Harehope. She felt the name pulse like blood through her body, calling her, allowing her only so far before it pulled her back, sucked her into its thrall, unable to let her go. Harehope held them all; kept this band of disparates somehow together. Though each one’s relationship with it was different, still it beat through them too, and as she watched it cast its spell upon her family, she would remind herself that this place was just that – brick and stone and chimneys and park – not a soul, sometimes tyrannical, sometimes beseeching, that would urge, push, drive them all, till in her dreams she found herself turning that curve of the drive and seeing it there before her, windows black as coal, door open, pulling her in like a siren.
If France had been her freedom, Harehope was her penance. Here she carried her cross that she must bear, that she chose to bear, in order to keep her boys protected. To give them the journey to adulthood that they deserved. Jean’s mother’s money, the allowance that had enabled her to go to France, to live a separate life to Edward, to love David, was gone, recalled in the stuffy afternoon heat of that drawing room on Madison Avenue. Now she was entirely dependent on Edward, dependent on his whims, his anger, his increasingly erratic behaviour.
Edward knew that she had returned to him out of necessity. He knew the reasons for the change in her finances, and it gave him a new power over her that he nursed. The cool disdain, the distrust, the self-loathing at his failure in producing George, had changed into something else, as if a new plant had been grafted onto what grew before, creating a hybrid, something of untold strength, of thick roots and great spreading leaves, that left no room for her. It found expression in secret lives away from her too, away from Harehope, away from their family. London became a place where he went, without her, as she had done with France. She had no money of her own now, and he gave her no allowance, so Harehope became the place where she lived, where she measured out time between visits from the boys; where she would invite the few friends to stay who understood the nature of their marriage.
Today the ground was frozen solid, a thick frost encasing the landscape like lead, and everything was hard, cold, impermeable. The mild winter at the beginning of December had given way, a fierce easterly wind bringing another season in its wake. She sat in silence as she was driven through a landscape where life seemed to be hiding at the edges; the flicker of movement where a robin, a splash of red at his breast, darted down in the hope of food, or a pair of fat wood pigeons, heads tucked in against the cold, ruffled their feathers, perched on a barren branch like two old men. Neither of the boys had been home since early September; they had left a world of ploughed fields and late summer harvests, a landscape scorched and dry from a searing August; they would return to moorland hardened by ice, to hedgerows with spindled fingers and skies of spectral grey.
The train was already pulling out of the station as Jean walked onto the platform, her eyes scanning the passengers milling around amid luggage and porters, desperate to light on the pair. Someone called ‘Mama’, and there they were, in thick overcoats of Harris tweed, woollen scarves trailing, cheeks pink from the airless carriage, and they were in her arms, and she felt something close to peace take hold of her. Alfie had grown in the summer, a spurt that required him to spend hours with the tailor in Billings & Edmonds, and though he was still slim and boyish, there was the foretelling of adulthood in the breadth of his shoulders and the uneven creak of his voice. George was still a boy, though: delicate, beautiful – truly beautiful, with his pale skin and dark, almost black hair, the limpid eyes that could not hide emotion. She pulled him to her and breathed in the smell of his skin, his hair, rubbed his cheek, kissed the top of his head.
‘It’s been all right, Mama. Busy but all right.’
George was tired, eyes half-closed in the warmth of the car, but she could tell he was happy, the relief at being home now tucked under his arm like a familiar toy, the strain of achievement in terms that didn’t come easily to him now removed, if only for a short while.
She turned to Alfie, his head resting against the seat, looking out of the window as his eyes tracked the familiar journey home.
‘This term always feels eternal. Pitch black by half past three, and it seems as if we’re always at our desks in the dark. It drags. Thank God for Christmas.’ He said no more, and anyway she knew he would keep any of this term’s successes pitched low, not wanting to overshadow the brother he adored.
George looked across at her. ‘Is anyone staying?’
‘No, just us for now.’
A smile of relief spread across his face.
She turned to her elder son again. ‘Darling, I know Roberts was keen to know when you were back. Says he’s been holding back on the pigeons so that you could have a go.’
Alfie said nothing, but he smiled as they turned off the main road and onto the narrower network of lanes that marked the final phase of the journey. They swapped inconsequential stories as they drew closer, regaining their companionship after so long apart, but neither boy mentioned their father. He was part of the fabric of their lives, but not of the alchemy between the three of them. They existed separately to him. Their relationship was a living, animate thing. Edward’s presence was still; something they came up against, like a boulder in the riverbed, that they must navigate, test themselves in relation to, edge around, till he was passed and they were out and free in the flow of water again.
As they drove through the gates, the drive and their arrival into the park silenced them as the house’s presence worked on each in turn. Jean always felt something she could only describe as homesickness; the lurch as the inevitable was before her, its demands and Edward’s presence within needing to be managed. For the boys it was different. It was the revelation of the eternal: its pediments and rustication, its architraves and Palladian symmetry, as familiar to them as their own faces. The house, this place, was a figure in their lives as much as any living being. But always there was the conflict, the tug of uncertainty: how would their father be? Who would he hurt?
The car drew under the porte cochère amid the familiar scrape of gravel. Doors were flung open and the boys were out of the car in a jumble of hellos and luggage and hands shaken, desperate, though, to change out of their travelling clothes, to regain the territory of their bedrooms. The dogs could always sense George’s return, and they skittered out of their familiar spots, ears pricked, eager to present themselves to him, for the fur at ear and neck to be scratched by a returning friend. Alfie would want to find Roberts, keen to lose himself in the easy talk of birds and traps, rabbits and pigeons. Neither boy stopped as they passed their father’s closed study door. They knew well enough not to go in.
Jean had both boys’ reports in her hand. As they ran upstairs to change, she sat on the bottom step of the great staircase, leaning against the wall behind her. She opened Alfie’s first, let her eyes scan the words she could predict. He was startlingly bright, with an embarrassment of talents that followed him into whatever classroom he chose to enter or pitch to walk onto. He was hard-working, conscientious; words of praise flowed from the pens of each beak that had the good fortune to teach him. George’s reports were adequate, noting his kind nature, his gentle diffidence, but academic achievement and the classroom were not for him, and on anything beyond that – the playing fields, the wall game, the plays and performances – he made no mark; through inability or reluctance, they had not bothered to determine.
She knocked on Edward’s study door. He didn’t reply, so she opened the door slowly. He was sitting, his chair turned to the window, a tumbler of whisky before him, an ashtray filled. He didn’t register her appearance, so she cleared her throat.
He looked up slowly from the newspaper he was reading. ‘I hear they’re back.’
‘They are, and I thought I ought to show you these.’ She placed the two envelopes on the desk before him.
Edward didn’t touch them but looked up at her, unblinking. He had grown more handsome if anything with age, had grown into his features, the extra weight at his face making him a man of substance somehow, the moustache he wore highlighting the slant at his cheekbones.
‘I am sure you can guess how they’ll be.’
He pushed the envelopes aside to reach for his drink. ‘I can.’
‘I came to ask you, please, to sit down with them separately, to give them some of your time. Or just Alfie. And I’ll do George. Alfie has done brilliantly again. He has said nothing, he won’t say anything, but just give him your approval.’
She felt her throat constricting, willing herself not to reveal emotion, not to reveal Alfie’s vulnerability through her own. But still he was silent, watching her with utter dispassion. It unsettled her, even though this was now so often his way.
‘Edward, none of this is his fault. He can’t understand why you are the way you are with him. He’s only fourteen years old. It hurts him.’
He took a slow sip of his drink, relishing the silence. Eventually he spoke. ‘I’m going away tonight. I’ll break the journey at Bolton Abbey, and then I’ll be in London by tomorrow afternoon. You can manage the boys as you like.’
‘Oh, Edward, please don’t. They’ve only just got here.’
‘And look what’s happened. Already you want things from me that I am not prepared to give.’
‘But they’ll be so confused. You haven’t seen them for months.’
‘Don’t you think they’re already confused? Why don’t you go to America any more? Why don’t you speak to your mother any more? Why don’t you go to France? Why do you hide up here at Harehope, a recluse?’
She kept her voice quiet. ‘I hide up here because I can’t go to London unless it’s with your approval. I am entirely reliant upon you now, as you well know.’ Though she knew it was dangerous, she went on. ‘What do you do when you’re in London though? Who do you see? What is this life you lead away from here?’
‘That’s a fine thing for you to ask.’
‘I know, I know I did the same, but I gave it all up. I haven’t been back. I’ve been here. If you’ve wanted a wife, I’ve been here.’
‘Oh, as if it was a thing of choice. You did it because you were forced to. And can’t you see? That this family of ours, that you think you’ve come back to save, your beloved boys… This whole bloody set-up.’ His tone was spiteful, mocking. ‘Can’t you see that all of this stands for nothing. This ridiculous lie we’ve created, now covered over. This family we’ve concocted. It’s nothing. This whole thing has come to nothing.’
‘It doesn’t have to.’ She should have stopped there, but she could not hold herself back. ‘I know that things aren’t being done here as they should be.’
‘It’s none of your business. It doesn’t concern you.’
‘But you’re never here, always in London.’
‘Perhaps I need to be. We need cash. Servants don’t pay themselves, you know. And if you hadn’t noticed, the political climate isn’t looking particularly healthy. Did you read about Chamberlain’s speech last night at the press dinner in London? Empty seats where the Germans boycotted it. Lines are being drawn, and as much as I believe in working with Mr Hitler rather than against him, it’s a position we can’t hold forever.’ He looked at her directly, eyes as hard as flint. ‘Does it grate, after all those years of abundance? I always knew your mother had steel beneath that veneer of American charm. If you want to pursue the spirit of truth with our boys, why don’t you tell them why the funds have dried up? I can call in Alfie now, if you’d like? Go through his reports and then run through the family finances with him?’
‘Have some humanity. He’s just a boy!’
Before she could take stock of what was happening, his chair was back and he was up and standing over her, breathing fast. ‘Humanity? Once again, it all comes down to me and my acceptance of a status quo that is not my making.’ His voice was low, but he was walking her backwards towards the fireplace. ‘Be kind, praise Alfie for his successes. Be kind, don’t see George for the useless weakling that he is. And you say it all with that tired, sad face of yours, begging me, beseeching me.’
‘Edward, I don’t care if you despise me. Just don’t hurt them any more. They are innocent in this.’
‘And that’s it. Who is really to blame for all of this? For this mess. For this lie that you rightly observe I take issue with? It’s you – you – you.’ He jabbed his finger into her chest and she felt his breath on her, smelt the sweet tang of whisky. And he pushed her, hard, and she fell back, the side of her head hitting the corner of the mantelpiece. She felt a spear of hot red at her temple and pain flooded through her as she hit the floor. A flash of shock crossed his face, but then it was gone and he turned away from her, walking silently to his desk, taking his seat once more.
Jean put her hand to her temple, to the source of the pain. There was the stain of blood at her fingers; the marble edge must have broken her skin. Edward’s hands were shaking as he took a match from the striker and brought it to flame, lit a cigarette, pulled on it. She got to her feet, smoothing down her skirt before she spoke. ‘Go to London, then. I’ll tell the boys.’ And she turned away, knowing then that a contract had been made between them: that she’d take the blows to keep the truth from the boys. Edward held power over her; the thing he had wanted all along. From someone, from anyone. To control what he had never felt belonged to him. He controlled her now.
She walked out of the study, left him sitting there, staring out of the window at the landscape beyond that still remained to the outside world the signifier of who he was. The fountain was frozen and a lone cock pheasant, its plumage a streak of claret splashed onto the white behind, was making its slow passage across the lawn. The passage of time was so strange at places like Harehope, the present always deferring to who had gone before, or looking anxiously forward to who was to come. Today, under this blanket of creaking snow, it felt as if this moment of truths just covered and hatred barely kept at bay would stretch on forever, Edward’s tenure at Harehope perfectly captured in the faint stain of blood at her finger and temple.