‘Well—’ Gravely, yet with the faintest gleam of amusement, Maria Hawthorne looked from Robert to Jessica and back again, ‘—so, willy-nilly I am to acquire a new son-in-law as well as a new grandson?’
‘If you’ll have me. I’ve decided not to return to Oxford, and my parents have agreed,’ Robert said, adding evenly and without glancing at Jessica, ‘I think perhaps that I’m not suited to the academic life.’ They had approached Maria together on her return from Cambridge. Their own decision firmly taken they had both been eager to gain her consent as soon as possible. For three days Jessica had talked and reasoned, her determination growing with every objection that a still-worried Robert had put up. Now, for both of them, it had become the thing that each most wanted from life; to marry, to escape, to start anew.
Maria nodded, accepting the explanation at its face value. ‘As a matter of fact I think it an entirely suitable match, and one of which Jessica’s father would have approved.’ Her astute gaze moved, reflectively, to her younger daughter. ‘Though you do seem to have taken matters into your own hands to a quite extraordinary degree.’
Though the reproof was mild, Jessica flushed a little. ‘I’m sorry, Mama, but—’
‘But you’re as headstrong as the rest of the brood and will have what your heart is set on despite the conventions.’ There was, unmistakably, open and tolerant humour in the words. Jessica, at last, allowed herself to relax. The thought occurred to her that whatever her mother had discovered in Cambridge it had evidently not displeased her. Maria folded her long, pale hands in her lap and tilted her head enquiringly. ‘And may I ask if you’ve gone so far as to put a date to the event?’
‘As soon as possible,’ Jessica said without thought and before Robert could open his mouth.
The fair head shook. ‘Oh, no.’ Maria’s voice was absolutely firm. ‘No, no, no, Jessica! No daughter of mine gets married with the indecorous haste of a fallen scullery-maid! We’ll have no talk of hasty weddings, if you please. Unless, that is—’ she added, voice and eyes suddenly steely as she fixed her gaze on Robert, ‘—there is need for such haste?’
Jessica’s mouth dropped open.
Robert flushed deeply and painfully, but he kept his composure and his voice was even. ‘No, Mrs Hawthorne, I assure you there is not. Only Jessica’s and my eagerness to get the thing done.’
She held his eyes for a moment then, satisfied, she laughed a little. ‘Lord, lad – you make it sound like having a tooth pulled!’ Lightly she turned to Jessica, ‘Springtime, my dear,’ she said, firmly. ‘You’ll marry in the spring. And that’s my last word on the matter.’
Jessica knew better than to argue. Disappointed, but relieved to have met so little opposition where there might have been so much, she nodded, accepting the decision with as good grace as she could muster. ‘Very well, Mama.’
Robert stood. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hawthorne. You’ve really been more kind than we deserve. You won’t regret it, I promise you. I’ll take good care of Jessica.’
Maria inclined her head with a smile.
‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go to my own parents.’
‘They don’t know yet?’
He shook his head. ‘We wouldn’t say anything to them until we’d spoken to you. But I know they’ll be delighted.’ He smiled one of his rare, warm smiles that lit his serious face like sunshine. ‘They already think of Jessie as a daughter, I know. That we should marry will be more than they dared hope for, I think.’ Jessica caught the double meaning of that at the same moment that Robert himself did, and looked away quickly from the sudden painful flicker of guilt that she saw in his face. He bent over Maria’s hand. ‘Thank you again, Mrs Hawthorne. May I perhaps beg Jessica’s company at Old Hall for supper this evening? I’m sure my parents would love to see her.’
‘But of course. And some time soon – next week perhaps – we shall all get together for a celebration supper. I’ll call on Lady Sarah tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. I’ll tell her.’ Robert turned to Jessica and formally bowed over her hand also. It was all that Jessica could do not to explode into laughter at the sight of Robert FitzBolton, with whom she had had more stand-up fights than she cared to remember, kissing her hand like a courtier. ‘I’ll ride over for you at three,’ he said.
She grinned at him, mischief in her eyes. How many times had she ridden to Old Hall alone? And Robert hated riding. ‘Thank you,’ she said demurely, and searched his eyes for the glint of fun that must surely be there at this grown-up charade. But disconcertingly she found none. His face was strained and sober. Her own smile faded a little. She watched him, neat and erect, as he left the room, a small furrow between her brows.
‘Well, my dear,’ her mother said mildly as the door closed behind him, ‘I suppose I might have known you would make your own arrangements and not wait for any plans I might have had?’
‘Oh, Mama – you aren’t angry? Not really? You said yourself that Papa would have approved. And – oh, you must know how I hate it all – London, those silly balls, those awful, mindless young men—’
Maria laughed gently and shook her head a little. ‘The arrogant condemnation of the young!’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. You know I didn’t. I suppose they can’t all be as bad as they seem. It’s just – there’s something so awful about it all – it’s like a cattle market! This one has such-a-fortune, that one doesn’t—! Robert and I have known each other for ever. We’re friends. We’re good for each other. Isn’t that a better reason for getting married than land, or title, or money?’ Her voice was impassioned.
Maria eyed her indulgently. ‘Some would say so. Some not. Your sister for example—’
‘I’m not Caroline!’ Jessica snapped too sharply, and then blushed a little at her own presumption as her mother’s brows lifted.
There was a short silence. Then ‘No,’ Maria Hawthorne agreed, thoughtfully, ‘That you certainly are not.’
Jessica fidgeted uncomfortably, looked down at her hands. Her thumbnail was ragged and broken. Valiantly she resisted the urge to nibble it.
Her mother watched her. ‘Tell me, my dear,’ she said at last, making no attempt to disguise the gentle hint of amusement in her voice, ‘Is it the latest modern trend that the word love should not be mentioned?’
Jessica’s head snapped up like a startled hare’s. ‘What do you mean?’
Maria shrugged a little, elegantly; but there was real and mildly amused curiosity in her eyes. ‘You talk of friendship. Of being – what was it? – good for each other. Robert talks of getting the thing done as if he is to have a broken bone set! I have to declare myself a little confused by a young couple ready to face parental rage and disapproval with arguments of such practical good sense!’ She made a small, oddly self-deprecating grimace. ‘You make me feel an ageing romantic!’
Jessica said nothing.
‘Why, when William asked my father for my hand—’ Suddenly Maria’s still-lovely face was distant, the sharp blue gaze soft. She laughed, quietly, the sound a mixture of amusement and sadness, ‘—I was dramatically poised to kill myself had his suit been refused!’ She drew herself back from the memory, eyed her daughter with a bland and half-exasperated humour. ‘I’m filled with admiration! I’m perfectly sure that such level-headed arguments as yours would have swayed my father more than all my passionate declarations of undying love!’
She was teasing, and Jessica knew it. Yet there was that small, sharp edge of curiosity in her voice and something uncomfortably perceptive in her words. Jessica suppressed a faint twinge of – what? Regret? Dissatisfaction? With what? She had what she wanted. She would not look further. ‘Of course we love each other,’ she said. ‘That’s why we’re getting married.’
The pause was infinitesimal. ‘Of course,’ her mother agreed, her voice tranquil, but her eyes were still questioning. ‘So—’ she continued after a moment, brightly, ‘—the wedding will be in the spring. April, I think, don’t you? The daffodils will be out, and the celandines. You’ll be married at St Agatha’s, of course, and then – what? With the wars over at last you could take a marriage trip to Europe before settling at Old Hall. It will be nice to have you so close—’
It was only later that the quite astonishing motherliness of that struck Jessica. At that instant, taken unawares, she stumbled a little over her reply. She had hoped that this subject, much discussed between herself and Robert over the past few days, would not be broached until later. ‘I – we—’ she stammered, ‘that is – well, we haven’t exactly—’ she stopped. Then said in a determined rush. ‘We’re going to live in Florence. To begin with, anyway.’
Very slowly Maria turned her head. Her face was an absolute picture of astonishment. ‘Live in Florence?’ She said it as if the very idea were an outrage to nature.
‘Lots of people do, Mama,’ Jessica said, and was rewarded by a coolly unamused lift of her mother’s brows.
‘Those unfortunate enough to be born there, perhaps,’ Maria said.
‘There’s quite an English colony, actually,’ Jessica stubbornly held her patience. ‘Artists – writers—’
‘Quite.’
Jessica ploughed doggedly on. ‘Robert is going to study music. He’s written to a teacher – quite a famous one – hoping he’ll take him.’
‘May I ask to what purpose?’
‘He wants to be a composer.’
There was a long, pained silence.
‘A – composer,’ Maria said at last, as if she had only that moment come across the word and could not begin to imagine what it meant.
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t think you do. Mama – please – it really isn’t such an outrageous idea. We both know that sooner or later Robert will have to come home to take over Old Hall and the farm. We’re both ready for that. But it’ll be ages yet – and in the meantime why shouldn’t he do the thing he most wants in the world? I have my portion that will come to me when I marry, and Robert has a little money from his grandmother. We can manage perfectly well for a couple of years. Mama, you surely must know how he feels about his music? It’s his life. He can’t sing any more, and he’s honest enough to admit that his talent for the piano isn’t strong enough for him to perform publicly. But for the past year or so he’s been writing music – his tutor at Oxford said it was good—’
‘I’m sure he was an expert. Wasn’t Robert studying English Literature?’ Maria’s voice was acid.
Jessica ignored the sarcasm. ‘He deserves the chance. If we go to Florence, he’ll have the chance to study – to discover if he really can compose—’
‘And if he can’t?’
Jessica’s small mouth set. ‘I’m sure he can.’
Her mother sighed.
‘All right! If he can’t, then he can’t – but at least he’ll have tried. We’re young and we have a little money. Why shouldn’t we live in Florence for a while?’
‘Yellow fever?’ her mother suggested, tartly. ‘Typhoid? And supposing you have a child? What then?’
Jessica felt painful colour rising. She ducked her head. ‘It’s no good, Mama, we’ve made up our minds. We’re going to Florence. For a couple of years at least.’ Through the window she saw a rider, bright bare head windblown, galloping across the park towards the house. She turned her eyes from the sight of her brother. ‘We want to get away,’ she said, softly, but with determination like steel beneath the quiet.
With a whispering rustle of silk her mother rose. ‘Well, you’ll do as you wish, I daresay. Though I must say I find it extraordinary that you should choose voluntarily to live – for however short a time – amongst heathen Papists who will no doubt knife you in the back as soon as look at you – however—’ she stopped her daughter’s half-formed protest with a lifted hand, ‘if that’s your wish then far be it from me to stand in your way. After the wedding you will be Robert’s responsibility. I—’ she paused, and her face softened. ‘I shall have new responsibilities of my own.’
Jessica lifted her head, interested, and pleased to change the subject. Something in her mother’s face told her the answer to her question before it was asked. ‘The marriage is proved? Edward was married?’
Maria folded her hands. Her face was composed, but her eyes glowed. ‘So say the parish registers of St Margaret’s in Cambridge. So says the priest who married them. Sir Charles is there now – but yes, I believe it. Edward married Anne Stewart when he discovered that she was carrying his child. Patrick is legitimate.’
Bereft of words Jessica let out a small, unladylike whistling breath at the implications of that. ‘So – Patrick is Edward’s heir?’
‘I believe so.’
‘And – Giles?’
‘We have to leave that to Sir Charles,’ Maria’s voice was collected, her eyes suddenly as hard as the jewels with which they had so often been compared. ‘The situation is complicated, certainly. We’ll see. Now, my dear, we have arrangements to make – there must be a formal announcement, of course – perhaps a small entertainment for our close friends? I do somehow assume that you don’t want a great fuss made—?’
The change of subject was determined; with grace, though consumed with curiosity Jessica accepted it and dutifully turned to a discussion of her betrothal party.
‘But – what will happen, do you think?’ she asked Robert later that afternoon as they rode at Robert’s demure pace across the park. ‘If Patrick is legitimate, and Edward’s heir, then surely it means that New Hall is his?’ The late autumn afternoon was crisp with a hint of winter despite the sunshine that gleamed fitfully through the branches firing the leaves that remained on the trees to gold.
Robert shrugged. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘And what will happen if Giles – and Clara! – fight it?’
‘God only knows. The legal battles could last for years. Litigation like that has been known to break families of greater fortune than yours. If it goes to Chancery it could be years before a decision is given—’
‘And the costs could be crippling,’ Jessica put in soberly. They had both heard of such things. ‘Oh, Lord, Robert, I do wish we didn’t have to wait until spring to leave. There’s going to be the most awful trouble. I know it.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Six months,’ she said. ‘Six months, and we can marry and go. France – Switzerland – Austria. And then – Italy!’ Her small face was suddenly lit with brilliant excitement. ‘Just imagine it, Robert! We’re going to live in Florence! We can do as we please! No one to say Jessica this, and Robert that, and Jessica the other! Oh, it’s the biggest and best adventure we’ve ever had!’
He reined in his placid horse and looked at her, smiling. Jessica’s mount danced beside him, as ardent and lit with life as its young mistress. ‘You haven’t asked me what my parents said.’
Jessica giggled infectiously, like a child. ‘Oh, Lord! I quite forgot! Were they horrified?’
He shook his head. ‘They were delighted. They said that you were probably the best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Bless them!’ she said, delighted.
‘I think they’re probably right.’
Startled and gratified she opened her mouth, could not think of a single appropriate word to say and shut it again, blushing. He reached a hand and she took it, leaning easily with the movement of the horse. ‘It’s all going to be all right,’ she said, ‘I know it is. You’re going to be the most famous composer in the world. And we’re going to live in Florence. We’re going to live happily ever after, you’ll see.’
And in that golden November afternoon with the fire-colours of a Suffolk autumn in the trees and the bracken, she believed it. She was eighteen. She was marrying Robert, her dear Robert, always her true friend. She would be free of New Hall, and its malevolent antagonisms. Nothing could go wrong now.
Smiling they rode on hand in hand through the woodland.
Clara and Giles quarrelled constantly; never publicly, but with a quiet and vindictive force that seemed to reach right through the house and poison the very air. In company they were frigidly correct with one another; only God and they knew what went on in the privacy of their rooms. Jessica shuddered to think.
On Sir Charles’ return from Cambridge a family conference was called in the library. The solicitor was a fleshy man in late middle age, pink jowled and small-eyed, with his hair curled and clubbed back in the outdated style of his famous barrister father. He stood before the fire, hands behind his back, sober-faced and portentious with all eyes focused upon him. Giles and Clara sat side by side on a sofa, not touching, Clara’s full skirt drawn tellingly away from contact with her husband’s long legs. It was as if neither could bear to touch each other. Giles was very pale and, Jessica would have sworn, stone sober for the first time in days. Clara sat like a ramrod, her head lifted, her eyes sharply intent upon the lawyer’s face, her mouth a straight, bleakly determined line. Maria sat in a leather armchair, apparently poised and relaxed, her hands calm upon her lap. Yet there was an air of tension about her and the blue eyes were veiled and completely expressionless. Jessica sat on a stool near her mother. Caroline – her figure uncomfortably bulky in advanced pregnancy, her pretty face petulant as ever – sat beside her husband, who had been dragged very reluctantly from the prospect of a good day’s hunting, on the sofa opposite Giles and Clara. Caroline looked bored and Bunty – as always, Jessica thought – slightly blank. He was plainly out of his depth before a word had been spoken. Patrick was not there and, surprisingly, neither was his grandmother Stewart, who had been installed in comfort on Maria’s orders in one of the estate cottages. Jessica wondered if she were too ill to attend. Her condition had been growing steadily and obviously worse over the past few days.
Sir Charles cleared his throat. ‘There is no need, I think, to go into the background of this meeting—?’
‘None at all, Charles.’ Maria spoke crisply, ‘We all know why we’re here.’ So just get on with it, said the small, impatient lift in her voice. Jessica smothered a smile.
‘Er – quite—’ The man was for a moment thrown from his stride, but soon regained it. ‘I stand before you to offer you my considered opinion and, if you should ask it, my advice upon the quite extraordinary circumstances that appear to have arisen here—’ Sir Charles was every inch upon his dignity.
Clara made a slight, irritated movement of her head.
The big man rocked on the balls of his feet, hands still clasped behind his back, eyes on the high, ornately plastered ceiling. ‘As you all know, at Mrs Hawthorne’s request I made a visit to Cambridge, to the parish of St Margaret’s, for the purpose of enquiry into the validity of a marriage claimed to have taken place nine years ago between Edward Hawthorne, deceased son of this house, and Anne Stewart, daughter of Joseph and Isabel Stewart, and the consequent legitimacy of the only fruit of that union, the child known as Patrick Michael Hawthorne—’
Clara shifted again, and for once Jessica was in sympathy with her. Despite her own efforts and the importance of the occasion she found it almost impossible to concentrate on the dry, expressionless voice. It was easy to see why Sir Charles had not found it possible to follow in his illustrious father’s footsteps. Jessica watched Clara for a moment, wondering what was going on in her mind. Then her eyes moved to Giles. He was leaning forward, his face intent. Here was one member of the group whose attention had not wandered one jot. Her mother too was watching Sir Charles. She had moved forward a little in her chair and the white hands showed a small, regular pulse of movement, as if by some independent will of their own they refused to be still.
‘—and on this initial evidence I am forced to the conclusion that there is every likelihood that the claim could be proven. The parish record is quite clear. The priest, though old now, and very frail, actually identified the miniature of Edward that I showed him. And – perhaps most telling of all—’ Sir Charles had all their attention now, and he knew it. He paused for dramatic effect, rocking on his heels again, ‘I have discovered a witness.’ He paused again. Clara drew a sharp breath, and was still. Maria moved a little in her chair. In fact a small frisson of movement seemed to ripple around the room. Sir Charles continued soberly, satisfied with the sensation his words had caused, ‘A young man who actually attended the wedding and is ready if necessary to swear so. A fellow student of Edward’s who thought the whole thing, so he tells me, a great jape.’ He eyed his audience one by one. ‘A young man of title,’ he added, as if this fact were enough to prove the case on its merits alone.
‘So – are you saying—’ for all her efforts Maria’s voice shook a little, ‘—are you saying that you believe that Edward was married? That Patrick is his legitimate son?’
‘I’m saying,’ the man was predictably ponderous, ‘that in my opinion there is good ground for believing so, yes.’
Clara shook her head. ‘No!’ The word snapped from her almost reflexively. Sir Charles did not look at her.
Giles stood. Maria’s fierce eyes lifted to him. The room seemed to Jessica suddenly to be invested with a nerve-stretching tension. The lawyer faced Giles frankly. ‘My opinion of course has no force in law. You may fight it.’
‘Sir Charles—’ Maria began, but courteously and firmly he held up a hand to stop her. In the way of his kind he would say what must be said and nothing would stop him.
‘Anyone with an interest in the case may challenge both the marriage and the child’s legitimacy in the courts. However—’ another pause ‘—I have to warn you that in my opinion that is a course only to be taken after much advice, and a very great deal of consideration and thought. Once the case goes to Chancery—’ he shook his head, ‘the costs can be inestimable, and as for the time before a decision might be reached—’ He spread pudgy hands expressively.
‘We won’t fight it,’ Giles said, very clearly.
Sir Charles was already continuing. ‘I would suggest that anyone who decides to contest should perhaps consult—’ he stopped. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Every eye in the room was on Giles.
Maria stood to face her son. He looked at her steadily. ‘We won’t fight it,’ he said again.
Jessica saw the slight movement of her mother’s shoulders, the convulsive clenching of her fists before they relaxed by her side. ‘You mean that?’
‘I do.’
Clara was looking from one to the other as if she could not believe her ears. ‘Giles!’ she said, sharply.
Giles looked down at her. ‘We’re not contesting it,’ he said, voice and eyes like ice, ‘and that’s an end. This is Edward’s son. New Hall is his.’
‘Are you mad? Or drunk?’
‘Neither.’
‘You’ll throw away our home – our livelihood – our children’s future—?’
‘Oh, come now, Clara—’ Maria was sweetly conciliatory, ‘you know very well that no one would see you flung from the door penniless, for heaven’s sake! Your children – when they come—’ her smile was barbed ‘—will be quite safe, I promise you. Giles will be needed to run the estate. Patrick’s a child, after all, and I’m an old woman—’ neither her tone of voice nor her bearing gave any credence to that. ‘He’ll need a man to guide him.’
Giles turned from her. ‘I said nothing of that.’
Inexorably pleasant, Maria continued. ‘I thought perhaps Tollbridge Farm might suit you both very well? For I do assume you’d rather have a home of your own? It’s a nice old house, and the land is good. The estate would of course bear the cost of any improvements you might care to make before you move in—?’ She had thought about it. Planned it to the last detail. Her triumph was made more complete by her good-mannered determination not to show it. Clara glared at her.
Giles said nothing. His face was bitter.
Clara stood, facing him, her head flung back to look him in the face, her hands clenched to fists at her sides. ‘Fool!’ she said, very quietly. ‘You fool, Giles Hawthorne!’
He blinked, and was still. Clara’s eyes were dark pools of contempt. She stared at her husband for a moment longer. Then, with surprising dignity, she turned and left the room.
‘Well,’ Maria said, quietly and with finality in her voice, ‘that would seem to be that, wouldn’t it?’ She faced her son, honestly. ‘Thank you, Giles. This is more than I dared hope. I know it isn’t easy for you.’
Giles’ already pale face whitened further. The handsome bones stood out like blades against the fine skin. A muscle in his jaw throbbed. He said nothing.
His mother laid a hand upon his arm. ‘And – you will help us? You’ll stay and manage the estate? You’re so very good at it – I know how you love it—’
He jerked his arm from her touch as if it had burned him. ‘I – don’t know.’
‘Please?’
His mouth tightened a little. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, stiffly.
Maria nodded, satisfied with that. She turned to Sir Charles, ‘You’ll take care of the legal complications for us? You’ll continue the enquiries – and there must be—’ she shrugged, airily and prettily, ‘documents and deeds and things?’
He nodded. ‘Of course.’ His small eyes flickered warily to Giles’ taut face, ‘And – if I might suggest—?’
‘Yes?’
‘An agreement. A legal agreement. That at no time in the future will anyone contest the boy’s claim—?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s Sweet Sake!’ Giles burst out, ‘I’ve said it, haven’t I? I’ve said it! What more do you want?’
‘Giles—’ His mother stepped towards him.
He stared at her, a bright and bitter glint in his brilliant eyes. ‘Oh, go to hell!’ he said, quietly and savagely. ‘The lot of you! Go to hell!’
Maria froze. He strode past her and through the door, slamming it behind him to shake the house to its foundations.
Maria stood absolutely still for the space of perhaps a dozen heartbeats.
‘Well!’ It was the first word that Caroline had spoken, and she spoke it with some force, ‘Of all the ill-mannered – beastly – ways to act! Really! I sometimes wonder what on earth this family is coming to!’
Maria bowed her head and passed a hand wearily across her brow.
‘Not on,’ Bunty agreed, solemnly. ‘Absolutely not on.’
Maria eyed them both in mild despair, then turned to Jessica. ‘Ring for John, would you Jessica?’ she said with remarkable calm. ‘I think we should tell Cook there’ll be just the five of us for luncheon—’
Apart from Clara, Jessica was perhaps the only person in the house who did not, grudgingly or otherwise, admire Giles for the difficult and apparently unselfish decision he had taken. Maria was gentle with him; she had her way, she could be and was generous. Only Jessica knew what lay behind her brother’s brusque rejection of his mother’s advances. The same thing that had lain behind his decision not to contest Patrick’s claims as Edward’s son. The same thing that lay between herself and her brother like a barrier of steel, though he did not know it.
Guilt.
She had no doubt at all that this was the key to Giles’ behaviour. Patrick’s coming must have seemed to him – as it had seemed to her – divine retribution. The meek would inherit the earth – literally – and the wicked would not profit from their wickedness. She could not feel sorry for him. He had allowed Edward to die. If not for him, Edward might have been here now – laughing, self-deprecating, winding them all around his smallest finger, glorying in the handsome child his son had become. Oh, no – Jessica felt no admiration. She watched with no compunction and little pity as Giles, his marriage a shambles and his aspirations ashes, took refuge in the bottle and in the dubious charms of the less respectable village girls who were all too eager to oblige the tall and handsome young man they all still knew as ‘the young master’. She was young, and she was unforgiving as only the young can be. She watched Giles’ attitude to Patrick like a hawk.
She and Patrick had become friends. He was, as she had suspected, a lively youngster, and as each day advanced so did his confidence. Oddly enough as she got to know him better more than once she surprised herself comparing him in character not with Edward, but with Giles. The living picture of Edward, yet he had Giles’ restless recklessness, his single-minded confidence in himself, his determination to run faster, climb higher, be better at everything than anyone else. He was a charming child and popular as Edward had been with all who came into contact with him. Lucy would have died for him, and most of the rest of the staff – particularly, Jessica noticed with amusement, the females – took risks with their own safety and security more than once to prevent the wrath of his elders descending upon his bright head after one or other of his more outrageous pranks. He put pepper in the spice jar. He might have burned the house down with a home-made firework hidden in the log-stack for the great kitchen fire. He climbed one of the great elms by the park gate and Charlie Best broke his arm trying to rescue him. And through it all he danced and smiled and apologized always with grace; and escaped with a whole skin. Surprisingly Jessica, with the others, adored him – surprisingly because after one defection – Lucy’s – came another, Bran’s. The dog took to following the boy like a shadow. Jessica could not find it in her to resent it, though she could not deny a certain pang of pain. The dog, though getting older, was in no way a reformed character. He yearned still for the excitement of a rabbit-hunt, or the exercise of a gallop across the park. With her new preoccupation with Robert and Old Hall, and the preparations to be made for the wedding she had little time to indulge the dog as she once had. In a way she knew it was a good thing – she would be leaving soon now, but Bran would not pine. Nevertheless it was not easy for her to say, one squally winter’s afternoon when sleet and hail hurled itself at the windows of the house, ‘Would you like to have Bran for your own?’
The wide eyes regarded her, startled, and with slow-dawning pleasure. One of the boy’s great charms was that he never expected nor took for granted the favours that life and his own blithe character brought to him. ‘You mean it? My very own?’
She nodded. They were sitting by the fire in the library. Jessica, always fascinated by books, had been delighted to discover that somewhat unexpectedly Patrick – whether from inclination or a simple desire to please, she did not know – apparently shared her passion and had enthusiastically embarked with her on the task of sorting and indexing the books that had been bought or otherwise garnered in the nearly seventy years of the house’s life. It was something she had always planned to do, and this last winter at home offered her the perfect opportunity to do it.
Patrick sat back on his heels. His face was a picture of delight. ‘I do love him very much,’ he said.
‘I know. Or you wouldn’t get him!’ Jessica briskly entered a title and an author and snapped a heavy tome shut. ‘After I’m married Robert and I are going to live abroad for a while. Bran can’t come with me. I need to leave him with someone I can trust.’
‘You can trust me! I promise! I’ll look after him for ever and ever!’
She put out a hand to ruffle his hair. ‘I know you will. That’s why I’m giving him to you. The bit of him he hasn’t given to you already himself that is!’
‘Oh no!’ His face was concerned. He shook his head vigorously. ‘He’s your dog! You should see the way he watches for you when I tell him you’re coming! He’ll never love me as much!’
She smiled. ‘Perhaps. He’ll soon forget me, I expect, when I’m gone.’
‘Of course he won’t!’ He jumped to his feet eagerly, ‘I’ll talk to him about you every day. And – I’ll read your letters to him, and let him smell them! You are going to write lots of letters, aren’t you—?’ He stopped as if a whip had cracked. He stood absolutely still for a moment, looking into the shadows by the door, then very quietly slipped behind Jessica and stood, tense as a drawn bow, his hand clenched on the back of her chair. She lifted her head. Giles stood, silent and swaying, by the open door. ‘Christ in heaven,’ he said, drunkenly and dangerously equable. ‘Isn’t there a single square inch in this bloody house where a man can be on his own?’
She stood up, tidying the books. ‘It’s all right. We’ll go.’
Giles walked carefully to the table where stood the brandy and the glasses and as carefully poured himself a drink, He sank into a deep armchair before the fire and nursed the glass, his haggard face in shadow. Jessica eyed him suspiciously. ‘You don’t have to go,’ he said, ‘but send the brat away, will you? I surely don’t have to be afflicted by him every corner I turn?’
Jessica’s mouth tightened. Before she could speak Patrick grabbed her hand. ‘It’s all right.’ Eyeing Giles’ still form warily he sidled around the chair and fled.
Jessica stacked her books. ‘That was entirely unnecessary.’
He shrugged.
Just the sight of the handsome, slouched body triggered in her a terrible animosity. The childhood dread had gone; he had no power over her now. Only a dislike that verged on hatred remained.
With a sudden movement he tilted his head and drank the brandy at a swallow. Then he got up, walked to where the decanter stood, picked it up and carried it back to his chair.
‘Don’t you think you’ve drunk enough?’
He laughed. ‘No. Not now. Not ever. There isn’t enough.’
‘You’ll kill yourself.’
He lifted one derisive shoulder.
She walked determinedly to him. ‘Giles?’
‘Mm?’
‘I want you to promise me something.’
He poured the brandy, steady as a rock; not a drop spilled. ‘Oh?’
‘Don’t make his life a misery.’ As you did mine. She did not add the words, though she might have.
There was an instant’s dead silence, then he barked harsh laughter. ‘I make his life a misery?’
‘Yes.’
He contemplated the brandy, then lifted the gleaming, forget-me-not eyes. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’
She fought an awful rage. ‘Because it isn’t civilized. Because it isn’t his fault, what’s happened. Because he’s been through enough and he doesn’t deserve more.’
He laughed, a sharp crack of a sound that held no humour at all. ‘Deserve? Who gets what he deserves?’
She could not hold her tongue. ‘Perhaps you have,’ she said, quietly.
That shook him. He lifted his head, staring at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I think you know.’ She was shaking. She wanted nothing but to get away. She turned from him. Like a steel clamp his hand closed on her wrist.
‘Tell me,’ he said, very softly.
She shook her head.
‘Tell me!’
She swallowed almost painfully, and stood mute, caught like a bird in a trap. To struggle would be useless, and she knew it.
‘How have I got what I deserved?’
She would not look at him.
‘How?’
The words were there, trembling on her tongue, shrieking to be let loose. You killed him! You killed Edward!
He shook her again. ‘Tell me!’ His eyes were blazing, his rage was feeding on his frustrations and his drunkenness and there was no stopping it. ‘Open your mouth, damn you! Tell me what you mean!’
She shook in his strong hands like a doll. His fury terrified her. Yet, pushed to it, her own anger, her own disgust, her own hatred could match his, and more. ‘I heard you!’ she whispered, ‘I heard you both! You killed him! You let him die—!’
He let go of her as if she had stung him. Almost she fell, but regained her balance and stood, shaking and sick with rage, tears of grief burning in her eyes.
‘What did you hear? When?’
‘You and Clara. The night you came home drunk. I saw you fall off your horse outside and came to help—’ She almost choked at the irony of that. ‘You quarrelled, down in the hall. I was on the landing.’
‘Well, well.’ His smile was wholly a sneer. ‘What a sweet little sister I have. You make a habit of eavesdropping on other people’s conversations, do you?’
‘I wasn’t eavesdropping. I couldn’t help overhearing—’
He laughed, quietly and unpleasantly.
She stepped away from him, and he let her go. They stood watching each other. Measuring each other.
‘And what have you done about it?’ he asked at last, pleasantly.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’ve told no one?’ His eyes had narrowed.
She hesitated for a second. ‘—No.’
‘Why not?’
‘How could I? It would have killed Mama, and done no good. Nothing will bring Edward back, will it? I – didn’t know what to do—’
‘So—’ he was regarding her coolly, ‘You ran to your pretty little friend Robert and he is to marry you and take you from the Ogre’s castle?’
The hateful perception took her breath away. ‘Yes.’
He smiled.
‘You’re wicked,’ she said.
‘Perhaps.’
The gall of him stung her to anger again. ‘Well, listen to this, Giles – for as surely as I’m standing here I mean what I say! I haven’t told what I heard. That doesn’t mean I won’t. If I hear of unkindness to Patrick – if you dare to make him frightened, or unhappy – then I swear I’ll tell!’
‘I’ll deny it.’
‘That’s as may be. But there’s plenty who’ll believe it. We both know that.’
He looked at her for a long, slow moment. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘so the Hawthorne spots come out at last. Very well, sister. You have a bargain. And may you rot for it.’
She could take no more. On trembling legs she turned and walked, straight-backed from him, closing the door very quietly behind her.
It was a long, hard winter, deep in snow from January on and with a flaying wind that it seemed must be whipping across the flatlands of East Anglia directly from the frozen spaces of Russia. As the bad weather dragged on through an early Easter, April seemed an eternity away. And yet then, suddenly, it was upon her and with it the first song birds, the buds and blossoms of spring and the happy turmoil of her wedding.
She awoke on the day to sunshine; surely, oh, surely a happy omen after these past bitter months, she thought as she jumped from bed and ran to the window on bare feet. Outside her window birds sang and fluttered in the ageless rites of mating and nesting; out in the park beneath the trees the daffodils that carpeted the ground bowed their pretty heads to the sun. She took a deep, deep breath and stretched. It was here at last. The day of her freedom.
‘Why, Miss Jess, whatever do you think you’re doin’?’ Lucy, flustered and sleepy-eyed, bustled into the room clucking like a disturbed broody hen. ‘Back in that bed with you, this minute! Tha’ss still too cold to be runnin’ about with next to nothin’ on, sun or no sun!’
Laughing Jessica turned and ran back to the high bed, leaping onto it like a child, bouncing into the feather mattress. Her wedding dress hung on a wooden dummy by the window, the sun sheening the ivory silk with gold and glimmering on the tiny pearls that patterned the skirt like light gleaming on water. For weeks she had longed for the day she would wear it; even Caroline had conceded at the last fitting that it suited her ‘tolerably well’ and had declared that to see her baby sister looking so positively grown up made her feel quite ancient. The veil lay beside it, covering the chair on which it lay like a froth of sparkling mist. ‘What time is it?’
‘Only just past seven. You’ve plenty of time yet.’ Lucy was plucking at the dress gently, straightening the folds of the sweeping skirt. ‘My, this is just the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, you know that?’
Jessica hugged her knees, her eyes shining. ‘I think so. Oh, Lucy – just think – by this afternoon I shan’t be Jessie Hawthorne any more. Not ever again. I shall be the Honorable Mrs Jessica FitzBolton. And one day – oh, years I know – but one day I’ll be Lady FitzBolton! Doesn’t that sound funny?’
‘Everything you do’s funny.’ The young voice came from the doorway. ‘Funny-Bunny-Jessie! That’s what your name ought to be!’ Patrick shrieked with laughter and dodged as Jessica with sure aim flung a pillow at him. Then he danced into the room, grinning. His hair was tousled, the leather of his boots dark and stained with damp. ‘It’s a lovely day. Bran and I have been out already. You should have seen him make the rabbits run!’
Jessica swung her legs off the bed. ‘You’ll be the death of that poor old dog.’ She had long since become accustomed – even pleased about – Bran’s attachment to the child. When Patrick’s Grandma Stewart had finally succumbed to an inflammation of the lungs in early January the boy had taken strange consolation in the companionship of the dog. At a time when no one else could console him the two had trudged the parkland and the lanes, and in solitude Patrick had recovered his spirits and come through his grief. Since then the two of them had been all but inseparable, and Jessica had no qualms about leaving them so. In fact she had few qualms about leaving anyone or anything at New Hall. Over the past few months the thought of this day had become the thought of freedom and happiness. She had not spared a thought as to whether the first was possible or how the second might be achieved. The one would follow the other as day followed night – ‘and they lived happily ever after’ had become almost a password between herself and Robert. For Robert too, with the decision taken and the arrangements made had taken his cue from Jessica and come to see their marriage as a solution to all problems. Jessica’s enthusiasm, her boundless optimism, her refusal to admit to any possibility of failure had infected him like a fever. To his delight he had been accepted by Maestro Pietro Donatti as a pupil; with such help and guidance, surely, even Jessica’s rosily-painted pictures of success were not too far-fetched. They had rented an apartment not far from the Ponte Vecchio from June and for an indefinite time thereafter. Like children they had plotted and planned, like children they had created a world of their own where problems existed only to be surely overcome. Like children they assumed that to wish something was to make it so. They had not once discussed Robert’s problem nor its possible effect on their marriage; like children they had shut their eyes, pretending the serpent in their Eden did not exist.
Lucy shooed Patrick from the bedroom, clapping her hands and flapping her pinafore as if she were herding geese. Laughing still he went, swearing he was off rabbit hunting with Bran. Not for anything would he have admitted how much he was looking forward to wearing the satin suit that had been made for him for the occasion, as one of Jessica’s attendants. Royal blue and trimmed with oyster silk, it made him look a young prince and he knew it. He also knew its likely effect upon pretty little Betsy Morris, the new dairy maid. Jessica was not the only person looking forward to this day, and with good cause…
She enjoyed, with intent, every single moment of it. She did not – she would not – let the smallest second pass without savouring it. She wallowed in the perfumed bath that Lucy and another maid prepared for her. She enjoyed the long and complicated process of dressing her hair – a task undertaken on this special day by her mother’s new and extremely chic French maid whilst Lucy stamped about the room ostensibly tidying up but actually registering her chagrin and disapproval by making as much noise as she reasonably could without actually drowning the conversation. When it was done Jessica peered in pure pleasure at the small, oval face crowned by a mass of artfully piled and curled hair in which pearls glimmered like tiny stars. ‘Oh, how clever! I can never make it stay up like that!’
‘I’ll show you, Mam’selle—’ The girl smiled at her delight. ‘See – you place the combs so – and so – and the pins – so—’ She demonstrated deftly with her own hair. ‘You’ll soon learn how – and see how it suits the little face and the big eyes – la-la! The young M’sieu will be pleased I think!’
It did indeed suit the little face and the big eyes – and the young M’sieu was most certainly pleased. When at last, dressed and perfumed and feeling like a princess in a fairy tale she drove with her mother, Giles and Clara through the spring woodlands to St Agatha’s she saw it in his eyes as she joined him at the altar, her small hands full of spring flowers, her eyes shining her happiness. Strangely, of the ceremony itself she remembered very little later. The church was cool, and lit by the shafts of sunlight that cut like golden sword-strokes through the high, narrow windows and dimmed the light of the altar candles. As she stood beside Robert and uttered obediently the appropriate responses her eyes were upon the smiling statue of St Agatha, and in her heart, suddenly and with a clarity that astounded her, she saw the dark angel-face, never forgotten, the skilled, strong hands that had worked upon that statue, that screen, this altar rail—
She was going to Florence. She – the child who had sat enthralled at the tales of an enchanted city – was going herself to live there, to see the wide, muddy Arno and the spired and gabled city, to watch the children play and the lovers stroll in the Boboli Gardens—
‘You may kiss the bride.’
Robert’s hand, gentle upon her arm, brought her from her reverie. She lifted her face, alight and glowing as if at some vision. He hesitated for one second, then his lips brushed her cheek. She smiled at her husband brilliantly and took his arm to walk the dark aisle to the glory of sunshine beyond the open doors. The light dazzled them as they stepped into it. Then they were surrounded by laughing well-wishers, kissed and patted, Robert’s hand shaken. The bells pealed joyfully, silencing the birds.
Then, ‘Good God!’ someone said, ‘Whatever is the child doing?’
Heads lifted. Necks craned. Silence fell. ‘Oh, my God!’ Maria said, white-faced.
Out of the window of the tower high above them a small, brilliant figure had clambered and was making his dangerous way around the narrow, crumbling ledge that edged the decaying battlemented tower. In one hand he held a small bundle. Seeing he had caught the attention of those below he waved, blithely and at risk to life and limb. A shower of small stones sprayed from beneath one of his feet. Someone shouted. Maria put up a sharp, imperative hand. ‘No! Be still! Don’t distract him!’
In tense silence they watched as the child crept along the ledge, clinging like a bright-coloured fly to the weather-rotted walls. Jessica swallowed noisily. More stones scattered. Patrick stopped for a moment, testing the ledge, then moved on again more slowly. For what seemed an age they watched him, until at last he reached the gap in the battlements he had been making for and with a lithe twist of his body was through it and disappeared from sight onto the tower roof. There was a moment’s dead silence, then murmurs of relief and laughter began to ripple through the crowd, to gain in volume as from the tower two great silken silver streamers were suddenly unfurled to ream in the wind.
‘What the—? Oh, look! See what it says! “Jessica” and “Robert”! What a little tinker that child is! He surely can’t have realized the danger—?’
‘Giles. Send someone for a ladder.’ Maria’s voice was calm, her face sheened finely with perspiration.
Over the battlemented tower a small face appeared, marigold head gleaming picturesquely in the sun. The laughter grew, fed by relief. A small hand waved, casually. Many of the ladies plucked lace handkerchiefs from their sleeves and waved back. Someone started to clap. Patrick grinned like an imp of Satan. The silver streamers cracked gallantly in the breeze. The applause was taken up by more of the crowd and again Patrick waved. Perhaps the prank had been successful enough for him to escape the whipping he knew he well deserved. Perhaps not. He did not care. Jessica was smiling at him, wagging a playfully admonishing finger. He did not look at Maria.
They left that afternoon for London, where they were to spend a few days before starting off on the adventure of the longer trip through France and Switzerland to Italy. There were some tears shed, and some shaken heads. There were quietly-spoken predictions that the young people would be home where they belonged well before the end of the year. There were a few who watched in envy. Jessica, dressed elegantly in dove-grey and fawn travelling suit, her face aching from her constant smile, waited by the carriage as Robert fought his way through a back-slapping and hand-shaking crowd to her side. The steps of the house were crowded with family and friends; behind them were ranged the servants, from the steward and the butler to the smallest maid. Jessica, lifting her hand for a special wave, saw tears on poor Lucy’s face and for the first time found herself swallowing frantically against an enormous lump in her throat.
‘One more kiss! One more kiss!’
Rice flew, and flowers.
‘One more kiss!’
She lifted her face. Awkwardly, his own face fiery, Robert bent and pressed his mouth to hers. And with shock she felt, through the contact of her hand on his arm, how his body flinched from hers.
Smiling gaily she climbed into the carriage and settled herself in the far corner. Robert sat beside her, a foot’s distance between them. After a second, tentatively, he reached out a hand and after only a moment’s hesitation she took it.
And so they sat, like well-mannered children at a party, their hands linked on the seat beside them as to cheers the carriage rolled off down the drive, the horseshoes that Patrick and the stable-lads had tied to the rear axle spinning and clattering behind them.