The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [394]
Mrs Totton was looking thoughtful at this.
‘Years ago, when we were selling Albion Park, my brother and I went through old Colonel Albion’s papers. It’s a long time ago, but I think there was something about a Pride girl who had run away to London amongst them.’ She glanced at Dottie. ‘Would it interest you to have a look?’
Dottie hesitated. She ought to go back to her work. On the other hand …
‘If it’s not too much trouble …’
‘No it’s quite easy.’ She smiled. ‘That is, if all these papers are where I think they are. Imogen dear, it’s too heavy for me, but in the store room you will see one of the boxes is labelled “Colonel Albion”. Perhaps the two of you could bring it here.’
The store room of Mrs Totton’s cottage turned out to be a carefully contrived solution to the problem so many people of her kind faced when they moved from a large country house into a small one: what to do with the mass of family papers, pictures and other records of the past which will not fit into a cottage? Her solution had been to build on a large store room. On the walls, frowning down, were the large family pictures that would have overwhelmed the rooms in the cottage. Arranged neatly by her late brother, on racks, were some twenty trunks, each labelled, containing the papers and mementoes of this or that ancestor. There were racks of swords, old cane fishing rods, whips and riding crops, and several cupboards of uniforms, riding coats, lace dresses and other finery all duly mothballed. It was a family treasure house. They found the leather trunk easily enough and managed to drag it along the passage into the sitting room. They opened it.
The Colonel had hated writing letters, but he had made a copy of almost every one so that his record not only of incoming, but also of outgoing correspondence, was almost complete. For a man who hated paperwork it was a commendable achievement. The letters were arranged not chronologically but by subject, each batch placed either in an envelope or wrapped in a piece of covering paper and neatly labelled in the Colonel’s firm hand.
They went through them all, looking for anything labelled ‘Pride’. There was nothing.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Totton, ‘I’m sorry. I must have remembered it wrong.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Dottie. ‘It was kind of you to think of it.’
They started to put the letters away.
‘Look,’ said Imogen, and held up a packet. It was labelled: ‘Furzey, Minimus,’ under which the Colonel had drawn a short, angry line. ‘May I?’
‘Of course.’
There were a number of letters, mostly brief. But one was much longer. It began, curtly: ‘Sir, It may interest you to know that the agent I employed some two years ago has recently furnished me with a reply.’
‘Whatever can this be about?’ Imogen wondered aloud. She scanned the letter further, and then said: ‘Oh.’ She read a little more. ‘Dottie,’ she said, taking her arm. ‘I think I’ve found her.’
The Pride girl is found. She is alive and well. For that we may thank God, I suppose. She is living, in sin, with a person said to be an artist, of no moral repute. A person, I dare say, therefore, very like yourself.
She has been offered an inducement to return to her parents, or at least to let them know that she is alive. This she utterly refuses to do, whether because she has sunk and accustomed herself to a life of sin, or whether out of shame I do not know. In the circumstances I think it best to say nothing to her parents.
You may come to reflect upon the fact, Sir, that it is you and you alone who is responsible for the ruin of Dorothy Pride.
I say you may care to reflect: I should rather say that you might care to reflect, if I did not know that it is not in your character to draw any moral conclusions under any circumstances.
I can only conclude by assuring you that I, for my part, have learned with each passing year to feel