Francesca

But to find, now, that he had the same impulse to protect Francesca nine years later was ridiculous. A man of thirty, rich, sophisticated and, not to put too fine a point on it, extremely eligible…how London would laugh! He must take a grip on himself, before he did something he would later regret. Shrugging impatiently, he strode off down the other side of the hill.

When Francesca got back to Shelwood Manor she found Agnes Cotter waiting for her. The woman was clearly distressed.

‘Miss Shelwood has suddenly got much worse. But she won’t hear of sending for Dr Woodruff. I don’t know what to do, Miss Fanny.’ The situation must be grave indeed—this was the first time ever that Agnes had appealed to anyone for help.

‘We must send Silas for him straight away,’ Francesca said calmly.

‘But Miss Shelwood will—’

‘I will take the blame, Agnes. Go back to my aunt but say nothing to her—it would only cause her unnecessary agitation. Stay with her till the doctor comes, then I shall take over.’

Dr Woodruff came with a speed that showed how grave he thought the situation was. ‘I knew this would happen. It is always the same in cases like these.’

‘Cases like what, Dr Woodruff?’

‘You mean you don’t know that your aunt is dying, Miss Fanny? No, I can see she hasn’t told you.’

‘You mean she knows?’

‘Of course. I warned her some months ago, but she refused to believe me. A very determined woman, your aunt, Miss Fanny. I’m afraid that very little can be done for her, except to ease the pain. I prescribed laudanum yesterday—perhaps she will accept it now. Take me to her, if you please.’

Francesca went up the stairs with a heavy heart; when she entered her aunt’s room, she was shocked at the change she saw in her. Miss Shelwood was a ghastly colour, and gasping for breath. Agnes was bathing her mistress’s forehead, but when the doctor came in she glided away.

‘What are you doing here?’

Francesca was not sure whether her aunt was speaking to the doctor or to her. She went up to the bed and said gently, ‘It’s time you had some medicine, Aunt Cassandra. Dr Woodruff has something to make you feel better.’

‘I don’t want his morphine! If I’m going to die, I want to die in my right senses! But you can stay. I have something to say to you. A-ah!’

‘Drink some of this, Miss Shelwood. You won’t feel less alert, but it will take away the worst of the pain. And if you wish to be able to talk to your niece, you will need it.’

‘Very well.’ The voice was but a faint thread of sound.

Dr Woodruff held a small vial to the sick woman’s lips, and then stood back. He said quietly, ‘That should make her feel better for a while. I’ll be in the next room.’

After a moment, Francesca said tentatively, ‘You wished to tell me something, Aunt Cassandra?’

‘Yes. Box on the desk. Fetch it.’ Francesca did as her aunt asked, then on request opened the box. ‘Letter…underneath.’

The letter was dry and yellow. It began, ‘My dear Cassie’…and was signed ‘Richard Beaudon’.

‘Do you wish me to read it?’

‘Later. No time now. It’s from your father. Richard Beaudon. To tell me my sister had stolen him.’ The dark eyes opened, and they were glittering with malice. ‘Why I hated you. Still do.’

‘Aunt Cassandra, don’t! I have never done you any harm, you know that.’

‘Never should have existed. He’d have married me if she hadn’t told him…told him…’ The voice died away again.

‘Shall I fetch Dr Woodruff?’

‘No! Not finished. It’s the money. Chizzle’s got to look after the money. Told him.’

‘Mr Chizzle? The chaplain?’

‘Don’t be stupid. Who else? Do as he tells you. M’father had no right…A pauper—that’s what you ought to be!’ Miss Shelwood raised herself and stared malevolently at her niece. This time she spoke clearly and with intense feeling. ‘You’d better do what Chizzle tells you—you needn’t think anyone will marry you for love! A plain, dull child, you were. Plain, like me! Not like…’ She sank back against the pillows, and her words were faint. ‘Not like Verity. You’ll never be the hon-eytrap she was.’ The lips worked, then she added, ‘Seen your father in you, though. The eyes.’ A dry sob escaped her. ‘God damn him!’

Francesca was appalled. ‘Please, don’t—I’ll send for Mr Chizzle. He ought to be here—he’ll help you.’

A grim smile appeared on her aunt’s pale lips. ‘I won’t be here myself. Remember what I said, Fanny. Plain and dull, that’s you. She called you Francesca—what a stupid name for such a plain child…Rake Beaudon’s child…’

The voice faded away and Miss Shelwood closed her eyes.

Francesca ran to the door. ‘Dr Woodruff!’

But when the doctor saw his patient, he shook his head. ‘It won’t be long now,’ he said. ‘I doubt she’ll be conscious again.’

‘But…’ Francesca gazed at the figure on the bed. ‘She didn’t have time to think! She didn’t have time to make her peace with the world, to forgive those who had hurt her! And those who hadn’t,’ she added forlornly.

‘Miss Shelwood is dying as she lived. A very unhappy woman,’ said Dr Woodruff, adding drily, ‘But God will forgive her. It’s his job, after all.’

These were the most sympathetic words Francesca was to hear about her aunt. Words of respect, of conventional regret, of admiration for her energy and devotion to duty—all these were paid to her memory. Madame Elisabeth came, but her sympathy was for Francesca. Only Agnes Cotter truly mourned Cassandra Shelwood.

Following her aunt’s death, Francesca underwent a time of confusion and shock. Mr Chizzle was much in evidence, though she wished he wasn’t—his attempts to provide consolation were misplaced, to say the least. The funeral was well attended, and though Francesca was surprised at first, on reflection she decided it was to be expected. Although Miss Shelwood had been something of a recluse, she had, after all, been one of the great landowners of the district. But the biggest shock of all came after the funeral, after her aunt’s will had been read.

The will was very much on traditional lines. Various small sums had been left to the servants, in proportion to their length of service. Mr Chizzle, as the local curate and Miss Shelwood’s chaplain, received a modest sum, Agnes Cotter quite a large one. The rest of Miss Shelwood’s estate was left to a fund for building and maintaining almshouses in a neighbouring town. Francesca’s name was not mentioned in the document.

Gasps of astonishment came from the servants—Betsy even voiced her disapproval out loud. But Francesca herself was not at all surprised. It was a blow, but one for which she had been prepared. The question of a post as a governess had now become urgent, and she decided to consult the family lawyer, Mr Barton, on the best way to set about doing this.

The others finally went. Mr Chizzle took his leave so warmly that Francesca began to wonder whether she had been mistaken in him all these years. He was most pressing that he should come again to see her the next day and, though she was reluctant, she eventually gave in, largely because it was the only way she could be rid of him.

But when she mentioned her intention of seeking a post as governess, Mr Barton was astounded. ‘My dear Miss Shelwood! What on earth for? You now have control of the money left by your grandfather.’

‘It is hardly enough to keep me, sir!’

‘Well, that is a matter of opinion. I should have thought that seventy thousand pounds was enough for anyone! Together with what the Shelwood estate brings in, it is a considerable fortune.’

Francesca sat down rather suddenly on a convenient chair. ‘Seventy…? Do you…do you mean to tell me that my grandfather left his whole estate to me?’

‘Most of it. He left a sum of money outright to the late Miss Shelwood, and the rest was put into trust for you until you reached the age of twenty-five, in November of this year. The arrangement was that, during her lifetime, your aunt would run the estate and receive half of the income from it. The other half was put back into the Shelwood trust, which is why it has now grown to such a handsome fortune.’

‘How much did you say it was?’ asked Francesca faintly.

‘About seventy thousand pounds. The trust was set up for the benefit of you and your children, and has certain safeguards which are in the discretion of the trustees. But you will have more than enough to live on, nevertheless. Shelwood is a thriving concern, and should provide you with an income of about ten thousand pounds per annum. Do you mean to say that Miss Shelwood never told you of this?’

‘No. I had no idea…’

Mr Barton looked uneasy. ‘I have been remiss. I agreed with your aunt that you were too young to be burdened with it at the time of your grandfather’s death, but I ought to have made sure you knew later. But I have to say in my own defence that it simply never occurred to me that she would keep it from you. Why should she?’