Victoria Holt - The Secret Woman

“So much?”

He nodded and his eyes seemed to disappear when he laughed.

The manservant had come back into the hall.

“Her ladyship is requesting the young lady’s presence,” he said. “Will you follow me, miss?”

As I turned away Redvers Stretton said: “We’ll meet again … less briefly, I hope.”

“I shall hope so too,” I replied sedately and sincerely.

The manservant gave no indication that he considered Redvers Stretton’s behavior in the least strange and I followed him past the suit of armor up the wide staircase. I was almost certain that the vase at the turn of the staircase was of the Ming reign because of the rich violet color of the porcelain. I could not prevent myself gazing at it, then I turned and saw Redvers Stretton standing looking up at me, legs slightly apart, hands in pockets. He bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment I had paid him by turning round and I wished I hadn’t because I felt it showed a rather childish curiosity. I turned away and hurried after the servant. We came to a gallery hung with oil paintings, and I felt a little impatient with myself because I could not assess their value. The largest of the pictures in the center of the gallery was of a man and I was able to guess that it had been painted some fifty years before. I was certain it was Sir Edward Crediton, the founder of the shipping line, the dead husband of the woman I was shortly to see. How I wished I might have paused longer to study it; as it was I caught a fleeting glimpse of that rugged face — powerful, ruthless, perhaps yes, and with a slight tiptilt of the eyes which was so pronounced in the man I had met a few minutes ago. But he was not a Crediton. He must be a nephew or some such relation. It was the only answer.

The servant had paused and tapped on a door. He threw it open and announced: “The young lady, my lady.”

I entered the room. Aunt Charlotte was seated on a chair, very straight-backed, expression grim, in her best bargaining mood. I had seen her like this often.

Seated on a large ornamental chair — Restoration period with the finely scrolled arms and the crown emblems — sat a woman, also large but scarcely ornamental. She was very dark, her skin sallow and her eyes looked as black as currants and as alert as a monkey’s. They were young eyes and defied her wrinkles — young and shrewd. Her lips were thin and tight; they reminded me of a steel trap. Her large hands, quite smooth and white were adorned by several rings — diamonds and rubies. They lay on her voluminous lap and from the folds of her skirt jet-beaded satin slippers were visible.

I was immediately overawed and my respect for Aunt Charlotte rose because she could sit there looking so unperturbed in the presence of this formidable woman.

“My niece, Lady Crediton.”

I curtsied and Lady Crediton gave me the full attention of her marmoset eyes for a few seconds.

“She is learning to know antiques,” went on Aunt Charlotte, “and will be accompanying me now and then.”

Was I? I thought. It was the first time it had been stated, although I realized that for some time it had been implied. It was enough explanation of me. They both turned their attention to the escritoire which they had evidently been discussing when I entered. I listened intently.

“I must call your attention, Lady Crediton,” Aunt Charlotte was saying almost maliciously I thought, “to the fact that it is only accredited to Boulle. It has the richly scrolled corner pieces, true. But I am of the opinion that it is of a slightly later period.”

It was a beautiful piece, I could recognize that, but Aunt Charlotte would not have it so. “It is definitely marked,” she said. Lady Crediton had no idea how difficult it was to dispose of furniture that was not in first class condition.

Lady Crediton was sure that any defects could be put right by any man who knew his business.

Aunt Charlotte gave a hoarse cackle.

The man who knew that business had been dead more than a hundred years — that is if André-Charles Boulle was really responsible, which Aunt Charlotte gravely doubted.

And so they went on — Lady Crediton pointing out its virtues, Aunt Charlotte its defects.

“I don’t think there is another piece like it in England,” declared Lady Crediton.

“Would you give me a commission to find you one?” demanded Aunt Charlotte triumphantly.

“Miss Brett, I am disposing of this one because I have no use for it.”

“I doubt whether I could find an easy buyer.”

“Perhaps another dealer might not agree with you.”

I listened and all the time I was thinking of the man downstairs and wondering about the relationship between him and this woman and the man in the portrait in the gallery.

Finally they came to an agreement. Aunt Charlotte had offered a price which she admitted was folly on her part and Lady Crediton could not understand why she should make such a sacrifice.

I thought: They are two of a kind. Hard both of them. But the matter was completed and the escritoire would arrive at the Queen’s House in the next few days.

“My patience me!” said Aunt Charlotte as we drove away. “She makes a hard bargain.”

“You paid too much for it, Aunt?”

Aunt Charlotte smiled grimly. “I expect to make a fair profit when the right buyer comes along.”

She was smiling and I knew she was thinking that she had got the better of Lady Crediton; and I wished that I could have crept back to Castle Crediton and heard Lady Crediton’s comments.

The man I had met in the hall of the Castle would not be dismissed from my mind so I judiciously set about discovering if Ellen knew anything about him.

When we went for our walk I led the way up to the cliff top facing the Castle and we sat on one of the seats which had been put there by something called the Crediton Town Trust, the object of which was to add amenities to the town.

The seat was one of my favorites because I could sit on it and gaze across the river at the Castle.

“I went there with Aunt Charlotte,” I told Ellen. “We bought a Boulle escritoire.”

Ellen sniffed at what she called my “showing off” so I came quickly to the point which was not on this occasion to show my superior knowledge.

“I saw Lady Crediton and … a man.”

Ellen was interested.

“What sort of man? Young?”

“Quite old,” I replied. “Seven years older than I am.”

“Call that old!” laughed Ellen. “Besides, how did you know?”

“He told me.”

She looked at me suspiciously so I decided to come straight to the point before she accused me of doing what she called “playing the light fantastic.” She used to say: “The trouble with you, miss, is I never know whether you’ve dreamed half you tell me.”

“This man was in the hall and saw me looking at the tapestry. He told me his name was Redvers Stretton.”

“Oh him,” said Ellen.

“Why do you say it like that?”

“How?”

“Scornfully. I thought everyone in that place was a sort of god to you. Who is Redvers Stretton and what’s he doing there?”

Ellen looked at me obliquely. “I don’t think I ought to tell you,” she said.

“Whyever not?”

“I’m sure it’s something Miss Brett wouldn’t want you to know.”

“I’m fully aware it’s not connected with Boulle cabinets and Louis Quinze commodes — and that’s the only thing Aunt Charlotte thinks I should concern myself with. What is it about that man that mustn’t be talked of?”

Ellen looked over her shoulder in that now familiar fearful way, as though she believed the heavens would open and dead Creditons would appear to wreak vengeance on us for having committed the sin of lese majesty — or whatever one would call showing lack of respect to the Creditons.