The Cornish Widow, page 11
I sigh as I pass through the door and kick off my boots in favour of a pair of fluffy slippers. They make my limp more pronounced, but they are comfortable, and now that I'm feeling fretful, comfort matters more than ever. I cannot erase the image of Felix Crossley, and it is preying on my mind.
I head towards the stairs, intending to go to my room, but as I pass the dining room, a large box on the table catches my eye. I go inside to investigate. The package, addressed to Mrs Coralie Pennington in Mrs Ponsonby's spiky writing, is wrapped in brown paper, and tied up with string. I don't recall seeing the Pennington name before, and I wonder what is inside. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I take a chance I wouldn't dare contemplate if Mrs P were in the house. As she is not, it is an opportunity too good to miss. I untie the first knot, which secures the vertical string, but she's bound the second so tightly that I can't undo it. The string is loose enough to ease from the parcel, and I unwrap the paper and look inside. Mrs Ponsonby has wrapped the contents in layers of tissue paper and secured them with tape, much to my annoyance. I can't open it any further without tearing the delicate paper. Scowling, I re-wrap it and am working the string back around the box when it suddenly snaps.
"Damn." The word explodes from my mouth, and I am glad Mrs Ponsonby isn't around. It is bad enough that I broke into her parcel, but she hates blasphemy, and it would earn me a frosty stare or worse. My heart beats faster as I gaze at the now useless frayed string. I will need to find some more if I want to conceal my crime. I examine the drawers on the sideboard, pulling them out in quick succession. Mrs Ponsonby has stored stationery there in the past, but she's rearranged them, and they are now full of cutlery and silverware. I'll have to hope Elys has some in the kitchen.
I take the package and tuck it under the table in case Elys sees it when she comes back in. I don't want to have to explain my nosiness to her. She's already under orders to keep me out of Mrs Ponsonby's room. I will never catch her out unless she drops her guard, which is not likely to happen if she thinks I've been poking around.
I perform the same drawer opening ritual in the kitchen. Almost everything I could ever need is in the drawers and cupboards except for string. I slam the pantry door shut in a fit of temper at the failure of my search. How Elys trusses a joint without something to tie it with, I don't know. But if she has anything, she doesn't keep it anywhere conspicuous, and now I am stuck. At this rate, I will have to throw the package away and feign ignorance about its existence. But that's a risky move. I can't carry the parcel from the cottage, and there's nowhere to hide it on the premises that Mrs Ponsonby wouldn't check.
As I gaze out of the window in frustration, I see the trellis has come loose from the wall, and a solution pops into my head. There's bound to be a ball of string in the shed. No respectable gardener could get through the year without it, and Mrs Ponsonby enjoys pottering around in the summer. Regretting my choice of footwear, I shuffle outside, leaning heavily on my stick. I advance along the path, picking up decomposing leaves on the soles of my slippers as I walk. By the time I reach the stone-built shed, my slippers are filthy. I slide them over the path, dislodging the unwanted mulch, then yank the bolt across, open the door, and go inside. The air smells musty, and I shiver as I try to remember the last time I was here.
The damp shed, built in the same stone as the cottage, is at least as old. It must have been a stall or outhouse in the past, and its spacious interior is useful for storing unwanted furniture and gardening tools. An old wooden cupboard with half a dozen drawers nestling below rickety shelves lurks against the far wall. I fling open the left-hand door and immediately find a ball of string. It is almost the same colour as the original, and I am sure it will be an adequate substitute. "Good work," I say to myself, relieved.
I take the string, close the cupboard and am about to leave when I see an old tennis racket from the corner of my eye. I smile in recognition. It belongs to Mrs Ponsonby, who let me borrow it occasionally when Kate Lewis was still here. Kate left us when I was about fourteen, but I still fondly remember her. I never understood why she went away, but it was a terrible wrench. She was kind to me and made light of my limp, insisting I could do anything I wanted if I put my mind to it. We would play in front of the cottage, Kate patiently hitting the ball close to me, enabling an easy return with little more than a stretch of my arm. She took me fishing once in a nearby river, never fussing when I slid from the bank.
I take the racket and feel the weight of it in my hand, closing my eyes as I remember the last time I held it. I see Kate in my mind's eye and remember that free and easy summer. My world seemed larger then, with lots to see and plenty to do, and I am sure we went further afield than Porth Tregoryan despite my injury. I swish the racket back and forth. It feels good, and I wonder if I could still hit a ball with any degree of accuracy. But then I remember the package and the urgency of righting my mistake before Mrs Ponsonby reappears.
I lean the racket back against an open shelf at the back of the shed and glimpse an old kitbag behind. I don't remember seeing it before, and nobody has used it for a while, judging by the thick layer of dust. A label hangs from the handle, and I turn it over to see two letters, V.P. It must belong to Mrs Ponsonby. I reach for the handle, haul it out, then blow the dust away, choking as it billows in my face. One easy slide of the zip and the bag is open. Inside are clothing items of a sporting nature. I am not surprised as I already knew that Mrs Ponsonby was the athletic type in her youth. But to my astonishment, I find a pair of women's trousers and smirk at the thought of her wearing them now. Mrs Ponsonby has become matronly with the passing of the years, and her days of wearing trousers are behind her. The bag yields little else of interest except for a few bits of card. My excitement at finding this paperwork vanishes when I examine it further. The document is a wartime ration book, and someone has written Miss Vera Ponsonby in neat capitals across the top. The second item is a postcard from Margate addressed to Miss Vera Ponsonby from Miss Coralie Cream. And unless it's a coincidence, Cream must be the unmarried name of Coralie Pennington, the intended recipient of the parcel in the dining room. Thoughts of the package prompt me to stop fussing around the shed and start securing it before someone catches me out.
I close the door and make my way to the dining room while Elys is still gossiping with Jory. For once, I am grateful to be an afterthought. I fasten the parcel and slip the damaged string in my pocket for disposal elsewhere. Then I try to remember which way the package faced when I first saw it. I arrange it accordingly and regard my work with satisfaction. Nobody would ever know. It isn't until I am re-reading Coralie Pennington's married name that the penny finally drops, and I understand the true nature of what I saw in the shed. The ration book and postcard both bore the salutation of Miss Vera Ponsonby. Miss, not Mrs. I sit heavily on the dining room chair and absorb this new information. Why has Mrs Ponsonby spent the last twenty-five years pretending to be married?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dolly Grey
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1930
The next day I wake early and immediately think of Peter. He has known Mrs Ponsonby for years, and his mother may have been her confidant. I wish I had found the kitbag yesterday. Tuesdays are the new book changing day, and Peter is usually accessible at the hotel. It might be another week now before I see him, and I cannot wait that long. It's not only a matter of passing on salacious gossip about Mrs P – my thoughts have dwelled on something far worse.
I woke suddenly in the small hours to a niggling doubt that soon burst into a fully-fledged panic. And having mulled it over for a few more hours, I cannot banish it away. My concerns may be groundless and make no logical sense, but the issue of my background has raised its ugly head again. I don't know who my parents are or whether they're alive. Mrs Ponsonby has inferred that I'm an orphan, but I don’t know whether to believe her. And now, alarmingly, I’ve discovered that Mrs Ponsonby is not a widow and is, in fact, unmarried, which brings me to a horrifying conclusion. Could she be my mother, and did she create the whole orphan/guardian story as a ruse to conceal her shame? But it doesn't seem likely given her unsuitability for child-rearing and lack of maternal instinct. Mrs Ponsonby doesn't like me, and the servants have shown me greater kindness over the years. But now the cat is out of the bag about her marital status, my worries won't go away, and I'm queasy at the thought that she might be my kin.
I've always wondered about my family. For years I accepted my life as it was. But as I grew up and saw other children with their parents, I realised I was different and began asking why. Mrs Ponsonby had no tolerance for it and either ignored my questions or diverted my attention to other things. With no choice in the matter, I forgot all about it, but coming of age on my twenty-first birthday set in motion a deep desire to know more about my life. I didn't want to spoil the day's celebrations, such as they were, but the next day I begged Mrs Ponsonby to tell me more about my background. After trying her hardest to avoid talking about it, she finally capitulated and said that I came to her from an orphanage in my fifth year. She couldn't tell me which orphanageand she did not know my parents or anything about them. I listened and thanked her, but her story was full of holes. I did not believe a word of it, and I still don't. And keeping her bedroom door locked, and me a virtual prisoner, has done nothing to change my mind, which is why I poke and pry at any opportunity. So far, Mrs Ponsonby is always one step ahead of me. But one day, she will forget, and I will know. And when that happens, what will I find out? That we are flesh and blood, or that perhaps she has stolen me? And what of the allowance? Someone somewhere has made provision for me, which does not fit with the idea of Mrs Ponsonby as my mother. Unless, of course, the money comes to her from my father. I groan and put my head in my hands as I contemplate this logical solution, explaining everything.
I distract myself by rising and dressing before creeping downstairs, hoping to leave before anyone notices. I haven't had breakfast yet and decide it’s worth the sacrifice if I can escape undetected. But it is not to be. Elys sees me pass the dining room door where is she is sitting at the table drinking tea with Mrs Ponsonby.
"Connie, come here. I've got something for you."
I sigh and walk into the dining room, flushing as Mrs Ponsonby smiles at me. I cannot meet her gaze and turn quickly towards Elys.
"What is it?" I ask.
"They're ready," she says, pointing to a hanger on the back of the door.
"Oh, my goodness. Two dresses," I say.
"Not only dresses. Open this." Elys picks a box off the floor and thrusts it towards me."
I stare for a moment, not sure what to make of it.
"Sit down, and I'll pour you a cup of tea," Elys commands.
I take a seat and remove the lid from the box. Inside is a pair of beige Mary Jane's. I take them out and examine them. They have sweet little straps and perforated detail, and someone has subtly built up the heel of the left shoe to accommodate my uneven leg. The box contains further surprises – two pairs of Celta stockings thick enough to hide my scars but not so much that they look like woollens.
"Thank you so much," I say, almost on the verge of tears at her kindness.
"You can thank me for the dresses," says Elys. "But Mrs Ponsonby organised the shoes."
"Thank you," I mutter. It is kind of Elys to credit Mrs P, who no doubt arranged payment. But so much thought has gone into the colour of the shoes and the delicate composition of the stockings that it must be Elys.
"Are you going to try them on?" asks Mrs Ponsonby.
"I will do, later," I say. "It's such a pity I've nowhere to go."
"Won't you be off to the hotel as usual?"
"Not today," I say. "I don't feel like it. It's not the same without Dolly. How I wish I could see her."
"Yes. It's a terrible shame," says Mrs Ponsonby. "Isla Tremayne tried to visit last week, but Dolly was too ill, and they wouldn't let her in."
"She's asked for me," I say.
"Really?" asks Mrs P, and I feel my hackles rising.
"Yes, really. Dolly sent me a letter. I can fetch it if you don't believe me."
"There's no need, Connie," says Mrs Ponsonby. "Poor Dolly. I would like to see her too. Perhaps we could go together?"
I contemplate her suggestion. I can't think of anything worse than spending time alone with Mrs Ponsonby while the question of my parentage weighs heavily on my mind. Yet there's next to no chance of seeing Dolly any other way. We won't be able to speak freely, but at least I'll get to see her. "I suppose so," I say uncertainly.
"Good," says Mrs Ponsonby. "Well, there's no time like the present. I've nothing else to do today, so why not go now?"
I am taken aback by her enthusiasm, but this is excellent news. Today was looking distinctly uninteresting. Now, at least, I am leaving the confines of Pebble Cottage and going to Newquay for the second time in a week. It is almost unheard of.
"That's settled then," she says. "Go and change, Connie. Let's see what you look like in your finery."
Fifteen minutes later, I return downstairs feeling apprehensive. I barely recognise myself when I see my reflection in the mirror and feel excited on the one hand and embarrassed at the difference on the other.
Elys gasps as I enter the dining room. She approaches me and fusses over the hemline, checking that it's straight. "You look wonderful," she says. "Simply stunning."
"That will do nicely," says Mrs Ponsonby. "Now, are you sure about Jory?"
"I'm sure," says Elys. "It's not necessary."
I raise a curious eyebrow. "What isn't?" I ask.
"Nothing," says Mrs Ponsonby. "I thought we'd go to town on the omnibus."
The omnibus? She has completely taken me aback. It's rare enough to leave the village, much less travel by public transport, and I begin to wonder if Mrs Ponsonby is having a breakdown. If so, I will take full advantage of it.
"That sounds wonderful," I say enthusiastically. I am going to do everything possible to encourage Mrs Ponsonby's new outlook.
Elys smiles. "Look lively," she says. "The next one's due in ten minutes."
Before long, we are on the 'bus and travelling towards Newquay. Mrs Ponsonby takes the window seat and gazes outside as we travel, occasionally flashing a smile and dropping a word of small talk. I am grateful. I don't feel like conversing, and I don't know what to say to her. I wish I had never poked around in her possessions and discovered her secret. It has created an even greater barrier between us.
The omnibus pulls up on the outskirts of town, and we alight and thank the driver. Mrs Ponsonby searches for a shop and finds one close to the convalescent home where she purchases fruit and flowers for Dolly. Then we take a short walk to the unoriginally named 'Sunnyside' and announce ourselves. A young, uniformed nurse greets us and makes us wait outside while she consults a senior colleague. The matron in charge, a stern-looking woman with a nose like an eagle’s beak, crisply dressed in starched collars and a headpiece, soon replaces her. Her tightly pinned hair appears as if it's glued down, and not a strand is out of place. The matron fixes us with an intimidating stare. Her overt hostility is discomfiting, but Mrs Ponsonby demands directions to Dolly's room without batting an eyelid.
"Visitor numbers are limited," says the nurse.
"Then it's just as well there are only two of us," replies Mrs P.
"One visitor at a time," says the matron, coldly.
Mrs Ponsonby draws herself to her full height and regards the nurse with a steely stare.
"Constance cannot walk distances alone," she says. "And I will go with her." She takes my hand and enters the establishment. The matron scowls but does not argue.
"Which way?"
"Show them to Miss Grey's room," says the matron through gritted teeth. She has given up in the face of Mrs Ponsonby's dominance. For once, I am glad of her forceful persona.
We weave our way down narrow corridors behind the young nurse. The building is old and was once a large residential property. When the builders converted it into a medical establishment, they must have had a smaller number of rooms in mind. Everything feels squashed together with more patients than the building can comfortably hold. There is no logic to the arrangement of the rooms and passageways, and I feel disorientated by the time we arrive outside Dolly's ward.
"Visitors," says the young nurse cheerfully as she opens the door.
Dolly's room is dark and unprepossessing. Dingy olive curtains cover most of the window even though it's late morning, and the flowers beneath the glass have wilted and seem to have given up on life. There are two beds in the room, and the occupant to Dolly's left stares vacantly at the wall as if she is still alone. Dolly looks wearily towards us and raises half a smile.
"Connie, Mrs Ponsonby. How nice of you to come. And don't you look lovely. Is that a new dress?"
"How are you, my dear?" asks Mrs P before I can reply, then she gestures towards the only chair.
"I can stand," I say.
"Nonsense," says Mrs Ponsonby, perching on the bed beside Dolly. She does not ask, and if Dolly minds, she does not say.
"How are you feeling?"
"Not the best," says Dolly. Her brown eyes are puffy and sunken, her cheeks gaunt.
"What happened?" I ask.
"I fell ill quite suddenly," says Dolly. "I don't know why, and the doctors can't say what's wrong with me. It's been difficult to breathe, and I've hardly kept a thing down."
"Oh, Dolly. We've brought you fruit. Perhaps that wasn't such a good idea."
"I managed an apple yesterday," she says. "I'll try something later. It was a kind thought, and I'm grateful."
"Do you have influenza?" asks Mrs Ponsonby.
Dolly shakes her head. "I've had the flu before. This illness feels quite different. It may be something I've eaten."
"Poor you," I say.
Dolly heaves herself further up the bed, flinching with the effort.
"Let me," says Mrs Ponsonby and plumps the pillows while Dolly sits straighter.
