The moment she saw the letter Jessica knew, with no need to open it, that the idyll had ended. She recognized at once her mother’s neat, handsome writing; recognized even quicker the significance of the directions upon the envelope. Since it was not addressed to her she did not open it, but laid it upon the table in the dining room to await Robert’s return. It was February, and snow had fallen on the hills. The distant city was veiled in cloud.
She stood at the window, taking in the familiar view. For four years now this had been her home, and she had been happy. Those years had been a gift from the gods of fortune; she had known for some time that a price would be exacted, knew now without doubt that the time had come.
She walked back to the table and stood looking pensively down at the letter. ‘To: Sir Robert FitzBolton, Bart.’
It came to her with a small start of surprise that if the title had indeed come to Robert then she must now be Lady FitzBolton. She wondered, sadly, when Robert’s father – that calm, kindly, unassuming man – had died; and why the first news of it should come not from Robert’s mother but her own. She wondered too, with some misgiving, how Robert would take the news.
She tried not to think of Danny.
‘Mama – Mama—!’ Four-year-old Gabriella tumbled into the room, bright-eyed and flushed of face, gabbling in rapid Italian. ‘Angelina says she’ll take me out into the snow if you say she can – oh, please, please Mama, say yes! It isn’t very cold and I have my—’
Jessica held up a hand to stop the torrent of words. ‘English, Gabriella!’ she scolded indulgently. ‘Speak English, now!’
The child pulled a comical face. ‘Angelina say – says – she will take me into the – the—’
‘Snow,’ Jessica supplied.
‘—snow, if you say yes. Please? May we?’ The words were stilted and heavily accented.
‘Yes. You may tell Angelina yes, providing that you wrap up well.’
‘Thank you, Mama!’ In her impulsive way the child flung her arms about her mother and hugged her, then turned and ran from the room, calling excitedly for Angelina.
Jessica watched her go. Of all the blessings this past five years had brought, this small bright child was the greatest. Gabriella was like a ray of sunshine. Jessica found herself looking once more at the letter. She could not say with absolute truth that she had not been expecting it. For many reasons – and not the least of them the child she loved so dearly – she had known for some time that the moment was approaching when they must return home. She had tried to ignore it, but in the past months the conviction had grown. Gabriella ran wild, petted and spoiled, more Italian than English, a little gypsy; untutored and undisciplined. If she were to know and to understand anything of her English heritage she must be introduced to it, and soon. Last summer’s sunshine still glowed upon her smooth olive skin, her first language was Italian; another few years and she would never adjust to living in England. And meanwhile their money was running low, and Robert was earning nothing. Sooner or later they would have to go home.
She picked up the letter, stood looking down at it thoughtfully. ‘Sir Robert FitzBolton, Bart.’ How would Robert take this? In these past years she knew he had dismissed from his mind any thought of the England that for him had held so many unhappy memories. While in some small corner of her heart Jessica had always nursed the knowledge that one day she would return, Robert had in truth eaten the fruit of the lotus-tree, and had obdurately turned his face from any suggestion. His life was here, his devotion to Arthur, far from waning, was stronger than ever. He had given up his own ambitions and aspirations – he no longer attended the Maestro’s classes, no longer spoke of a future in the composition of music – he had become Arthur Leyland’s acolyte, a willing worshipper at the feet of that talented, handsome and vain young man.
No – Robert would not want to go home.
She turned, the letter still in her hand, and walked back to the window. As she stood there, tapping the crisp envelope with a nervous finger, a rider came from under the trees that shadowed the sandy drive. She smiled to see him; Danny may have conquered his initial fear of horses, but he would never make a rider. His dark head was bare despite the cold, the long mouth smiling as he looked towards the house, knowing that she would be there watching for him. She drew a long breath against the warm and painful rise of emotion that the sight of him always brought. Five years, occasionally stormy as they had been, had not served to change her feelings for Danny O’Donnel. Far from it.
‘Dan-nee! Dan-nee!’ A small bundle of energy launched herself across the garden. ‘Dan-nee!’
Danny slid from the horse’s back in time to catch Gabriella and swing her high in the air, squealing with laughter. Their voices came to the watcher in the window. Chewing her thumbnail, her face sombre, she turned away.
He joined her, moments later, still laughing.
‘That little tyke!’ He tilted Jessica’s face to his and kissed her lightly. ‘She’s got more energy than a barrowload of monkeys! She never stops!’ He tweaked Jessica’s hair teasingly. ‘I really can’t imagine where she gets it from, can you?’
Jessica smiled.
He strode to the fire, turned his back to it, lifting his coat-tails. ‘God, but it’s cold out there! Do you know, there are three inches of snow in the city—?’ He stopped, for the first time aware of her silence. ‘Jessie? Is something wrong?’
She nodded.
He came to her swiftly, concern on his face. ‘What is it? You aren’t ill—?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’ She hesitated. ‘There’s – a letter from home.’
Barely perceptibly his face altered. The only time she had ever spoken of the possibility of a return to Suffolk they had quarrelled, and the subject had never been raised again. ‘Bad news?’ he asked, his voice level.
‘I’m afraid it must be. The letter is from my mother. It’s addressed to Sir Robert FitzBolton.’
It took a moment for the significance of that to sink in. ‘So – Robert’s father is dead?’
‘He must be. It’s strange that the letter should be from my mother and not his.’
‘You haven’t read it?’
‘No. It’s addressed to Robert.’
Silence fell. He walked back to the fire, leaned against the mantlepiece, staring sober-faced into the flames. ‘You think – she wants you to go home?’
‘Almost certainly.’
He raised his head. ‘What will you do?’
She did not answer.
He pushed himself away from the mantlepiece, frowning. ‘Jessica?’
She shrugged, helplessly. ‘I suppose – we’ll have to go.’
‘No!’ He shook his head fiercely. ‘No – you don’t have to go! Why should you?’
She turned away from him, not wanting to see the dawning anger in his face. ‘Danny – please – we have to face it. If Robert’s father is dead – and he must be – then we have to go back. Please – don’t make it harder than it already is—’
‘It isn’t hard. It’s very simple. You don’t have to go.’
‘But we do!’ Her voice shook a little. ‘Please Danny – you don’t understand—’
‘You’re right. I don’t.’ In a couple of strides he was beside her, his hand on her arm, swinging her to face him. It was a long time since she had seen him so fierce. ‘You’re telling me that you’re going to leave? Just like that? Is that all our life together means to you?’
She stood still, swallowing the words that she knew would infuriate him more than ever. We don’t have a life together. Whether you admit it or not your life is still with Serafina, however much you say you hate her. She spoke very quietly. ‘Danny, you know that isn’t true. You know how much I love you.’
‘Then how can you talk of leaving?’
‘But – can’t you see? – If Robert’s father is dead, then we have to! There’s Robert’s mother – Old Hall – the land – the tenants – we can’t just desert them—’
‘Why not? What has any of it to do with you? With us?’
‘It has everything to do with me!’ She obstinately resisted the anger that was beginning to rise to meet his own. ‘Danny – I don’t want to go – you know I don’t! It will break my heart to leave. But there are other things to be taken into consideration apart from my own happiness—’
‘Yours? What about mine? What about Gabriella’s?’
She caught his hand. ‘Danny – please – don’t let’s quarrel about it! Wouldn’t you – couldn’t you come with us? Things wouldn’t have to change all that much—’ She knew as she made the plea how childishly silly it sounded.
He shook free of her. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses altogether? “Things wouldn’t have to change”? In what way, tell me, can they possibly remain the same if you run back to England? Are you suggesting for a moment that we could live like this—’ he gestured, his arms wide, ‘—at Old Hall? Really, Lady FitzBolton, give me credit for a little more intelligence than that!’
She flushed at his sarcastic use of the title. She stepped back from him. In the silence that followed Gabriella’s young voice called, and was answered by Angelina. Outside the horse that Danny had ridden was led away, its hooves scrunching on the gravel.
Jessica watched him for a long moment. ‘If this letter says what I think it must say,’ she said at last, quietly, ‘then Robert and I are going to have to return home. We have obligations. You can surely see that?’
‘What about your obligations here? To me? To Gabriella?’
‘Gabriella won’t suffer by being taken back to England,’ she said, evenly, ‘I’ll see to that. In fact I believe it will be good for her. Danny, we’ve had this out before. She is, in law and in her own belief, Robert’s child. He’s been a good father to her. Old Hall is her home as much as it is ours. You agreed. At the moment she’s running wild. Her English is dreadful. She’s more Italian than English—’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
Her control broke. ‘Oh, Danny stop it! You know what I’m saying is true! You know we have no alternative but to go! Why make it harder?’
He brought his hand down with considerable violence onto the table. ‘You don’t have to go!’
‘We do! We do! But – oh, Danny, why not come with us? Please? We’ll work something out—’
He flung to face her, his long, tense hands spread before him. ‘Go with you? To what purpose? To be a faithful servant to the lord and lady of the manor?’
‘No—!’
‘To be Lady FitzBolton’s kept man? Her ne’er-do-well lover? Don’t be ridiculous, Jessica – what kind of a fool’s paradise are you living in? We live as we live because we’re here! You could no more transport our—’ his mouth turned down sardonically ‘—our menage – lock stock and barrel to Melbury than you could transport the sunshine of Italy to Suffolk! Can you imagine it? You’d be the laughing-stock of the county!’
‘I wouldn’t care!’
‘Oh, yes you would. And so would I, and so would Robert, and so, as she grew, would Gabriella! No, Jessica – there’s nothing in England for me. In England I would be nothing. In England I would lose you more surely and more painfully than if I let you go now. And besides—’ he stopped.
‘And besides,’ she finished for him, very quietly, ‘there’s Serafina.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to.’ Her voice was suddenly weary. Here indeed was the long-standing cause of friction between them. For all his protestations, for all his bitterness Danny’s wife still held him in strange thrall. He hated her, she apparently despised him, yet still their marriage held them captive each to the other. Many, many times over these past years Danny had come to Jessica with livid wounds that could only have been caused by Serafina’s raking fingernails. Six months before he had all but lost his life in a bar brawl. Devotedly Jessica had nursed him, night after feverish night she had watched with him as he fought the infection in the knife wound. And all the time she had known what he had never told her – that the injury had been taken defending his wilful and beautiful wife’s dubious honour. Unable in her own situation to show too strong a resentment of the situation yet it had cut her to the heart to know that when Danny left her it was to return to Serafina. ‘Oh, Danny, please—’ she said now, tiredly, ‘must we quarrel? We don’t even know what’s in the letter yet. It might not be what we fear.’
He stood, tense as strung wire for a moment longer, until he relaxed and took the hand she offered. But his face was still sombre. He drew her to him and she leaned against him, her face turned to his chest.
On the table the letter lay, innocent and implacable harbinger of change.
Robert stared at the envelope for a very long while, making no move to open it.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, you might as well read it,’ Jessica said at last, more sharply than she had intended. ‘Whatever’s in it won’t cease to be just because you haven’t opened the beastly thing.’
He still made no move.
‘Robert! Please! Read the damned thing or I will myself!’ Her nerves were strung to breaking point.
Reluctantly he broke the seal. In tense silence she watched him. His eyes scanned the page swiftly.
‘Well?’
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a small, nervous gesture. ‘Father’s dead.’
‘When?’
He frowned. ‘Last July.’
She stared at him. ‘Last July? Why didn’t someone let us know before? Your mother must surely have written? Did the letter go astray?’
His eyes were running over the letter again. ‘Wait. Your mother’s writing – it’s a little difficult – not as clear as usual – “Sorry to be the source of such sad news – your mother not herself since the tragic loss of your father – advise a swift return – your father’s affairs—”’ he trailed off. ‘Oh, damn!’ he said, bitterly, ‘Damn and blast it!’
‘Your mother’s ill?’
‘I don’t know. “Not herself”, your mother says. And it seems that father’s affairs are in a bit of a state.’
A wind had blown up since the afternoon. In the silence it rattled an ill-fitting shutter. Lucia’s sharp voice lifted in the kitchen, to be answered by Marco’s conciliatory one.
Robert, the letter still in his hand, dropped into a chair and sat with bowed head and slumped shoulders.
‘We have to go home,’ Jessica said, quietly. Since the emotional scene with Danny that afternoon she had had a chance to adapt a little to the idea and her voice was calm.
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Robert, please. We have to. You know it. We can’t possibly leave your mother alone, in God only knows what state to cope with God only knows what kind of mess. There must be something very strange going on that Mother felt she had to write. Why didn’t your mother write? Why didn’t Clara? Does Mother say?’
He shrugged dispiritedly. ‘No.’
She took a long breath. ‘We have to go.’
There was a very long silence, then, ‘I suppose so,’ he said, his voice dull.
She stood up, looking about the pretty room that in the past four happy years had been home. ‘Very soon,’ she said.
He nodded.
‘I’ll tell Lucia. We’ll have to start to pack.’
Breaking the news to Theo was more difficult than she had imagined it would be. Because of the particularly bad winter Jessica had not visited the city since Christmas, and so had not seen the old man in two months. Calling at the via del Corso two days after the arrival of her mother’s letter she was shocked to find Theo confined to bed, propped up with a mass of pillows, his shrunken frame all but lost in the huge bed, his bald pate with its wispy hair wigless, his unrouged face pale as death. He looked very old indeed, and mortally sick.
‘Theo – are you ill?’
‘Of course I am, you silly beast! Why else would I be lying here like a helpless infant?’ he snapped, querulously. He tilted his head sharply to receive her kiss on his dry, cold cheek, his eyes going past her to the door. ‘Where’s the child?’
‘At home, I’m afraid. I thought it too cold to bring her out.’
He tutted, annoyed. ‘Nonsense! Utter nonsense! Child’s as strong as an ox. Takes after her silly mother.’
She sat down, taking his hand. ‘Theo? What’s wrong?’
‘What’s right’s more like it. Tired is all, but the silly quack won’t have it. Says it’s me heart.’
She frowned, concerned.
He waved a weak, impatient hand. ‘All nonsense, of course. Nothin’ wrong with me heart.’
She smiled, gently. ‘You mean it’s as hard as ever?’
He chuckled, caught his breath and coughed, wincing. ‘What brings you here? Thought you’d given up visiting poor old Theo?’
‘Oh, don’t be so silly! You know why I haven’t been. The weather’s been terrible.’
He cast a meaningful glance at the window. ‘Don’t look any better to me today.’
She sighed. ‘No. It isn’t.’
‘So. What brings you here?’
She did not for a moment answer. Then, ‘We have to go home,’ she said, quietly. ‘Robert’s father died last year, and his mother is apparently ill. We have to go.’
In the silence that followed he watched her, the pale old eyes unusually sympathetic. Finally he stirred. ‘So. The carnival is done. Off with the mask and the magical ball gown, child. Real life calls you.’
She was surprised that he had voiced her own feelings so very aptly. ‘Yes.’
‘Think yerself lucky,’ he said. ‘Not many have what you’ve had.’
‘I know. But it isn’t easy.’
‘Apart from farting, what is?’
The tart humour brought a small smile.
‘You’re takin’ the child?’ It was only just a question.
‘Of course. There’s never been any argument about that. Robert thinks of her – treats her – as his own daughter. Old Hall is her home.’
‘And Danny?’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen him since I told him. We quarrelled. I wanted him to come with us—’
‘He won’t.’
She said nothing, picked with a sharp fingernail at the bedspread.
The grotesque head shook slowly upon the mound of pillows. ‘Not in a month of Sundays, gel. Would you expect it? Would he be your Danny if he tamely trailed behind you like a trained monkey?’
She laid a hand upon his gnarled, discoloured one. ‘I’ll miss you Theo,’ she said, apparently inconsequentially. ‘Very much indeed.’
‘Miss me bad tempered tongue, you mean. Who’ll keep yer in order, gel, without me around?’
She smiled. ‘I’ll never forget you. Never ever. I’ll write. Often.’
He held her eyes. ‘Don’t waste yer energy, gel.’ The words were smothered in a sudden bout of coughing. Face scarlet he clung to her hand, choking.
‘Theo, you’re ill! Let me send for someone—!’
‘No!’ He caught his breath again. The hand that clung to hers was surprisingly strong. ‘Keep them stupid women away from me. Fussin’ and frettin’. Can’t stand it. Silly bitches.’
‘You must take care of yourself.’
His face creased into a parody of his old wicked grin. ‘Too late, gel, as usual. The Good Lord’s doin’ that. He’s caught up with me at last, it seems.’ He laid back on the pillows, his breath laboured. ‘So—’ he said at last, ‘You’re goin’ home.’
‘Yes.’
‘Best place on God’s earth.’ The words were so quietly spoken she thought for a moment she had misheard them.
‘You – you think I’m right? Robert doesn’t want to go. I think for two pins he’d stay. But – oh, Theo! – how can we?’
‘Yer could if yer really wanted to.’
She shook her head.
He let out a dry rustle of laughter that brought on another fit of coughing. ‘Tell me why yer goin’.’
‘Robert’s mother’s ill—’
‘That all?’ The old eyes snapped open, bright and perceptive as they had ever been.
She held them for a moment with her own, then let out a small explosive breath. ‘No. Of course not.’
‘What then, Yer Ladyship?’ he asked, slyly.
‘Old Hall. The house, the land, the people—’
‘Homesick.’
‘A little.’
He nodded, satisfied. ‘Lie to the world by all means, gel. But don’t try to lie to old Theo. An’ don’t—’ he added, softly ‘—ever try ter lie ter yerself. Y’er goin’ home because the time has come, and yer know it. Y’er goin’ home because the place is in yer blood, an’ there’s nothin’ yer can do about it.’ He moved his head a little. ‘Y’er lucky, gel. Yer know that? Damn’ lucky. I envy yer. Just think o’ that. Old Theo envies yer!’
She stayed with him for half an hour, during most of which time he slept. As she stood to tiptoe away he opened one eye. ‘Bring that scallawag child to say goodbye before yer go.’
She bent to kiss him, gently. ‘I will.’
The last and inevitable row with Danny was a bitter one. He could not – or rather she suspected would not – see or accept her reasons for returning to England with Robert. He accused her of faithlessness and betrayal, complained bitterly that she no longer loved him. She, in tears, was adamant. She loved him, she would always love him, but she had to go. He was angrier than she had ever seen him.
‘If you go I swear you’ll never set eyes on me again.’
‘Danny, don’t say that! Please don’t. You know where I am. I’ll wait for you—’
‘You’ll wait for a very long time.’ His voice was hard.
‘Why are you so angry? It isn’t my fault—’
‘You don’t have to go!’
‘I do! Oh, God! – Why can’t you understand that?’
He looked for a terrible moment as if he might have struck her. He backed away from her, his hands clenched at his sides, then turned and strode to the door.
‘Danny!’
He stopped, his back to her.
‘Remember St Agatha’s,’ she said, very quietly. ‘It’s still there. It will always be there. And so will I. With Gabriella.’
He left the room with no word of farewell, slamming the door behind him.
She did not see him again before they left. He did not come near the villa and pride prevented her from visiting him at the apartment in the city that he still shared with Serafina. Miserably she oversaw the preparations for their departure. Small Gabriella was at first shocked and then intrigued by this unexpected move to the unknown, any terrors removed from the adventure by the fact that her beloved Angelina was travelling to England with them as her nurse. Tickets were bought, possessions crated. She saw little of Robert who, miserable as she, spent these last precious days with Arthur and left the bulk of the work to Jessica, which at least gave her little time to brood on the sudden and shattering break with Danny. On the day before they left she visited Theo again, taking Gabriella with her. The visit was not a success. The old man was failing, the child overawed by the oppressive atmosphere of the sickroom.
As she took her leave Jessica could not entirely blink away the tears.
‘Fer Gawd’s sake gel,’ he said, with amiable asperity. ‘Turn off the waterworks. This is my scene, not yours. Fine thing when a gel’s last performance gets upstaged by a silly chit’s overactin’—’
She kissed the hand she held. ‘Thank you, Theo. Thank you for everything.’
He lay quietly for a moment. Almost any effort seemed to be too much for him now. But when she made to stand the pressure of his hand drew her back down beside him. ‘If I’d – had a daughter—’ he said, speaking with difficulty.
She waited. ‘Yes?’
The pale, tired eyes searched her face. And then, predictably, the gleam of mischief appeared, echoed by the ghost of the old, imp’s grin. ‘She’d ha’ bin well ruined by now, wouldn’t she? Off with yer, gel. Go live yer life. Yer doin’ the right thing, yer know that, don’t yer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well go on an’ do it then, an’ stop botherin’ me.’
They left Florence at the beginning of March, travelling this time straight up the west coast into a France whose dreams of imperial glory had finally seen an end on Napoleon’s deathbed on Elba the year before. The journey was arduous, made more so by a fretful child and a mildly hysterical Angelina, who had never until now strayed further from Florence than the Villa Francesca, and who could not be convinced that every Frenchman she saw was not bent upon rape or at the very least murder. At last in desperation Jessica had to threaten to send her back, and the thought of being parted from her darling Gabriella stiffened her backbone and stilled her tongue marvellously. Reaching Calais at last they boarded one of the new passenger steamers that had the year before begun to ply between the French and English coasts and in the miraculously short time of three hours, in bright spring weather they sighted at last the white cliffs of a Dover that looked at the same time incredibly familiar and ridiculously strange to English eyes that had become so accustomed to foreign cities. They landed on English soil on a lovely May day that might have been sent to welcome them home. Jessica thought she had never seen anything so green as the lovely Kentish countryside. She had forgotten the majesty of oak and elm, the pale and delicate delight of a field of wild flowers blowing in the wind. They rested overnight at Canterbury, and again in London. Then they took the coach at last for Sudbury, and home.
The FitzBolton carriage awaited them at the inn at Sudbury. Stiffly they climbed aboard whilst Blowers the coachman saw to the stowing of what luggage had travelled with them. ‘Welcome home, Sir Robert, Your Ladyship—’ he had said when they had met, and the titles rang strangely still in Jessica’s ears. When at last the loaded carriage, squeaking noisily, rolled into the Suffolk lanes she found herself watching eagerly for landmarks.
‘Look, Gabriella – that’s the stream that feeds the lake at New Hall—’ She had spent hours on the journey speaking to the child of her new home. ‘—and there are the gates – do you see the big house in the distance? That’s New Hall, where I lived when I was a little girl like you. Your Grandmama—’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘—one of your Grandmamas lives there still.’
The child watched from the window, overtired, overawed and unusually silent. Angelina huddled in a corner shivering in the fresh May air that came through the open window. They skirted the parkland of New Hall and crossed the river.
‘Oh, Robert – isn’t it lovely? I had almost forgotten!’ For the moment the pleasure of homecoming outweighed all else for Jessica. Two swans moved, regal heads high, upon the wide waters of the river. The willows bowed gracefully, drifting in the current and in the breeze. In the distance the sound of the weir made itself heard over the noisy movement of the carriage. In the shadowed woodlands across the water the misty, pale carpet of the budding bluebells delighted the eye. ‘Look – oh, look! There’s St Agatha’s.’ Like an eager child Jessica leaned to the window and watched the small, ancient church on the other side of the river as they passed. ‘It’s more overgrown than ever. Oh, Robert, we must do something about that – it’s such a pity to see it so neglected—’
The carriage was slowing. With a hollow rattle it crossed the bridge that spanned the river and rolled to a halt outside the gates of Old Hall. Blowers clambered down and stood tugging at his hatbrim apologetically. For the first time Jessica noticed with some surprise that his worn trousers did not match his livery jacket. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir Robert, Your Ladyship – but we can’t take the carriage across the old drawbridge. It wouldn’t stand the weight. Failin’ to pieces it is.’
It was not, Jessica saw with a shock as she stepped from the carriage, the only thing at Old Hall that was falling to pieces. At first sight unchanged and dearly familiar, a second glance swiftly showed how much neglected was the house itself. Tiles were missing from the roofs, not just singly but in some cases in patches. Several windows were broken and patched with wood. The gates stood open, jammed by their broken hinges. Ever since she had known it the old place had been fighting a battle against the merciless depredations of the years, but never had she seen it looking so pathetically run-down. Water plants clogged the stagnant waters of the moat and the growth of weeds in the courtyard as they crossed the creaking bridge and entered the gates was such that it was lifting the flagstones and all but hiding the well from sight. As they stood, nonplussed, in the desolation, a dog came barking from the stables, wagging its tail in greeting. Automatically Jessica bent to pat it, as she looked around. ‘Where is everyone?’
Angelina looked about her in disbelieving horror, and even the child was struck to silence by the oppressive quiet of the place.
‘Christ!’ Robert said, quietly and grimly.
‘Who’s there?’ A very plump figure had appeared at the doorway of the Great Hall and stood, her hand shading her eyes, peering vaguely at them. Her voice was querulous. ‘Who is it?’
Robert stepped forward. ‘Mother – it’s me – Robert. And Jessica.’
‘Who?’ Sarah put her head on one side, frowning, ‘Who did you say?’
‘Robert, Mother. It’s me—’
‘Robert! Good heavens!’ She lumbered forward. Her clothes were worn and stained, her hair a bird’s nest. ‘Of course. I’d quite forgotten. And Jessica, my dear! How are you? How is your mother? I really must pay some calls – there just always seems so very much to do. And who in the world is this? Never mind, never mind. Robert – your father is around somewhere – see if you can find him for me, would you? You know what a very naughty man he is when it comes to timekeeping – I really must get that watch of his mended – not that he ever thinks to look at it of course,’ she added in confidential tones to Jessica.
Robert opened his mouth. Jessica put a quick hand on his arm and shook her head. In the doorway behind Sarah FitzBolton a woman had appeared, small and birdlike, with a kindly face. She hurried to Sarah and took her arm. ‘Now, now, Your Ladyship – what are we doing here? We’re supposed to be resting, aren’t we?’
‘Oh, don’t fuss Janet! See – Robert’s back from university. I had quite forgotten he was coming. And Jessica’s come to visit – we must find Father – tell him to come—’
The little woman turned apologetically to Robert. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. She isn’t always like this. Not one of her better days. She’s a little confused I’m afraid. I’ll take her inside if you don’t mind? She’ll be right as rain by tea time.’
‘Yes – yes, of course.’
‘I’ll tell Mrs Williams you’re here. She’s been watching for you all day. But there was some crisis in the kitchen—’
It took less than an hour for the sad state of affairs at Old Hall to become painfully apparent. The near-empty house was decaying, most of the servants were gone. The loss of her husband had affected Sarah very badly; most of the time she lived in a world of her own, a world long disappeared. At supper it was clear that she still thought Robert home on vacation from university and Jessica visiting from New Hall. She smiled vaguely when Gabriella, overawed, was brought in to say goodnight and obediently pecked her upon the cheek. Sarah smiled, vaguely. ‘What a very pretty child.’
No one mentioned Clara until Jessica asked Mrs Williams and was answered by a sharp cluck of the tongue and a tightening of the mouth. ‘Miss Clara’s otherwise occupied, Your Ladyship. She has no time for us at Old Hall.’
‘Do you know why she didn’t write to tell us what had happened?’
‘Everyone assumed she had. They thought—’ She stopped abruptly.
‘They thought we wouldn’t come home?’
‘Yes, Your Ladyship.’
Jessica had to laugh. ‘Oh, Mrs Williams – can’t you go back to Miss Jessica? I can’t get used to this “Ladyship” business at all, and from someone who used to let me steal her biscuits—’
Mrs Williams’ plump face creased into a small smile.
‘So – Clara never comes to see her mother?’
The smile went. ‘No, Miss Jessica, that she doesn’t. Neither she nor Mr Giles. They’ve no time for our troubles, it seems.’ Her mouth shut like a trap, and Jessica asked no more.
Sarah and the few remaining servants lived frugally from the rents and tithes of the Home Farm. There was no money, and there were debts. In the small parlour that was almost the only habitable living room in the house apart from the little apartment in the turret wing occupied by Sarah and Janet, Robert threw himself into the armchair that had always been his father’s and buried his head in his hands. ‘My God! – How can things have got into this state so fast?’
‘We’ve been away six years. And I don’t think even before that your father was a very good manager. The house was neglected even then—’
‘Neglected? The damned place is falling down!’
‘It’s certainly in a bad way.’ Jessica was tired. The journey had wearied her, she had spent the past two hours coping with a distressed and homesick Angelina and an even more distressed and homesick Gabriella. ‘Do you know what the debts are?’
He shook his head bleakly. ‘No.’
In the silence the tall, ornate grandfather clock that stood in the corner ticked rhythmically. With a spurt of tired irritation Jessica saw that it was more than two hours slow.
‘We shouldn’t have come back,’ Robert said.
Jessica would not be provoked. She said nothing.
‘You hear me? We should never have come back!’ He stood up and strode to the table by the window, upon which stood a brandy bottle and glasses. She watched him pour himself a generous tot. ‘We should have stayed in Florence.’
‘What good would that have done?’ She tried to keep her voice calm and reasonable, but a small grating edge of nerves sharpened it despite her efforts. ‘We couldn’t possibly have left your mother here in her condition and with the roof falling in over her head!’
He shrugged, moodily.
‘Robert – it’s no good letting ourselves be overwhelmed by it. We have to think. We have to find out what we have and what we owe. We have to find out how much it will take to put the house to rights – or at least to prevent it from decaying further. We have to find out what the land is yielding and—’
‘I don’t care!’ He slammed the glass down so hard upon the table that the brandy splashed and spilled. ‘You hear me? I don’t damned well care! I won’t be buried alive here! I won’t have this place bleed me dry! I’m going back to Florence—’ He tossed back the remaining brandy in one gulp and nearly choked.
Furious, she was out of her chair and beside him in a moment, catching his arm, almost shaking him in her anger. ‘You can’t! Robert, you can’t do that! You can’t run away—’
‘Oh, can’t I?’
‘No! Listen to me – please! If we can sort this out – if we can get the place on its feet again – then in a couple of years perhaps we can go back? Oh, not for ever I don’t mean – but for a few months each year?’
The look he turned upon her was pure, blistering scorn. ‘And what do we use for money to achieve this fantasy? Buttons? Jessica – this place needs thousands – thousands! – of pounds spent on it! Where are we going to get that kind of money?’
Jessica opened her mouth. Shut it again.
‘—I tell you the place will wring us dry!’
‘Don’t be so ridiculously melodramatic.’ Exhausted she dropped into a chair, picking at the worn upholstery. ‘Your family have lived here for generations. I don’t care what you say, it’s your duty to care for it. It’s your duty to try. We’re here. We have to do something.’
He poured himself another drink. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ he said, grimly. ‘We’ll close the house and go back to Florence. Damn the place! Let it fall to pieces!’ He tilted the glass and drained it.
‘And your mother? Are you suggesting we take her with us?’
‘Clara can have her.’ His words were becoming slurred. ‘Why not? She can live with Clara.’
Jessica almost laughed. ‘What? With Clara? Robert, Clara hasn’t been near her for months! If she cared a pin for your mother she wouldn’t be living here on her own now, would she?’
His mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘I’ll go and see her tomorrow. Talk to her about it.’
Jessica stood up. ‘I wish you luck. You’ll need it. Something tells me that whatever else has changed around here your sister is much the same as ever. I’m going to bed. And Robert – tomorrow we must talk. Really talk. We have to work out what to do.’
He turned his back to her, stood looking out of the window as she left the room.
She spent a restless night and woke with the early May dawn to find the rest of the house still sleeping. She lay for a while listening to the blithe torrent of birdsong beyond the window, then on impulse she slipped from her bed and dressed swiftly. The risen sun gleamed through the trees and reflected, shimmering, from the quiet, clear-rippling waters of the river. Very quietly, reminded irresistibly of childhood escapades, she crept down the stairs. As she passed Robert’s open door his rasping breaths were loud and rhythmic. She could smell the brandy fumes from where she stood.
She let herself out into the brilliant morning, crossed the drawbridge and stood for a moment breathing the heady air, fresh and sparkling as chilled wine, and listening to the heartstoppingly beautiful song of a blackbird that was perched high in a fragrantly blooming hawthorn tree. In the distant woodlands a cuckoo called. She turned to look at the old house, and in the golden morning sunshine it was again the fairy castle that she remembered, a place of magic and enchantment. In this light and at this distance the crumbling fabric of the place was not apparent. But the beauty of the ancient brick and timber was there, and the idiosyncratic twist of the tudor chimneys, added when the house was already old. Generations of FitzBoltons this house had sheltered; it deserved better treatment now, she thought sadly, than to be cursed and left to rot.
She shook her head, her mouth set. Not while there was breath in her body would the old place be left to fall down or abandoned to stangers.
She set off along the riverbank, each bend and twist of the path so familiar and well remembered that it felt strange not to have Bran sniffing excitedly at each fascinating hole and bush. The old dog had died two years before, but not before siring, according to Patrick, a happy pack of mongrel offspring over several square miles of the county. She wondered if she could find one of his progeny for Gabriella. She stopped for a moment, disentangling her skirt from a grasping bramble. The path that once had been so clear to follow was overgrown. Thorns clawed her skirt again, and a new growth of nettles brushed her unprotected ankles painfully. If the way were not cleared, by high summer it would be impassable. She picked a heavy stick from the ground and beat her way through with it. The small cottages, where Danny had lived, were boarded up and nearly lost in the jungle that had sprung up around them. She stood for a long moment by the broken gate remembering the day that a small girl had crept down this path to watch a dark and handsome stranger wash in water from the well in the middle of a yard that was now so overgrown that the gate would not open. A little further on the church had fared no better. It was as if since her wedding six years before no single soul had been near the place, and jealous nature had reclaimed the churchyard and surroundings swiftly for her own. Jessica edged her way up the path and went in, leaving the door ajar behind her. The air of the small building was exactly as she remembered it – cold and dank, musty with age. The easterly rising sun gleamed through the stained glass windows, flooding the place with glittering patterns of light, like a bright, jewelled shawl flung across walls and floor. She walked to the altar, very quietly, her footsteps light, her breathing shallow. St Agatha smiled still from her niche, restored by Danny’s loved and loving hands. With a faint rustle of her clothing Jessica sat in the front pew and tilted her head, looking at the statue. A small, frightened something scuttled away from her feet, the sound loud in the silence.
She sat so for a very long time. Outside the sun rose higher and gained in strength. The cuckoo flew, calling, across the treetops. The flowers shed their dew and spread their pale petals to the warmth of the day.
Still she sat.
The world rose and went about its business. Small animals scurried in the undergrowth, blind babies blinked in the milky light.
She stirred at last. She was stiff, and very cold. But in that long quiet time many answers had come to her and her heart was calm, close even to happiness despite all. Outside the light and the warmth all but dazzled her. She stretched her goose-fleshed arms, rubbing them briskly. Even her nose was cold, and her feet were like blocks of ice. She pushed her way along the familiar path around the lake, stopping for a while to watch the nesting waterbirds and the lovely play of the sun on the water. A flustered moorhen with a small flotilla of young paddled away from her, scolding angrily. She sat on a fallen log and let the sun warm her cold flesh. The bluebells here were in their first bloom, laying their carpet of deep and beautiful blue about the woods.
The mood of the church was still with her. She belonged here. No matter what others did, or thought, or wanted, she belonged here. She wanted Danny – oh, how desperately she wanted him! – but yet she knew she had done the right thing in coming home. And – for better or for worse – that was what this was to her. Home. For her – and for Gabriella. She would make it so.
She picked a handful of twigs from the ground near her feet and threw them into the water, watching them reflectively as they spun and drifted lazily in the water. Then she lifted her eyes to take in the shining span of the lake and suddenly and painfully she remembered Edward’s death and its awful aftermath.
The water lay still and brilliant as a sunlit mirror.
She drew a breath, blinking; then stood, shaking out her skirts, and turned to set out along the path through the bluebells that led to the park and New Hall.
Maria Hawthorne was breakfasting when she arrived. Jessica – astounded and a little amused at having to explain to the strange young footman who opened the door to this unwontedly early caller who she was – declined to be announced and slipped into the morning room quietly. Her mother looked up from the paper she was reading, eyes sharp and bright above the pince-nez she wore. Jessica was a little shocked to see that she had aged quite visibly, a network of tiny lines marring the fine skin, deep furrows in her forehead and about her still firm and well-shaped mouth. Composedly and for all the world as if Jessica had been for an early-morning ride in the park and absent for hours rather than years she extended a graceful hand. ‘Jessica, my dear. I heard you were back.’
Jessica came to her swiftly and bent to kiss the cool cheek. ‘Mother.’
‘Sit down, sit down—’ With a small grimace of pain Maria reached for a small silver bell that stood by her hand. ‘We’ll have more tea. You’re well, child? And Robert?’
‘We’re both well, thank you.’
‘And my granddaughter?’ Maria smiled. ‘Have you brought her with you to meet her rheumatic old grandma?’
Jessica laughed. ‘She was still sound asleep when I left this morning. She’s had a long and tiring journey.’
‘Of course, of course. But you must bring her to see me directly.’
‘I will. Tomorrow, I promise. I just came to say hello, and to thank you for writing to us. We didn’t know – about Sir Thomas’ death. Or Robert’s mother’s—’ she hesitated, ‘—illness.’
Maria nodded. ‘Poor, poor thing. I hadn’t realized, you see, just how bad she was. Or I would have written sooner. I have—’ she paused, a shadow on her face, ‘—some small difficulty with my hands nowadays. It has made writing difficult. And I had of course assumed that—’ she stopped.
‘—that Clara would write,’ Jessica finished for her a little grimly. ‘I still don’t understand why she didn’t. Do you?’
Maria shook her head calmly as the door opened and a small uniformed maid appeared. ‘More tea for Miss Jessica, please Maude – ah, I’m sorry—’ she touched her forehead in a small, pretty gesture of amused apology, ‘—for Lady FitzBolton, of course.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ The girl threw an interested glance in Jessica’s direction, bobbed a quick curtsey and left.
‘I’m afraid,’ Maria continued as the door closed behind the maid, ‘that I can’t help you there.’ All amusement had fled her voice.‘Clara and I have little or nothing to do with each other if we can possibly avoid it. I suspect that she was simply too caught up in her own self-interests to bother to tell her brother what had happened. She has, it appears, no interest in Old Hall at all—’
‘But – her mother!’
Maria shrugged a little. ‘Clara isn’t greatly influenced by sentimental ties. And Sarah rather took to Patrick.’ She sent a small, oblique glance at her daughter. ‘That, as you can imagine, was enough to cause trouble between them. They haven’t spoken in two years, even after old Sir Thomas died. As for myself – Giles I see of course – he manages the estate, and does that, at least, well—’ her voice held a strange small note of asperity ‘—but apart from that there’s little contact between New Hall and Tollbridge House.’ She smiled, with mocking and austere amusement, ‘Clara changed the name. She could not be found living in a mere farmhouse—’ Her voice was outwardly pleasant but deeply beneath the assumed nonchalance Jessica sensed a bitterness that shocked her a little. Clearly the years had done nothing to heal the rift between Giles and Clara and her mother. Maria stirred her tea, lifted the small cup to her lips and sipped it, then carefully replaced it in the saucer. For the first time Jessica noticed the painful distortion of the joints and knuckles of her mother’s delicate hands. Maria saw the flicker of her eyes. ‘The rheumatics,’ she said, calmly.
‘Is it – very bad?’
Maria took a small breath, and her smile was strained. ‘Yes. It is. It’s beginning to affect my legs as a matter of fact. Oh, don’t look so worried, child. Old age is all – who am I to escape it altogether? Now, come – tell me of your travels – there is so very much to catch up on—’
When Jessica, at lunchtime, appeared at Old Hall riding a borrowed horse, her skirts kilted to her knees, she was met by an out-of-temper Robert and a delightfully scandalized Gabriella.
‘Why Mama! What are you doing riding a horse so? – and whose horse is it? – and where have you been all the day—?’
‘English, Gabriella, English!’ She bent to give the child a hug. ‘You must learn to speak English!’
The pretty child pouted.
‘Where on earth have you been? You’ve been gone all morning!’ Robert looked pale and sickly, his dark eyes shadowed. Jessica correctly assumed that he was paying penance for his unaccustomed drinking bout the night before. She shook out her skirts and brushed the dust from them, smiling thanks at the boy who came to take the horse from her.
‘I’ve been to New Hall to see Mother.’
‘You might have told me.’
‘You were sound asleep and snoring,’ she teased. The old Robert would have capitulated and laughed, she knew.
‘What news?’ Not an inch did he give.
She pulled a small, childish face at his bad-tempered back as she followed him across the yard. When she did not reply to his question he looked back across his shoulder. ‘Well?’
She hesitated. She had mulled over the things that her mother had told her as she rode back across the park, but still had not quite managed to marshall them into coherence. She followed him into the darkness of the Great Hall and up the stairs. ‘Mother’s in a good deal of pain. She’s having some trouble with her joints – in fact can barely walk. Giles and Clara are well, and living at Tollbridge Farm – Tollbridge House, that is. Patrick—’ she frowned a little, ‘Patrick is still at Harrow – I think – well, Mother didn’t say so in so many words but I think the lad has turned out to be a little wild. There were – I don’t know – some things she very obviously didn’t say. She seemed a little worried about him.’ She smiled a little ruefully. ‘Like father like son, I suspect. I do vaguely remember the most awful rows, on and off, when Edward was about this age—’ She followed him along the passageway that led to the parlour. ‘Actually,’ she added, a little reluctantly, ‘things are not exactly what I expected over there.’
He turned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s hard to say exactly.’ She wandered to the window, stood with her back to the room looking out.
Sensing her very real concern Robert watched her, his ill-humour and discomfort giving way somewhat to curiosity. He waited.
Jessica turned from the window, sat on the battered sofa and kicked her shoes off that were still cold and damp from her morning walk in the May dew. ‘I didn’t realize – I don’t think any of us did – that after the war, in ’15 and ‘16, when the price of corn dropped so very rapidly, Father lost rather a lot of money. He was ill at the time, if you remember, and not himself, and he never made it good. Then Giles took over. And apparently before Patrick came along Giles made one or two rather bad investments. He’s a good farmer, but no financier.’
Robert was staring at her. ‘You don’t mean – your father’s fortune is gone?’
‘Oh, of course not! Nothing as dramatic as that! But certainly things are not as easy as they were. Even in Florence we heard, if you remember, about the agricultural depression and the disturbances? That doesn’t help. Giles apparently is convinced that the answer lies in mechanization. It’s making fortunes in industry – Giles thinks the same thing could happen on the land. It’s causing a lot of trouble.’ Her brow was deeply furrowed.
‘Trouble?’
She rubbed her cold foot. ‘In the village. Giles is experimenting with a new threshing machine. If it works that means no jobs – and no money. He’s already cut wages to the bone. There have been threats – unpleasant threats – but of course, Giles won’t be threatened. Whatever else you can say about him he’s no coward.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘No. Things are obviously still very strained between him and Clara and Mother. Giles still runs the estate, I think, simply because he fears it will go to rack and ruin without him. Unfortunately it’s beginning to look as if he may be right. Much as Mother still dotes on Patrick she’s obviously worried about him—’
‘In what way?’
‘She didn’t say in so many words. He’s young – and a little wild – and really much too attractive for his own good. But then the same thing could have been said about both Edward and Giles in their own day, and they both came through it without too much harm—’
‘Apart from Edward’s unsuitable marriage.’
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Mm. I don’t somehow think Patrick’s problem is marriage.’ She laughed a little. ‘Quite the opposite I shouldn’t wonder. Phew!’ She laid her head back, breathing deeply and running her hand through her hair, ‘I had quite forgotten how exhausting my mother can be!’ she said, ruefully.
‘So—’ Robert clasped his hands behind his back and walked the floor restlessly. ‘There’s no help for us there?’
She looked at him in astonishment. ‘Help?’
‘I had hoped – hadn’t you? – that your family might have been able to help us out of our—’
‘No!’ Her exclamation cut his words short. She scrambled to her feet, tiredness forgotten. ‘Absolutely no! Under no circumstances would I take money from them! – Always supposing they’d give it!’
‘Jessica – we have to get it from somewhere! What do you suggest? That we mint our own?’
She picked up her shoes. Barefoot, she barely came to his shoulder, small-built as he was. ‘We’ll get it,’ she said, grimly. ‘If we have to clear that library shelf by shelf we’ll get it.’
He turned, his face blank. ‘I beg your pardon?’
She made a sharp, exasperated movement. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Robert – how can you have lived with something all of your life without realizing its value? It surely must have occurred to you? Some of the books in that library are worth a lot of money. Whether it will be enough or not I don’t know – but at least we’ve got something! It will be heartbreaking to see them go, but nowhere near as heartbreaking as to see the house fall down about our ears.’ She ignored his silence, and the surprised look on his face. ‘The first thing we must do—’ she turned and made for the door, ‘—is to make sure that the hole in the roof is mended before the damned rain ruins our nest egg!’
The gentleman from Sotheby’s was guardedly encouraging: Jessica, with the knowledge gleaned from Theo, was indeed right – several of the books and manuscripts in Old Hall’s ancient library would very probably be of interest to collectors and might well fetch a handsome sum.
‘How handsome?’ Jessica asked, bluntly.
The man was flustered. ‘Really, Your Ladyship – you must realize that I couldn’t possibly commit myself to suggesting that. If the right buyers can be contacted—’
‘How long will that take?’
‘It’s hard to tell. The sale next month is too soon. These things cannot be arranged overnight, you know. It will have to be the next one—’
‘When’s that?’
‘November.’ He looked a little injured at her briskness. He was a tall young man with a prominent Adam’s apple, an already receding hairline and, Jessica suspected, an overestimation of his own importance in the scheme of things. His skin was very pale and the hand he had offered had been soft and a little damp. ‘The items will have to be catalogued, of course.’
‘I can do that.’
‘Lady FitzBolton, I hardly think—’
‘I’ve spent the last four years helping to catalogue one of the most extensive and priceless private collections in Europe, Mr Branston,’ she said, coolly, ‘I don’t think this will be beyond me. It will be much more simple for me to catalogue them here and then for you simply to send someone down to check the work. Don’t you think?’ She smiled beguilingly at him. ‘I have a strong feeling it will be cheaper, too?’
He was not used to such straightforwardness. Colour rose from his high collar to his ears. ‘I – yes, I suppose that will be satisfactory.’
‘Now—’ she took his arm firmly and steered him to the door, ‘you’re welcome to stay to supper of course – but if you’d rather catch the afternoon coach there’s still time—’
She settled to work in the library with a will. It gave her something positive to do and kept her mind fully occupied. They were living for now on what little remained of her marriage settlement, and the small income from the Home Farm. The financial situation was tight, but not impossible. They had even managed to scrape together enough capital to repair the worst hole in the roof, though what worried Jessica most was the thought of the onset of the winter rains and snow before they had managed to acquire the money to have the rest of it done.
‘Really, almost everything else can wait,’ she said to Robert, a week or so after Mr Branston had come and gone. ‘The roof is the most important. It leaks in several places still. The fabric of the place will rot if we can’t keep the water out.’
Robert said nothing. He was sitting in the window seat of the small parlour staring into space, his face set.
She looked up from the figures she was studying. ‘Robert?’
With an effort he brought his attention to her. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Didn’t you hear a word I said?’
‘No. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. Tell me – isn’t it the day for the mail coach?’
Understanding flickered in her eyes. ‘Yes. It is.’
‘Ah. I thought so.’ He turned back to the window.
She watched him for a moment, helpless sympathy in her eyes. At least she did not torment herself by expecting to hear from Danny. Robert had sent two letters a week to Florence since they had returned home, and had received not a single reply. He was pining visibly, his moods erratic. He was not, it seemed, interested in the state of the house, his mother’s health or their fortunes. He simply wanted to return to Florence, where he had been happy.
‘Someone has to go down to see the tenant of Home Farm,’ she said, gently, trying to draw his attention from the window. ‘We don’t seem to have a detailed copy of the accounts for the past years. I don’t think it’s the tenant’s fault – your father had to let the estate manager go a couple of years ago, and really since then no one seems to have bothered much. The tithes and rents come in regularly enough, but we really should check what’s happening. Could you pay them a visit, do you think? You really should, you know – show your face, so to speak, reassure the tenants—’
He made a small, impatiently negative movement with his head.
‘Robert – you really should try—’
He stood up, looked at her coldly. ‘Why? Why should I try? What has any of it to do with me? If you care what’s happening on some grubby little farm, you go and – show your face—’ he spoke the words with scorn. ‘What are they to do with me?’ he asked again.
‘You take their money,’ she said, suddenly acid. ‘You live off their rent and the sweat of their hands.’
‘It isn’t their money. It’s ours. It’s our land. And I still think that we should sell it and go back to—’
‘Oh, stop it! Why can’t you stop it! You’re like a silly child—!’ She put her hands over her ears.
They glared at each other in hostile silence.
Then she took a breath and forced her voice to conciliation. ‘Robert – think! Who’d buy the place as it stands? It’s run-down, neglected – virtually worthless! If we build it up, then it will be worth something, then – perhaps – we’ll think again.’ Over my dead body, added a small grim voice in her mind: but she had to play for time, and if hypocrisy was called for to do it then so be it. ‘But we have to work to get the place back on its feet. Please – won’t you ride down to Home Farm this afternoon and find out what’s going on?’
With the stubbornness that she had grown to recognize Robert shook his head. ‘No. I’ve a letter to write.’ He walked past her and out of the room. For a moment the rising frustration of anger gathered like a scream in her throat. It haunted her that Robert would enforce his prerogative and sell the house over their heads. She rubbed her eyes with her clenched fists, sat quite still for a moment, her head bowed. Then, very collectedly, she laid down her pen, closed the ledgers and went to change her clothes.
She was glad in the end that Robert had refused to go, for it gave her a chance of an afternoon in the air. She never tired of the countryside; never tired of the fertile greens of grass and leaf, the call of the birds, the movement of water, the scud of clouds across a wide, pale sky. Depressed as she had felt at Robert’s defeatist and unhelpful attitude the gentle ride to the farm cheered her. She smiled to see the small starry faces of the milkmaids that grew in the ditch, at the gold of buttercups opening to the sun. Her brain that had been clogged with anger began to work again. She must decide between the three applicants who had answered her advertisement of the post of governess to her daughter. One of them was Scots. Her mouth twitched. The poor woman did not know the handicap under which she laboured! Of the other two the one seemed a little young, and the other had experience only of boys—
She had come to the track that led to the farm. She chirrped quietly to the horse, a docile beast lent to her by her mother from the still well-stocked stables of New Hall, and turned down the rutted way. To her surprise in the fenced field to her left a small flock of sheep cropped contentedly, their mild, quiet faces turned to her as she rode by. The small farmhouse, dwarfed by its barns and outhouses, stood in a bare earth yard around which pecked a few scrawny chickens. It was neat and tidy but unhomely. Jessica recalled from her childhood when a smiling, buxom woman – she could not remember her name – had given her cakes and frothing milk from a doorway that had been garlanded with sweet-smelling roses. Now there was no welcoming air to the uncurtained windows and the closed door, and the roses had gone. The yard was stacked neatly and tidily, no farmyard clutter, no garden, not one blade of grass let alone a flower.
She dismounted and, the reins over her arm, knocked on the door.
Nothing happened.
She knocked again, sharply. The animal stood with docile good temper, nuzzling her ear.
From one of the barns came the sudden sound of hammering.
She walked towards the sound, the horse plodding behind her. The great barn doors were open, flooding the dusty space with a dim light, shadowing the far corners. She stopped just inside the doors, blinking against the gloom. Bars of sunlight gleamed through the spaces of the boarded walls and the huge tiled roof above its ancient blackened beams. A big man who had, with his back to her, been bending over a great five-bar gate that lay upon the earth floor, straightened and turned, a sledge hammer swinging in his hand as if it were feather-light. He was massively muscled, his skin weather-beaten to gold.
He tossed the shock of ill-kempt chestnut hair from his eyes as he peered at her, silhouetted as she was against the light. In the first moment of seeing him she felt certain she knew him, but she could not hold the memory, and she could not place him. She smiled. ‘Good afternoon.’
He stood for a moment unmoving. Then he nodded his head and made the vaguest of movements with his hand that might have been taken for the salute of servant to mistress, but, Jessica noted with amusement, equally well might not. ‘Y’re Ladyship.’
She never would – never could get used to that title. ‘You’re the tenant of Home Farm?’
‘Tha’ss right, Y’re Ladyship. Took over when Uncle died a few year back.’
‘We haven’t seen you at the Hall?’
‘No, Y’re Ladyship.’ His voice was non-committal. ‘Tha’ss not time for rent yet.’
The strange feeling of familiarity had returned as he spoke. She looked up at him. ‘Forgive me – I’ve been away for some time – but don’t I know you?’
For the first time a smile hovered at the edges of his mouth and the hazel eyes crinkled a little in a nut-brown face. ‘That you do, Y’re Ladyship,’ he said, unhelpfully.
She studied his face, frowning a little. Then, exasperated, she shook her head. ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I really can’t remember—?’
‘Charlie Best, Y’re Ladyship.’
It took a moment for the name to connect with her memory. Then she smiled, staring in delight at the young man she had last seen when she had danced with him at her sister’s wedding. And before that— ‘Charlie Best! Oh, no – it can’t be!’
‘’Tis so, Y’re Ladyship.’
‘Oh, Charlie—’ She was laughing. ‘You’ll have to stop calling me that! You bloodied my nose twice when we were children—!’
‘Three times, Y’re Ladyship.’
They stood, smiling at each other. She sensed that the mildly hostile reserve with which he had greeted her had slipped away. Then he recovered himself, and his smile lost something of its spontaneity. ‘You’ll excuse me a moment, Y’re Ladyship?’
‘Yes, of course.’
She watched as he picked up the gate as effortlessly as if it had been made of paper, and stood it against the wall. Then he came back to her, dusting his hands on his trousers, and waited.
‘Could you spare me a few minutes, Charlie?’
‘Of course, Y’re Ladyship. Please come this way.’
She followed him to the house. It was stark, and barely furnished, no curtains at the window, no rug on the floor, simply a couple of stools and one high-backed chair and a table. Old ashes lay dead in the fireplace but other than that the single room was scrupulously clean. A cupboard in the corner was the only other furniture. He gestured a little shamefacedly, and her heart went out to him in sympathy. ‘Tha’ss not much, I’m afraid, Y’re Ladyship – I’ve no wife to keep for me, you see—’
‘You never married?’ she asked, surprised.
His whole body stilled for a moment, then he relaxed, and nodded. ‘Aye, I did. Little Betty Morris. You remember her? Pretty little thing she was.’
‘Yes. I do remember her.’ Her voice was quiet.
‘She died. A year to the day after the wedding, it was. She died, and the child.’
‘Oh Charlie – I’m so sorry—’
He shrugged. Shook his head. ‘It happens. That was three years ago – a bit more. Time passes. That helps.’
She bit her lip, not sure what else to say in face of his calm. The man radiated a strength that was more than physical, something which inspired trust, and liking. She smiled. ‘Well, now – I’ve been going through things at the Hall. Your rent is paid, and the tithes collected, but there are no actual accounts for the past few years?’
He nodded. ‘Tha’ss right. Haven’t been for years. Old Bill – my uncle – he wasn’t one for figures an’ such, and Sir Thomas wasn’t much of a one for ’em either. Matter of trust I s’pose you might call it—’ He lifted his shaggy head and met her eyes with a movement that held pride, and a faint trace of defiance.
‘I understand that,’ she said, quickly, ‘I’m not—’
‘You’ll be wantin’ to put in your own tenant I suppose?’ he interrupted her abruptly.
‘Why no! Of course not! We’re perfectly satisfied. It’s just that – well – affairs at Old Hall are in a bit of a muddle. They’ve been left to themselves for rather too long I’m afraid. Old Sir Thomas left debts we have to pay. We have to get things on a more businesslike basis.’
His stance had not changed. ‘You’ll be for sellin’ the place?’
‘The farm? Absolutely not. What good would the house be without the land?’ Neither of them had noticed that he had stopped his monotonous reiteration of her title. ‘But we need to know how it’s being used – if the best is being made of it. I noticed—’ she added, real interest in her voice, ‘that you have sheep in the field out there?’
‘A few, yes.’
‘Do they pay?’
‘Properly handled, yes. I think so. Haven’t had a chance to try with a larger flock, or a better breed. Problem is money—’
She smiled a smile that turned into a laugh. ‘The problem, Charlie Best, is always money—!’
The encounter with Charlie delighted her. An inspection of the farm had proved, as she had been certain it would, that he was a diligent and careful tenant. But more, in the matter of the sheep he had shown imagination and a willingness to experiment. Most small tenant farmers, especially one with as shaky a right to the land as his – he had worked for his uncle when he had been alive and with the easy-won approval of Robert’s father had simply taken over the place on his death – would have been contented simply to scrape a living from the soil and leave it at that. But faced with falling prices and fierce competition he had diversified and invested the small profits he had made and that he spent neither on hired labour nor on the creature comforts of life in the sheep. So far the experiment was just that, and the animals had not proven themselves financially, but at least – he had pointed out to Jessica with sober satisfaction – they reproduced themselves, did not fail in bad weather as the crops had twice done in three years, and provided meat for the table and wool for the back when times were hard. ‘Used to be sheep country round here,’ he had finished, laconically. ‘Could be again.’
She was riding the river path, deep in thought, wrestling again with the intransigent problem of Old Hall’s decrepit roof when her mount stopped short and sidestepped, bringing Jessica sharply forward in her saddle. She tightened the reins, bringing the startled horse to a neat standstill, then lifted her eyes to the rider who had appeared on the pathway before her, meeting for the first time in five years the brilliant, unsmiling eyes of her brother Giles.
He had not changed. The bright hair gleamed as brightly, the handsome face was as handsome, the body was supple and easy in the saddle. The feelings that the sight of him spawned had not changed either. She sat rigid, giving him no greeting.
‘Well, little sister. I heard you were back.’
She said nothing.
‘And with a daughter, I gather.’ His eyes showed no expression whatsoever. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
His horse, a bright bay mare with a wild eye, danced restlessly. He brought her to quiet with a hard hand. ‘You’re staying?’
‘Yes.’
The mare moved again, throwing up a mettlesome head. He controlled her with ease, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘I’m surprised.’
‘Oh?’
He shrugged. ‘The old house is finished. A stone around your neck. If I were you I’d get out while I could, before it bankrupted me.’
‘Thank you for your advice.’ Her voice was cool.
‘Think about it. If you want to get rid of it – of the farm – I’d be willing to take it off your hands.’
She shook her head. ‘No. Thank you,’ she added, carefully, keeping iron control of the revulsion that the very sight of him caused her.
‘Perhaps I’ll speak to Robert. He, after all, is the master of the house, is he not?’ The words were mocking, deliberately provocative.
She lifted her chin and watched him, levelly. ‘I shouldn’t, if I were you.’ She made no attempt whatsoever to disguise the meaning behind the words.
The smile fled his face.
‘I’m staying at Old Hall,’ she said, quietly. ‘It is my home now, and my daughter’s. Stay away from us, Giles. Save your mischief for others.’
He glared at her for a moment before swinging his mare violently away.
‘Giles!’ She called after him, her voice sharp.
He reined in, turned impatiently. His face was black with anger.
‘Why didn’t Clara let us know about Robert’s father? About what was happening at Old Hall?’
He raised fair, straight brows. ‘She quarrelled with her mother. Over Patrick. They haven’t spoken for more than two years.’
Jessica stared at him aghast. ‘And for that she’d leave the poor woman – alone – half-mad – with no attempt to bring help?’
He shrugged. ‘She’s an unforgiving woman.’ He paused, fighting the restless mare. ‘I should remember that if I were you.’ He stood the beast on its hind legs, dancing her in an ostentatious display of horsemanship before he set her at the path and disappeared into the trees.
Jessica watched the retreating figure in distaste. ‘If anyone ever deserved each other, Giles Hawthorne,’ she said aloud, ‘you and Clara do.’