But they did not – almost they could not – stop. They were young, their bodies were eager, and both had been alone too long. The summer abetted them – long warm day following long warm day in languorous succession, days and nights that might have been made for dalliance in shadows, days and nights that might have been made for the sharing of pleasure. Charlie’s skin browned like a nut. The heat of the sun made the most industrious indolent and susceptible to the temptations of the flesh. It was too hard to give up. When she found him stripped to the waist and scything the fresh-scented grass for winter hay she thought almost anything could be sacrificed to their loving. If they lived in a fool’s paradise then so be it. At least for this short summer it was worth it. She would not look further.
With the money available and the good weather holding the work at Old Hall went on at great pace. The roof was made secure and the rotting timbers replaced. The first of the many summer storms that thundered about their heads but did not penetrate the newly-tiled roof was a cause for celebration. Jessica negotiated with a neighbouring farmer at a very favourable price for the return of some of Old Hall’s original holdings, sold off by Robert’s father a few years previously. Despite the losses from the wild dog the South Downs crosses had proved a great success and they made a respectable profit on their lambs. Charlie still held out on the matter of the Merino ram – royal patronage notwithstanding. He was not convinced that in exposed East Anglia the improved wool justified the producing of less hardy stock, and after the hardships of the past winter Jessica was inclined to agree with him. They sheared in June, and she marvelled at the skill of the men who made the handling of the strong and bulky sheep look like child’s play. Charlie well knew the advantages of employing the best – a clumsy shearer could ruin a fleece and reduce the wool to little more than chaff – and a gang from Norfolk, well known in the trade, were taken on for three days at a few shillings more than the going rate. The money was well spent. Jessica watched them work, neatly and deftly, handling the animals with ease and confidence, laughing and chafing as they sheared, the thick fleeces piling up, perfectly cut, the sheep untroubled, relieved to be free of the burden of their wool, walking white and fresh as driven snow through their captor’s legs and out into the waiting folds.
In the fields on the other side of the river New Hall’s crops grew, golden and straight, a promise of prosperity in this perfect year. The grain stood tall and full-eared, rippling in the summer breezes like a deep, gilded sea. The trees of the parkland cast the familiar pattern of their shadows in the brilliant sunshine and New Hall gleamed as golden as the ripening fields about it. But brewed by the heat the occasional storm broke the peace of the summer’s days – and beneath the apparently tranquil surface of the village’s day-to-day life trouble was brewing as surely as the summer storms. Jessica knew it, and it disturbed her. She sensed it in the guarded greetings of people who had never before been anything but open and friendly, felt it in the subtly changed, hardening attitudes of those other landowners with whom she occasionally had dealings. The strangers of whom Charlie had spoken came and went. Questioned about them he was non-committal. Jessica could well understand why. Charlie Best was caught in the middle: a tenant farmer, neither landowner nor hired hand, he had to remain neutral. Throughout the summer there were spasmodic outbreaks of violence in and around the area, particularly in Norfolk and Suffolk. Special Constables and in some cases small troops of yeomanry were brought in and billeted in some of the larger villages and towns in an attempt to quell the unrest. One such group of Special Constables was brought in to Long Melford, and Jessica, shopping in the pretty little town, found it very strange and not a little disturbing to see them drilling in a nearby field, sweat running down their faces, badges glinting in the sun as they marched and turned, swinging their truncheons.
On the day that trouble finally came to Melbury village the sultry summer’s heat was at its height. Jessica’s mare had thrown a shoe and, it having been a very long time since Old Hall could support a smithy of its own as did New Hall, Jessica decided, riding the big Bay Dancer, to take the mare herself down into the village so that Jenson the blacksmith could reshoe her. It was a lovely day and a pleasant ride, in the dappled shade beneath the trees beside the river, whilst in the fields the brassy heat shimmered and the crops stood straight and still beneath a layer of summer dust.
It was late afternoon when she walked the two horses into the village street. Melbury was a straggling place, strung out along a mile of rutted road, the church at one end the ale house at the other and the smithy and its attached livery stables in the middle. Small cottages in various states of repair – or in some cases disrepair – were set singly or in groups upon each side of the road, most of them with small gardens, some well-tended, some not. A few more substantial dwellings were built about the green where stood the village pump and where now the duck pond had been reduced by the heat to little more than a sludgy puddle. The afternoon was still, and unusually quiet. A few children played in the dust of the street, but the old bench under the elm outside the ale house was empty and the green too was deserted. She was even more surprised to discover no sign of life when she reached the smithy, none of the habitual bustle of men and animals about the usually busy buildings. She rode Bay Dancer into the big barn, leading the mare, and tethered both horses. She had never seen the village so quiet and certainly never remembered a working weekday when Jenson had not been at his anvil, swinging his hammer in the easy, skilfully rhythmic way of his craft, surrounded by his cronies who met here for an exchange of greetings and news almost as often as in the ale house. Indeed Mrs Williams swore that more scurrilous gossip had its origins at Jenson’s than ever started around the village pump or wash-house, where the village women gathered. Yet now the smithy’s shop stood empty and deserted, the fire glowing, the blacksmith’s tools discarded. Puzzled, Jessica stood in the street outside, her eyes narrowed against the brilliance of light, the sun beating onto her shoulders through the thin, high-necked blouse that she wore with her riding skirt. The only sign of life nearby was a small boy who stood a few yards from her, a filthy thumb in his mouth, regarding her with solemn eyes.
‘Hello,’ she said, smiling.
He said nothing. His trousers, obviously a bigger brother’s cast-offs, were tied at the waist with string and cut off in a ragged line at the calf. His feet were bare, the dirty toes splayed comfortably in the dust.
‘Where is everyone?’
He shook his head, not removing his thumb.
‘Do you know Mr Jenson?’
A nod.
‘Do you know where he is?’
A small, dirty finger pointed, the thumb was removed for the briefest of moments and then plugged straight back the moment the words were out. ‘Bonner’s Field.’
‘Bonner’s Field?’ She was even more puzzled. The field known as Bonner’s lay behind the church and was sometimes used instead of the green for fairs and other festivities. Had she forgotten the day? She was sure she would have known had a village celebration been taking place. She smiled her thanks to the child and gave him a penny, that disappeared like magic into the voluminous trousers. Then she set off along the path he had indicated, that ran behind the smithy and a row of cottages and cut across a small field to the back of the church and Bonner’s Field.
She saw Charlie and Minna almost as she turned the corner of the building. The girl was clinging urgently to Charlie’s hand and was all but dragging him along, talking volubly and insistently as she went. She was in obvious distress, her gestures and the sound of her voice pleading, though Jessica could not distinguish the words. Taken aback she stood and watched them. Minna tugged at Charlie’s hand again, and they both broke into a run, heading for Bonner’s Field.
More slowly Jessica followed.
The field lay between a row of cottages and the churchyard. Jessica stopped by the cottages, in the shelter of a rickety fence over which scrambled a riot of sweet-smelling honeysuckle. For a moment she could not make sense of what she saw. The whole village seemed to be there – certainly all of the men and perhaps half of the women. A farmcart had been dragged into the centre of the field to serve as a platform, and upon this stood a powerfully built man in worn labourer’s clothes, his hair grizzled, his skin weather-darkened, his eyes the bright pale blue that were to be seen in so many East Anglian faces. Beside him stood a much younger man, a slighter replica of himself and obviously his son. The older man was talking, a hand raised to emphasize his point. In the roar that was greeting what he was saying Jessica lost the words. She stood stock still at the sound, suddenly chill despite the heat. There was a growl of excitement in it, a thread of violence that lifted the hairs at the back of her neck. It was like the snarl of a roused animal, menacing, frightening.
Charlie, towed by Minna, had reached the edge of the crowd and, dropping the girl’s hand, had begun to push his way to the front. Jessica saw men greet him and move aside, letting him through. No one obstructed his way to the cart. The older man on seeing him grinned and extended a hand to help him up. Charlie shook his head and refused the hand. ‘Are you gone clean out of your mind, John Newton?’ His strong voice lifted above the noise of the crowd. A sudden hush fell. Heads turned. A man muttered and was shushed to silence.
The older man let his hand fall to his side, and straightened, his face black with anger as he looked down at Charlie. ‘Iffen you a’n’t with us, Charlie Best, then you’d better leave afore we decide you’re agin us.’
‘Of course I’m with you, man! Tha’ss why I’m tellin’ you you’re a fool! You don’t stand a chance with all this! There’s Specials in Melford. They’ll be here at the first swing of an axe! John, man – all of you! – don’t get yourselves mixed up in this—!’
The muttering of the crowd swelled in anger. Hands reached for Charlie. He fought them off. ‘You’re bein’ used! Outsiders, using you to stir up trouble, tha’ss all—!’
‘Outsiders?’ It was the young man on the cart, the young man that Jessica had realized must be Minna’s brother, as the older man must be her father. ‘Outsiders, you say, Charlie Best? Is it outsiders that’ve been kicked off New Hall land to make room for Hawthorne’s bloody machines?’
‘No!’ roared the crowd.
‘—Is it outsiders that have to feed their little ’uns on pigswill because they can’t afford bread—?’
‘No!’
Charlie was struggling against the hands that were trying to pull him back from the cart. ‘Tommy, stop it! Tha’ss daft, lad – can’t you see—?’ But the hands had him now, and none too gently he was hauled back, cuffed and cursed to the edge of the crowd. As he emerged from the rough handling he staggered, blood upon his face, and went down onto one knee. Jessica started forward, but Minna was there beside him, an arm about his shoulders, a tender hand to his battered face.
And now another man had climbed onto the cart, a tall thin man with a hawk-like face, eyes coal-black and piercing. His appearance stilled the crowd as if by magic, a moment of held breath and expectancy. ‘Good people of Melbury—’ His voice lifted easily, the voice of an orator, ringing and clear. Faces were lifted to him, eyes shone. Jessica took a careful step backwards, and then another. There had been riots in Eye and in Diss, machine-smashing and fire-raising around Ipswich and Colchester. But here? Surely not? Most of the faces she saw here she had known all her life. The younger ones, like Charlie, she had run with as a child—
She forced herself to listen to the man. ‘—They protect themselves with their filthy Corn Laws and deny your children bread—!’
A cloud had covered the sun. The atmosphere was heavy. The stranger’s face shone with sweat, and his shirt was stained dark with it.
‘—They bring in their machines and they deny you a decent day’s work—’
‘Smash them! Smash them!’
‘They enclose your land and make paupers of you—’
‘Burn them out!’
To Jessica’s horror she saw that Tommy Newton had a lit torch in his hand and was waving it above his head to roars of approval, dark smoke an evil tail behind it. ‘Burn the buggers out!’
The paralysis that had gripped her fell away. She had to stop this. She had to do something. She had to get help.
No one had noticed her, there by the honeysuckle-hung fence. She moved backwards warily, eyes on the crowd, only now and suddenly becoming aware of possible personal danger. Giles Hawthorne was the name being bandied with hatred about the crowd. And she was Giles Hawthorne’s sister. The common knowledge of the bad blood between them might not protect her in this charged atmosphere, with strangers inciting violence. Men were shouting, their faces distorted; another torch had been lit. The man on the cart had an axe in his hand, and Minna’s father held a sledge hammer.
She took another step. Another few yards and she would be at the corner of the fence and out of sight. Bay Dancer was in the barn by the smithy. She had to get to Melford – bring help, before something truly terrible happened—
As she turned to run, Charlie saw her.
She caught his eyes as she turned, saw the surprise on his face, saw him open his mouth to utter the shout that would betray her, and then clamp it shut again. And then she was running, flying over the stony ground, unaware of pain as she stumbled and fell, picking herself up and running again, her riding hat discarded upon the ground behind her. Across the field, behind the cottages, down the alleyway beside the smithy’s. She could hear him behind her, catching her up, heard him now that the danger was two fields away calling her name.
‘Jessie! Jessie, wait!’
She flung herself into the barn. Bay Dancer, great head lifted in expectancy as he heard her step, was tethered at the far end of the building. He whinnied softly when he saw her and pawed the ground. She dragged a bale of hay to him, scrambled upon it, flung herself into the saddle as Charlie, panting, his face fearfully bloodied, came to the door. ‘Jessie—!’ He stopped.
Dismounted she would have stood no chance against his strength. On the big horse she was his match, and more than his match. She wrenched Dancer’s head about to face him. ‘Get out of the way, Charlie.’
‘What are you goin’ to do?’
‘I’m going to Melford. To fetch the Specials.’
He stepped forward, his hands outstretched. ‘Jessie, no! If you bring the police in there’ll be worse trouble than ever.’
‘Worse trouble?’ She stared at him. Excited, Dancer edged sideways, and she fought him round again. ‘Are you mad? Worse than what? Worse than what’s happening out there? Worse than a riot? Worse than arson? Murder perhaps? You heard them – they’re going to New Hall—!’
‘I’ll stop them! Give me a chance to talk to them—’
‘Stop them? Talk to them? Like you tried to just now? Don’t be a fool, Charlie! They’ll kill you!’
‘No! I’ll not believe that! They’re decent people!’
‘Of course they’re decent people! In their right minds! I know that as well as you do. But now? They’re demented. If they have their way they’ll not stop at Giles’ machines, and you know it. They’ll burn New Hall to the ground! Do you think I’m going to stand by and see that happen? Get out of the way, Charlie!’
He stared at her. He stood in the open doorway, and the light was behind him, throwing his face into shadow. He was a stranger. A stranger who looked at her across a gulf that yawned suddenly at their feet, a gulf that divided, that had always divided, their two lives. A stranger who would never understand why she did as she did. She truly hated Giles, but she would not see him smoked out and murdered by a mob. She would not see the splendour of New Hall, filled with her mother’s treasures and her father’s loved possessions, burned. There was an odd, hung moment of silence in the barn, broken only by the distant, ferocious shouts of the mob. Then both moved together. Charlie lunged for the huge door, trying to close it, to prevent her from leaving; and in the same moment she set the big horse at the opening. Charlie threw himself to one side, cursing, and she was through and past him, head down and hair flying, out on the dusty road to Melford.
They came too late to save the fields, or the machines that were Giles’ pride and joy. Too late to save the barns, or the ricks. The dark pall of smoke that hung over Melbury on that summer’s evening as the forces of law galloped hard along the road to the village told its own story of destruction long before they reached New Hall. Fire had ripped through the dry corn, dancing and blazing, spitting destruction in face of a rising wind. Trees were scorched and hedges destroyed. The machines had been smashed and the barns burned about them. But thanks to the timely arrival of the Specials at least New Hall stood untouched, though surrounded by smoking desolation. Giles, unarmed, had been taken by masked men whilst riding his fields, and no one – no servant, no labourer – had lifted a hand to protect him. He had been held and made to watch the destruction of his crops and of his dreams. He had fought like a demon, and had been hurt for it. He had defied them, and they had used fists and feet, though some, shamefaced as the bloodlust had left them, had crept away and returned to their homes. The remainder scattered as the police rode in, leaving Giles to stand, filthy, his shirt in ribbons, blood upon his handsome face, to watch grim-faced as the roof of the barn collapsed in a shower of sparks.
‘Nothin’ we can do, Sir, I’m afraid,’ the sergeant said.
Giles turned cold eyes upon him. ‘Oh, yes, Sergeant. There’s something you can do. You can make sure that every man jack that had a hand in this finishes behind bars at the next assizes. You can make sure the ringleaders are hanged and the rest transported for life—’
And Jessica, unthanked, turning Dancer’s head from the smoking ruin of New Hall’s prosperity, found herself reflecting ruefully that nothing – absolutely nothing – would ever change Giles Hawthorne.
Charlie Best married Minna three weeks after her father and brother had sailed in chains in the convict hulks to Australia, and her mother and small brother moved into the lean-to at the back of Home Farm, their own almost derelict cottage forfeit to the implacable Giles. Charlie and Jessica had had very little to say to each other since the day of the riot – the day when all that had been between them had slipped away into the gulf that had yawned between them as they had faced each other in the barn. Before he married Minna, stiffly he had offered to leave Home Farm, an offer which, as stiffly, she had refused. He was a good farmer and an excellent stockman. Why should she want to replace him? The farm, thanks mainly to his efforts, was doing well and in the future could be expected to do better. She would not hear of his leaving.
He nodded, unsmiling. ‘Thank you, Y’re Ladyship.’
She had looked at him for a moment, the hurt hostility dropping from her. ‘You don’t want to go, do you?’
‘No,’ he said, quietly, and then added again, ‘Y’re Ladyship.’
‘Well then,’ She had turned her horse’s head, her eyes straying across the fields to where Old Hall sheep grazed, peaceful, plump and mild-faced. ‘Stay. Stay and help me make this place the most prosperous working estate in West Suffolk.’ Those dreamlike, magic summer days of their loving, so abruptly terminated, had seemed a million years away as she had turned and ridden from him, not looking back, knowing that Minna watched from the cottage door.
They bought in more stock again that autumn, and the winter that followed was mild and damp with nothing like the bitter weather of the year before. Just after Christmas Sarah took cold again, and this time it settled upon her chest. Worried, Jessica tried to coax her to bed, but the stubborn old lady would not be persuaded. She refused, coughing and wheezing, to give up her ceaseless, pathetic search for her dead husband. Pneumonia struck in February, and she died upon the day that Gabriella found the first snowdrops growing by the river. Jessica grieved for the old lady, and it fretted her that she could not let Robert know of her death, but still she had not heard from him, nor had an address where she might contact him. He had dropped from their lives, presumably with intention, as surely as if he himself were dead. Sometimes indeed she found herself wondering if he were, and if she would ever hear, ever know what became of him.
Over the next couple of seasons Old Hall fared well and prospered while across the park Giles doggedly tried to regain lost ground at New Hall. Needing money desperately to stave off the ruin that could have been brought about by the riot he drove a hard bargain over the parkland, that would support Jessica’s sheep but would not help him to recoup his lost crops. To put it to arable use would be to lose the magnificent trees and spoil the setting of the house; and even Giles could not bring himself to be vandal enough to do that. So Jessica acquired the parkland from the river to the lakeside and as far as the ha-ha that divided the lawns of the house from the grassland, and Clara’s peacocks were confined to the garden of New Hall. Jessica saw little of her brother or his wife; there was no love lost between them. Giles had never even thanked her for her effort in bringing the Specials on the day of the riot, and the omission neither surprised nor distressed her. She could guess how galling it must be to him to be in her debt, however slightly. To admit to it by thanks would be impossible for him. She found herself wondering sometimes what kind of life they led, those two, in that great, isolated house, bound to each other in bitterness; childless and unloving; their dreams of grandeur, that was all they had shared, turned to ashes.
For herself she was, she told herself, happy enough. Old Hall was safe, its future – and Gabriella’s – assured. Gabriella grew, it seemed, by the day, a child full of laughter and of love, tall and straight, dark as a gypsy and with a promise of beauty.
It was on a late summer’s day in 1826, three years after Robert had left, that Jessica finally had news of her husband.
She returned from a visit to her mother who, pain-ridden but indomitable as ever, still stubbornly refused to leave Tollgate House for what she saw as the doubtful luxuries of Old Hall, to discover a small sealed package, grubby and battered-looking, on the table at Old Hall. It was addressed to her, and marked ‘By Hand’. Intrigued she tore it open. A piece of stiff paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up.
‘I, the undersigned, do hereby certify that—’
She stared at it for a long time, numbly. Dead. Robert was dead. In an epidemic of yellow fever, three months since, in Florence.
Dead.
Strangely, though in some ways it could not be called a surprise, she felt a small contraction of pain in her heart. For a moment she allowed herself to remember not the Robert who had faced her, desperate, drugged and hateful, the money that might have saved Old Hall in his pocket, but the Robert who had been her steadfast friend in an all but loveless childhood. The Robert who had played in the park with her, who had supported her through the death of her father. The Robert who had sworn, on a day that now seemed so very long ago, that Robert FitzBolton and Jessica Hawthorne would be friends for ever and ever—
There was a letter with the certificate, addressed to her in a hand that, though as shaky as if it might have been written by an old man, still she recognized as Robert’s own. She held it for a long time before she could bring herself to open it.
‘My dear Jessica,
Florence has become a city of death, and I die with her, in good company and without regret. You will not grieve for me, and I cannot blame you for that. My one sorrow is that my life has so shadowed yours. You deserve better, and in the name of our friendship I now make amends. My death will set you free. Hermes is my gift to you. Clip his wings if you must, but be happy, for all our sakes.
Your loving friend Robert.’
She frowned a little. Hermes is my gift to you. Hermes?
Still holding the letter she reached to the bellpull that hung by the fireplace. Her summons was answered by a small maid, neat in apron and cap. ‘Yes, Ma’am?’
‘Mary – did you see who delivered this packet?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Who was it?’
‘A—’ the maid hesitated for a telling moment, ‘—a gentleman, Ma’am. A foreign-looking gentleman.’
‘Is he still here?’
The maid shook her head. ‘No, Ma’am. He wouldn’t give his name, nor wait.’
‘I see. Thank you, Mary.’
Hermes is my gift to you.
Jessica, the letter still in her hand, stepped out into the September sunshine. The sky was a clear and limpid blue, the rustling trees still heavy with leaf. Spiky green chestnuts hung in bunches, attractively bright against the darker foliage of the spreading trees. The river moved beside her, soft and tranquil. She passed the spot where Caroline had stood that day so many years ago, looking down at Danny, and felt again the pang of pain and loss that the child she had been all those years ago had felt. She passed too the cottage, derelict now, from which she had sent him flying from the wrath of her father. As she neared the church a small figure tumbled towards her, dark tangled hair flying, eyes wide. ‘Mama! Mama!’ Danny’s daughter exclaimed excitedly, ‘There’s a stranger in the church!’
‘I thought there might be.’
Hermes is my gift to you.
She was absurdly calm. ‘Wait here a moment, Gabriella. I won’t be long.’
‘But, Mama—!’
‘Wait. I’ll be out in a moment.’
The church was dark after the brilliance of light outside and, as always, cold. He stood by the altar, head thrown back, looking at the smiling statue of St Agatha. A dark angel, limned in the light of the stained windows, as she had seen him before, as she had so often conjured him in loneliness and longing. She watched him for a moment in silence. Her heart was hammering now, her calm deserted her. As she started towards him he turned, and she saw clearly the changes that the years had wrought. His dark skin was sallow, as if with ill-health, and his face was gaunt, the scar still showing white upon his cheekbone. His eyes were shadowed and tired, the long mouth no longer smiled so easily.
They stood looking at each other from the space of a few feet for a long, quiet moment.
‘Danny,’ she said.
He smiled a little at the sound of her voice.
‘It was you who brought the packet from Robert.’
‘Yes. He asked me. Begged me. He knew he was dying. Half of Florence was dying. The worst epidemic in years. Robert’s friend – Arthur? – had died the week before. I think Robert was happy to follow him. But – he was desperate that you should know, that you should have the death certificate. He said he could not bear to think of you tied to a dead man for the rest of his life. And so – he asked me to bring them.’
She looked down at the letter in her hand, her eyes unexpectedly blurring. ‘Did he – show you the letter?’
‘No.’
She stepped a little closer and offered it. ‘Please. I’d like you to read it.’
He hesitated for a moment, then reached a hand to hers. As he took the letter their fingers touched, and for a moment their eyes clung, searching. Then Danny took the paper and opened it. She saw him read it, saw his eyes run back over it. He was frowning a little. ‘Hermes is my gift to you,’ he read aloud after a moment. ‘Clip his wings if you must, but be happy for all our sakes. That’s a bit obscure, isn’t it? What does he mean? Who or what is Hermes?’
She smiled a little, watching him. ‘Hermes was a messenger, who served the Greek gods.’
He thought about that for a moment, then a flicker of amusement crossed his face. ‘Then Robert’s gift to you—?’
‘Is you. The messenger that bore it.’
He laughed a little, but quickly sobered. She watched him. He had made no move towards her, had not attempted to touch or kiss her. ‘It was a gift not his to give,’ she said, quietly.
He turned his head from her.
‘Danny?’ Her questioning voice sounded small, lost in the spaces of the old building.
‘I don’t know—’ He stopped.
She waited, but he said nothing more. ‘Serafina?’ she asked, quietly.
His head snapped up. ‘No! No, it isn’t Serafina. Jessie – Serafina’s dead. She’s been dead for nearly a year—’
She said nothing. Hurt filled her. Dead for a year, and he had not come.
He sat down on the front pew, leaning his elbows on his knees. His bowed dark head was close enough for her to have put out a hand and touch it. She clasped her hands before her, willing them to stillness.
‘She betrayed a man once too often,’ he said, at last. ‘Oh – not me. I was far beyond that by then. A lover. One of many.’
‘What happened?’
‘He killed her.’ His voice was absolutely neutral, absolutely devoid of any emotion.
She caught her breath.
‘It was bound to happen. She always knew it. Sometimes it seemed she deliberately provoked the violence that would eventually be her death.’
‘And you?’
‘I? I got drunk. I got drunk and I stayed drunk until Robert sent someone to find me.’ He lifted his head and looked at her then, reaching a hand. ‘Jessica—’
It was all she had been looking for, that half-pleading gesture. She dropped to her knees beside him, slipping into his reaching arms, tears running suddenly down her face. He kissed her fiercely; her mouth, her eyes, her wet cheeks, his hands cradling her head. ‘See – see what I’ve done – I’ve made you cry already!’
She shook her head, half-laughing through the tears.
He held her, her face cupped in his hands, his face passionate with conflicting emotions. ‘Jessie – supposing I hurt you? I couldn’t bear to do that again! I want to stay – I want to be with you. In all the days and nights of travelling, in all the weeks that I’ve carried that packet I’ve known, I’ve thought of it. But – supposing I can’t? Supposing I can’t settle? Supposing I leave you—?’
She sat back on her heels, her head tilted to look at him.‘That’s what you’re afraid of? That you won’t be able to settle?’
‘Yes.’
She kissed him very hard, then sat back again, her hands in his. ‘Listen to me. I love you. I have always loved you. I think I always will. I know I can’t tie you down. I know what you are – and that’s why I love you. Perhaps you’ll go. Perhaps you’ll leave me. But we don’t have to think about that now. We don’t have to think about it at all if it doesn’t happen. I won’t – I won’t! – give up a chance of happiness just because it might not last! Oh, Danny! How silly even to think it—!’ She jumped to her feet, pulling him after her. Infected by her happiness he caught her to him, kissed her again. She flung her arms about his neck. ‘Danny O’Donnel, do you want to stay with me today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then do it. Stay while you can – leave if and when you must – but come back to me, Danny. Always come back to me. Robert was wrong – I wouldn’t – I couldn’t – clip Hermes’ wings. But I’ll show you someone who just might – come – quickly! Come and see—’ She caught his hand and drew him from the chill darkness out into the warmth of the day to where their daughter, eyes bright with excited curiosity, waited, smiling, in the sunshine.