“I expected only the cottage,” she told him. “I wonder why my mother never drew on any of the money.” And why had she never so much as mentioned it? Had Papa known about it? But he must have, after her death if not before. Why had he never said anything? Because his daughter had become more wealthy than his son? Because he respected her mother’s wish to have nothing to do with her past? It would have been that, she decided. He would have respected her mother’s rejection of her past even after her death—and even at the expense of their daughter.
Mr. Rhys was looking uncomfortable. “I know Miss Bevan was very fond of her niece,” he said. “She took her in and she fed and clothed and educated her. But she was always afraid—she confided in me on a few occasions since we were in the way of being friends. She was always afraid the girl would turn wild and go chasing after her mother’s people. And she did like to go barefoot out of doors and run on the beach and swim in the sea. It was what all children were like, I tried to tell Miss Bevan. My own were not much different. But she was afraid. And fear made her overstrict. And maybe a bit overcritical too. I am not sure if that was what drove your mother away. I think there may have been some sort of quarrel between your great-aunt and your grandfather, though they were scarcely on speaking terms at the best of times. And I am not even sure about the quarrel. However it was, your mother went. She was very young. Perhaps she did not know that quarrels are best made up as soon as tempers have cooled, especially with family members.”
Her mother had felt rejected, then, Samantha thought—by her own mother, who had gone back to her people, leaving her child behind; by her father, who had turned her over to his sister’s care; and by her aunt, who was overstrict and overcritical because she was half Gypsy. She had run away at the age of seventeen—and had met Papa, who had loved her quietly and gently and steadfastly for the rest of her life. Perhaps it was significant that she had married an older man, a substitute father, perhaps. For though she had undoubtedly loved Papa, it had not, Samantha thought now, been a passionate relationship.
“I do hate to speak ill of the dead,” Mr. Rhys said, “and a former client and friend at that, but Miss Bevan could be as stubborn as a mule too. When her niece ran away, she would not go after her or even write to her to beg her to come home or ask if she needed anything. And she would not go to meet your father when she heard about the marriage or to meet you when she heard of your birth. Your mother did write on both occasions, so perhaps she did try to reach out. Miss Bevan would not forgive her, though, for running away and becoming an actress after all she had done to make the girl into a respectable lady.”
“And yet,” Samantha said, “she left everything to my mother.”
“And now it is yours,” Mr. Rhys said. “I am glad you have come.”
“Thank you,” Samantha said. “I had no idea, you know.”
“I hope,” he said, “you are not regretting that you did come.”
She gazed at him for a few moments before answering.
She had come here to escape. To hide. To break free of the oppression of a too-strictly-applied respectability. To put aside the heavy trappings of her mourning in favor of gentler memories of the man who had been her husband for seven years. To find some peace. To find some freedom. To make a new beginning.
She had not expected this.
“I am not sorry,” she said.
“Splendid,” Mr. Rhys said, rubbing his hands together, though whether his enthusiasm was for her declaration or for the tray of tea and Welsh cakes Mrs. Price was carrying into the sitting room was unclear. Perhaps it was for both.
He stayed for an hour. Samantha accompanied him to the garden gate when he was leaving since the rain had stopped. Looking up as his carriage moved off, she could see that the clouds were higher and whiter and that there were a few breaks in them, through which she could catch glimpses of blue sky. Perhaps after all the afternoon would be bright and warm.
Tramp was standing at her side, breathing heavily.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “But you must give me a moment to fetch my bonnet and put on my half boots. The ground is wet.”
She was rich, she thought as she stepped inside, and her stomach lurched at the realization. But rich was not quite a strong enough word. She was downright wealthy.
With property and money her mother had wanted no part of.
One thing he was not, Ben decided as he drove a hired gig over to the cottage in the afternoon, was a writer. He could see scenery and points of special interest in his head. He could people each scene with interesting characters and their stories. He could formulate his reactions to it all. He could even get it all down on paper without too much difficulty. The problem, though, was that there was an enormous difference between what he saw and heard in his head and felt in his heart on the one hand and, on the other, what was written on the three closely spaced pages with which he ended up. Somewhere between the two all the life and color and excitement had been drained away to leave cold, hard, uninspired fact.
The only thing any reader would be inspired to do if he plodded through it all was stay home and forget about any itch to travel he might have felt.
No, he was no writer. It was perhaps a bit defeatist to give up after his very first attempt. But the point was that the whole process had bored him horribly—from the daily scribblings in his journal to the organizing of ideas into some sort of outline to the attempted writing of an opening chapter. It had felt like being back at school, compelled to write essays upon subjects that were as dry as dust. This was decidedly not what he wanted to be doing for the rest of his life.