Some Old Lover's Ghost Read Free Page B

thehousekeeper reappeared with a tray of coffee and home-made biscuits.
    ‘The hoya is in flower already. It has a glorious scent, though only at night-time, of course. I have never understood how a plant can have fragrance at one time of day and not at another. Patrick, my grandson, tried to explain to me once.’ She added, ‘I am so pleased that you agreed to talk to me, Rebecca. Do you know why I suggested that you write my biography?’
    I mumbled cautiously, ‘I assumed you’d read my book.’
    She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t read much these days. My eyesight – such a nuisance. I listen to the television, though. I saw your documentary.’
    Everything about her – this house, her appearance, even the coffee cups – proclaimed her to be from another age. I couldn’t picture Tilda slumped on the living-room sofa, flicking channels on a remote control.
    ‘You saw Sisters of the Moon ?’
    She nodded. ‘Yes. And a few days later, I was in Blackwells, buying a birthday present for my granddaughter, and I saw your name on a book cover. Providential, don’t you think?’ She paused. ‘I found your television programme very … very touching.’
    I was horrified to notice that there were tears in her eyes.
    ‘Very touching, and very intelligent. No unnecessary sentiment. No sensationalism. You stood back, and let those women tell their stories. I admire that. It implies a certain wisdom, a sense of your own limited importance in the scheme of things. It implies also a sense of justice. I do believe in justice, you see, Rebecca.’ Her expression altered, and her light grey eyes darkened. ‘People have forgotten those women, and they have forgotten the power that men like Edward de Paveley possessed. No-one should have such power.’
    ‘Who is – was – Edward de Paveley?’
    ‘Edward de Paveley was my father. He raped my mother, who was a maidservant in his house. When she became pregnant, he had her consigned to the workhouse, and from there she was sent to a mental institution in Peterborough.’
    I was aware of a flicker of surprise. Looking at Tilda Franklin now, it was hard to believe that such a proud, elegant woman should have had so ignominious a beginning.
    ‘I am reckoned to have led an interesting life,’ Tilda added. ‘I have always guarded my privacy, though. But when I watched your programme I thought that could be interpreted as cowardice, rather than a lack of egotism. I have made a bargain with myself – I shall tell the story of my life in order that my mother’s story can be told.’ Tilda put aside her cup and saucer. ‘I would very much like you to consider writing my biography, Rebecca. I don’t expect you to give me an answer yet, of course. But you’ll think about it, won’t you?’
    I mumbled something noncommittal. I couldn’t bring myself to confess to her that, though I had once been able to write, I was no longer able to do so. That Toby had taken, along with my self-respect, my art.
    She seemed to take my silence for assent. ‘May I tell you a little more? Both my mother’s family – the Greenlees – and the de Paveleys lived in Southam, in the Cambridgeshire Fens. Fen villages were at that time very remote, very rural, little worlds of their own. My mother never travelled further than Ely, and that only occasionally. A wealthy landowner would have great influence in such a place.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘My mother’s family had lived and worked in Southam for generations. My grandmother died young, and my grandfather – my mother’s father – was a labourer for the de Paveleys. They had two children – Sarah was the elder, and Deborah the younger. Their cottage was owned by the de Paveleys, and their renting of it was dependent on my grandfather’s continuing to work for the family. So when he died in 1912, the sisters lost their home as well as their father. Deborah, who was sixteen, went into service with the de Paveleys, but Sarah left the