Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair

  Holding the diary tightly in one hand, I edged my way down the stepladder and hurried over to the table in front of the window. Sitting down, I opened Lettice Keswick’s original diary.

  I stared at it in awe, turning the pages slowly, carefully, afraid that I might damage it if I handled it roughly.

  The diary was over three hundred years old, but to my amazement it was undamaged. Some pages felt slightly brittle, but not very many, and there were tiny wormholes here and there. But for the most part, it was wonderfully intact.

  What a miracle it was that it had lasted all this time. But then, no one had known of its existence, and so no one had handled it. Except for Clarissa, of course, who had found it, copied it, and presumably put it back for safety’s sake. Then again, the temperature in the library remained the same, year in, year out, exactly as it had for centuries, I was certain. It was always cool and dry; there was no dampness, and certainly the heat from the fire would not cause any damage to any of the old books. It barely warmed the room. No wonder, then, that the seventeenth-century diary had been so well preserved.

  The original, written by Lettice herself, was penned in a spidery, rather elaborate script, typical of the century in which she had lived, but her writing was clear and legible. And I discovered, to my delight, that the original diary contained something unique: exquisite little pen-and-ink drawings and watercolors of flowers, fruit, and herbs, and vignettes of Lettice’s gardens here at Kilgram Chase, which illustrated the diary throughout.

  It was obvious to me that I had stumbled upon a small treasure. Of course, it was of no real value and probably of little interest to anyone except the Keswicks, and I couldn’t wait to show it to Diana and Andrew.

  Glancing at my watch, I realized that the last hour and a half had sped by. It was almost four o’clock.

  Rising, I left the library and went down the corridor to Diana’s office. I peeked in. Andrew’s grim expression as he spoke on the phone registered most forcibly. He was no doubt talking to Jack Underwood in New York. He sounded angry in that quiet, controlled way of his, and he wasn’t even aware that I had cracked open the door. I closed it softly, deeming it wiser to leave him in peace to attend to his business.

  I really did need a breath of fresh air now, having been in the house since our arrival that morning, and after the long drive north in the car. In the nearby mud-room I sat down on the bench, took off my shoes, pulled on a pair of Diana’s green Wellington boots, and lifted a barbour off the peg. I loved these fleece-lined waterproof jackets that are so snug and can be worn in all kinds of weather. In each pocket I found a woolen glove. After putting these on, I took a red wool scarf off the coat stand, threw it around my neck, and went out through the side door.

  * * *

  It was chilly. The morning sun had long ago disappeared, leaving a sky that was a faded, pale blue, almost without color.

  The smell of autumn assailed me. dampness, rotting leaves, and wood smoke, acrid on the air. Somewhere, not far away, one of the gardeners had a bonfire going. It was that time of year, when dead plants and roots, dried leaves, and garden debris in general went into the flames; I had just had my own winter bonfire last weekend at Indian Meadows.

  As I turned the corner of the house, I practically stumbled over Wilf, the gardener, who was shoveling dead leaves and roots into a pile, obviously fodder for the fire.

  He glanced up when he heard my sharp exclamation.

  “Aw, it’s you, Mrs. Andrew.” He touched his cloth cap and grinned at me. “How you be doing then?” He rested his filthy hands on top of the shovel and stood gaping at me, staring right through me.

  “Fine, thank you. And how are you feeling these days, Wilf?”

  “Can’t complain. Me rheumatism’s a bit of a bother, but there’s nowt much else wrong with me. I don’t expect to be kicking up t’daisies in yon cemetry for a long time.” He laughed. It sounded like a cackle.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” I nodded and hurried away, heading for the pond. There was something odd about Wilf Broadbent. He always seemed to have a baleful glint in his eye when he talked to me. I thought he might be a bit touched. Andrew said he was just gormless, using the Yorkshire word for dumb, stupid. Diana laughed at us when we discussed Wilf. She believed him to be the salt of the earth.

  Four brown ducks swam away as I approached the water.

  I stood watching them paddling as fast as they could to the far bank, absently wondering if it would freeze by Christmas. The twins so longed to skate on this pond, just as their father had done when he was a little boy. But I didn’t think it would be cold enough to freeze; it was a decent-sized body of water.

  I set off to walk around the pond, my mind focusing on Lettice and Clarissa, those two other Keswick women who had been the brides of Keswick men, and who had lived out their entire lives here. If only walls could talk to me, what marvelous secrets they would reveal, what tales they could tell.

  On the other hand, the diary had talked, hadn’t it? Only for a short while, but still, it had spoken to me of a time past, given me a bit of the family history.

  Even Clarissa’s frontispiece, short as it was, and her act of copying it so meticulously had told me quite a lot about her. She must have been a good woman, conscientious, God-fearing, a typical Victorian, but obviously an intelligent and caring person. Certainly she had cared about the diary, had understood what it meant to the family. Also, she had had the foresight to realize that the original might not survive the passage of time; and she had considered it important enough to preserve it for posterity. Of course she lacked artistic talent because she had not copied the drawings or watercolors, but that wasn’t so important.

  And what did the diary tell me about the diarist herself?

  First and foremost that Lettice was a born writer, articulate and with a thorough knowledge of the language and an understanding of its beauty. It was at her fingertips, and she had made excellent use of it. The illustrations indicated that she had been artistically inclined, the household hints and recipes proclaimed her to have been a good housekeeper and cook, not to mention an excellent herbalist and wine-maker. Her many references to her husband and children revealed that she had been a loving wife and mother, and lastly, I decided that she had had a political turn of mind. There were innumerable references to Parliament in her diary, and acerbic comments, and certainly she had been a dyed-in-the-wool royalist, elated, no, overjoyed when Charles II returned to England to accept the throne.

  It struck me again that there must be another volume of her diary somewhere in that vast library. A truly natural writer such as Lettice Keswick would not stop just like that, with such terrible abruptness. But how to find it amongst those thousands of books lining the hundreds of shelves?

  There was no time for me to look for it now, not today or tomorrow. Perhaps when we came back for Christmas I could have a stab at it. The effort would be worth it. After all, in my opinion the diary was a little jewel. I knew Diana would be intrigued by it and so would Andrew, if I could ever tear him away from that briefcase and those wretched papers. I couldn’t imagine what that awful Malcolm Stainley had done, unless he had been cooking the books, God forbid. If he had, Andrew would go for the jugular, and Jack wouldn’t be far behind, wielding a very sharp knife, figuratively speaking.

  As I walked up the wide path carved out between the expanse of green lawns, I saw a car approaching the house. It was moving at a snail’s pace up the driveway between the giant oaks, and it was not Diana returning, I knew that. This was not her car.

  Within a few seconds the car and I had drawn closer. I saw that it was a pale blue Jaguar.

  Was Diana expecting a visitor? It was odd that she hadn’t mentioned it, if she were. She usually told us if someone was coming to tea, warned us, really, in case we felt we had to escape. Usually Andrew did, since her guests for this truly English ritual were people like the woman who ran the church institute, the vicar and his wife, the head of the garden c
lub, or some such local character.

  The car slowed, then came to a standstill at the bottom of the stone steps. I strode across the terrace to the top of the steps and stood looking down expectantly.

  The door of the Jaguar finally opened. A woman alighted.

  She was tall and slender, with a mass of dark, wavy hair that tumbled around a rather narrow but attractive face. Her eyes were dark, intense, and her generous mouth was a slash of bright red lipstick.

  At first glance, her clothes looked like a gypsy’s odd assortment, but as my eyes swept over her swiftly, I realized there was a degree of coordination about them. At least as far as the colors were concerned. She wore a long, full, green wool skirt, topped by a short bomber jacket made of red, green, purple, and yellow patches. Joseph’s coat of many colors. Or so it seemed to me. Long scarves of yellow, purple, and red were wrapped around her neck and trailed down her back. Her boots were red, her handbag yellow.

  I did not have to be introduced to this colorful woman.

  I knew exactly who she was.

  Gwendolyn Reece-Jones in person.

  My father’s mistress.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  We stared hard at each other, she and I. And for a split second neither of us spoke.

  I was aware from the expression in her eyes that she knew who I was, had recognized me as Edward Jordan’s daughter, but I doubted that she would acknowledge this. Certainly she would not confide her relationship with my father or even say that they were friends. I knew this instinctively.

  She spoke first.

  Moving closer to the bottom step, she said, “I’m looking for Mrs. Keswick. Rude. To come without calling first. Tried. Your phone’s been engaged for a long time. Is Mrs. Keswick in?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid she isn’t, she went off to do a few errands. But she should be back any moment. Would you like to come in and wait for her?”

  Gwenny bit her lip, and an anxious expression crossed her angular face. “Don’t want to impose.”

  “I’m sure Diana won’t be long. I know she’d be very upset if she missed you.”

  “Frightfully kind. Yes, well, er, thank you. Perhaps I will hang around for a few minutes.” She began to mount the steps. Drawing level to me, she held out her hand. “Gwendolyn Reece-jones.”

  “Mallory Keswick,” I answered, shaking her hand. Immediately I swung around, stepped up to the front door, opened it, and ushered her into the small entrance foyer. “Can I take your jacket?” I asked politely.

  “Just the scarves, thank you,” she replied, unraveling the three of them from around her neck.

  After hanging these in the coat closet, I took her into the parlor next door to the dining room. This was a small, comfortable room, rather cozy, with a Victorian feeling to it, a sort of den, which we used all the time. It was there we watched television and usually had afternoon tea and drinks in the evening.

  Parky had turned on the lamps and started the fire. This burned merrily in the grate, and the room looked inviting.

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and take off my boots and tell Andrew you’re here. He’ll come and join us. If he’s off the phone.”

  “No rush. Take your time.” She reached for the current issue of Country Life which lay on the tufted ottoman and sat down in an armchair next to the fire.

  Once I had shed Diana’s barbour and Wellingtons and put on my shoes in the mudroom, I went in search of my husband. Andrew was still on the phone in Diana’s office, but this time when I opened the door he saw me, smiled, and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

  “We have a visitor,” I said rolling my eyes to the ceiling.

  “Just a minute, Jack,” he murmured into the receiver and looked across at me, frowning slightly.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “You’d never guess in a million years, so I’m going to tell you. Gwendolyn Reece-Jones. She’s here looking for your mother. She tried to phone first, but she couldn’t get through.” I laughed. “For obvious reasons.”

  “Gwenny!” he exclaimed. “I’ll be damned! Since Ma isn’t back yet, offer her tea, and I’ll join you in a few minutes. I’m just finishing up with Jack.”

  I nodded. “Give him my best.”

  “I will.”

  As I turned away I heard him say, “That was Mal, she sends her love. Well, that’s about it, old buddy. Just wanted to run all this by you.”

  Parky was in the kitchen putting cups and saucers on a large tray; she glanced up as I walked across the floor and hovered next to the table where she was working.

  “Hi, Parky,” I murmured. “You’ll have to add another cup and saucer. A friend of Mrs. Keswick’s has just arrived. Miss Gwendolyn Reece-Jones. I’m sure you know her. Anyway, she’ll be having tea with us.”

  “Oh.” Parky pursed her lips. “Miss Reece-Jones can’t have been expected, or Mrs. Keswick would have told me before she went out. She’s very precise about things like that, Mrs. Keswick is.”

  “She wasn’t expected, Parky.”

  “A bit rude, if you ask me,” Parky sniffed, “dropping in like that.” She marched into the pantry and came back with an extra cup and saucer. “Most people telephone first.”

  “She did try to get through,” I explained, hiding a smile, amused at Parky’s irritation. But then, she was a stickler for good manners; I always remembered that about her. For a reason I didn’t quite understand, I felt I had to defend Gwenny, so I now added, “Mr. Andrew’s been on the phone to New York for well over an hour. Parky, that’s why Miss Reece-Jones was unable to get us.”

  “Hurrumph,” was all Parky said as she went on fussing with the teapot and the other things she needed for afternoon tea. But after a few seconds she threw me a warm smile, and leaning closer, she said, “I’ve made a luvely caraway-seed cake for tea, Mr. Andrew’s favorite. And nursery sandwiches. He did enjoy them when he was little. Four sorts today. Tomato, cucumber, watercress, and egg salad. Homemade scones, too, with homemade strawberry jam and Cornish cream.”

  “Goodness, we’re not going to want any dinner!” I exclaimed, before I could stop myself. “So much food, Parky.”

  “But it’s what I always serve, Mrs. Andrew, and I’ve been doing so for thirty years,” she announced, taking a step back and staring at me. She looked slightly put out.

  Realizing that I might have hurt her feelings unintentionally, I said quickly, “The tea sounds wonderful. I just know Mr. Andrew is going to enjoy it, and so will I. Why, my mouth’s watering already.”

  Mollified, she beamed. “In any case, dinner’s a simple meal tonight, Mrs. Andrew. Just Morecombe Bay potted shrimps, cottage pie, and a green salad.”

  “No dessert?” I teased.

  Taking me quite seriously, she cried, “Oh, yes! I always make a dessert for Mr. Andrew. You know how he loves them. But I haven’t decided which one to make yet—English trifle or custard flan.”

  “It’ll be delicious, whatever it is,” I muttered and hurried to the door. “I’ll go and keep Miss Reece-Jones company. By the way, Parky, did Mrs. Keswick say what time she’d be back?”

  “She’s never later than a quarter to five for tea. Never.”

  “As soon as she arrives perhaps you can serve it,” I suggested.

  “I will that. And I expect Mr. Andrew’ll be needing a bit of sustenance by then, working all afternoon the way he has, poor thing. On a Saturday too.”

  “Yes,” I agreed and slipped out.

  Gwenny Reece-Jones was leafing through the magazine when I returned to the parlor. “Andrew will join us in a minute,” I told her, closing the door behind me. “And Diana’s expected back imminently, so I hope you’ll join us for tea, Miss Reece-Jones.”

  “How nice. Love to.”

  “Good.”

  As if she felt she needed to explain her sudden and unexpected arrival, she cleared her throat and said, “Working in Leeds. Doing A Midsummer Night’
s Dream. At the Theatre Royal. Sets. I design sets.”

  “Diana told me you were a theatrical designer.”

  “Oh.” She looked momentarily taken aback. “Came over to Kilburn today. Know it, do you?”

  “I think so. Isn’t that the place where there’s a giant-sized horse carved into the side of the hill?”

  “Correct. On the face of Roulston Scar. Wanted to order a hall table from the Robert Thompson workshop. The great Yorkshire furniture maker and carver. Dead now. His grandsons run the workshop. Continue his work. Thought it a good idea to stop on my way back to Leeds. Say hello to Diana.”

  “I’m glad you did. As a matter of fact, Diana mentioned you to me only the other day.”

  “She did?”

  I took a deep breath and plunged in. “She told me that you know my father, Edward Jordan, that you’re a friend of his. A very good friend.”

  Startled, Gwenny gaped at me. A bright pink flush spread up from her neck to flood her face. “Good friends, yes,” she admitted. She glanced away swiftly and stared into the fire.

  I had a terrible feeling that I had embarrassed her, which I hadn’t meant to do at all. I simply wanted to have everything out in the open. I said quickly, “I’m glad you and Daddy are friends. I worry about him, worry that he’s lonely. It’s comforting to know he has some companionship when he’s in London, Miss Reece-Jones.”

  “Call me Gwenny,” she said and bestowed a huge smile on me.

  I thought I detected a look of relief on her face as I smiled back at her.

  At this moment the door flew open and Andrew came in. “Hello, Miss Reece-Jones, remember me?” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “You used to bounce me on your knee when I was a little boy.” He strode over to her and shook her hand.

  “Never forgot you.” She laughed, staring up at him, affection softening her face. “Mischievous.” She glanced across at me. “Mischievous boy.”