"Thanks very much," she said tartly. "And what would have happened if I'd been overjoyed to see the back of you?"
His face split into an evil grin. "Well, just in case, 1 took out an insurance policy by moving in with Joanna. She's better-looking than you so you were bound to be jealous."
"Bollocks." But she didn't elaborate on whether it was the looks or the jealousy that was evoking her scorn, "Did Mathilda tell Jane she'd had Paul's child? Was that what the row was about?"
He nodded. "But she told her it was a boy."
It was Sarah's turn to sigh. "Then I doubt it's even true. She could have fantasized a baby just as easily as she fantasized her uncle's suicide"-she shrugged-"or had an abortion or smothered the poor little thing at birth. I think it just suited her to resurrect the fantasy in order to create a thoroughly guilty and embarrassed legatee whose strings she could pull after she was dead.'! She turned back to examine the portrait again. "She used and abused us all, one way and another, and I'm not sure I want to be manipulated by her any more. What do I say to Jane and Paul if they ask me why she left me her money?"
"Nothing," he said simply. "Because it's not your secret, Sarah, it's mine. Duncan did her one good service by destroying her diaries. It leaves you free to build a memorial to her in any shape or form you like. In ten years, Fontwell will see her only as a generous benefactress because there'll be no evidence to prove otherwise." He cupped her face in his hands. "Don't abandon her now, sweetheart. Whatever her motives were and whatever she did, she entrusted you with her redemption."
"She should have entrusted it to you, Jack. I think she probably loved you more than anyone in her whole life." Dampness glistened along her lashes. "Does she deserve to have people think well of her?"
He touched her tears with the tip of his finger. "She deserves a little pity, Sarah. In the end that's all any of us deserve."
This is the diary of Mathilda Beryl Cavendish. It is my story for people to read when I am dead. If anyone finds it they should take it to the police and make sure Father is hanged. He made me do something wicked today and when I said I was going to tell the vicar, he locked me in the cupboard with the scold's bridle on my head. I WAS BLEEDING. He cries a lot and says it is Mother's fault for dying. Well, I think it's Mother's fault, too.
It was my birthday yesterday. Father says I am old enough and that Mother would not mind. She knew about men's needs. I am not to tell ANYONE or he will use the bridle. OVER AND OVER AGAIN.
Mother should never have done such things, then Father would not do them to me. I am only ten years old.
I HATE HER. I HATE HER. I HATE HER...