I thought perhaps your granddaughter might like it,’ said Lucy.
Lord Farnley sat down. His face was pale.
‘Are you all right?’ Lucy asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, staring at the doll. ‘There is something about it which reminds me of a doll I bought many years ago.’
Lucy paused. ‘Did it have a velvet cape of peacock blue?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How did you know?’
‘This is the same doll,’ she said kindly. ‘You do not remember me. I was a maid at Heaton Hall. I was with your daughter when she died.’
Lord Farnley shook his head.
Lucy continued. ‘Your housekeeper, Mrs Gresham, gave the doll to me and told me to burn it. But I couldn’t. I burned the clothes but kept the doll.’
‘And you’ve had it all these years?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘But it was not right: I should not have taken it. It was never mine to have. And though I loved the doll, I always felt guilty. It was the only thing I ever stole. Now, I want to return it to you, so you may give it to your granddaughter, Felicity.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure Miss Beatrice would have wanted her to have it.’
Lord Farnley wiped his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She glanced anxiously at Cyril, as she waited for Lord Farnley to reply.
‘Lucy,’ he said, ‘this doll means more to me than you can imagine. I never had a single thing to remind me of my daughter. No lock of hair. No pretty dress. No photograph. Everything she had was burned. And when she died, I even lost her image in my mind. And though I tried, I could never conjure up her face, except occasionally in a dream, but in the morning she was gone.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘as I look at this doll, I see the great bed, and I see my Beatrice in it.’ His face lit up. ‘And I can see her face as clear as I see yours, smiling a soft smile, serene and beautiful.
‘Lucy,’ he said, the tears rolling down his cheeks, ‘you have given me more than the doll, you have given me back the memory of my daughter.’
Lucy and Cyril did not wait to be seen out. When they left Lord Farnley, he was still in his chair, but he was not looking at the French doll sitting opposite him, he was gazing at the little girl whom Lucy had returned to him.
Other Books by this author
Historical Fiction by Margaret Muir
Sea Dust
The Black Thread
The Condor’s Feather
Nautical Fiction by M.C. Muir
Floating Gold
For more information about the author visit:
www.margaretmuirauthor.com
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