Dear Trustee by Mary Burchell Read Free Book Online Page A

idea of the background. To warn you not to start on a degree of intimacy from which it might be difficult to retreat.”
    “And suppose I don’t want to retreat from any degree of intimacy?” Cecile retorted angrily.
    “I thought you might when you knew the facts.”
    “The facts?” Cecile looked scornful. But the waiter came to change their dishes just then, and during the enforced silence she had time to feel disquiet as well as anger.
    “What did you mean?” she asked, when they were alone again. “I know my parents didn’t get on, and that she left him—and me—many years ago. But there must have been two sides to the dispute. I know, better than most, that my father was not the easiest man to live with. Life at home was dull and melancholy enough for me. To anyone of her disposition it must have been insupportable.”
    “But don’t you think the dullness and melancholy may well have dated from the time when your father’s affections and pride were crushed by the desertion of his wife?”
    “I can’t say about that. No one can know—or decide who was more to blame,” Cecile said firmly. “I only know that she is my mother, and that a very harsh judgment has kept her from me until now.”
    “She chose that, my dear. It was not enforced upon her.”
    “You can’t be sure of that.” She looked shaken. “That’ s my father’s side of the story.”
    “Do you think he would have lied about it?”
    “N-no. Not that.” Cecile was convinced of her father’s integrity, in this as in anything else. “But he couldn’t be expected to give an unbiased account. He must have felt very bitter.”
    “I suppose he did. But I do know, Cecile, that your mother went away, of her own free will and stayed away. I don’t know, any more than anyone else, what would have happened if she had tried to come back. I only know that the attempt was never made, and that was why your father let you suppose your mother had died.”
    There was a rather long silence. Then she said huskily, “I accept that, if it is my father’s account of things. But no mere recital of facts can give more than the bare bones of the situation. I don’t blame her for making no attempt to come back—to see me again. Who can say what considerations kept her away? Pride, or fear, or the conviction that she had gone too far ever to turn back. You’re used to being Counsel for the Prosecution. But I’m not. I’m just her daughter. And I am entitled to make excuses for her.”
    “My dear,” said Gregory Picton, and his voice was oddly gentle, “you shall make what excuses you like for her. But I must, in fairness to your father, tell you that he did not force her away or keep her away. He merely gave you a very final interpretation of her permanent absence.”
    “But you told me, Mr. Carisbrooke told me too, that he preferred us to remain apart always. That—that he thought her an unsuitable companion for me,” Cecile reminded him unhappily.
    “Well,” Gregory Picton made a slight face, “that’s a different story. I wish I didn’t have to tell you so much. But perhaps I have to give you all the facts in order to justify my insis—” He stopped, changed the word, and said, “My suggestion that you should see as little as possible of your mother.”
    “You were going to say ‘insistence’, weren’t you?” Cecile looked him in the eye. “It isn’t any good, you know. I have no intention of letting anyone insist, any more, about what I do or do not do in connection with my mother. And I may as well tell you here and now that I intend to live with my mother. She needs someone to share her flat with her, and I’ve arranged that I shall do so.”
    “But you can’t do that without the agreement of the trustees,” he retorted sharply.
    “Are you sure?” Cecile sounded much more self-possessed than she felt. “I should have to ask Mr. Carisbrooke about that.”
    “Cecile, don’t speak in that tone of voice! You sound like