Page 50 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)

‘The gardener was let go before he planted any vegetables, and the fruit’s not ripe yet,’ said Mrs Clegg.

The fact of the matter was that Job had been looking after the garden since the gardener left, and though there wasn’t much yet, there were a few new potatoes and early peas.

But she didn’t feel like sharing those with her ladyship, who wouldn’t give you the scrapings from her plate if things were the other way about.

She’d have let the master have some if he’d come back with the pigeons.

But he was a nice man, who’d always been kind and civil to her, and given Job a position when a lot wouldn’t have.

‘Some bread and cheese, then,’ Linda said, turning away. She wasn’t particularly interested in food, but was hungry, not having eaten all day.

‘No cheese, my lady. The dairyman’s not been paid.’

Linda gave her the bare, furious look of a caged bird of prey. ‘Bread then. And tell Job to bring up a bottle of wine from the cellar.’

‘Which one, my lady?’

‘What the devil does it matter? Any one,’ Linda snapped.

She couldn’t make it real in her mind. Cordwell dead?

And in such a bizarre manner. With a huge effort of imagination she saw him setting off, the broken gun under his arm as she had seen men carrying guns all her life.

Why would he lock it again? If he was going after pigeons in the woods, he would have climbed the stile first. Unless he had seen a tempting target while still in the lane.

Would he then have climbed over with the gun unbroken?

Well, evidently he had. Everyone makes mistakes.

She felt a tremor of fury with him, that he had made one with such consequences to other people.

A man with a wife and children had no right to be careless.

As soon as he came in, she would tell him so, in no uncertain terms . . .

She realised again, with a jolt, that he would not be coming in.

She shook her head. It just didn’t seem real.

She got up restlessly and walked about the room, then from room to room, and finally on an impulse went into his business-room.

She hardly ever went in there. It was very much his domain.

Perhaps she would find some realisation in it.

It smelt of his cigars and hair oil, just a faint, ghostly aroma against the solid background smell of damp.

As soon as she sniffed hard, she lost it.

She looked around, but couldn’t find him here.

She thought, He’s gone. Gerald’s gone . She stared at his smoking-jacket, hanging on a hook on the door, but it was just an old jacket.

Then she thought, I don’t need him. I’m only thirty.

I’ve the rest of my life ahead of me . She was a widow.

Like her mother. But her mother was old.

I should never have married him . But she hadn’t known – none of them had known, not even Gerald – how bad his situation was.

Well, he was gone. What now? She shivered.

I hate this house . There was no need to stay here now.

She could go and live at the Castle and be comfortable.

Giles would have to support her. She supposed the estate must belong to Arthur now.

It would not be her responsibility, thank God.

She could leave him to decide what to do with it when he came of age.

I could marry again , she thought. She was young enough. And this time, she could marry someone with a solid fortune.

She had wandered over to Gerald’s desk, and now sat down behind it.

There were papers on the desk, lots of them, letters and documents spread out untidily, as though he had been reading and been called hurriedly away before tidying them up.

Idly she picked up one from the top, a letter with the bank’s masthead. Words jumped out at her.

. . . deeply regret . . .

. . . situation of the utmost seriousness . . .

. . . not possible to extend any of the loans any further . . . . . . see no course but to declare bankruptcy . . .

She read it from the beginning, her knuckles whitening as the letter crumpled under the force of her grip. Then she started to read the other documents, snatching them up and devouring them, her mind now fully awake.

At last she stopped, and stared at empty space, feeling sick.

It was too quiet in here. She became aware that she was missing the ticking of the longcase clock that had always stood in the corner, and when she looked, it was not there, just a ghost-shape of slightly lighter wallpaper.

The oil painting over the fireplace was gone too, as were the silver cups that had stood along the mantelpiece – cups Gerald had won at school, and in sporting competitions since.

She thought about the rooms she had just wandered through.

She took little notice of her surroundings, but it came to her they had been even barer than she remembered.

Paintings, ornaments, furniture, even some carpets were gone.

Here in the litter on the desk were unpaid bills from tradesmen who declined to offer any more credit.

A carpenter’s bill. A glazier requiring payment before he would come and replace another broken pane.

An assessment from a surveyor about work needed to maintain the building, along with his bill – unpaid.

Not just the roof, the gutters and downpipes, but some of the walls crumbling because of damp, window frames rotting, chimneys in danger of tumbling down.

Trees too close to the walls, roots damaging the cellars.

Bill for estimating cost of tree felling and trimming – unpaid.

Most of the land had long been sold off.

She knew the house and the home park were mortgaged.

The home park was let to a local farmer for grazing and timber, the rental just about covering the mortgage payments, but if the house and park were sold, the mortgage would eat up any sale price.

And that was it. She gave a snort of laughter.

She had thought Arthur could decide what to do with the estate when he came of age, but there was no estate, just an empty shell, fragile as burned paper in the grate, which would fall to dust at a touch.

She sat in Gerald’s chair behind Gerald’s desk and stared at the sea of paper, imagining what his thoughts had been.

There was nothing left to sell, no credit to be had, nowhere else to go.

Bankruptcy would have freed him from his debts but prevented his ever recovering his position; and the shame would have attached to Linda and the children for ever.

She no longer felt like laughing. She really felt rather like crying, but it had been so long since she had allowed a tear to pass her eye, she didn’t know how to do it.

Afton had packed and gone to the station with the luggage, and Giles was preparing to say his goodbyes and follow, when the telegram arrived.

Not even in the extreme of her anguish could Linda bring herself to go over the ten words and have to pay extra.

CORDWELL DEAD+MONEY ALL GONE+TELL GILES COME AT ONCE++

‘You must go, of course,’ said the dowager. ‘I wish she had told us a little more. The telegram she received spoke of an accident, but we have no idea what sort.’

‘Cordwell dead!’ Aunt Caroline exclaimed. ‘How can it be?’

‘It hardly matters how ,’ Maud said impatiently. ‘Perhaps a chimney fell on him. Or the roof collapsed. Linda spoke about the terrible state of repair.’

‘Oh dear! I hope it wasn’t anything too . . .’ She didn’t want to say ‘messy’. She was quite pale. ‘Poor Linda! What a blessing, as it turns out, that she brought the children to London with her.’

Maud was brisk. ‘I must send a note round to the cousins – they will have to break the news. I think it better if the children remain with them for the time being. There is no need for them to attend the funeral, whenever that happens. You will have to arrange it,’ she added to Giles.

‘Of course,’ he said. He was thinking of the sentence money all gone . Was that Linda’s usual exaggeration, or was it literally true? He had already had to deal with his father’s financial delinquency. He didn’t want to have to go through it all again with the Cordwell estate.

‘The most important consideration,’ Maud went on, ‘is Rachel. This must not be allowed to spoil her debut.’

Giles came back from financial considerations to say, ‘She will have to go into mourning, I suppose?’

‘I have been thinking about that,’ said Maud, whose mind had been working furiously. ‘If he had only waited another month . . . July balls are not important, and out-of-town events can be more easily managed.’

‘I don’t suppose the timing was in his gift,’ Giles said drily.

Maud paid him no attention. Her gaze was fixed on her sister’s. ‘I don’t think,’ she said slowly, ‘do you, Caro, that in the circumstances . . . ?’

Caroline returned the look, and picked up the thread. ‘You mean with the relationship being so remote?’ she said intelligently. ‘Only a brother-in-law?’

‘Merely a sister’s husband,’ Maud improved. ‘Hardly a relationship at all.’

‘Complimentary mourning would only require four weeks – perhaps one might make it two? Attending balls, but not actually dancing?’

‘But in this case,’ Maud pronounced, ‘I think slight mourning is all that’s required. It’s not as if Cordwell was in society. He rarely came to London. No-one knew him. Slight mourning, I think, would amply answer the case.’

‘Which means what?’ Giles asked.

‘Attending balls and dancing, but no laughing,’ said Caroline. ‘Quiet behaviour. And white gowns. With perhaps a purple band around the hem.’

‘A mauve band,’ Maud corrected. ‘And white gloves with a mauve trim.’

‘The difference will hardly be noticeable.’ Caroline looked up in sudden doubt. ‘But do you think—’

‘It’s what Linda would want,’ said Maud, firmly. ‘She, of all people, knows the importance of a girl’s Season.’