The Major's Guarded Heart. Isabelle GoddardЧитать онлайн книгу.
in the writing tray. The mirror reflected the same pictures, the mantelshelf held the same ornaments. He remembered being here three years ago, laughing and joking with his friend, twitting him over his ever-growing collection of native artefacts. You need to travel, Gil, he’d said, and not just in your mind.
He strode over to the large, wooden display cabinet that filled one corner of the room and opened its two glass doors. The shelves were already full and it took time to find a space into which he could fit his father’s small offering. He reached up to the top shelf which seemed a little less crowded and shuffled several objects closer together. There appeared to be some resistance towards the back of the shelf and with some difficulty he reached over and pulled forth a sheaf of papers that had been taped to its underside.
Immediately he saw they were part of a private correspondence. He should not look at them. They were Gil’s. He went to tape them back and by accident caught sight of the subscription which headed the first page.
‘My darling.’ My darling? Surely not. Surely not Gil. He was no ladies’ man himself, but Gil was even less of one. He could not recall a single instance when his friend had shown the slightest partiality for any woman. They must have been written for someone else. He took the papers over to the desk and flicked through them. They continued in like vein. ‘My darling’, ‘My sweetheart’, ‘Dear Heart’, followed by protestations of love and longing that the writer would soon be with his beloved for ever. His eyes scrolled to the bottom of each page. There was no doubt. He had recognised his friend’s hand, but a vague hope that Gil might have penned the letters for someone else died when he saw the unmistakable signature. But who had his friend be writing to? There was no clue. And he had not sent the letters, so what did that mean? He had written them, one after another judging by the dates, day after day, but he had never sent them. It was another puzzle. It was almost as though Gil had been leading a double life that nobody, least of all his parents, was aware of. What had James said—that he no longer knew his son?
Justin sighed. The letters did not advance his quest one iota—indeed, they complicated it and they would not help Caroline in her misery. The only thing to do was to tape them back where they had come from and forget he had ever read words meant for another. Who that other was, he had no idea and probably never would have. He was certain, though, that the unknown had nothing to do with his friend’s disappearance. Gil had been gone for three months and if he had eloped with a sweetheart, he would by now have confessed his wrongdoing and been reunited with his family, perhaps a little in disgrace, but nevertheless welcomed home with love. No, there was no sweetheart, Justin decided. It was simply wishful thinking on his friend’s part. If there were a real woman, she was a distant figure only and Gil had been worshipping from afar, lacking the temerity to approach her. Instead he wrote letter after letter, finding a release for his emotions, but saying nothing to anyone. How lonely he must have been, Justin thought, to have fallen in love with a dream and to have confided his deepest feelings to a few sheets of paper.
* * *
He was tempted to drive directly home after his unwelcome discovery, but knew it for a cowardly choice and instead pushed on towards Brede House. Not that he had any intention of calling there, but he still hoped that he might catch Henrietta Croft walking towards the town. As he neared the long, winding drive to the riverside house, keeping a careful look-out, he saw the skirts of a much younger woman disappearing in the direction of Rye. It was Lizzie Ingram, straw bonnet masking those glorious chestnut curls, and a basket swinging from her hand. Henrietta must have sent her to do the marketing, a little late in the day, but most fortunate for him. He could visit now without fear of meeting the girl.
Immediately he entered the small parlour looking out towards the river, he could see that Mrs Croft was not in the best of spirits. But her forlorn expression gave way to a welcoming smile as soon as she saw him and, getting to her feet with some difficulty, she came forward to clasp his hand.
‘How lovely to see you, Justin. And how kind of you to spare a few minutes of what must be precious time.’
He felt a twinge of guilt, but said as convincingly as he could, ‘It is always a pleasure to see you, Mrs Croft, and today especially—I have come on a very particular mission.’
She looked enquiringly and, in response, he withdrew the leather-bound book from its protective covering.
‘I have come to bring you something I think you will treasure. Sir Lucien thought so at least. Here.’ And he handed her the soft calfskin volume.
‘So many happy hours,’ she murmured, ‘so many hours gone, friends gone.’
Justin did not know what to say. His hostess was evidently feeling downpin and he had not the words to comfort her. He need not have worried. As he struggled to find a cheering sentiment, the door opened abruptly and Lizzie stood on the threshold.
She smiled saucily at him. ‘Major Delacourt! I was wondering who could have come calling and in such a very smart curricle! Is it new? And how heavenly to drive out from Chelwood on such a morning!’
He had stiffened at the sight of her, but managed a small bow. ‘Good morning, Miss Ingram.’ His face was bereft of expression. ‘The day is indeed beautiful and you are dressed for walking, I see. Were you perhaps thinking of taking the air? If so, I can recommend the coastal path—it is at its best when the sun is shining and there is little wind.’
Her smile did not falter. ‘What a delightful suggestion! But unfortunately I must engage myself elsewhere this morning. It is my ribbons, you see.’ And she pulled from her basket a shining length of jonquil satin. ‘I thought this morning to go to Mercer’s to match this very lovely yellow, but I had gone no more than a hundred yards when I realised that I had left my purse behind.’
So that was the reason for her return. Or at least the reason she claimed. But had she perhaps caught sight of his carriage and made the decision to return to Brede House? To return and torment him. He would put nothing past her—her trespass at Chelwood had been shameless. Well, he could be shameless, too, and make it difficult for her to stay.
‘I believe the haberdasher closes at noon so, if you are wishful of purchasing more ribbon, you would be wise to set forth immediately.’
She was still smiling, an uncomfortably satisfied smile, he decided. ‘That is most thoughtful of you, but I am in no hurry. I find Rye lives at a slow pace and it is necessary to match one’s own rhythm to it. Whether I get the ribbon today or tomorrow or the next week hardly matters.’
It was a brazen contradiction, for a minute ago she had insisted that she had not the time to go walking. He felt a growing exasperation, but he could press her no further without appearing blatantly discourteous. His hostess was already looking at him askance. Miss Ingram had decided that she was at Brede House to stay that morning and he must make the best of it.
‘I seem to have interrupted your conversation,’ she was saying. ‘Please accept my apologies.’ Her lips curved provocatively, lips that were full and warm and red, he noticed.
His thoughts stumbled and he felt himself growing hot—how could he allow his mind such licence? Trying to regain his equilibrium, he said in as toneless a voice as he could manage, ‘There is no need for apologies. I came only to give my father’s present to Mrs Croft.’
‘And a beautiful present it is, too,’ Henrietta intervened, obviously relieved to get the conversation back on to firmer ground. ‘But will you not stay for some refreshment, Justin?’
‘Thank you, but, no. I must return to Chelwood. There is much to do, as you will appreciate. I will call again very soon and perhaps then we can talk at greater length.’ But only when I can be absolutely sure that Miss Ingram is nowhere in the vicinity, he told himself.
‘Before you go, Justin...’ The old lady caught at his arm. ‘I think I should warn you—’ She broke off, unable to find the right words, and then with difficulty, murmured, ‘It is Caroline, Mrs Armitage.’
‘What of her?’
‘She is in great distress.’
‘I