Dear Trustee by Mary Burchell Page A

“But we had a long talk about—about the unhappy affair of his sister, Mr. Carisbrooke. It’s all been such a mystery, and so fiercely taboo as a subject for so long, that I think he was surprised to find there could be another viewpoint on it.”
    “And can there be another viewpoint on it, Miss Bernardine?” enquired the solicitor drily.
    “Well—yes. I think there can. I’m not going to pretend my mother was blameless, and I hold no brief for anyone who uses another woman’s husband to further her own ambition. But why should she be assumed to have been the driving force in that unhappy affair? From all accounts, he was a forceful, charming man, well able to get his own way and know his own mind. Why shouldn’t he have been active on his own behalf, without much prompting from her?”
    Mr. Carisbrooke gave Cecile a long, reflective look, and for a moment he did not speak. Then he said slowly, “It’s odd you should say that. Picton said something the same to me in this very office, only yesterday.”
    “You mean he made excuses for my mother?” She flushed with the extraordinary sensation of surprise and joy which swept over her at the thought that Gregory’s deeply rooted and bitter resentment might be softening.
    “No. He didn’t go as far as that.” Mr. Carisbrooke smiled thinly. “But he said, ‘I always took it for granted that Hugh—’ that was the name of the brother-in-law, Hugh Minniver—‘that Hugh was urged on to his divorce by Laurie Cavendish. But, suppose that were not so, Carisbrooke,’ he said. ‘Suppose that were not so. It does alter the picture rather.”
    “He—he said that?” Cecile bit her lip because it trembled suddenly. “That was generous of him! Because it must have been difficult for him, after all these years, even to try to reassess the facts.”
    “I think, Miss Bernardine,” Mr. Carisbrooke gave that dry smile again, “that perhaps you reassessed the facts for him.”
    “Well, perhaps.” Cecile smiled in her turn. “But it is true, you know, that none of us knows, really, how much the husband acted of his own free will, and how much because of anything that—that Laurie did.”
    “When do you propose to start living with your mother, Miss Bernardine?” enquired Mr. Carisbrooke.
    “As soon as it suits her. I’m going to see her today, and I hope to settle it then,” Cecile explained. “Then I’d better go up north for some days and settle up things there. Most of the furniture can be sold, and Florrie and Stella can be told of the new arrangement—”
    “If the trustees agree, Miss Bernardine.”
    “Well, make them agree, Mr. Carisbrooke,” Cecile retorted impatiently. “You’re much cleverer at this sort of thing than I am. I want the house cleared and put up for sale. I want Florrie and Stella settled in the cottage, with what furniture they need, and the assurance that they will have their little pension. The sale of the furniture will give me some ready money, I suppose, and on that I’ll take a business-training refresher course, and be ready to face life on my own. That’s all, I think. Except that if and when we do sell the house, it will give me rather more capital to play about with.”
    “To invest, Miss Bernardine,” corrected Mr. Carisbrooke austerely.
    “All right. To invest.” Cecile smiled at him. “I’ll do whatever you all want about that, if I can have my own way over Florrie and Stella.”
    Mr. Carisbrooke forbore to point out that she was also having her own way over her place of residence. And, having promised Cecile that he would do his best to see that her wishes were met, he bade her a not unfriendly goodbye.
    It was rather late in the afternoon, but Cecile decided there was still time to go and see her mother. She had not been there since their telephone conversation about her evening with Gregory, and she wondered, with a half nervous sort of curiosity, what her mother’s attitude would be.
    As Laurie greeted