Two Loves (14 page)

‘You speak for yourself, dear,' Marian said.

*   *   *

The next morning Rosamund received a letter from Ambrose Lockhart, Molly's solicitor:
‘At Mrs Gilchrist's request, I have undertaken a fresh study of the last will and testament of your late husband, Mr Anthony Gilchrist. As you are aware, he made provisions for both Mrs Gilchrist and yourself; Mrs Marjory Gilchrist receiving the matrimonial home, 42 Albany Crescent, St John's Wood, London NW8, an annuity of twenty thousand pounds and the monies from the copyright of his three volumes of poetry; Mrs Rosamund Gilchrist receiving his second home, The Old Schoolhouse, Compton Verney, Gloucestershire, an annuity of ten thousand pounds and the copyright of all his poetry and prose written after 1964, the year of his divorce absolute from Mrs Marjorie Gilchrist.

‘As there is no provision made in his will for any other person or persons, the copyright of any poems written for and sent to Miss Erica Underhill in or around 1965 are owned not by her but by yourself.

‘At Mrs Gilchrist's request, I have written to apprise Miss Erica Underhill of this matter, further informing her that she therefore has no legal right to publish the aforementioned poems without permission from Mr Gilchrist's estate.

‘Mrs Gilchrist is confident that you will abide by Mr Gilchrist's stated wish concerning the aforementioned poems i.e. that they shall not be published until twenty years after his death, whereupon you will be the sole beneficiary of the copyright fees.

Should you wish to receive any further clarification upon this matter, I shall be pleased to discuss it with you.'

*   *   *

Rosamund read the letter several times, finally becoming so angry that she could hardly swallow her toast. How dared Molly have instructed her solicitor to act on her behalf! Now she understood why Ben had been so angry. He must have thought that she was the Mrs Gilchrist behind the move to stop the poems being published.

Not that she cared about Ben. But she did care a great deal about Erica, and couldn't bear to think that she was going to be thwarted again by Molly. She had to get things sorted out, wanted to shout defiance at both Molly and her solicitor, wanted to assure Erica that she'd had nothing to do with the letter she'd received, wanted to let Ingrid know the position. And at the same time, knew she couldn't do a thing until she felt calmer.

When the phone rang she was still sitting at the breakfast table doing the breathing exercises she'd been taught before Joss's birth and still finding them as useless. ‘Rosamund Gilchrist,' she said angrily.

‘Good God, Rosamund, whatever's the matter?' It was Thomas, sounding weary and rather abrupt.

‘Oh Thomas, I don't feel I can burden you with my problems.'

‘Come on, what's the matter?'

‘I'll tell you when you get home. How are the boys?'

‘Difficult to know. They seem all right. They don't say anything, but they smashed a church window on Saturday morning, so I suppose I'm in for a lot of trouble. How did you get on in London?'

‘It's too complicated to start on that. But one thing I probably ought to tell you is that I met a chap I used to know at art school and discovered I was still in love with him. I know that must seem very trivial to you at the moment. All the same, I feel I should let you know.'

‘Yes. Thank you. To be honest, this is the best time because at the moment I'm only able to think of Eliza, how much I used to love her. And how I let her down.'

‘You were a good husband, Thomas. Don't blame yourself too much. Eliza changed a long time before you did.'

‘Yes, I realise all that. I've gone over it hundreds of times in these last few days, but it doesn't make it any easier, doesn't make my guilt any less.'

‘She became completely obsessed by her work.'

‘She became far too ambitious, I know. But I'm convinced now that it was only because I wasn't ambitious enough. I remember how she used to badger me to put in for a promotion – Head of Department, even Headmaster – but I never felt ready for it. And she couldn't bear to try to live on a teacher's salary. And you can't blame her for that.'

‘I do blame her, Thomas. At least, I blame her more than I blame you. Whatever her reasons, she cut you out of her life, so what were you to do?'

‘Anything other than what I did. As soon as I met you, I just let her go her own way. I didn't try to change the direction of her life. And she obviously suspected what was happening.'

‘By that time I don't think she cared what was happening. I do realise that what we did was wrong. I've been feeling pretty awful about it, too – don't think I'm trying to get out of my share of the blame. All I'm saying is that your marriage had become stale and unworkable before our affair started. Thomas, we didn't rush headlong into it, did we? We were just friends for ages, two lonely people finding comfort in our companionship. We were friends long before we became lovers. But you wouldn't be feeling as guilty, would you, if we hadn't had sex, and I can't see that that changed things all that much.'

‘Don't try and excuse what I did. I was in love with you from the beginning. And that's what changed everything between Eliza and me.'

‘No, it wasn't. You're not seeing this clearly. Eliza had already changed before you met me. Hold on to that. If you have to blame yourself, for God's sake don't take more than your share, because that's just being weak.'

‘I am weak.'

‘Well, maybe you are. But listen, weak people are always, always much more worthwhile than strong people. Strong people are horrible and cause all the trouble in the world.'

‘What's the matter, Rosamund? You may as well tell me.'

‘It's something to do with Anthony's horrible first wife. Not worth bothering you about. I'll see you soon. Thomas, I hope we can still be friends.'

There was a longish pause. ‘I suppose so. After a time, anyway. I'm not at all myself at the moment.'

‘I can understand that, And I'm terribly sorry. Terribly sorry about everything, believe me. How is Joss?'

‘He seems fine – a great help to Harry, I think. He wants me to call the baby Jim. What do you think? I can't seem to give it much thought.'

‘Yes, I like it. James Woodison.'

‘Not James. Jim.'

*   *   *

After talking to Thomas, Rosamund felt ready to tackle her own problems. She decided not to answer the solicitor's letter nor to contact Molly. It was Erica she was concerned about. She would telephone her.

‘Erica, this is Rosamund. Rosamund Gilchrist.'

‘Hello, dear. Yes, I'm much better again, thank you. I had a little turn on Friday, but I'm quite well again now. Your friend shouldn't have worried you about it. It was nothing serious.'

‘Erica, I didn't know you'd been ill. What friend of mine are you talking about?'

‘Miss Walsh. Ingrid Walsh. She came to see me about this mess I'd got myself into. I had no idea, you see, that the poems were not legally mine to publish.'

‘I know nothing about the letter you got from Molly's solicitor. It was nothing to do with me. And whatever Ingrid Walsh may have told you, she called to see you because the man who was helping you with the book was her boyfriend and she was anxious to trace him.'

‘Yes, she mentioned that.'

‘I'd really like to see you, Erica, to talk about the book, but I can't come up to London at the moment. You see, my young son has been away and I don't want to leave him again, at least for a while. So I've been wondering whether I can persuade you to visit me. My stepmother would call for you and drive you to Paddington, and of course I'd meet you at this end. Would you like a few days in the country? It's very beautiful here at the moment.'

‘Oh, I would, I really would. It's my favourite time of the year.'

‘Good. When could you come? I have to attend a funeral on Wednesday. Could you come on Thursday?'

‘Yes, Thursday would be fine. I shall look forward to it.'

‘And the next day we'll have lunch at that country hotel you and Anthony used to stay at. He pointed it out to me several times. It looked a lovely place.'

‘Oh, it was. Near Stow-on-the-Wold. It overlooked a golf course, I remember. Not that we played any golf.'

‘No, I suppose Anthony would have had other things on his mind. I never imagined golf being the chief attraction, somehow.'

‘The food was excellent and they had huge log fires everywhere, even in the bedrooms.'

‘I'll get my stepmother to contact you – she's called Dora Harcourt, by the way. I'm really looking forward to seeing you again, Erica, and planning our next move about the book. I've been wondering whether we shouldn't write it together and share the money.'

‘What a very good idea. What about young Ben though? He's very angry and put out, according to your friend.'

‘I think we'll have to disregard young Ben. As well as Molly Gilchrist and her precious solicitor.'

Chapter Thirteen

After Rosamund's return, Dora had several disturbed nights trying to work out how she could find Daniel. The only feasible idea she'd come up with during the entire weekend was to contact the Brighton Art School to find out whether they still had an address for him. She telephoned there as soon as she got into work on the Monday morning, but was informed that records were kept only for seven years.

‘Lost touch with a boyfriend?' a colleague asked her.

She just had time to tell her what had happened to Rosamund before they were both caught up in the day's business.

‘I've been thinking about your stepdaughter,' her colleague said as she was going off to lunch. ‘What you need is a private investigator. He'll find the chap in no time.'

At first, Dora rejected the idea as sordid – connected with marital infidelity and debt-collecting – but as the afternoon wore on, had to admit that she'd come up with no alternative plan. Rosamund herself had phoned every D. Hawkins listed in the London directories.

When she arrived back at the flat that evening, she consulted the
Yellow Pages,
and from the plethora of enquiry agencies, private investigators and detective bureaux, she telephoned the first that offered free confidential advice. ‘Could I make an appointment for free confidential advice?' she asked. ‘Certainly. When would you like an appointment?' ‘Are you the investigator?' ‘Yes, that's right.' ‘Good. Could I see you tomorrow morning?'

She was delighted that she was to see a woman. A man, she felt, would be too ready to decide that Daniel had simply changed his mind, and therefore not be as open to other possibilities.

She felt optimistic, almost light-hearted as she began to prepare the evening meal.

‘And what are you looking so smug about?' Paul asked her when he came in.

‘I'm more than usually pleased by my progress at work. And what are you looking so glum about?'

‘You might not believe this, but I was thinking about poor Rosamund. She's had a pretty rotten life, hasn't she? Seems such a shame that that bloke didn't turn up the other day. It would almost certainly have turned out badly, even disastrously, but beginnings are usually very hopeful.'

‘Do you remember our first meeting?' Dora asked.

‘Of course. I'd understood you were a theatrical agent so I insisted on buying you a drink. And by the time I'd found out you were an estate agent, I'd fallen in love with you.'

‘That's not how I remember it.'

‘No?'

‘No. I remember seeing you at Hoffners, thinking you were very dishy, and asking you to have dinner with me.'

‘Which I accepted. Because I thought someone had said you were a theatrical agent. And also, of course, because I thought you were madly attractive.'

They smiled comfortably at each other. Dora considered telling him about the investigator, but decided against it, since the likely cost might ruin his appetite.

‘Do you remember the time you had that operation on your spine?' she asked, instead.

‘What about it?'

‘I made rather a fuss, didn't I?'

‘You certainly did.'

Paul, who had always, he said, despised women who made scenes, remembered with love and pride the loud and frequent scenes Dora had made at the hospital. ‘I was ashamed of you,' he said, nuzzling her neck.

*   *   *

The next morning Dora found the address she was looking for in Clapham – a shabby double-fronted Victorian house converted into offices, went up in the antiquated lift, found the right office and knocked at the door.

‘Mrs Harcourt? Come in, please,' the woman at the desk said. ‘Do sit down. I'm Caroline.'

Caroline, small and blonde, hadn't felt the need to dress in a business suit of clerical grey; she wore a pale pink dress with frilly collar and full sleeves and a great deal of make-up. It was difficult to tell her age. At first Dora thought she was twenty-three or four, but later felt she might be as much as ten years older.

‘I specialise in missing persons,' Caroline said in a voice which was pure stage-Cockney, even to the hint of slightly nasal gentility. ‘I don't do debt-collecting or contract because my heart wouldn't be in it. But, you see, I really like finding people for people. I'm good at prying into their private lives. I've always been a very curious person, if not downright nosy, and I've got a lively imagination, so I can often put two and two together and discover the sort of things they might be doing, the sort of places where they might be hanging out. And I'm a bit psychic as well – at least that's what I like to tell myself. Now, what sort of free confidential advice were you interested in?'

‘I'm going to skip that part,' Dora said. ‘I've decided to employ you.'