Isabelle Goddard - The Major's Guarded Heart

‘His study is now mine, Mr Armitage, and is covered in schedules for the advancement of the estate. There is even the odd illustration of a rare pig! My father knew how much you would value these—far more than I—and I hope you will accept them as a small remembrance of him.’

James clasped the younger man’s hands in his. ‘I would be honoured to have them, Justin. They will be accorded pride of place in my own study.’

Justin hesitated. He had yet one more gift for Five Oaks, but he did not know how to introduce it. Caroline saw his hesitation. ‘What is it, Justin? You have something more?’

‘Mrs Armitage, please forgive me. I am clumsy. I should never perhaps have brought it with me, but I am legally bound to carry out the provisions of the will.’

The Armitages were looking at him, puzzled expressions on both their faces. He drew from the bag a small carved wooden object. ‘It is a native Indian curio that my father purchased when he was serving in America—’

‘And it is for Gilbert,’ she finished for him.

‘Yes,’ he admitted, not knowing how to proceed.

‘How very kind of your father to remember Gil’s collection. Of course you should have bought it.’ Her voice had only the slightest tremor. ‘But will you do one thing for me before you go and take it to Gilbert’s room.’ Her voice was cracking now. ‘You know where it is, you know where he kept his collection.’

Justin sprang forwards, relieved to be doing something. ‘I promise to find the perfect place for it.’

He was past the waiting couple and up the stairs before Caroline’s tears began to flow. He felt angry with himself that so far he had done nothing to help the Armitages. He had been too busy with estate matters and, he told himself crossly, too busy with the girl. True she had taken up only an hour of his time at Chelwood, but simply thinking about her had wasted precious hours, too. He had not daydreamed like this since he was a boy and he needed to snap out of it.

Gil’s room was just as its owner had left it, just as Justin had seen it the last time he had visited: bedclothes uncreased, cushions plumped, fresh paper on the desk and a newly sharpened quill and pot of ink 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.’