Climbing the first flight of stairs, he did not continue to the second which led to the bedrooms. Instead, he entered his study and poured himself a glass of whisky from the decanter he kept on his desk. There was no fire burning in the grate despite the bitterly cold night, although he didn’t doubt that in Mary’s private sitting room – which had been the children’s schoolroom at one time – the fire would be banked up high for the night and the room as warm as toast. Mary had decided some years before that the household budget couldn’t run to a fire in his study any more, along with his bedroom, of course.
He threw back his head and downed the whisky in one swallow before pouring another. He was cold, inside and out, and weary, but overall bitterly ashamed. Seeing Sophy again had brought the past to life, stirring the canker of guilt and remorse that had grown in his latter years. She was his sister’s child, his own flesh and blood, and yet he had stood by from when she was a baby and seen her ill-treated and abused without lifting a finger. His knuckles white as he gripped the heavy crystal glass, he stared at his hand before suddenly throwing the glass at the empty fireplace where it shattered into a hundred pieces.
Shivering – the room was like an ice-box – he stood up. At least in bed he could get warm eventually. He mounted the narrower, steeper stairs which led to the bedrooms with his head down, and so it was he didn’t see Mary standing on the landing until he reached the top step, whereupon he started and nearly fell backwards. Her bedroom door was open and a shaft of light was coming from it.
Assuming the sound of the breaking glass had awoken her, he said tersely, ‘I broke a glass. Get back to bed.’
‘I wasn’t in bed. I have been waiting for you.’ She had moved forward as he made to pass her, causing him to step down one step and crane his head as he looked up at her. ‘I think you have something to tell me, don’t you?’
He peered at her, his eyes narrowing. She was angry, furiously angry, he knew the signs. If he wasn’t mistaken, she’d found out Sophy was back and staying with Patience.
When he didn’t reply, she said in the same clipped tone which vibrated with fury, ‘I had visitors while you were out. Mrs Fletcher and her daughter.’
He knew Rachel Fletcher and he couldn’t abide the woman, nor her spinster daughter who was as plain as a pikestaff and had a coquettish manner all at odds with her appearance. The two were avid gossips and great friends of Mary. He didn’t doubt the three of them spent many happy hours in malicious vocal muck-spreading, all done under the guise of being concerned for their fellow man, of course. Quietly, he said, ‘There is nothing unusual in that.’
‘True.’ Her thin face with its sharp nose was mottled in the dim light coming from the landing window. ‘But what they had to tell me was unusual, or perhaps the fact that I was not aware of it. Oh yes, Rachel took great delight in that. How long was it going to be before you did me the courtesy of informing me that the girl was back?’
All this time and she still couldn’t bring herself to say Sophy’s name. It was unbelievable, the hate that drove her. He knew she hated him and there were times when he thought she hated Patience and the boys too. She was riddled with it. How else could you explain her refusal to have anything to do with John’s boys, her own grandchildren? And she had never mentioned Peter once since the day he had told her that Patience had given birth to their third grandson.
Keeping his voice flat, Jeremiah said, ‘I didn’t tell you because many years ago, you forbade the mention of her name in this house, remember? Besides which, she is not back in the way you imagine, for good. She is visiting Patience for a short while before returning home.’
‘You’re telling me Patience has had contact with her? For how long?’
‘I don’t know. Ask Patience yourself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.’
Mary didn’t move. ‘You’ve been there today, condoning Patience’s treachery, haven’t you, you weak-kneed excuse for a man. That girl ruined our lives and turned my own children against me, but all that doesn’t matter, does it? Does it?’
‘Keep your voice down, you’ll wake the servants. And what are you complaining about anyway? You could have come with me today. You could have come with me in the past.’
‘You knew I wouldn’t.’
‘Then that is your choice, isn’t it, Mary? And no one turned your children against you, you did that all by yourself. You have three beautiful grandsons you’ve never seen. Doesn’t that concern you?’
‘Listen to yourself.’ Her voice was a hiss now, filled with loathing. ‘You’re spineless. You stood by and saw your sons marry beneath themselves and make us a laughing-stock among our friends, and your daughter debase herself by working as a skivvy and said not a word.’
‘A skivvy? What are you talking about? Patience was a nurse, as you know full well.’