A Gathering Storm(10)

‘Yes.’

Beatrice opened the door to admit her. ‘I’m delighted you’re punctual. It’s not a virtue much in fashion today.’

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Lucy said politely.

Beatrice Ashton shut the door and leaned against it as she looked Lucy over, not rudely but with curiosity. She was shorter than Lucy, and slight, with waves of silvery-white hair pinned up at the back in a gold clasp, and regular features in a grave, oval face with a pointed chin. Lucy had the vaguest of feelings that she’d seen her before.

They were in a gloomy hallway where a feeble ceiling lamp struggled to illuminate the dark wood panelling and dingy carpet. In here, it was difficult to believe that it was sunny outside. From the shadow of the staircase a grandfather clock uttered three sombre chimes.

‘In here.’ Moving slowly, Mrs Ashton led Lucy into a comfortable sitting room where a fire burned in the grate. She went and stood by the french windows. Outside was a small wilderness of back garden, with the hillside rising beyond and the pine trees, with their rooks’ nests, filling the strip of sky. On the terrace a couple of blackbirds capered in a birdbath, fluttering water up all around.

‘I’ve been watching these silly creatures,’ Mrs Ashton said, smiling. ‘They’re acting up for us, the little blighters.’ She tapped lightly on the glass and the birds startled up but, seeing no danger, resumed their game. ‘They know they have an audience. We always have an audience, don’t we?’

‘How do you mean?’ Lucy asked.

‘There’s always someone to watch us and criticize.’ Mrs Ashton, intent on the birds, was bathed in a thin shaft of afternoon light, and Lucy found herself doing exactly what the woman complained of, watching her critically. She must be very old, getting on for ninety and she was well-dressed, in a pale-blue cashmere cardigan and light-grey trousers. A touch of face powder and pink lipstick completed the effect, whilst her flecked nails gleamed with clear varnish.

Mrs Ashton turned to face her and Lucy caught a floral fragrance. It was like opening a door into a past world, a world of golden summer afternoons and teas on the lawn.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ Mrs Ashton asked.

‘No, I don’t.’ Though . . .

‘Never mind,’ the woman said, almost to herself.

‘Have you lived in this house long? Mr Vine said you lived in Saint Florian as a child.’ Lucy glanced about at the prints of English landscapes, at the pair of faded armchairs before the painted mantelpiece, at the Daily Telegraph lying on a side-table, folded to the crossword, a spectacle case beside it. All these and the carriage clock on the mantelpiece might have been there long ago. But some things marked change. A digital telephone sat in its cradle, and on the coffee-table near the dancing flames was a tray with mugs rather than teacups, and a flask with a modern flower pattern. There were touches of the exotic, too – an Orthodox icon on the mantelpiece, African wood carvings. An abstract painting glowed like a jewel in an alcove.

‘This was my home when I was a child. My father left it to me when he died, some years ago now, and later I lost my husband. It was time to come back. Lucy.’ Mrs Ashton looked up into Lucy’s face and the young woman saw toughness there, and pain. ‘Tell me why you’ve come.’

‘It’s about my father, Tom Cardwell. I don’t know if you knew him at all, but he was a Wincanton. He . . . he died recently.’

‘I know,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘Your great-aunt told me. However, only a few months ago.’

‘Aunt Hetty? So you do know the Wincantons. Mrs Ashton, you must be something to do with Rafe. I’ve been trying to find out about him. My father was very interested in him, you see. And I don’t know why.’

Beatrice inclined her head gravely. ‘I can tell you everything. I very much want to explain things to you, but, you see, it’s difficult. You turning up like this – it’s a shock.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said contritely, by now utterly bewildered. ‘I had no intention of causing any trouble.’

‘I know you didn’t. Don’t worry, my dear. The situation is not of your making.’

‘You asked if I remember you. Well, I don’t, not really. But it sounds as though you knew my father?’

Mrs Ashton stared out of the window as if at something beyond the garden. Finally she said, ‘I knew Tommy as a baby. After that, I . . . lost touch with your grandparents.’ She frowned and added, with some effort, ‘Until Angelina’s funeral. I saw you there.’

Her face was so full of anguish Lucy asked, ‘Mrs Ashton, are you all right?’