Chapter Text
George Abernethie gazed out of the large bay window in the drawing room of his new stately home, Enderby, and sighed. The house was to die for and the grounds magnificent, but something - or rather, someone - was missing. Missing in his life and missing even in Enderby. He counted himself lucky that his mother, Helen, with whom he had reconciled after the first few weeks of shock and horror at learning the truth about her illicit relationship with Richard Abenethie, Enderby's former patriarch and his dad Leo's eldest brother, was now there, too.
But it was to his beautiful cousin, Susannah, that he had turned his thoughts. Tall, slender, graceful Susannah. The loveliest of the Abernethie women, in his opinion, and arguably the most caring and solicitous of others. There was a time when his own mother would have fallen into that latter category, according to George, but she rather blew that when 'Uncle' Richard spilled the beans about their longtime betrayal of his de facto father, Leo. No, Helen and Richard's adultery notwithstanding, that honour still had to go to Susannah for her genuine kindness towards others and her readiness to put the needs of strangers before her own.
This admirable quality was a two-edged sword for George. On the one hand, it served to deepen his love and increase his respect for Susannah, but on the other hand it frustrated him and made him feel rather like a petulant child. What about his need of her? He felt self-centred and childish at the thought, but it was how he felt and he wasn't going to pretend otherwise to himself. After all, he rationalised, wasn't charity supposed to begin at home? Couldn't she simply send money and supplies out to Bechuanaland - why did she have to physically be there in person?
He vividly recalled the day she left Enderby. That funny little Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, had at last put them all out of their misery and revealed the identity of Aunt Cora's murderer; then just a few days later, as soon as Helen had recovered enough to come home from hospital, everyone had piled into their respective cars and driven off. Uncle Timothy looked hopping mad with poor obedient Aunt Maude in tow as always, and Michael and Rosamund left pretty sharpish, too. George smiled inwardly as he remembered Rosamund's squeal of delight when he offered to lend them the money - and the green malachite table - for the new play.
And as for Susannah, well, George had thought his heart would just quietly shatter into a thousand pieces when she looked at him sadly and confirmed that she still intended to go to Africa. After everything they had all been through; even after just about surviving the humiliating (mostly for her, to be honest) revelation of their 'forbidden' love, she was still determined to give it a try.
What he didn't know was the effect his sad expression had had on Susannah. It had taken all of her willpower and single mindedness not to change her mind and throw caution to the wind. So they both remained lovelorn and slightly lost, each one pining in their own way from different parts of the world.
Oh God, what if she doesn't come home for ages? What if she doesn't come home at all??
George shuddered at the implications of such a dreadful [for him] possibility, then pulled himself together.
Well, it was no good indulging in another afternoon of emotional foot stamping. The Lord helps those who help themselves, he told himself in a somewhat self-focused twist on the old saying, and he finally resolved to stop doing what everyone else in the family seemed to be doing - things like wringing their hands and saying wistfully what a pity it was that Susie wasn't here, etc - and devise a plan. Yes, he would woo her back. He would write to her and do his best to win her back home and, he hoped, into his arms.
He frowned; tempting her to come to England for the holidays was one thing; convincing her to come back to live in England was quite another; but persuading her to be his lover would be the biggest challenge of all. Yet despite her sincere sense of calling towards the poor children of Africa, George was nevertheless certain that their afternoon in bed at the hotel in Lychett St. Mary on that fateful day after the funeral had crystallised Susannah's decision and hastened her departure.
Susannah's extreme sense of guilt at the timing of their tryst - they had fallen into each others' arms on the very day it was believed Aunt Cora had been murdered - appeared to exceed by a mere trifle the degree of guilt she exhibited at their mutual passion. It was as if she felt sullied by it, whether primarily because she regarded it as incestuous, or whether due in equal measure to her fear of jeopardizing her commitment to the Kasane mission, George was unsure. He wondered if she continued to think much about him (or them) now that several weeks had passed and she was likely well settled into a new routine.
He went to what had been Richard's study and was now his, of course, and opened the top drawer of the fine teak desk. Taking out some writing paper and a fountain pen, he began to compose his letter to his cousin:
My dearest Susannah,
I hope you will forgive my writing to you. I realise that what occurred between us was very difficult for you, and I am genuinely sorry if it caused you pain or sorrow. I've been wanting to express my thoughts and feelings for you ever since you departed, but have been unsure of where to start or how much to say.
Mother says she has written to you out there in Bechuanaland and that she has brought you up to date on things back here. As you know, I am now living at Enderby as per Uncle Richard's wish (I still can't bring myself to refer to him as 'Father'), and I have to admit life is very comfortable. Mother has joined me here, and Lanscombe and the rest of the domestics have all stayed on to help.
I think of you often out in Africa; no make that, 'I think of you all the time', if I'm honest. I do hope all is going well for you and the mission and that you are happy and fulfilled. Actually, that sounds too formal and stilted, doesn't it? Of course I wouldn't want you to be unhappy ever, but the truth is also that in a very selfish way I must confess that I am hoping you don't feel so happy and fulfilled out there that you'll never want to come back.
That day we spent together in Lychett St. Mary is permanently seared in my memory, for it was the most joyous day of my life. I know that may sound inappropriate, both in the light of what we learned later about poor Aunt Cora (although Monsieur Poirot said she was probably already dead by the time we would have got there anyway), and in the light of your acute discomfort over our having crossed the line of kinship. I am so sorry if my subsequent behaviour made things even more awkward for you. In truth, I was feeling pretty awkward and confused myself, although it didn't take me more than a day to realise that I loved you. I promise that it was not merely an afternoon's diversion for me; but I believe you know that already.
You made it clear right from the day of Uncle Richard's funeral that your heart lay in helping the poor in Africa, so I don't doubt that your sense of calling in that direction may well have made you decide to go out there one day. But I do hope that my clumsiness didn't chase you away or cause you to want to leave sooner. I must confess to also hoping that somewhere alongside your deep and altruistic love for Bechuanaland, there might still be a small place for me.
In any case, you are, to my mind, one of the most valiant and selfless people I have ever known. It goes without saying that it took real courage to travel to a faraway land where who knows what conditions might have greeted you, and all for the sake of people you'd never even met. But you also declared your love for me openly that final day at Enderby, in front of nearly the whole family, and that must have taken even more guts.
I know that Monsieur Poirot had backed you into a corner and you had no choice but to tell him where you and I had actually been on the day after the funeral, but the fact that you also volunteered to say that you loved me, nearly caused my heart to burst. (Please do excuse the rather sentimental tone here. It has been a time of reminiscing, in part so that I could find the words to write to you.)
You may be pleased to hear that I am no longer drinking and gambling away my days. There is far too much to do here and I am slowly coming to terms with what happened between Uncle Richard and Mother. And it was such a relief to be finally convinced that my angry words had not killed him, in spite of his having been so ill by then.
I really do wish you the very best in your work out there, and we all applaud your selfless efforts. Having inherited all this loot in spite of my attempts at will forging (!), I now find myself in the very advantageous position of being able to offer you some monetary assistance for the mission. Will the enclosed cheque be enough?
You do know, I am sure, that you will always be welcome back here. The whole family misses you - particularly Rosamund - and Enderby seems somewhat empty without your presence (even with Mother here). It goes without saying how I feel about it.
In the meantime, look after yourself, darling, and please write to me from time to time if you are able to.
Love,
George
P.S. Is there any chance you might consider coming back home for the Christmas holidays? You could see the whole family, as Mother and I would be happy to have everyone here at Enderby (unless you'd rather we didn't, of course).
Finally, he put the top back on the fountain pen and studied the letter. Would she consider it too forward? Too flowery? Too pleading or rather too presumptuous? Perhaps even a touch formal? Or maybe just too damned desperate? Well, even if it was any or all of those things, so be it, he determined. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, after all. He loved her and he wanted to see her, so it was a no-brainer really.
Dear God, what's happened to me?, he asked himself. I'm turning into a pathetic drip who's not only fallen for the least suitable - and least deserved [by me] - woman in England, I'm begging her to drop everything out there, brave another long sea voyage and return to Northamptonshire to spend time with me.
But even as he articulated those words in his own head, George knew he had no choice. Susannah Henderson may be his cousin, but she was also the love of his life, and if necessary he would spend the rest of his days finding ways to bring her to his side. For that was where she truly belonged, he was convinced of it. He wondered idly if he would be able to bear the conditions in Bechuanaland, should he be unable to persuade her to leave, and assuming she allowed him to stay out there with her. Helen would be heartbroken, to be sure, and even Rosamund would feel further abandoned, but at this moment his heart was threatening to rule his head.
Jolted back to reality by the arrival of the elderly butler, Lanscombe, offering him an early evening aperitif, George was surprised to discover that more than two hours had gone by and it was now six o'clock in the evening. Happy Hour, he said to himself sardonically, thinking ruefully that no time was happy time without her.
He shook himself back to the real world and said, "No thank you, Lanscombe. I'm definitely going lighter on the sauce these days."
The old man smiled and replied, "Very good, sir. Mrs Helen said to tell you she'll be down presently for dinner," and bid a respectful retreat.
"Thank you," George answered.
He reckoned there was just enough time to look up and write down Susannah's address on the envelope before his mother appeared. He would wait until the next day, sleeping on it, so to speak. Then, if he was still satisfied with the letter, he would have it taken into town for posting and hope that she would receive it favourably.
Over dinner, Helen noticed that George seemed even more distracted than usual and asked him if anything was the matter. She knew, of course, of her son's feelings for his cousin - after all, the whole family had known after those embarrassing revelations to M. Poirot that last day - and she guessed correctly that he was brooding over her again.
"George, are you alright? Are you thinking about Susannah, my dear?" she ventured. It was a touchy subject for obvious reasons but she was convinced it was a dilemma best shared and discussed rather than hidden and perhaps left to fester in an unhappy heart.
Helen had been the least shocked of all the family members at the unorthodox emotional tangle between her son and her niece-by-marriage. And it wasn't simply that, having engaged in a decades long extra-marital affair with her own brother-in-law, she was the least well-positioned to pass judgement. There was also something in her nature that saw nothing intrinsically evil in acknowledging and celebrating romantic love, even when such passion was labelled unconventional, unwholesome or inappropriate.
She had made discreet enquiries into 'family matters' and learned that while society and the Church frowned somewhat on romantic relations between first cousins, there was no absolute legal bar to such a union. Indeed, actual marriage to a cousin was not against the law either, so it was not as if George would be living in daily fear of being arrested, for pity's sake.
The biggest hurdle, she realised, was Susannah herself, with her strong principles and unwavering devotion to her Lord and to the ministry to the poor of another continent.
"I don't want you to think I'm interfering in any way, George," she continued, "but I can't help but see how much you miss her. Why don't we - well, you or I or both - invite her for a visit, say for Christmas? With Rosamund's baby due at the end of December too, she could join us in asking Su - "
"Actually Mother, I'm going to do just that," George interjected. "As a matter of fact, I've already written a letter to her - "
"You have??" cried Helen, a little astonished. She was pleased but somewhat surprised to find him so decisive after weeks and weeks of mooning and indecision.
"Well, I've written a letter, but I haven't posted it yet. As a matter of fact, I literally just wrote it this afternoon while you were with Mrs. Bridges." Mrs Bridges was the head cook/housekeeper who liaised with Helen regarding the planning of the weeks' meals. As the new chatelaine of Enderby, Helen revelled in her luxurious domestic 'duties', eternally grateful that the temporary estrangement from her beloved son had not lasted long.
Gilbert Entwhistle, the Abernethie family solicitor, still carried a torch for Helen and would gladly have proposed to her, but she was very clearly not ready for any romantic overtures. Indeed, she was still feeling keenly the loss of Richard, her great (and secret) love.
"I'm going to give it some final thought tonight and if it still seems a good idea in the morning, I'll have it posted off. In the meantime, I'd be grateful if you didn't say anything to the others."
Helen promised to be discretion personified. "No, no, of course not. Oh, I do hope dear Susannah will come for Christmas!" she exclaimed. Or maybe longer, she whispered to herself under her breath.
A lot longer, thought George. His mother's murmured wish had not escaped George's sharp hearing.
Emboldened by Helen's encouragement, he resolved to send off the letter to his alluring, yet devout, cousin the next day (provided he didn't wake up to a massive attack of self-doubt) and pray for a miracle.