73. A Tangled Web

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In 1860 a Belgian built what was virtually a double-acting steam engine adapted to work as a two-stroke engine with electric ignition.

  At the Paris Exhibition five years later there was a free-piston engine and in 1885 a small version of the Daimler engine was fitted to a boneshaker bicycle with two stabiliser wheels.

  The English went ahead with their designs for a new Daimler, while the French in 1890 introduced the first Peugeot, which was laboriously driven from Paris to Lyons that year.

  Not to be done down a year later Daimler produced a quite comfortable four-seater motor car and after that the race was on to design and produce motor cars that would attract the sportsmen of every nation.

  The Americans were rather behind and then Henry Ford produced his first experimental motor car in 1896.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1896

  Carola, riding home, passed Brox Hall.

  She thought, as she had often done before, that it was the most beautiful house she had ever seen.

  It was of her favourite period, having been designed in the middle of the eighteenth century and the statues on the roof were silhouetted against the sky.

  What always depressed her, however, was that the windows were mostly boarded up.

  The huge house was empty except for the two old caretakers who had been there for years.

  What made it all the sadder, she thought, was that the Marquis of Broxburne was in London.

  According to her brother, who knew him, he was enjoying himself.

  ‘Why can he not come home, open the house and spend some time on improving the estate?’ she asked herself.

  She knew the answer was that there was not enough money!

  It was the same, she thought with so many aristocratic families.

  Everything had become much more expensive and the huge houses, which used to employ a great number of servants, were unable to carry on.

  As she rode on, she knew she should be thankful for the much smaller house where her father’s family had lived for generations.

  The first Baronet had been created in the reign of James II and in each subsequent generation there had been a son to succeed to the title.

  Her brother Peter was now the sixth Baronet.

  He was exceedingly proud, not only of his name, but also of his estate, which was, however, of course, very much smaller than that of the Marquis.

  He was never at Brox Hall to be depressed by the sight of the fields unploughed and the hedges uncut.

  There were two or three farming tenants remaining, but Carola thought that even they were somehow dispirited by never catching sight of their landlord.

  She rode on and, leaving the Broxburne estate, arrived at their own.

  It was a lonely part of the County and, apart from Brox Hall, there was not a large number of families who were rich enough to possess much land.

  Or for Carola, more depressing still, rich enough to give many parties.

  There were, however, some festivities at Christmas.

  The Lord Lieutenant, and it should have been the Marquis, gave a huge garden party in the summer.

  It was the one chance, Carola thought, for all the various people who lived in that part of the world to meet each other and she had the feeling when they said ‘goodbye’ that they always added, ‘see you next year’ and that was the end of another chapter.

  A mile further on she had the first sight of Greton House.

  It had been almost completely altered in the reign of Queen Anne and now it was difficult to remember that it had been built in an earlier period.

  There were, however, a few rooms in the house that still had two-foot-thick walls and windows with very small panes of glass.

  The main rooms were high and spacious and, as her father used to say jokingly,

  “At least I can keep my head up!”

  He had been a tall man, just like Peter.

  Carola thought that it was a good thing that she took after her mother, who had been small and graceful. But alas, very fragile, so that a year ago she had followed her husband to the grave.

  “Mama just did not want to go on living,” Carola remarked so often.

  She hoped that someday she would meet somebody who would love her just as her father and mother had loved each other.

  But there did not seem to be much likelihood of it at the moment.

  Few young men from the neighbouring families wished to remain in the country, unless they were married and they had gone to London like her brother.

  They enjoyed themselves in the same manner in which the Prince of Wales had set the fashion.

  Carola realised that they had love affairs with the professional Society beauties whose photographs were to be seen at every stationers.

  They also took the glamorous Gaiety Girls out to supper.

  She remembered Peter telling her how alluring this was and how they always dined at Romano’s in the Strand.

  To a young man, she was told, it was the most thrilling thing he could do.

  “It’s too expensive for me,” Peter complained.

  “Expensive?” Carola asked. “Do you mean the food?”

  There had been a slight pause before Peter had replied quickly,

  “Yes, the food and, of course, the flowers one has to send them.”

  He had changed the subject, but Carola found it hard to understand.

  When her mother had been alive, it had been planned for Carola to go to London and be presented at Court. If not to Queen Victoria, then to the Prince of Wales and his lovely Danish wife, Princess Alexandra.

  After a year of mourning, however, none of her relatives had suggested that they should chaperone her.

  She had therefore resigned herself to living in the country. She rode the horses and waited patiently for Peter’s infrequent visits.

  He was very fond of her, but she knew that he came home only out of duty and there were weeks when she saw nobody except the villagers and, of course, the Vicar.

  She would, she thought, have found it very lonely if it had not been for her father’s large library. He had added to it year by year, just as his ancestors had done.

  There was always something that Carola was longing to read and she would take a book to bed with her every night and turn over the pages until she was too sleepy to read any more.

  ‘I suppose,’ she told herself now as she rode towards the house, ‘I could arrange to have a few parties at home.’

  In fact, Mrs. Newman, the cook, who had been with them for years, had suggested it.

  “Now why don’t you ’ave some of your nice friends over to lunch, Miss Carola?” she asked. “I’m tired of cookin’ a few morsels for you and I’ll soon be forgettin’ me best recipes if you goes on like this!”

  “It is certainly an idea, Mrs. Newman,” Carola answered, “but perhaps people would find it boring coming here, unless Sir Peter was at home.”

  “Sir Peter’s off enjoyin’ himself right enough in London,” Mrs. Newman said firmly, “and it’s only fair you should have your slice of the cake too.”

  Carola laughed.

  “I will make a list of the people I have not seen for a long time,” Carola answered, “and perhaps we will have a luncheon party on Sunday week.”

  She remembered that her mother had always thought that Sunday was a good day to entertain.

  The neighbours were not busy, either in their gardens, shopping in the nearby market town or attending charitable committees.

  She found, however, that making a list was not as easy as she had thought it would be.

  Most of the girls of her own age, which was nineteen, had been debutantes the previous year and quite a number were married
.

  At weekends some of them would be entertaining other friends they had met in London.

  Carola could quite understand that an unattached young girl would prove an encumbrance.

  She was in point of fact completely unaware of her own attractions.

  She did not realise that she was far too pretty for many of her friends not to be jealous of her.

  Her mother had been a great beauty and Carola resembled her. She had red hair that was very unusual, being gold at the roots, but interspersed with fire.

  When it caught the sunshine, it made any man who looked at her draw in his breath and look again.

  There was a touch of green in her eyes – not the emerald green that was associated with villainesses, but the pale green of a clear stream and as usual with red-headed people, she had a translucent white skin.

  First because of her mother’s illness and then the long year of mourning, Carola had received few compliments.

  She had no idea how unusual her looks were.

  Although she was unaware of it, the last time he had been home her brother Peter told himself that he must do something about her.

  ‘There must be someone who would chaperone her if she came to London,’ he thought.

  Then he decided that it would be a mistake to raise her hopes only to have them dashed if he could not find anybody.

  He had rather tentatively asked one or two of the beautiful women he dined with night after night.

  They were interested in Peter because he was so good-looking.

  They had, however, no wish to be told the sad story about his sister.

  As she turned in through the drive gates, Carola was thinking of Peter and some of the repairs that needed doing to the house and she did not like to give the order without consulting him.

  She had the idea that he was being rather extravagant in London, which meant that he might not have the money for what was required.

  ‘I must ask him first,’ she told herself firmly.

  At the same time she hated not to keep up the house as it had been in her father’s time.

  A tile loose, or a crack in a pane of glass, worried him until it had been repaired.

  “When I inherited the house from my father,” her father had said, “it was perfect. I have to keep it that way for Peter.”

  “Of course you must, Papa,” Carola agreed. “And I, too, am very proud of this house. It is the most attractive home anyone could have.”

  She knew that her father was pleased with what she said.

  He kissed her and replied,

  “I hope, my darling, when you marry and your home is elsewhere, that you will have a house as attractive as this one.”

  Carola wanted to say that she wanted a home that was filled with love.

  But she thought her father might think it presumptuous of her to talk of love when she was only seventeen.

  Instead they had gone hand-in-hand into the library to unpack some new books that had just arrived from London.

  Now, riding up the long drive, which was bordered by an avenue of lime trees, Carola had her first glimpse of Greton House.

  Then she saw standing by the front door that there was a chaise drawn by two horses.

  She knew with a leap of her heart that Peter had come home.

  She did not stop to wonder why he had not let her know or even to question whether it was him or not.

  She merely put her horse into a gallop and reached the front door within a few minutes.

  The groom, whom she recognised as looking after Peter’s horses in London, touched his forehead.

  “Good evening, Jim!” she said. “I thought as soon as I came through the gate that it must be Sir Peter arriving.”

  “Nice to see you again, miss,” Jim replied, touching his cap.

  As he spoke, he started to move the horses towards the stables.

  Carola dismounted and a stable boy came hurrying towards her. He went to her horse’s head and she ran up the steps without speaking.

  There was no one in the hall, but the door of the drawing room was open and to her surprise Peter was there standing at the end of the room.

  The drawing room was seldom used these days.

  Instead they usually sat in the study, which had been her father’s special sanctum. It contained a great number of sporting pictures that both Peter and Carola had loved since they were children.

  For a moment, however, Carola could think of nothing but that Peter was there.

  She ran towards him with a little cry of delight.

  “You are home! Oh, Peter, why did you not let me know you were coming?”

  Her brother kissed her and replied,

  “There was no time to let you know, but I am here because I need your help.”

  “My help?” Carola exclaimed. “What has happened? What is wrong?”

  “There is nothing wrong,” Peter answered her. “It is just that I need you to help me. In fact there is nobody else who can!”

  Carola looked at him in surprise before she suggested,

  “If you have driven all the way from London, then I am sure you want something to eat or drink.”

  “I am not hungry,” Peter replied, “I stopped for luncheon on the way here, but I could do with a drink, if there is anything handy.”

  “I will tell Newman to bring a bottle of Papa’s claret from the cellar.”

  She flashed him a dazzling smile and left the room.

  Peter watched her go.

  He thought, as he had so often done before, that she was even lovelier than when he had last seen her.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said to himself, ‘this is something I should not ask her to do, but there is no one else and I don’t think it would do her any harm.’

  It took Carola only a few minutes to find Newman. He was sitting in the kitchen with his coat off, talking to his wife.

  Carola knew he went there because he had so little to do. Just like Mrs. Newman he would like nothing better than to polish the silver for a party.

  “Sir Peter is home!” she announced as she went into the kitchen.

  “Sir Peter?” Newman exclaimed. “Well, that’s a surprise!”

  “Yes, I know,” Carola answered. “He has come all the way from London and would like a glass of claret.”

  Newman was putting on his tailcoat.

  “I’ve got a bottle ’andy, Miss Carola, just in case there be an emergency like this.”

  Carola laughed.

  “I hope you have something really delicious for dinner, Mrs. Newman,” she said. “You know how Sir Peter appreciates your food.”

  Mrs. Newman held up her hands.

  “Why he can’t let us know in advance he’s comin’, I don’t know!” she grumbled. “There’s nothin’ in the larder.”

  Carola was not listening.

  She knew that Mrs. Newman would find something delicious and she wanted to go back to her brother.

  She ran down the corridor, pulling off her riding hat as she did so.

  Her hair was curly and each curl when it was released, seemed to spring into life and t caught the light of the sun as she came back into the drawing room.

  “Newman will be here with the claret in a few minutes,” she said, “now, tell me why you are home.”

  She sat down on the sofa.

  She was looking, although she did not think about it, very unconventional.

  Because it was so hot, she had ridden without a jacket and was wearing only a white muslin shirt with her riding habit.

  Now with her hair untidy she looked like a schoolgirl. Not what she was – a young woman who should be enjoying her second Season in London.

  As she waited, she was aware that her brother was looking at her critically and then she asked,

  “Do tell me why you are here!”

  Before Peter could reply Newman came in carrying a silver salver on which stood a decanter of claret and a glass.

  “Good afternoon, Newman!” Pete
r said. “I expect you are surprised to see me!”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Sir Peter,” Newman replied, “and you knows Mrs. Newman’ll do her best, but she likes to have fair warnin’ of when you’re a-comin’ home.”

  “I know that,” Peter said, “but it was important that I should talk to Miss Carola, so I set off immediately after breakfast. And, if I dock the time I spent having luncheon, I think I have beaten my own record!”

  “That’s somethin’ you always does!” Newman beamed. “At the same time, Sir Peter, you ought to be careful down them there lanes! There’s been too many accidents lately.”

  Peter was sipping some of the excellent claret that Newman had poured out while he was talking.

  The old butler put the decanter down on a side table and left the room.

  When he had closed the door behind him, Peter said,

  “Now, Carola, I am waiting to explain to you why I am here. I think you are in for a surprise!”

  “There is nothing I enjoy more than surprises,” Carola answered. “They happen all too seldom at Greton House!”

  “Well, this should make up for the scarcity of them,” Peter answered.

  He drank a little more claret.

  Then he began,

  “You remember my friend, the Marquis of Broxburne?”

  “I was thinking of him a short time ago as I was riding past Brox Hall,” Carola admitted, “and thinking what a pity it is that he never comes home.”

  “That is what he intends to do now,” Peter said.

  Carola stared at him.

  “You mean – he is going to open the house? Oh, Peter, how exciting! How – wonderful!”

  “Yes, he intends to open the house,” Peter said slowly, “and it is up to you whether it stays open.”

  Carola’s eyes seemed to fill her face.

  “Up to – me? I don’t – understand what – you are – telling me.”

  “That is just what I am going to do,” Peter said.

  He put down his glass.

  “You knew, of course, that I was at Oxford with Broxburne, although he had not then come into the title. He was older than me and we did not really become friends until I went to London.”

  Carola remembered that Peter was delighted at being included in the dinner parties that the Marquis of Broxburne gave at his house in Park Lane and he had always talked about him admiringly when he came home.