And so there I stood, friendless, and newly widowed, and a single woman, since the date on the death certificate clearly proved that my marriage to Silas Vardy had been a sham. And as that thought crossed my mind another thought followed. It had always been a sham.
To think how I had looked forward to this visit! I had even set aside a whole day for it, but now all I wanted was to do was get away. Hard as it was, I would have to break the news to Silas and the children without any delay. There was a pony-trap at the cemetery gate which would take me to the railway station, and I would be home within the hour.
I had a small posy of spring flowers gathered from the garden at the Ship Inn, and now I placed them on the grave, turned and walked back to the cemetery gate. I passed Mrs Wandle with neither a word nor a glance, boarded the small vehicle and gave orders to be taken to the station. Mrs Wandle climbed in, asking to be taken back to the Inn. We travelled in silence.
All the way home, I felt impelled to weep without stopping, but I knew that there would have to be another time for that. All that mattered to me now was my children, and I had to be calm for them. Matthew was at his new school where he had been sent to protect him from the attention of the press and the taunts of boys who knew the family’s history, but Franklin was still at home being cared for by my sister. My intention was to take him aside and very gently reveal what I knew, then I would speak to Matthew that afternoon and finally break the news to Silas on his return home from the office. I hoped I was equal to the task. But there was no alternative. I had to be.
When I returned, the house was very quiet. Franklin, I knew, burdened by exhaustion, often took a long nap after luncheon, although one could never predict how he would be on his drowsy awakenings. He was less afraid to sleep during the hours of daylight, less afraid of dreaming. I decided not to disturb him until he was ready for his tea, and instead, went the parlour to sit for a while and think of what words I could best use to tell him about his father. The most important words were those of the letter in which Jasper had expressed his great affection for his children and his wishes for their future. That, I hoped, would heal many wounds.
As I pushed open the parlour door —
Here, Mrs Holt stopped, and almost gave way to tears again, but her face was not crumpled with grief but distorted by anger. Another glass of sherry was offered, but she shook her head.
‘I do not wish to shock you, Miss Scarletti, but you should understand me and the course my life has taken. When I opened the door I was met by a sight I could never have imagined. It was a tableau, a picture of depravity, like a scandalous painting that had been banned from public view, but it was real. There was Silas seated in the armchair by the fire, and my sister Marion was sitting on his lap. For a moment I tried to delude myself that her sister was ill or distressed and that Mr Vardy was only comforting her, and all would be easily explained, but that was only while my shocked mind sought to reject the truth. No innocent explanation was possible ¬— their arms were about each other, their lips pressed together in an exercise of mutual affection.
My cry of horror alerted them, and my sister, not nearly as embarrassed as she ought to have been, slowly rose to her feet and smoothed her skirts. Silas, looking unrepentant, remained seated. Neither made any attempt to comment on the discovery.
For a moment I felt lightheaded, on the verge of fainting but then I clasped the door jamb firmly and steadied myself. I thought of Franklin and Matthew and that gave me the courage and strength I needed. ‘Marion,’ I said, ‘you cannot remain in this house a moment longer. I only hope my poor children have not been subjected to scenes such as this.’ I stepped aside from the open doorway for her to exit.
Marion appeared to be considering her options, but I stood firm, and hardened myself against any pleading. Above all, I knew that if I remained strong, I had the upper hand. Had Marion’s poor deluded husband, Mr Norbert, suspected infidelity, he would have put her aside in shame and poverty. We stared at each other for a while, then Marion actually gave a smile. ‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘I have had all I can stomach of your insane son. He should be beaten until he comes to his senses, that’s what I would do, but no, you won’t allow it. Him and his ghosts and demons! He will end up in a madhouse, that’s for sure!’ Uncowed and unashamed, she left the room and I closed the door on her without regret.
Silas stayed where he was and calmly lit a cigar. ‘I suppose you want to know how far this has gone,’ he said.
With an effort I held on to both my courage and my dignity. ‘I do not. I have no interest in the subject. You may do as you please.’
We heard the voice of Mrs Norbert in the hallway loudly ordering the servants to pack her box and arrange for a carriage to the railway station. I sat down facing the man I had once called husband. ‘There is something I must tell you, but I will wait until Marion has left the house, then I will fetch Franklin and we will talk.’
‘Very well,’ said Silas. He continued to smoke, in a slow and untroubled manner. I gazed at him. He was a stranger to me now, a man I had never really known. We remained in silence for a few minutes, and then the parlour door was pushed open and Franklin appeared, his clothes rumpled, his eyes dusty with sleep. ‘I heard a noise,’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Your aunt is going away,’ I said, and there was no mistaking the relief in my dear boy’s reaction to this news. ‘But come and sit by me, Franklin, I have something to tell you both.’
Franklin edged forward, glancing nervously at Silas, who took no notice of him, and sat down near to me. I was moved almost to tears at how thin he looked, how much younger than his fourteen years. What had I missed? What had I been blind to? Whatever happened I would not allow anyone other than myself to care for him now.
Silas casually took out his pocket watch and examined it. ‘So what is this about?’
‘As you know,’ I said, ‘I paid a visit to my — ‘ the word ‘friend’ the one I might once have used stuck so deeply in my throat that I could hardly breathe — ‘my acquaintance Mrs Wandle in Seabourne this morning, and I have learned something of great importance. It concerns Jasper. I have a letter, one which he wrote to me shortly before his death.’
‘And this has only just appeared? After all these years?’ demanded Silas, incredulously.
‘Not years, weeks.’
‘I — don’t understand.’
I spoke as clearly and as steadily as she could. ‘Jasper did not die when he fell from the yacht. He was able to reach the shore, where he found a home in Seabourne. He did not come back because of the scandal over the insurance fraud. But he wanted to come back, he wrote in his letter about his great affection for me and his beloved children, and how desperately he wished to be with us again, but he knew that if he did return, he would be put in prison and bring shame to us. So he lived out a humble life at an inn. He died in January of a weak heart.’
Silas grunted and pulled at his cigar. ‘Flim-flam!’ he said.
‘It is true. The letter is in his handwriting, I have no doubt of it, and there is other proof, a family portrait he always carried with him, and the clothes he wore on the day he disappeared.’
Franklin gazed up at me and his eyes, the lids swollen with fatigue, were open wide like caverns filled with wonder. ‘So — father didn’t drown?’ he whispered.