The Secret of Summerhayes. Merryn Allingham
rush and bother of departure, he hadn’t forgotten his aunt. She hoped Alice would say thank you when he returned, though she couldn’t depend on it. Gilbert might be a devoted nephew but his aunt was slow in returning his regard. Whenever he called, it seemed that Alice was too tired to see him, or she was listening to her favourite wireless programme and didn’t want to be disturbed, or it was time for lunch or tea or supper. Beth had so far been unable to discover what the problem might be. No doubt the root of the trouble lay in the past since this was where Alice dwelt for most of her waking hours. Gilbert appeared unfazed by his aunt’s evident lack of affection and continued to enquire of her health and, from time to time, sent small gifts from the Amberley estate, including today’s magnificent flowers filling the small kitchen with their perfume. She would have noticed them earlier if her nerves had not been so jangled. She must thank Gilbert as soon as he got back, even if his aunt did not. In the meantime, she would do her best to return the favour by teaching his son as much as Ralph was willing to learn. So far, that hadn’t proved a great deal; Ralph was not an academic child.
She went back into the sitting room and handed Alice her cup of tea, making sure the old lady had a firm hold of the saucer. Then she returned to the kitchen and gathered up the bouquet. ‘Look, you have flowers, Mrs Summer. Aren’t they splendid? I hope I can find a vase that’s big enough. Perhaps the Venetian one?’ That was Alice’s favourite.
The old lady’s face brightened. She loved flowers, loved colour. ‘I always had fresh flowers, every few days. Mr Harris – he was the Head Gardener – he’d cut me new blooms and they would fill the house.’
‘They must have looked lovely – and smelt lovely, too.’
‘They did. The house was very beautiful. I didn’t realise how beautiful. I should have enjoyed it more. Now this is all I’m left with.’ She waved her hand at the sitting room and the narrow hallway beyond, while Beth jumped to her feet to rescue the tea. Undeterred, Alice went on. ‘You see, I was brought up at Amberley, and it was always Amberley where I wanted to be.’
When Beth made no reply, she said, ‘Do you know it?’
Amberley was Gilbert Fitzroy’s home. ‘I know of it. It’s the estate that adjoins Summerhayes.’
‘It belonged to my parents,’ she said fiercely, as though Beth’s description had somehow disputed its ownership. ‘And then to my brother, Henry.’
‘And now to your nephew.’
Alice looked blank. ‘Gilbert,’ Beth said gently.
‘Inheritance knows no distinction,’ she muttered.
Beth had no idea what she meant, but she was concerned that at any moment the conversation would lead back to Elizabeth. ‘Talking of Amberley, these flowers are from their greenhouse. Gilbert must have asked his gardener to pick them especially for you.’
The old lady sniffed. The subject was evidently closed. ‘Can I pour you another cup?’ She thought the pot would just about run to it, though the liquid looked more like straw than tea.
‘You make a good cup of tea, Bethany. Better than Ivy, she never managed to cope with rationing.’
‘Now that she’s married to a farmer, it will be less of a problem.’
‘But Higson isn’t a farmer. Not any longer. He sold the farm – the military paid a good price for it, I believe, and that decided him. He bought a bungalow in Devon, on the coast. A place called Solmouth, Sidton…’
‘Sidmouth?’
‘That’s it. He asked Ivy to marry him before he left. She’d been a good girl to him ever since his wife died.’
‘So a happy ending?’
It didn’t seem that happy to Alice. She gave a long sigh. ‘I miss her. She was with me for so many years. Not that I’m not glad for her. Mr Higson is some compensation. She lost her first love, you know. Poor Miller – such a tragedy. He was our chauffeur, but they found him in the garden at the bottom of the estate. Drowned.’
An uncomfortable tingle started in the nape of Beth’s neck and slowly spread the length of her spine. She had walked that way once and been startled how uneasy she’d felt. There had been a kind of darkness to the place that had sent her scurrying. Afterwards she’d scolded herself for being foolish, but was it possible that the garden still held fast to a bad memory?
‘I’m glad for her,’ Alice repeated. ‘She did well for herself. And May Lacey, too. Girls from humble families. Whereas my daughter threw herself away on an Irishman without a shirt to his back. It’s a different world these days.’
Beth agreed, but she’d been only half listening. She should go in search of Ralph. She was already beginning to regret her agreement with Gilbert. The war had closed the boy’s school last year and he was woefully behind with his studies. It might have been better if his father had looked for a full-time tutor. Teaching at the same time as caring for Alice was proving a challenge, and she’d had to cancel the last two lessons. Ralph had been happy with the chance to escape since he had far more interesting things to do than sums and composition, but she couldn’t let it happen again. Today she’d told herself that she would have at least two hours with him and here was Mrs Summer, trying for an outward calm, but still deeply upset. She could see how disturbed the old lady remained from the way she was holding her cup, rattling it badly in its saucer.
Alice had an inner toughness, Beth had discovered, and she wouldn’t like it that she’d been found crying. She was trying hard to put on a brave face, but the letters had caused damage. The first one had arrived a month back, shortly after Beth had come to Summerhayes. She’d been stunned when she’d learnt the tragic history of this otherwise unremarkable woman: a husband and son prematurely dead and a daughter who seemingly had disappeared from the face of the earth at just nineteen years old. That first letter had brought all the sadness that Alice carried struggling into the light.
The letters were anonymous, but from the beginning they’d indicated that the writer, whoever they were, was bound for Summerhayes. The first one had been postmarked Southampton, suggesting a traveller from abroad, but then the second and third had come from London. In each letter the unknown writer had claimed to be drawing nearer to Summerhayes, promising Alice a loving reunion. Until today. Today the promise had been withdrawn; hence the old lady’s cries of despair. But if the writer were honest in seeking Alice, why had they gone to London? Why not travel directly to Summerhayes from Southampton? But they weren’t honest, were they? Otherwise they would have signed the letters, along with their protestations of love, and Alice would know for sure who would call and when. For a short while, the old lady’s iron certainty that the letters came from her daughter had made Beth question if, in fact, Alice were right, and that perhaps the writer was an unstable woman, disturbed enough to contact her mother anonymously. But there was too much deliberation in the pattern of the letters; that suggested a calculating mind determined to cause the maximum pain. Alice was being played with, Beth thought, but why and to what purpose, she couldn’t tell. All she could do was try to protect the poor lady as best she could.
She rescued the rattling cup and cast around for a way to soothe her elderly charge. ‘Shall I start another illustration?’ Alice loved to watch her draw, no doubt because the lost daughter had been an artist and in some small way Beth’s sketch pad reminded her of happier days.
With an effort, the old lady agreed. ‘That would be nice, my dear. What is it to be?’ She pulled herself upright and arranged her face to appear interested.
‘Let me see… we’d reached the point where Izzy is lost.’ Beth brought her companion up to date with the progress of the story. ‘If you remember, she escaped from the cottage when she was told to stay there, and now she can’t find her way out of the Tangled Wood.’ Izzy was the naughty heroine who one day, Beth hoped, would entrance a young audience. She found her pad and a handful of sharp pencils, and settled herself in the chair opposite. A forest scene would make an interesting subject. For a while, the only sound in the room was the slight scratching of pencil on paper. Then Alice spoke into the