Chapter 47
‘Lilian thought that you managing the estate would allow you to get used to the idea of one day owning it,’ said Lionel. ‘Looking at you now, I’m not so sure that’s true. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as white with shock.’
‘I don’t think I could ever get used to the idea,’ said Marnie, beyond stupefied. ‘This . . . this doesn’t happen in real life.’
‘But it does and it has,’ said Lionel. ‘I’d like you to take a walk with me.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Marnie.
‘To Emelie’s House. To Little Apples,’ said Lionel.
Marnie followed Lionel out of the room, out of the manor, along the drive that joined Kytson Hill to where Emelie’s stone cottage stood. They walked down the path, past the apple tree. Lionel reached up and pulled off one of the larger fruits, polishing it on his sleeve before pushing it into his pocket and exchanging it for a key.
‘Come on, Marnie, let’s go inside.’
Lionel unlocked the door and they stepped into the cottage. The fusty smell rushed at them.
Marnie grimaced. ‘I wanted Emelie to move out of here.’
‘She wouldn’t have,’ said Lionel. ‘Do you have a phone with you? Is it one with a torch on it?’
Marnie foraged in her handbag and brought out her iPhone.
Lionel went into the kitchen and then into the pantry. Inside it, there was a door that opened onto a flight of stone steps leading down. Lionel flicked on the light switch.
‘Emelie said she didn’t have a cellar,’ said Marnie, with a gasp of surprise.
‘She lied,’ said Lionel. ‘Dear me.’ The further down they ventured, the more the walls were saturated. ‘I’ve never seen it this bad before. The water falls down from the hill and it collects at the back of the cottage,’ he explained.
‘I know. Emelie took me strawberry picking. It was a quagmire.’
When she reached the bottom of the steps, Marnie found they were at the beginning of a tunnel with a low arched ceiling.
‘You’ll need that torch now,’ said Lionel. Marnie switched it on.
‘Wow.’ This is like something Manfred Masters might have constructed, was Marnie’s first thought.
‘We don’t know why the tunnel was built in the first place, but presumably it was intended to lead into the woods. Very handy for the Shanke family to help their priest escape, but of course it was built years before Henry the Eighth turned Protestant. Maybe the builder had second sight of what was to come.’
‘What’s at the other end of it?’
‘You’ll see soon enough.’
The tunnel curved to the left and they came to another door with an iron hoop for a handle. Lionel twisted it then pushed and it opened into the manor’s cellar where Marnie and Herv had gone exploring. The door had a wine rack on the other side and when Lionel shut it again, it was undetectable.
‘Imagine being here in the dead of night,’ said Lionel as they walked up the steps, through the boot room, the scullery, then into the kitchen. ‘You can’t risk being seen because you’re here in secret. Don’t switch your torch off yet, Marnie.’
‘Ok-ay,’ said Marnie, still puzzled. She followed him into the body of the manor, up the main staircase and along the windowed gallery where Lionel sat down on one of the seats and took the apple out of his pocket. He turned it around so that she could see that it had started to redden on one side.
‘Do you know what type of apples grow on Emelie’s tree, Marnie?’
‘I have no idea,’ she replied.
‘It does better in warmer climates, but it survives here in Wychwell for some reason. It’s a Pink Lady.’
A Pink Lady, Marnie repeated to herself. Then Lionel watched the expression on her face change as the realisation dawned.
‘A . . . the Pink Lady. The ghost?’
‘Lilian’s little joke,’ chuckled Lionel. ‘When Emelie used to come here at night, she walked with a lantern, or her torch, rather than switch on a light and alert the whole village to her presence.
‘Emelie was the Pink Lady?’
‘The chemical compounds in the glass here make any light behind it appear pink. Someone saw a strange glow, presumed it was a ghost. Lilian knew it wasn’t, of course, but she nevertheless encouraged the misconception.’
Marnie laughed. ‘The little monkey,’ she said. ‘But why would—’
‘She was so full of fun,’ said Lionel, cutting her off, the sun fading from his smile. ‘At least she was after Jago died. Turn off your torchlight, Marnie. There’s more to tell.’
Marnie did as he asked and they made their way back down the gallery. They passed the portrait of the Irish lady on the stairs and Marnie shivered as if they shared a secret, or maybe something implanted in their genes. Lionel led her into the library.
‘Lionel, was Lilian my—’
‘All in good time, Marnie. Lilian wanted you to inherit the manor before she’d even met you. You spoke to each other on the internet. You opened your hearts to each other, I know this. Emelie and I were . . . and you’ll forgive me . . . concerned for her welfare. Lilian could get very confused. She had slight brain damage from unregulated electroconvulsive treatment.’
‘Lilian did?’ Marnie shook her head in bewilderment. ‘When did she have that? I didn’t know.’
‘I’m coming to it. Emelie and I both recommended caution, until we could get to know you properly,’ Lionel went on. ‘It was an amazing coincidence, after all, that your birth date matched that of Lilian’s . . . confinement.’ He chose the word carefully. It was an old-fashioned term for pregnancy, Marnie knew.
‘You have to tell me, Lionel, am I Lilian’s child?’ asked Marnie, her voice small, stolen by emotion, by expectancy.
‘My dear girl, you aren’t,’ said Lionel, gently. ‘There never was a child.’
Marnie’s heart gave a delayed beat. She hadn’t realised how much she had wanted Lionel to say that she was until the moment when he said that she wasn’t. She felt punctured. Her face dropped into hands trembling with shock and she felt Lionel’s arms around her, pulling her into his chest.
‘I’m all too aware of rumours that I fathered Lilian’s baby and she was sent away to Ireland to have it, but it’s all untrue. But I let those convenient rumours persist. It kept people from sniffing around for more.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘It’s no secret that I have been in love with Lilian Dearman for most of our lives. I would have married her in an instant, but it was not to be. Then it became an easier truth for Lilian to accept, that she’d had a child out of wedlock and it had been taken from her.’
Marnie drew back from Lionel. ‘Why an easier truth? It was the nineteen eighties, not the eighteen eighties. If she’d had a baby and not been married, what difference would it make in this day and age?’
Lionel walked over to the books on the shelves and lifted one out. He found the page he wanted then set the book down on the library desk. It featured a photo of a large, puffy-faced country gent with bulging eyes and lots of facial hair. He looked like an obese wolf and had more than a passing resemblance to Titus.
‘Jago Dearman,’ explained Lionel. ‘The most hideous man in our solar system. A bully, a brute, an abuser of women. When you have power and money and status and connections, Marnie, you can override any rule you choose. Lilian and Rachel were indelibly scarred by this . . . animal. He had his wife sectioned, then locked away in a secure hospital after he discovered the affair with her doctor. The girls were allowed to visit her only once and it terrified them. He threatened to do the same to them if they ever tested his boundaries. Rachel of course tried to escape and tragically suffered for it, Lilian complied but . . . she was very unloved. And love was what she craved more than anything. So, when she found it, she threw caution to the wind.’
‘George Purcell?’
Lionel picked up the book and flicked to another page. Marnie could see, as he held it, that it was entitled The History of the Dales Families.
He put it back down in front of Marnie again. A formal family portrait. A beautiful blonde woman with a bouffant hairstyle in a sleeveless evening dress. In her arms a baby and two sombre-looking boys sitting beside her on a chaise. Behind her a ridiculously handsome man with short hair and wide shoulders in a white shirt and evening jacket. Generous lips, dark brown eyes.
‘George Purcell,’ said Lionel.
‘Handsome man,’ nodded Marnie.
‘And her husband Edwin.’
Marnie’s eyebrows sank under the weight of puzzlement. ‘Sorry? Is that not . . .’
‘Georgina Purcell, George to her friends,’ said Lionel.
‘Lilian had an affair with a woman?’
‘Yes,’ said Lionel. ‘A passionate and not very careful affair. George Purcell would never have left her husband, whom she loved; Lilian was a mere dalliance and the affair ended but Lilian . . . dear Lilian . . . was deeply in love and couldn’t let her go. Edwin came to see Jago who was of course livid that he had “an aberration for a daughter”. He arranged for Lilian to be taken – forcibly – to a hospital in Ireland, where they attempted to cure her.’
Marnie noticed how Lionel’s jaw twitched, how his fist clenched at his side.
‘What they did to her in that place was unspeakable. All in the name of religion.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘My father was in charge of St Jude’s then, he was horrified at what Jago had done. He was instrumental in getting Lilian home again. Oh my, Marnie, you should have seen her. She was completely and utterly in pieces. Broken beyond help, we thought.’ Lionel stood up quickly, turned from her and she knew that he was hiding a tide of great emotion. She gave him time to recover, shifting her attention to the items on the library desk: a silver roller blotter, an art deco perpetual calendar, a vase; once broken but mended with melted gold.
Then Marnie understood. The edelweiss in her gardens, flooding at the feet of her favourite lilies.
‘Emelie and Lilian were lovers weren’t they?’
Lionel nodded slowly. ‘Lilian was terrified of her feelings. Even after her father died and she was in charge of her own life, she still believed she would be taken away, back to Ireland, back to that hospital. And Emelie fought her feelings for as long as possible because she was older than Lilian and saw how fragile she was. No one had to know. Lilian wouldn’t have risked their secret being made public. She would have killed herself before exposure because of what those . . . bastards put her through. I guessed, but then I knew her better than she knew herself. That love made Lilian whole again, better than whole.’
‘And Lilian supplanted her memories with a false one that she’d had a child in Ireland and it would one day come and find her and everything would be all right?’ suggested Marnie.
‘That’s about it in a nutshell,’ Lionel replied. ‘It was an easier truth – a better truth – for her to believe.’
‘And so that’s why she wanted Wychwell to come to me. Because she thought I was her baby grown up and come home.’
‘Yes.’
Marnie looked horrified. ‘But that means I’d be inheriting Wychwell under false pretences. I couldn’t—’
‘But Lilian didn’t leave it to you, dear,’ Lionel cut in. ‘She left it to Emelie and Emelie left it to you. Emelie knew of course that you weren’t Lilian’s daughter. But you could have been, she loved you as if you were. You were similar in so many ways and you both have those beautiful green eyes; we almost came to believe it ourselves that you were hers. Emelie was in no doubt that you were the best person to take care of Wychwell. But I didn’t know she was ill. That was one secret she kept from us all.’
The clock on the wall sounded so loud in the ensuing silence. A deep, comforting tock marking time.
‘There’s a lot to take in,’ said Lionel. ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t give you the news you really wanted. I think you would have liked to have had Lilian as your mother.’
Marnie, unable to speak, gave a small sad smile.
‘And I know, Marnie, that she believed that she was your mother and that made her very happy.’
Marnie walked home to Little Raspberries across the green, aware of eyes on her through windows making her conscious of every step. As she turned the corner, she saw Hilary sitting on her low wall, still in her funereal garb and her mood rose.
‘I appear to be homeless,’ Hilary said with a smile. ‘Do you think the new lady of the manor might let me have a cup of tea?’
At the side of her doorstep was a posy of flowers and a bag of home grown onions, plus a bottle of David’s cherry wine, so the label read.
‘I can stretch to something stronger if you like,’ said Marnie, picking up the presents and opening the door. Company would be good today.
‘What a lovely house,’ said Hilary, walking in and looking around. ‘Though, I suppose you’ll be living in the manor soon.’
‘I haven’t even thought about it,’ replied Marnie. ‘I’m waiting to open my eyes and find out it’s all been a dream.’ So long as she didn’t wake up at her desk in Café Caramba with Suranna King about to land her a punch, she thought. All that debacle felt like a million lifetimes away.
Marnie took two glasses out of her cupboard and uncorked the wine.
‘Cheers,’ said Hilary, raising her glass to chink against Marnie’s as they sat at the kitchen table. ‘Here’s to new beginnings.’
‘And here’s to your . . . freedom?’ Marnie asked tentatively.
‘Oh yes,’ Hilary said with emphasis. ‘Julian is driving up for me as we speak. I shan’t be taking anything with me. I’ve moved everything I have of any value out of the house already.’ Hilary didn’t look the same dowdy woman as she’d appeared the first time Marnie had seen her. Her eyes were shining, her complexion dewy, even her grey hair was bouncier. ‘I’ll make sure that Titus leaves Wychwell, too. I have an offer he can’t refuse.’
‘I’ll miss you,’ said Marnie. ‘I mean, I hardly know you, but I’ve known other people for longer and yet less, if you know what I mean.’
Hilary smiled again, the smile of a truly content woman. ‘I do.’
They sipped the wine and it was sweet and punchy and tasted of summer.
‘Marnie, I have an apology to make to you,’ said Hilary. ‘I really didn’t know that Titus had been stealing from the estate funds until I started snooping around when I was trying to get my own finances in order to leave him. How much has he taken?’
‘I haven’t got a final figure, but, it’s a lot. At least a million.’
‘Oh hell.’ Hilary let out a long breath and raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I’ve been a fool too, trusting him. I really believed we were living from wise investments, but I hold true to the promise I made and I will make sure it is all paid back to the estate. And whatever he has taken from the people in the village, I’ll get it returned to them too. I have a plan.’
Poor Hilary, thought Marnie. She must feel terrible.
‘Mr Wemyss is on the case,’ she said, hoping that might relieve her of the obligation to fulfil such a ridiculously ambitious pledge.
Hilary picked up the copy of the fourth Country Manors book, which was sitting on the table next to a duo of salt and pepper pots.
‘Titus has forbidden me from reading these, says they’re pornographic tripe. Which is rich considering what I’ve recently found he views on the internet. But then again, he is the emperor of double standards.’
‘I can give you book two and three if you haven’t got them yet,’ Marnie offered, ‘but you’re not having that number four until I’ve finished it. I have to find out how it all ends.’
‘It doesn’t end at book four, surely?’ said Hilary, flicking to the last page. ‘She’d be an idiot if she killed the cash cow.’
‘You’ll laugh,’ said Marnie, ‘but I bet there won’t be another one. I think Emelie Tibbs was Penelope Black.’
Hilary looked at Marnie, realised she was serious and then burst into laughter. ‘That isn’t true.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Marnie. ‘Someone in Wychwell wrote that series. I’d put my life on it.’
‘I know they did. Me,’ said Hilary. ‘I’m Penelope Black.’
For the umpteenth time that day, Marnie was stunned into silence. Hilary topped Marnie’s glass up and handed it to her.
‘These are the sorts of days that enrich my writing,’ she said. ‘The days when fact out-fictions fiction.’
When Marnie eventually found her voice it was to say just one word: ‘You?’
‘Yes, me,’ said Hilary with a deep curve of a grin. ‘And I owe so much to Titus really. If he hadn’t kept telling me that I had no imagination whatsoever, I wouldn’t have tried to prove him wrong. I picked up a notepad one day and I started a story about a hideous dick’ – Hilary’s beautiful voice made a hideous dick sound something to aspire to – ‘with a giant chip on his shoulder. Married to a woman with passions surging under a very ordinary exterior. Then I added a masterful anti-hero who realises her true worth.’
‘Lara, and Manfred?’
‘My middle name is Clara,’ grinned Hilary. ‘My maiden name is Stamp.’
‘Oh my lord, Penelope . . . Penny Black.’
‘I never expected to be published. I certainly didn’t expect the tsunami of interest and the clamouring for more.’
‘And who is Manfred based on?’ Marnie couldn’t wait to find out.
‘He’s a collage of all my favourites: Julian of course, Michael Bublé, a little bit of Orson Welles and a lot of Liam Neeson.’
Marnie laughed, then stopped suddenly as the full implication of Hilary’s alter-ego hit her like a slap from a heavyweight boxer.
‘You’re super rich.’
‘I am,’ Hilary agreed. ‘And that means that Titus will be gunning for me financially soon. Julian Fosse is my publisher as well as my lover and he’s managed to delay some payments on my books so I look officially much poorer than I am, but I will still need to give Titus quite a sum to get out of my marriage. I shall repay everything, plus interest, that he has stolen directly back to Wychwell as part of the divorce settlement, so please forward me the final figures. A little insight: if he doesn’t agree to it, between us we will combine forces to sue him for embezzlement and also to drag the family name through the mud, which is of stupid importance to him. He wouldn’t want it tarnished, which is more than ironic. You hold a cocked shotgun to his head with that threat, trust me.’
Hilary’s phone rang and she excused herself whilst she answered it.
From the smile on her face, Marnie didn’t need to ask who was on the other end of it.
‘My chauffeur has arrived in the car park,’ she said, replacing the phone in her bag. ‘Thank you for your friendship, Marnie. I always had my sister to talk to and I’ve missed her so much. The day you pulled up beside me in the rain was one of those awful low times when I really needed her. I was so grateful for your company. You’re a good soul, I sensed that from the beginning.’ Hilary picked up her handbag. Even that small action showed off her innate elegance.
‘I’ll miss you,’ said Marnie. ‘I hope you’re so happy.’
‘And I shall miss you too, Marnie. Come down to London and see me. I’ll send you books. We will stay in touch.’
‘That’d be lovely.’
At the door Hilary embraced Marnie. Tightly.
‘Break the curse, Marnie. Be the first person to live out a long and happy life in the manor. Are you Lilian’s daughter?’
‘No,’ sighed Marnie. ‘Sadly.’
‘I’m glad, though,’ said Hilary. ‘Too much bad blood. I think a family curse might be the theme of my next Country Manors.’
And with that, Hilary walked out of Marnie’s cottage to the car park where an Aston Martin was waiting to zoom her away to her own new life.
*
The cottage felt like a hug after Hilary had gone. Something small and snug and tight around her that would keep her safe with its firm walls, low ceilings and uneven floors. Today there had been too much information, too many words, too many secrets blown open. But one stayed closed in her heart, folded like a bud that could never blossom for even Little Raspberries couldn’t protect her from the long, cold shadow of the past. Nor could Emelie’s fortune buy her a passage back in time to change the biggest mistake she ever made.