Виктория Холт - The Judas kiss

Silence again, this time broken by Francine who whispered, "Tell us about our grandfather. Tell us about Greystone Manor."

"He was always proud of the family. We had served our country well. We had been soldiers, politicians, squires, but never artists. Well, there was one ... long ago. He was killed in a tavern near Whitehall. His name was never mentioned except with disgust. 'Poetry writing is no life for a man,' said your grandfather. You can imagine what he said when he knew I wanted to be a sculptor."

"Tell us," whispered Francine.

Our father shook his head. "It seemed just impossible. My future was planned for me. I was to follow in his footsteps. I was not to be a soldier, nor a politician. I was the only son of the squire, so I should follow in my father's footsteps. I should learn how to manage the estate and spend the rest of my life trying to be exactly like my father."

"And you couldn't do that," said Francine.

"No—I hated it. I hated everything about Greystone. I hated the house and my father's rule, his attitude towards us all—my mother, my sister Grace and myself. He regarded himself as our master. He wanted obedience in all things. He was a tyrant. And—I met your mother."

"Tell us about that time," said Francine.

"She came to the house to make dresses for your Aunt Grace. She was so gentle, so fragile, so beautiful. It was meeting her that decided me."

"So you ran away from Greystone Manor," said Francine.

"Yes. I broke out of prison. We ran away to freedom— your mother from a life of drudgery with the dressmaking house for which she worked ... I from Greystone Manor. We neither of us ever regretted it for a moment."

"Romantic ... beautiful," murmured Francine.

"There were hard times at first. In London ... in Paris ... trying to make a living. Then we met a man in a cafe. He had the studio on this island and he offered it to us. So we came. Francine was born here ... and so were you, Pippa."

"Didn't he come back to claim the studio?" asked Francine.

"He came back. He stayed with us for a while. You were too young to remember that. Then he went to Paris, where he became quite wealthy. He died some years ago and left me the studio. We have managed to make a living—a poor one, but we have been free."

"We have been very happy, Father," said Francine firmly. "No girls could have been happier."

Then we all embraced one another—we were a demonstrative family—and Francine suddenly became very practical and said it was time we all went to bed.

It was only a few weeks after that conversation that our father was drowned. He had taken the boat out to the blue lagoon as we so often did when a sudden storm blew up and the boat capsized. I wondered afterwards how great an attempt he had made to save himself. Since our mother's death, life had certainly lost its savour for him. He had his two girls, but I think he thought Francine was more capable of looking after herself and me than he was. Besides, he would have guessed the turn events would take, and perhaps he thought it was the best thing for us.

I felt fatalistic, almost as though I knew what was going to happen. I had already come to the conclusion that nothing could be the same after my mother's death. We had tried to regain our old cheerfulness and Francine had managed very well, but even she could not entirely pretend.

We faced each other in the studio on the day he was laid beside my mother near the olive groves. "It was where he wanted to be since she was put there," said Francine.

"What are we going to do?" I said.

She was jaunty almost. "We have each other. There are two of us."

"You'd always be all right and see that I was," I replied.

"That is so," she answered.

Our friends on the island smothered us with kindness. We were fed, caressed and made to feel that we were well loved.

"It's nice for a beginning," commented Francine, "but it won't go on. We have to think."

I was nearly eleven then, Francine sixteen. "Of course," she said, "I could marry Antonio."

"You couldn't. You wouldn't."

"I am fond of the Butterfly, but you are right. I couldn't and I wouldn't."

I looked at her questioningly. She was rarely short of ideas but on this occasion she was. There were dreams in her eyes. "We might go away," she suggested.

"Where to?"

"Somewhere." Then she told me that she had always known that one day she would go away. She could not bear to be shut in, and that was what we were on the island. "It was different when our parents were alive," she said. "It was our home then. It isn't any more, really. Besides, what should we do here?"

Our problem was solved by a letter for Francine.

"Miss Ewell," said the address on the envelope.

"I am that," Francine explained. "You are Miss Philippa Ewell."

As she opened it I saw the excitement in her eyes. "It's from a solicitor," she said. "He's acting for Sir Matthew Ewell. That's our grandfather. In view of the unfortunate circumstances, Sir Matthew wishes us to return at once to England. Our rightful home is Greystone Manor." . I stared at her aghast, but her eyes were shining.

"Oh, Pippa," she said. "We are going to the prison."

There was the excitement of preparing for departure, which was a good thing in a way because it stopped our brooding on our loss, and how great that was we had not yet begun to realize. There was the packing up and the disposal of the studio and its contents which Antonio sadly took over from us.

"But it is best for you," he said. "You will live like great ladies. We always knew that Signor Ewell was a grand gentleman."

One of the men from the solicitor's office came to take us to our new home. He wore a black frock coat and a shiny top hat; he looked quite out of place on the island, where he was regarded with great respect. He was a little shy of us at first, but Francine soon put him at his ease. She had become very dignified since our father's death, very much Miss Ewell who was of higher rank than Miss Philippa Ewell. His name was Mr. Counsell and it was clear that he thought the conducting of two girls to England was a very strange task for a man in his position.

We said a sad farewell to our friends and promised to return. I was on the point of inviting them all to England, but Francine gave me one of her warning looks. "Imagine them in the prison," she said. "They would never come," I told her. "They might," she answered.

It was a long journey. We had made the trip to the mainland on several occasions, but it was the first time I had been in a train. I found it absorbingly interesting and I was a little ashamed of myself because I was enjoying it. I was sure Francine was too. People looked at Francine as I realized they always would. Even Mr. Counsell was a little fascinated by her charm and treated her as a beautiful young woman rather than a child. She was, I suppose, in between the two. In some ways she was a very innocent sixteen, in other ways quite mature. She had managed our household, dealt with the customers and taken on the role of guardian of us all. On the other hand, life on the island had been lived simply and I think that at first Francine was inclined to judge everyone by the people she had known all her life so far.

We crossed the English Channel, and to Mr. Counsell's dismay we missed the train which was to take us to Preston Carstairs, the station for Greystone Manor, and were told we had several hours to wait for the next. He took us to an inn near the docks, where we had a meal of roast beef and potatoes in jackets, which seemed exotic and delicious, and while we were eating the innkeeper's wife came to talk to us. When she heard that we had to wait so long she said, "Why don't you see a bit of the countryside while you're waiting? You could take the trap out a little way. Our Jim's got an hour or so to spare."