“There must be a mistake. My father would never have behaved like that.”
“Oh, he did all right. There was my mother … left with a child to look after. She went back to her father. It was a blessing she had him to go to. But her place was here, in Cador, that place she’d heard so much about. She used to say to me that she felt she’d been there. He’d talked so much about it, you see. She was fascinated by it. Every day she used to talk about it to me. You’d think she’d been there. According to her my father was a great talker. He used to tell her about the dungeons where the food was stored because it was cool down there; and the kitchens with their roasting spits and the buttery and the laundry rooms. She loved to tell me about the dining room with its tapestries of the Wars of the Roses and the Great Rebellion … I wanted to know all about them after that.”
I listened aghast. She was giving an exact description of Cador.
“What fascinated me most,” she went on, “was what they called the peeps. I can’t wait to see them. In that room called the solarium. I want to look through those peeps down into the chapel and the hall. I want to go out onto the battlements and look at the sea. But I think what’s going to be my favourite are the peeps.”
I thought: She knows the house. She knows it intimately. How could she unless …?
She saw the effect her words were having on me and there was, I fancy, a malicious glint in her eyes.
She went on: “My mother tried to do some tatting. She said it was on the chairs in the dining room. ‘Queen Anne’s Tatting’ she called it.” She smiled. “My mother used to say that my father could make you see the things he was talking about.”
Mr. Tamblin was looking uneasy, and I could see that Rolf was taken aback, for he, too, knew she was giving an exact description of Cador which could only have come from one who knew the house well.
I was relieved when her lawyer arrived.
She introduced him as Mr. Trilling. She had brought him with her from Sydney. He had read of the case in the papers of course. At the time, the whole of Sydney had been talking about it: the man who had been sent out on a seven years’ term, had served it and come back to his death. It was something to catch everyone’s imagination. Mr. Trilling said there was no doubt that Miss Maria Cadorson’s story was true and the marriage certificate would prove that.
The dramatic moment came when he produced the certificate. Mr. Tamblin looked eagerly and he and Rolf studied it. I saw the blank dismay on their faces.
“It … would appear to be authentic,” said Mr. Tamblin.
Rolf looked at me with a deep compassion which confirmed my worst fears.
“Of course,” said Mr. Tamblin, “there will have to be a further inspection.”
“May I see it?” I asked.
The document was put into my hands. I stared at the names: Jake Cadorson and Hilda Stillman.
Stillman … The name had a familiar ring.
“That was your mother,” I heard myself say. “Hilda Stillman.”
“That’s right. My grandfather was Tom Stillman. He had quite a fair property. Stillman’s Creek was the place … Named after him, you see. Because there was nothing there when he settled.”
“Whereabouts is that?” asked Mr. Tamblin.
“South of Brisbane … Just about on the borders of New South Wales and Queensland.”
The room seemed to be spinning round me. I was carried back to that day when I had been in my father’s room sorting out his clothes.
I saw the little notebook which I had given my father. I remembered the words so clearly. “Stillman’s Creek on the borders of New South Wales and Queensland.”
He had the address. He had asked Gregory Donnelly where it was.
Hilda Stillman had gone back to her father when she was deserted. It was there that Maria had been brought up.
I could almost hear his voice … and Gregory Donnelly’s answer. My father had known where she was and he was going there.
What did it mean?
Only one thing, it seemed. He knew of Stillman’s Creek, the home of the girl who said she was his daughter.
What had he intended to do? To recompense her in some way? He would naturally want to see his own daughter.
Was that the real reason why he had wanted to go to Australia?
She had talked of Cador as though she knew it. It was almost as though she had seen it. There could only be one answer. Her story was true. She was my father’s legitimate daughter. I was a bastard. I had no claim to Cador. Not only had I lost my parents and my brother: I was going to lose my home as well.
Discoveries
I SHALL NEVER FORGET those months. I think they were some of the worst I have ever passed through. My common sense told me that her story was true, but every emotion I possessed assured me that it could not be. My father would never have deserted her and her mother in that way. I could well understand that if he had in fact married that woman he would realize he had made a vital mistake and that the prospect of returning to England with her would fill him with dismay. She would certainly not fit in with the life at Cador. He might have wanted to desert her, but he would never have done so in the way it was suggested.
The matter was brought to court. Mr. Tamblin said it was imperative that this should be. I could not simply hand over the estates to a woman who had come along and asked for them. It was a court of law that would decide the merits of the case and legal documents would have to be drawn up.
Rolf was with me in those days. He was completely astounded by the turn of events. I should have liked to turn to him then, to tell him of my desolation and explain how I longed to be with him; and at this time I did not seem to care if he had been there on that Midsummer’s Eve. But he was aloof. I suppose he could not forget the humiliation I had inflicted on him by waiting until the morning we were to be married to tell him that I could not go on with it.
There was a barrier between us. He was there helping me, advising me; he gave me his knowledge, his sympathy, his time—but the closeness which had once been between us was there no longer.
He agreed with Mr. Tamblin that the matter would have to go to court.
I dreaded it.
The woman told her story well. It seemed to fit in with everything. Her mother had met my father—so the story ran—in a hotel in Sydney where she worked as a barmaid. They had become friendly. He had finished his term of seven years and had bought a bit of property. It was called Cadorsons and was some miles north of Sydney. A daughter had been born to them—Maria herself. Then it appeared news of my father’s inheritance had come to him. He had kept it from his wife. He had told her that he was selling the property to a man named Thomas Donnelly; and then went back to Sydney where she thought they were to remain until he bought a bigger property. But he had left her in Sydney and that was the last she saw of him. He had left her nothing and she was penniless. All she could do was go back to her father on his property at Stillman’s Creek. There Maria was brought up. If anyone tried to pretend she was a bastard she had the means to prove that she was not.
When there was all the fuss in the newspapers about Sir Jake Cadorson with the story of his past, she realized that this was the father who had deserted her and her mother all those years ago. She learned about the property in Cornwall and had spoken to a few of her friends about it. They had told her that she ought to claim what was hers by right; and this was what she was doing.