Your trouble is that you will not reconcile yourself to the fact that the man we knew and admired and loved was not his true self before he died.
He was mentally and physically sick, and not responsible for what he wrote or said.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said.
“I can’t believe it.”
“You mean you won’t believe it,” said my godfather, “in which case there is nothing more to be said.
But for Ambrose’s sake, and for the sake of everybody who knew and loved him, here on the estate and in the county, I must ask you not to spread your views to others.
It would cause distress and pain to all of them, and if such a whisper ever got to his widow, wherever she may be, you would cut a miserable figure in her eyes, and she would be well within her rights to bring a case against you for slander.
If I were her man of business, as that Italian seems to be, I would not hesitate to do so.”
I had never heard my godfather speak with such force.
He was right in saying there was no more to be said on the subject.
I had learned my lesson. I would not broach it again.
“Shall we call Louise?” I said pointedly.
“I think she has been wandering about the gardens long enough.
You had both better stay and dine with me.”
My godfather was silent during dinner.
I could tell he was still shocked by what I had said to him.
Louise questioned me about my travels, what had I thought of Paris, the French countryside, the Alps and Florence itself, and my very inadequate replies filled up the gaps in conversation.
She was quick-witted, though, and saw something was wrong.
And after dinner, when my godfather summoned Seecombe and the servants to tell them of the various bequests, I went and sat with her in the drawing room.
“My godfather is displeased with me,” I said, and told her the story.
She watched me in that rather critical inquiring way she always had, to which I was well accustomed, her head a little on one side, her chin lifted.
“You know,” she said, when I had finished, “I think you are probably right.
I dare say poor Mr. Ashley and his wife were not happy, and he was too proud to write and tell you so before he fell ill, and then perhaps they had a quarrel, and everything happened at once, and so he wrote you those letters.
What did those servants say about her?
Was she young, was she old?”
“I never asked,” I said.
“I don’t see that it matters.
The only thing that matters is that he did not trust her when he died.”
She nodded.
“That was terrible,” she agreed, “he must have felt so lonely.”
My heart warmed to Louise.
Perhaps it was because she was young, my own age, that she seemed to have so much more perception than her father.
He was getting old, I thought to myself, losing his judgment.
“You should have asked that Italian, Rainaldi, what she looked like,” said Louise.
“I should have done.
It would have been my first question.
And what had happened to the Count, her first husband.
Didn’t you tell me once he had been killed in a duel?
You see, that speaks badly for her, too.
She probably had several lovers.”
This aspect of my cousin Rachel had not occurred to me.
I only saw her as malevolent, like a spider.
In spite of my hatred, I could not help smiling.
“How like a girl,” I said to Louise, “to picture lovers.
Stilettos in a shadowed doorway.
Secret staircases.
I ought to have taken you to Florence with me.
You would have learned much more than I did.”
She flushed deeply when I said this, and I thought how odd girls were; even Louise, whom I had known my whole life, failed to understand a joke.
“At any rate,” I said, “whether that woman had a hundred lovers or not doesn’t concern me.