Free Abbeyford Remembered by Margaret Dickinson Page B

off on his horse as if the devil himself were after him.”
    â€œIs – is Squire Trent here?” Her tone was more hesitant now.
    â€œOh, yes.” The man stretched his mouth into the semblance of a grin. “ Drinking himself into his usual stupor.” He waved his hand towards the left-hand side of the hall and said, his tone heavy with sarcasm, “The Master is in his study, ma’am, if you’d care to step this way!”
    Opening the door he indicated and peering round it, she saw Squire Guy Trent slumped over his desk, an empty glass in one hand and an empty bottle at his elbow. This room, too, was dusty and littered with papers, empty bottles and dirty glasses.
    Carrie cleared her throat, but when there was no response from him she moved closer.
    â€œSquire Trent?” Still no reply, so tentatively she put her hand on his shoulder.
    â€œWha’ …?” His movement was so sudden that Carrie snatched her hand away in fright and sprang back a pace.
    Bleary eyes gazed up at her, his head rolling from side to side. “Who is it? Can’t see …”
    â€œIt’s Carrie. Carrie Smithson.” She bent closer now, desperation giving her courage. After all, he was only drunk and hadn’t she seen that many times before?
    â€œSquire – where’s Jamie?”
    â€œCarrie? Carrie Smithson?”
    â€œYes. Where’s Jamie? I must see Jamie. It’s – important!”
    â€œJamie?” he repeated stupidly, whilst Carrie grew more impatient.
    â€œYes. Where is he?”
    â€œI don’t know. Gone. Gone away. Left me.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œLeft me all alone. He was in a rage. Wouldn’t speak to me. Looked as if he – he could – kill me. Never been frightened of Jamie before. Not Jamie. Wallis, yes. I was always afraid of Wallis. My own son – and I was afraid of him.” The words were drawling and slurred but Carrie could plainly understand. She sat down in a chair opposite the desk. She would have to be patient with him if she were to learn anything. Perhaps if she encouraged him to ramble on like this, she would find out what she wanted to know.
    â€œYour son, Jamie’s father?” she prompted.
    â€œYes. He was a hard man, so cold and ruthless! I’ve been a failure all my life. Failed my parents, failed my wife and son and worst of all, I failed the only girl I ever really loved. My Sarah!”
    Carrie said gently. “Jamie knows about – about you and Sarah. My father told him.”
    â€œYour father?” The eyes peered at her, red and puffy.
    â€œYes. Evan Smithson. Your – son by Sarah.”
    For a moment the room was still and silent. Then the old man let out such a groan that Carrie was afraid. He covered his face with his hands, knocking over the bottle, which rolled to the edge of the desk and fell to the floor, shattering into a dozen pieces. The glass dropped from his fingers to the desk, but Carrie grabbed it before it, too, fell to the floor. He was panting and moaning and Carrie thought the shock had brought on a heart attack of some kind.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said swiftly. “I’m terribly sorry. But please – you must help me. I love Jamie. And he loves me, I know he does,” she tried to convince herself, blotting out the picture of him riding away from her, ignoring her when he had learnt the dreadful truth.
    The pathetic old man seemed suddenly, painfully sober. Slowly his hands fell away from his face, his moaning quietened and he looked at Carrie full in the face. “As I loved Sarah and she loved me.”
    There was silence. Moved by pity, Carrie reached out her hand and touched the old man’s. He covered hers with his other hand. “If you love him, and he loves you, let no one stand in the way of your happiness. No one! Do you hear me?”
    Carrie nodded, unable to speak for the lump in her throat.