Miss Mary’s Daughter Read online

  Matty shrugged. ‘We shan’t know until it’s opened, shall we?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that we should open it ourselves?’

  ‘No, Charles, I’m not, but I do think we should give my father the chance to read it if he wants to.’

  ‘If it is from Mary, she’s probably writing because she wants something,’ Louisa said tartly. ‘Though why she thinks he’ll give her anything after the way she went against his wishes, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘She’s still his daughter,’ replied Matty, ‘and our sister.’

  ‘Papa doesn’t regard her as such, and to be honest, Matty, neither do I. Mary walked out on this family, causing a scandal we all had to live down. She made her bed, so she must lie in it.’

  Matty’s lips tightened but she made no answer to this, simply pushed her plate away and got up from the table. What Louisa said was true, but even so, Matty knew she couldn’t simply forget that she had a sister, and a twin at that.

  ‘I’m going up to sit with Papa,’ she said.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ snapped Louisa.

  ‘Perhaps he is, but I’m going to sit with him until he wakes up.’

  ‘You’re not to tell him about the letter,’ Louisa said fiercely. ‘It’s not up to you, and I don’t trust you.’

  ‘I don’t trust you either,’ Matty retorted. ‘I have the letter safely with me and it’ll stay with me until the time comes to give it to Papa.’ She hadn’t really thought Louisa would destroy the letter, not until this moment, but now she was glad that she had tucked it into her bag.

  Matty was still sitting with her father when Dr Bryan returned to have another look at his patient. Louisa brought him upstairs and having introduced him to Matty said to her father, ‘Now then, Papa, here’s Dr Bryan come to see you again.’

  Thomas was propped up against his pillows, awake and already fretting at being confined to bed. ‘As if I were some ninny of a schoolgirl.’

  ‘I understand your frustration, sir,’ Dr Bryan said. ‘But it will speed your recovery if you follow my advice and keep to your bed for another few days.’

  ‘They’re feeding me pap,’ growled Thomas. ‘I want some bread and cheese and a glass of brandy. That’s what I need to speed my recovery!’

  ‘Certainly a glass of brandy will do you no harm,’ the doctor agreed with a smile. ‘But nourishing soups are the diet I would prescribe for a day or so. We don’t want to put a strain on your digestion until you’re quite well.’

  When the doctor was leaving, Matty went downstairs with him. She liked the way he had dealt with her father; not many people could handle him so well. He had made Thomas agree to stay in bed for the next day at least, and then only to come downstairs for a while in the afternoons.

  ‘You don’t feel his condition is serious?’ she asked as they stood together in the hall while Edith retrieved Dr Bryan’s coat.

  ‘One can never be sure,’ replied the doctor, ‘not with a man of his age. But he seems tough and I expect him to make a good recovery. He may have to slow down his pace of life, take things a little easier. This seizure today is a warning. If he heeds it there may be nothing further.’

  Matty held out her hand. ‘Thank you, Doctor, you are very encouraging.’

  ‘What a charming man Dr Bryan is,’ she said as they all sat down to dinner that evening. ‘I think he’ll be very popular in the village.’ She smiled across at her sister. ‘He’s good-looking too, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Louisa was dismissive. ‘I haven’t given his appearance much thought. It’s his skill as a doctor I’m interested in.’

  ‘So am I,’ agreed Matty. ‘But I’m sure he’ll set a few hearts aflutter in the village.’

  ‘Well, that has nothing to do with us,’ returned her sister tersely, and gave her attention back to her plate.

  Matty said no more. She and her elder sister did not get on well these days. Louisa resented the fact that Matty’s marriage to George Treslyn had released her from Trescadinnick, leaving her, Louisa, to deal with their father. George’s death several years ago had left Matty with a financial independence that Louisa envied. When her own husband, James, had died, Charles was just eleven and she’d been left, with little money, to bring him up alone. She always regretted she and James had no children, but she loved her stepson as if he were her own and had done her best to give him a happy childhood. They had remained at Trescadinnick, the only home Charles knew, and Louisa continued to run the household and care for her father as she had since her mother’s death all those years ago. Thomas seemed fond of Charles and had paid for his education at Blundells School in Devon. Since leaving school Charles had worked with Daniel Treglyn, the estate manager, learning the ins and outs of the estate. When Daniel had retired and gone to live with his widowed sister in Truro, Charles had taken his place, and as Thomas grew older he became increasingly reliant on Charles. Since both his sons had died young, Thomas had no son to inherit the house and estate, and Louisa assumed that her father would leave it all to Charles when he died. But that was all in the future and it annoyed her when Matty breezed into the house, inviting herself to stay and telling Louisa how to look after their father.

  The letter was a case in point. Matty still maintained that they should give it to their father to open straight away. Louisa refused to do so, feeling it might bring on another attack.

  ‘But supposing it’s from Mary,’ Matty said, ‘and he does die without reading it.’

  ‘He’s not going to die in the next few days,’ snapped Louisa. ‘We’ll give it to him when he’s on his feet again and not before.’

  The argument was left at that. But, to Louisa’s annoyance, Matty elected to stay at Trescadinnick until Thomas was better and she could hand him the letter from London.

  The day came a week later when Thomas came down to breakfast in the morning room. Charles had already left the house to ride to one of the outlying farms and AliceAnne had been sent up to the schoolroom. Matty and Louisa sat at the table with their father as he ate some scrambled egg and drank his coffee.

  ‘Where’s my post?’ he suddenly demanded. ‘I’m expecting a letter from my solicitor.’

  ‘It’s waiting for you, Papa,’ Matty said. ‘I’ll fetch it.’

  Several letters had accumulated over the past week and despite Louisa’s frown of dissent, Matty slipped the envelope she’d been keeping in her bag in with the rest of his mail.

  She saw her father put on his spectacles, then slit open the envelope to pull out the single sheet of paper that it contained. She watched as the colour fled from his cheeks and the letter fell to the table.

  ‘Papa, are you all right?’ Louisa was immediately on her feet. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have given you that.’ She snatched up the letter, crumpling it in her hand.

  Thomas recovered himself and said sharply, ‘Give that to me.’

  Reluctantly Louisa handed him the crumpled letter, and he smoothed it out on the table before handing it to Matty, saying, ‘Read it to me, Matilda.’

  Matty stared at the letter for a moment before she began to read. It was dated nearly three weeks ago and sent from an address in Hammersmith in London. She cleared her throat and began to read aloud.

  Dear Papa

  I’m dying. I have the same wasting sickness as poor Mama and it will only be a few days until it’s all over. My husband died in an accident some years ago and with my death my beloved daughter, Sophia, will be left alone. Our small capital is all but exhausted and the annuity I have from my mother dies with me, so Sophie will have to make her own way in the world. She is an intelligent girl and I have no doubt she will manage alone if she has to, but I am writing to you this last time to ask if you will provide for her in the way your only grandchild should be. I wrote to you when she was born and you ignored my letter, but as I am dying, I am prepared to beg you to look after her.

  I may have wronged you, but she is your flesh and blood and she has not.

  I h
ave told her nothing of you or of Trescadinnick, so that if you decide to ignore my dying plea, she will not know she’s been rejected.

  I bid you farewell, Father, for when you receive this letter I shall be in my grave.

  Your daughter,

  Mary Ross

  Silence descended on the room and then, with a groan of despair, Thomas Penvarrow took the letter from Matty’s hand and getting unsteadily to his feet, left the room.

  Louisa rounded on Matty. ‘You see!’ she cried. ‘I was right. We should never have given him that letter. We should have burned it unopened.’

  ‘We should have done no such thing!’ said Matty, equally angry. ‘Mary wrote to him and he was entitled to receive her letter. If he hadn’t been ill, he’d have had it days ago.’

  ‘I said she’d be asking for something,’ Louisa reminded her.

  ‘Yes, you did, but it wasn’t for herself, was it? It was for her daughter, a daughter we didn’t even know she had.’

  ‘Well, now you’ve seen the letter delivered, you can go back home,’ snarled Louisa. ‘I hope you’re satisfied with the effect it’s had on Papa and can only pray that it doesn’t bring on another attack. You saw how he looked!’

  Matty had been shocked when she’d seen her father’s face as she read the letter to him. But she wasn’t prepared to admit as much to Louisa, so she simply got to her feet and followed her father out of the room, leaving Louisa alone with her anger.

  3

  Sophie woke to an insistent knocking on the front door, and realizing that Hannah must still be out, she glanced into the mirror. Her eyes were red and her hair in disarray, but she sluiced some cold water onto her cheeks, patted the stray wisps of hair into place, and went down to see who should be demanding entrance so determinedly. She opened the front door with words about impatience on her lips, but those words died unspoken as she saw her mother standing outside on the step; her mother, not as she’d last seen her, sunken-eyed, her skin stretched tight across her cheekbones, translucent and paper-white, her hair thin and greying, but as she had been before her illness took hold, cheeks glowing with health, eyes bright with laughter and curiosity, hair thick, rich, dark, luxuriant. Her mother stood on the step, a question in her brown eyes, and said in her gentle voice, ‘Sophia?’

  Sophie didn’t pass out, though she thought for a moment or two that she was going to. She simply stared at her mother, her head spinning and her body cold, as the shock hit her and the colour drained from her face. Her lips formed the word Mama, but no sound came and she continued to stare.

  Her mother’s expression changed from one of query to one of concern, and stepping forward she took Sophie’s arm and guided her into the house. Sophie sank onto a chair in the hall and the visitor closed the door behind them. For a long, silent moment Sophie remained crouching in the chair at the foot of the stairs, her mind dazed. Diamonds of sunlight cast through the glass of the front door, patterning the floor, and the solemn tick of the grandfather clock emphasized the silence, rather than broke it. Her mother spoke again. Only it wasn’t her mother, of course. Her mother was dead. But it was someone so incredibly like her that it took careful study of her face to notice the differences. When she did speak her voice was one of great concern.

  ‘Sophia, my dear, are you all right?’

  Sophia. Well, her mother had never called Sophie that, and anyway the voice was wrong. This was deeper and there was the trace of an unfamiliar accent, missing from her mother’s voice.

  The visitor continued. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve given you a shock, my dear. I did write but perhaps you’ve not received my letter yet. I’m your Aunt Matilda and I’ve come to take you home.’

  Sophie stared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Aunt Matilda?’

  Her aunt said gently, ‘Yes. Aunt Matty. I’m your mother’s twin. She’ll have told you about me, no doubt. Your grandfather wants you to come home.’

  Still dazed, Sophie ignored the last part of what she’d said, but latched on to the first. ‘Her twin? I didn’t know she had a twin. I didn’t even know she had a sister... or any family!’

  Matilda knew from the letter that Mary hadn’t told Sophie she was writing to Trescadinnick, but she’d assumed that Sophie had at least some knowledge of the family. Clearly not. She smiled and reached for Sophie’s hand. ‘Well, we’ve obviously got a good deal of catching up to do. Perhaps we could go into the parlour and have some tea.’

  ‘Hannah’s out. She’s at the market.’ Sophie was still unable to think straight.

  ‘Then I’ll make us some,’ declared Aunt Matilda. And taking off her coat, she hung it on the stand in the hall. As if she’d known the place all her life, she found the kitchen and set the kettle to boil. She looked into cupboards to find cups and saucers, a teapot and the tea. Still bemused, Sophie watched her and then obediently led her through to the parlour where she set down the tray on the table and poured the tea.

  ‘My father received a letter from your mother some days ago,’ Matilda began, after she’d tasted the tea. ‘We were all heartbroken to hear she was dying.’

  ‘A letter from my mother?’ Sophie stared at her incredulously. ‘I know nothing about a letter.’ She replaced her teacup on its saucer and stared at the carbon copy of her mother, sitting across the hearth. How could Mama have posted a letter in the last weeks of her life? She hadn’t left the house. Then she realized. Hannah! Of course it must have been Hannah.

  ‘So...’ Sophie spoke abruptly. ‘What did my mother say in this letter?’

  ‘She addressed it to your grandfather. Unfortunately, he’d just had a seizure and was very ill when it arrived so it wasn’t opened for several days. If it had been I’d have come sooner.’

  ‘My grandfather?’

  ‘Thomas Penvarrow of Trescadinnick.’ When Sophie looked blank, she added, ‘That’s in Cornwall.’

  ‘Cornwall?’ echoed Sophie faintly. She picked up the teacup again and took a sip. ‘I don’t know anything about any of you. I didn’t think Mama had any family. She never mentioned you.’

  ‘No. Well, I can understand that,’ Matilda said sadly. ‘She became estranged from our father when she left home to marry yours.’

  The tea began its work and Sophie felt a little steadier. ‘Why?’ she asked sharply. ‘Why were they estranged?’

  Matilda sighed. ‘That’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it, but first I have to explain why I’ve arrived on your doorstep.’

  ‘No!’ Sophie interjected. ‘Tell me the story first.’ She felt a rising anger, both at her mother for not having told her about her family, even if she had nothing to do with them, and anger at this woman, this aunt, who assumed she could simply turn up in London and tell her what to do. She stared angrily at the woman across the room, seated in her mother’s chair, a facsimile of her mother, and her anger burned inside so that hot tears filled her eyes.

  ‘My dear Sophia,’ began Aunt Matty, but Sophie interrupted her.

  ‘I’m not your “dear” Sophia, I’m not your dear anything. It’s obvious you’re who you say you are, because you’re so like...’ her voice broke a little, ‘like my mother, but other than the fact that you happen to be my aunt, there’s nothing between us.’

  Her aunt answered gently, ignoring her rudeness. ‘No, I agree, there is nothing between us at the moment but an accident of birth. But that’s something I want to change, something I’ve come from Trescadinnick to change. I was very close to Mary, your mother. You know, that often happens with twins; they feel each other’s pain.’

  ‘Do they?’ Sophie’s scepticism was clear. ‘And did you know she was dying?’

  ‘I knew something was wrong.’ Her aunt spoke softly and wearily.

  ‘Then why didn’t you come? If you were so close, why didn’t you come?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know where to come. Until her letter arrived, we didn’t know where she lived.’

  Silence closed round them. There was no answer to that.

>   ‘And when she died?’ Sophie said at last.

  ‘When she died I felt relief – the relief she must have felt at the end of her pain. I wept for her and knew part of myself was gone.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Sophie sighed. ‘If you were so close why did you lose touch? Your father, my grandfather, might have disowned her, but you didn’t have to.’

  ‘Did your mother tell you what caused the breach between them?’ Aunt Matilda asked.

  ‘No, she never mentioned any of you. I didn’t know you existed till now. But you said she left home to marry my father.’

  ‘And so she did.’ Her aunt smiled ruefully. ‘There was a little more to it than that. You see, Mary was Father’s favourite among us, there’s no doubt about that, and he had thought to marry her to a local landowner, George Treslyn. When she took up with John Ross it spoiled his plans.’

  Sophie was incredulous, and staring at her aunt in amazement she interrupted. ‘Just a minute, Aunt Matilda.’ Sophie didn’t even notice she had adopted this form of address, but her aunt did and smiled. ‘You mean that’s why he disowned her?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ her aunt replied. ‘Father had arranged Mary’s marriage without consulting her, and she was never really reconciled to it, though she did agree in the end. George Treslyn was a much older man and extremely rich. His land is not far away from ours and Father considered it an eminently suitable match. Anyway, Mary finally agreed, provided she and I were allowed to come to London for the season first. Mary got her way and Father agreed to the bargain. Mother was already dead, of course, but a distant cousin of Mama’s, Agnes Ross, invited us to join her family for the season as her daughter was being brought out. So, off we went with great excitement to have one glorious season of entertainments and parties before we settled down to the lives of country matrons.’

  ‘Had he arranged your marriage as well?’ demanded Sophie.

  ‘Not by then, though I think he already had someone in mind. He’d decided to deal with Mary’s first.’ Matilda’s laugh had a touch of bitterness. ‘Mary always came first. Anyway, we went to London, and all went well until Mary met Agnes’s younger son, John.’