NOW, CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
Dorothea used to whisper to Francis sometimes, as he feigned sleep after storytime. He’d lie there, warm and toasty, tucked beneath his covers as she read to him; stories that flew across universes and up into magical trees and behind cupboard doors where snow-swept lands awaited. And when she would finally finish the book, his eyes lulled closed by the melodic drift of her voice, she would gently sweep the hair from his forehead and whisper, ‘Well, good night, dearest Francis. I’ll go and check on your brother now.’ Francis pauses in his recounting of this memory, and sees that Roddy is smiling.
Roddy is wearing a very nice pair of trousers today, and a smart woollen vest. He looks lovely as he sips his whisky in the dull afternoon light. Francis feels they could talk forever.
‘Edward loved Louis. He seemed almost possessive of him, which made no sense to me as a boy. Nobody talked explicitlyabout who had fathered Louis, you see.’ Francis frowns. ‘And I don’t suppose I really thought about it,’ he adds. His memories are hazy. ‘I mean, Louis was only a few weeks old when they left. But I found the proof we were brothers some years later, when I was at university.’ Francis recounts the distressing day he had gone through his father’s locked desk to find some documents he needed. In a folder, hidden in the bottom drawer, was a letter of advice from a lawyer dated only days before his father’s death. It outlined Edward’s desire to obtain custody of ‘the child, Louis Fitzhenry’, and the difficulties presented byThe Guardianship of Minors Act, 1971, which required that he prove that removing custody from the mother was in the best interest of the child. There were suggestions on how that might be proven: if for example the mother drank or gambled excessively, or if her mental health was unstable:
It is pertinent to note the familial lineage of Dorothea Stewart, in particular her father’s criminal links to illicit gambling, might be considered by the courts in the context of their detrimental effects on her child. That, in conjunction with Miss Stewart’s unstable and violent outbursts and general neglect of the child that you have witnessed and documented, would certainly work in your favour in terms of any future custody hearing, given you are claiming paternity of the child.
Francis had pondered the legal advice, furious at the lies it contained about Dorothea. He could not envisage any scenario in which Dorothea would have climbed into bed willingly withhis father, and so, he had been left with one conclusion.Bastard man.Took what he wanted from everyone.
He had been silent on his father’s murder. Silent, and guilt-ridden about Dorothea, who had kissed his forehead and sworn him to secrecy before she fled.Not a word, she urged as he lay curled up, sickened and silent in his bed, eyes shut tight against the spinning twilight. And then she was gone.
But now the time had come to speak of it.
‘Cricket got in touch with me not long after that,’ says Francis. ‘She’s an odd fish, Cricket, but her heart is in the right place. I suppose she wanted me to understand that he was evil. That I mustn’t torture myself about it.’
Cricket’s telephone call had come out of the blue. They’d barely had contact since she left. But, for some reason, on his twenty-first birthday, she asked to meet at a tearoom in Cambridge. She was wearing a huge sapphire on her ring finger. ‘She told me she thought I needed to know the truth about how Dorothea came to be pregnant with Louis, and that my father was a very bad man.’ Francis sighed. ‘Said he abused both her and Dorothea.’
Interestingly, Cricket had made no mention of her own action in urging him to pull the trigger that day. Cricket Applegate was a survivor who had been taught to deflect. Still, she had paid off the staff that night—all of whom adored Dorothea anyway—and reiterated they must never speak about the existence of baby Louis. And she must have somehow diverted the lawyers. He loved her for that.
Francis retrieves the decanter and tops up their whisky glasses. ‘She thought Dorothea was owed that at least. The chance torun with her child, without reports of Louis in tow. A baby would have made her a far easier target for police.’
‘But wasn’t his birth registered?’ asks Roddy.
‘Apparently not. Cricket was tasked with lodging the paperwork, because my father wanted to ensure Louis was registered as a Fitzhenry, and he didn’t trust Dorothea to do it. Cricket told him it had been done. The whole situation was awful.’
‘Poor Cricket,’ says Roddy.
‘Oh, you don’t want to feel sorry for Cricket.’ Francis tells Roddy about Cricket’s dealings with Clive, his father’s constipated valet. When Edward failed to appear on the night of the murder, Clive wanted to report both the viscount and baby Louis missing, but Cricket had reminded him of his gambling debts. Told him he had a lot to lose, given that Cricket’s father’s newspapers were at her disposal to share whatever sort of story she wanted to concoct. ‘Cricket may have appeared floaty and unstable,’ says Francis, ‘but you underestimated her at your peril.’
‘Goodness,’ says Roddy.
‘And poor darling Dorothea,’ says Francis. ‘Having to give birth and pretend everything was okay to appease that brute of a man.’
‘It’s quite a story,’ says Roddy, giving a sad smile.
‘So,’ Francis continues, ‘I knew for sure I had a brother, because Cricket confirmed Louis was a Fitzhenry. When DNA profiling became available, I was first in line. Thought I might find Louis. I did the testing for every new company that popped up. Eventually, I got a really interesting match.’
A more surprising truth Francis could not have imagined. He was notified about a match to a woman called Lucy Barnsworth, a niece to Lady Beatrice Montgomery.Dorothea’smother.
‘You could have knocked me down with the lightest of feathers,’ says Francis. ‘It took me quite a while to believe that Dorothea wasmybiological mother too. And I then got a match to a man in America, who presumed it was a mistake, because I was coming up as his biological son, but he didn’t have a son! James, his name was. Lovely old chap.’
‘So, you’re in no way related to Edward Fitzhenry?’
‘No! Isn’t that wonderful? I hate that house.’ He looks towards the huge house across the snow-covered lawn.
‘You have her eyes,’ says Roddy. ‘I can definitely see Phyllida in you.’
Francis grins. He has promised he won’t reveal Dorothea’s new identity, and he feels buoyed that Roddy’s friends say she is improving in hospital.
He cannot believe he has met Roddy and that they both love this tiny old woman who is very ill. That someone cares as much as he does for Dorothea is strange and exhilarating.
Francis feels the urge to seize the moment. To show Roddy the things he loves. He is overwhelmed with a sense of possibility. ‘How about a walk along the river? There’s a spot my mother used to take me where we would sit and read our books. It’s very special.’
57
PHYLLIDA
