“Probably not. How did it come about?”
Daisy shook her head. “If I tell you, then you won’t need my help.”
“Daisy, you can’t possibly tell me everything that happened in four centuries!”
“So you will need my help!”
“Let’s say I still have an open mind on the subject. Let’s hear about the Wars of the Roses. The short version.”
“If there’s a long version, I can’t remember it. I can never keep Lancaster and York straight, either, nor remember which is red rose and which is white. Anyway, legend has it Sir Roger Dalrymple was an obscure knight who fought for the wrong side. However, at the Battle of Bosworth he managed to switch sides just in time, taking his men with him. Henry Tudor was duly grateful and made him a baron. The story is that he’d promised a monetary award, but handing out titles was cheaper.”
“Henry VII was a notorious penny-pincher.”
“The funny bit is that the Petries, our neighbours, fought for Henry all along and were also rewarded with a barony.”
Tommy grinned. “That can’t have pleased them. And I see what you mean. It’s not the sort of story the Dalrymples would be keen on broadcasting to the world.”
“I don’t suppose anyone would care two hoots nowadays. Or be in the least bit interested, come to that.”
“Except those ivory-tower historians of yours. The Petries—I met your friend Phillip Petrie at Fairacres, but I didn’t make the connection. It was the Petries’ governess Julian Dalrymple ran off with.”
“Propinquity,” said Daisy. “The two families have always been friendly in spite of inauspicious beginnings. There was probably lots of visiting back and forth. She—What was her name, by the way? I can’t keep calling her ‘she.’”
“Marie-Claire.”
“Julian and Marie-Claire. I can’t help thinking of her as Jane Eyre. I picture her looking like Mabel Ballin. Have you seen the film?”
“Madge dragged me to the 1915 version, with Louise Vale,” Tommy said impatiently. “To return to business. We know that Julian and Jane—Louise—Marie-Claire, that is, you’ve got me thoroughly confused. They were married in Bristol and the marriage properly registered, so the legitimacy question doesn’t arise that far back. The letter from Julian found in the muniments room declared his intention of taking ship for Jamaica if his wife wasn’t welcomed into the family.”
“Which she wasn’t? I gather that’s another family legend come true.”
“So it seems.”
“What about the travellers’ tales of their having a large, barely respectable family?”
“Just that: travellers’ tales. Rumours, hints, but no details, and certainly nothing that could be described as evidence. Even if it’s true, my correspondent in Kingston hasn’t been able to discover records of the births of Julian’s children. There was a halfhearted attempt to set up a national registry in 1843—”
“Twelve years after they left England. Time enough to have any number of children.”
“Exactly. And in any case, that law was pretty much neglected. It wasn’t till 1880 that the civil registration of births, marriages, and deaths was really put into effect. Besides, the islands had all sorts of upheavals: earthquakes, tidal waves, slave revolts and the freeing of slaves, sugar tariffs—”
“I don’t want to hear about sugar tariffs,” Daisy said firmly. “Just tell me about the earliest records of the family you’ve discovered. If any. Just a minute, I want to write this down.” She took out her notebook.
“The earliest official record is a ship’s crew list of 1882: James Dalrymple, aged seventeen; then his marriage in Kingston in 1891; James, aged twenty-six, son of Alfred Dalrymple, who may have been Julian’s son. Alfred died in 1900, age unknown. James was lost at sea in 1917, his ship sunk. Torpedoed. His son—” A knock on the door interrupted. “Come in. Yes, what is it, Miss Watt?”
“It’s twelve o’clock, Mr. Pearson. You have an appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Liston and they have arrived.”
“Thank you. I’ll be with them in just a moment,” said Tommy. Miss Watt withdrew.
The sound of church clocks far and near chiming the hour wafted in through the window, a multitude of different tones, unsynchronised so that the ringing seemed to go on and on.
Daisy asked, “James’s son?”
“Samuel. Also a sailor.” Tommy looked and sounded evasive. “He’s at sea, his present whereabouts uncertain. Sorry, I can’t give you any further information now, but I’ll be in touch.” He stood up.