Edward’s death, inevitably, affected them all, well-loved as he had been and the king-pin of his parents’ ambitions. For months Jessica found herself looking for him still, listening for the sound of his voice, the chime of his frequent laughter. The loss of her brother cast a pall upon a winter that was in any case cold and hard. The bad weather arrived like a wolf with the new year of 1811 and kept its savage grip upon the snowbound East Anglian countryside for weeks. Abroad, despite Wellington’s rapturously greeted success in Portugal, Napoleon’s stranglehold upon Europe showed no real signs of weakening, whilst in a Britain isolated both economically and militarily from a virtually enslaved Europe an unstable king slipped finally and hopelessly into insanity while his foppish son devoted his time to an outrageous architectural toy in Brighton and his subjects, their jobs and livings threatened by the new machines that inventive and enterprising men saw as fortune-makers, muttered angrily and prepared for a war of their own.
Christmas at New Hall, with Edward never far from mind, was a more subdued affair than usual; for Jessica its high spot was the day that she spent with a now fully-recovered Robert and his family at Old Hall. She and Robert had together collected the holly boughs that made the old house festive, and had helped Mrs Williams to mix the plum puddings and the rich mincemeat for the pies. Amidst the gifts and the laughter, the traditional games in which the whole household joined, Mrs Williams’ splendid food and the pleasure of good company she once or twice found herself altogether forgetting her sadness – a fact that brought guilt flooding when she returned to the grandeur of New Hall and to the pale, strained beauty of her mother’s face. For Maria Hawthorne was inconsolable still. Not that she made great show of her grief, on the contrary, calm and composed as ever she rarely spoke of it. But it would not be eased. Edward had been her favourite, her firstborn, her darling boy and nothing and no one could make up for his loss. Her attitude to Giles, with whom she had never had a particularly strong bond despite their physical resemblance, and who had now, willy-nilly, stepped into his dead brother’s shoes was distant. Surprisingly, however, Giles took no offence and showed no resentment at her cool treatment of him. Indeed he demonstrated a grace and patience far beyond any that Jessica had ever suspected he might possess. Mildly and with understanding he appeared to accept his mother’s disinterest and occasional criticism and with a forebearance that seemed to his younger sister completely at odds with his character he patiently waited for Maria’s grief and unhappiness to temper. More than once, however, in the stables Jessica came upon evidence that whatever his outward reaction to his mother’s ill-concealed antipathy Giles’ newly-discovered sweet temper was only skin deep; for after his morning ride poor Belle more often than not would stand, exhausted and whipped to a lather, her stable lad muttering mutinously at the ill-treatment of the beast. That Giles could so take out his frustrations upon a dumb animal did little to endear him to Jessica.
With his father, however, the new heir to fortune did rather better. No one in fact could deny that in the management of the land Giles was far more adept – and interested – than indolent, happy-go-lucky Edward had ever been. William Hawthorne was a busy man, and his first interest always was the management of money. The acquisition of New Hall and its acres had been in the first place a matter of status, of recognition and respectability. However, businessman that he was he did not like to see any asset go to waste, and Giles’ enthusiasm and practical grasp of the affairs of the land pleased him immensely. Giles took to the management of New Hall’s estates like a duck to water. Where his brother had been happy to let things lie within months he was suggesting and implementing innovations designed to make the place both more efficient and more profitable. Land was enclosed and drained, new crop rotation systems devised. Small, uneconomic tenant farms were taken over and amalgamated with larger more productive holdings; and if families were turned from home and hearth and onto the roads and the not too tender care of the parish, it was all done with nicely expressed regret and in the name of efficiency and profit. Edward, despite his father’s best efforts, had never been truly interested in anything beyond the good horseflesh with which New Hall could provide him: Giles, it now swiftly became apparent, knew enough already of the workings of the land and its tenants to make an efficient and demanding manager. He was able and energetic and had revealed in a very short space of time after his brother’s death something that almost amounted to a passion for the land and possessions of New Hall. Yet still his mother’s attitude remained the same – Edward was gone, and woe betide the one, however able, who thought in any way to replace him.
For Jessica those first, wintry weeks after Christmas dragged upon leaden feet. Whenever she could she escaped MacKenzie’s dour supervision and ran in the snow-bound fields and woods with Bran. At least out of the debacle of Edward’s death had come Bran’s survival – wheedled from a still-shaken and preoccupied Giles by Jessica – and for that she could not help but be happy. But with Robert back at school she was lonely, and the weeks and months that stretched ahead to spring and to Robert’s return promised to be empty indeed. Alone she roamed the woodlands, slid upon the frozen lake, rode her pony across the glittering winter ice-fields.
It was on a day late in February, with a red sun glinting fire from the ice-strung branches of the trees that she saw Clara FitzBolton riding, apparently aimlessly, in the deep woodlands to the west of the lake. Elegant as an elf-queen in her full-skirted brown velvet riding habit, the rakishly mannish cut of the jacket emphasizing the firm curve of her breasts and the slim, arrow-straight line of her back Clara rode, sidesaddle, easily and well, her narrow hands in their leather gloves firm upon the reins, her head poised, glossy dark hair coiled beneath her tall-crowned hat. A hand softly upon Bran’s shaggy muzzle Jessica watched from the shelter of a fallen oak as the girl’s mare picked her delicate way along the frozen track. If Clara had not noticed them Jessica saw no reason to startle her with their presence – the more so since, officially, they had no business being there in the first place and Robert’s sister was not the kind of person to ignore such small details. She waited until Clara had disappeared down the track before setting off in the opposite direction around the frosted lakeside; but moments later the sound of another horse stilled her movements and brought her head up sharply. Bran’s tail swished, dangerously delighted. Jessica grabbed him and held on. In the distance, flickering through the trees like a shadow in the red winter sunlight, was Giles, riding Belle.
‘Be still!’ she whispered, fiercely, to Bran: always she kept the dog as far from Giles as was possible, knowing how swiftly her brother’s temper could be aroused, and aware too that his power since Edward’s death had increased considerably. Now there would be no voice to prevent him from having a worthless mongrel knocked on the head if the fancy took him – ‘Ssh!’
Giles was riding purposefully down the same track that Clara had taken a short while before. Wondering a little Jessica watched him go out of sight. Had the two of them been on the other side of the lake there would have been no cause for surprise – the rides through the ornamental woodlands were sanded and easy, the views of the lake, house and river very beautiful. But so far as she knew only Jessica herself ever came to this side; the woodland was dense and wild, the paths narrow and frequently blocked by undergrowth or fallen trees and the going uneven. She had never seen either Giles or Clara here before. Shrugging she slipped a hand through the collar that the New Hall blacksmith had made for Bran. ‘Come on, boy, I s’pose we’d better start back—’
They scrambled around the lakeside, slipping on frozen mud, skidding and sliding on the snow-covered surface of the lake itself – this last an absolutely forbidden pastime. Cheeks glowing and fingers tingling with cold, for in her eagerness to be out undiscovered she had forgotten both muff and gloves, Jessica climbed onto a fallen log and gazed out across the magical winter iceland of the frozen lake. The vermilion sun was dipping, the air hard with frost. In the chill distance, faintly, she heard a voice calling, and then the sound of horses’ hooves, drumming hard. As she slid hastily from her perch and into the shelter of the tree the two horses burst almost together from the tangle of the woodland and danced to a halt, snorting, their breath clouding the darkening air. Giles, on the bigger horse, leaned from the saddle and caught the reins of Clara’s little mare in his hand. Clara lifted her head, smiling, looking directly into his face. Even from this distance Jessica sensed the challenge that fired every line of the young woman’s strong face. The horses danced again, unsettled, held together by Giles’ firm grip. There was a strange tension in the two figures as they leaned towards each other, an intensity that held their eyes each to the other and brought an unaccountable sense of unease to the small watcher. Then Clara lifted her riding crop, and for an incredulous moment Jessica thought that she would strike the man who had her rein: but she did not. Gently she touched his cheek with the whip, brought it in a stroking movement to his lips. As if burned Giles let go the rein and straightened in the saddle. Then with no word he wheeled Belle, dancing her upon her hind legs like a circus pony before thundering away in the direction of New Hall.
Clara laughed. Watching him go she threw back her head and laughed, peal after peal of infectious amusement. Then, leisurely, she turned the little mare and rode back into the shadows.
Jessica shivered; the wind must have turned to the north again. Hand buried in the warmth of Bran’s ruff of fur she too set off for home.
A couple of days later something of a thaw set in, and with the roads and countryside fast becoming a quagmire not many souls were foolhardy enough to brave the highways. It was therefore with some surprise that Jessica, from her perch upon the nursery window seat, saw the approach of a wagon along the sweeping drive of the house.
‘It’s the Scotchman! Oh – I wonder if Mama would let me join them—?’ So bored was she that the arrival of the chimney sweep and his boys would have been an occasion; this unexpected visit of Billy Heckford, known as the Scotchman, with his silks and satins, his laces and ribbons, his battered copies of Heideloff’s Gallery Of Fashions (far too out of date for the ladies of New Hall, but well received by the farmers’ wives) and The Lady’s Magazine was an event to rival a day at the fair.
MacKenzie shook her head repressively. ‘Little girls have no business with a talleyman’s frills and flounces. Time enough for that when you’re grown.’
‘I’m nearly thirteen. Well – twelve-and-a-half—’ Jessica watched as the intriguing wagon, its shaggy little pony toiling in the slush, disappeared around the corner towards the tradesman’s court at the side of the house. ‘Caroline went to her first ball when she was fourteen – and she dined with Mama and Papa for AGES before that—’
‘Miss Caroline,’ said MacKenzie, deadly prim, ‘was no doubt a different kettle of fish to a certain young hoyden I know who can never keep her face clean nor her clothes neat and tidy—’
Jessica stuck out a truly ferocious tongue at the sanctimonious back.
‘—you’ll be invited to join the ladies of the household when you can learn to behave and not before. Besides, your parents dine in the evening now—’ the chill tone gave clear notice of the governess’ unvoiced disapproval of this new-fangled habit. ‘Hardly a fitting time for a child to eat—’
Jessica craned her neck, cheek pressed against the cold window. The wagon had gone. Just once, four years ago, before the advent of the detested MacKenzie, she had been allowed to visit with her mother during one of Billy Heckford’s regular visits, and she had never forgotten the day. Orders from London – gown lengths for Mama and for a newly-grown Caroline – lace and a cascade of ribbons – little dolls, wonderfully clothed – flannel and calico for the servant girls – cotton for shirts and for shifts – handkerchiefs, bright waistcoat-pieces – the room had seemed to her an Aladdin’s cave of wonders. Buttons and buckles, bright and shining, ostrich feathers, and velvet swathes. She looked down in sudden and unexpected discontent at her dowdy brown woollen dress, the skirt an inch or so too short, the high waist pinching beneath a chest that was certainly at last showing some signs of budding. Even her one good gown, the red velvet that she wore on the three occasions a week that she was taken to be presented to her parents – on Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays in the salon after the light midday meal that was now luncheon at New Hall – no longer fitted her and was scuffed and worn at the seams. Neither had it ever recovered from an unfortunate accident with a buttered scone. For the first time she allowed herself to admit to envy for her older sister who had not only cleverly got herself born first – just about the only clever thing Caroline had ever done, she found herself thinking sourly – but whose fair grace and beauty was so enhanced by the delicate, high-waisted Grecian gowns that were still fasionable. She sighed.
‘Please, Miss—’ Lucy was at the open door, tapping awkwardly.
‘What is it, girl?’ MacKenzie, was, as always with Lucy, impatient.
‘It’s Smith, Miss. From downstairs.’ Anywhere in New Hall that was not the nursery was, to Lucy, simply ‘downstairs’. ‘She says she’s been sent to bring Miss Jessie to her Mama—’
‘Me?’ Jessica, with deplorable lack of elegance almost fell from the window seat. ‘To see the Scotchman!’
Lucy’s good-natured smile lit the room. ‘Seems so, Miss.’
Jessica was halfway to the door before MacKenzie’s firm and bony hand stopped her. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’
‘To see Mama – you heard Lucy – she’s sent for me—’
‘And you’ll attend your Mama looking like a chambermaid? Oh, no. Lucy fetch Miss Jessica’s red velvet. And you, Miss – stand still whilst I brush your hair—’
Wild with impatience the child fidgeted beneath their ministrations. The red dress on, MacKenzie brushed and tugged at the mousy mop of hair with brisk disregard for a tender scalp.
Jessica hopped from foot to foot. ‘Oh, PLEASE hurry! She might change her mind – or forget—’
‘Smith is waitin’, Miss Jessie, don’t you fret.’ Lucy brushed a last speck from the dress and stood back, admiring. ‘There. You do look a treat. Don’t she, Miss?’
MacKenzie smiled. ‘Now, child. Remember your manners.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Show me your curtsey.’
Rebellion raging at the futher delay Jessica bobbed a brusque curtsey.
MacKenzie shook her head. ‘Again.’
Jessica took a long, sustaining breath and swept into something that at least approximated a graceful curtesy.
‘Say “Good morning, Mama”.’
Jessica glowered. ‘Good morning, Mama,’ she said, sweetly.
‘Keep your eyes down, and don’t babble.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Right. You may go.’
Jessica turned.
‘Miss Jessica!’
She froze where she stood. In heaven’s name what now? ‘Yes, Ma’am?’
‘Under no circumstances – you hear me? – under NO circumstances – will you RUN. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘And neither will you answer back.’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘Speak when you’re spoken to. Hold your tongue when you’re not.’
Jessica swung around, eyes ablaze, mouth open to shriek her exasperation. At the gleam of expectation in the woman’s pale and bulbous eyes she stopped. ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ she said obediently, seething.
‘Right. Now you may go.’
The salon of New Hall was in the main wing on the first floor, next to the formal dining room and overlooking the sweep of drive and the park. It was to this elegant but somewhat chilly room with its pale, ornamented plaster ceiling, its tall gilded mirrors, its gracefully proportioned windows that Jessica had expected to be taken. Instead, to her delight, the maidservant Smith led her along a vaulted picture-gallery of a passage towards what she knew to be her mother’s private apartments. Almost overcome with excitement at this unexpected treat she fairly skipped at the girl’s side. At her mother’s sitting room door they stopped and Smith, having first surveyed Jessica from head to toe and tucked a wiry curl tidily if uncomfortably behind her ear, knocked. Here in the private apartments the formalities of footmen and flunkies were dispensed with.
‘Come.’
The room, though fairly large, was cosy, rose velvet at the windows and in the upholstery, matching silk upon the small tables and in the soft cushions that were scattered about the comfortable furniture. A fire crackled companionably in the fireplace, with its carved ornamental overmantle. Deep rugs were scattered over the polished floor and on this winter’s day candles were lit, to reflect in myriad flickering images in the mirrors about the walls. Giles stood by the window, his back to the room, looking out over the park. He did not turn as Jessica entered. Caroline sat gracefully straight-backed upon a low chair, a swirling skein of glowing sapphire silk draped across her lap, her shoulders and the soft swell of her breasts fashionably exposed despite the season by the short-sleeved, almost diaphanous Grecian gown she wore. Her bright hair too was lifted and bound in the classic Greek style, fluffed at forehead and nape into ringlets that shone like spun gold in the candlelight. Jessica’s mother sat at a table that was heaped with lengths and bolts of material. Beside her stood Billy Heckford, an unctuous, portly man whose moon face shone sweatily in the warmth of the room.
‘Ah – Jessica—’ Like her elder daughter Maria Hawthorne wore a fashionable, high-waisted gown. Her figure was slim as a girl’s and the gown, black still for the mourning of her son, showed quite startlingly the pale ivory of her smooth skin. Nearly six months after Edward’s death, however, still nothing could disguise the fact that her lovely eyes, blue as summer speedwell, had not lost the desperate shadows of grief.
Jessica, a little hesitantly, advanced. Her mother with a slight, faintly impatient smile held out her hand and beckoned her forward. Caroline lifted her head and smiled, vaguely. Giles still did not turn. His broad back, snugly clothed in a dark brown cloth coat that was cut short at the waist in front but hung in tails behind, fairly shrieked offence. Jessica wondered what had been under discussion before she had entered the room. Reaching her mother she curtseyed, a little unsteadily. ‘Good morning, Mama.’
‘Good morning, child.’ Her mother returned her greeting solemnly, but there was a twinkle in her eyes. She took her daughter by the shoulders and dropped the lightest of kisses upon her forehead. ‘Goodness, I do believe that you may be growing at last. Though I fear you’ll always be undersized. Mr Heckford; the striped cotton, if you please—’
‘Certainly, Madam.’ The man, agile despite his bulk, sprang to her side, a bolt of black and yellow striped cloth in his arms.
Maria cocked an eye at her small daughter. ‘Do you like it?’
Jessica, taken aback at being thus consulted, nodded her head shyly.
‘And the sprigged muslin, I think. You’ll need something for the summer.’
Caroline looked up from her examination of a bolt of shimmering striped silk. ‘Try the pale green. It will suit her colouring best, I’m sure.’
A deep blush of pleasure was mounting in Jessica’s cheeks. Never in her life had she been the object of such attention. Her mother turned from her and addressed the Scotchman. ‘The sprigged and the green then, I think. A small gown’s length of each, and the striped cotton. Caroline – you’ve finished?’
Caroline made a pretty face of indecision. ‘Well the blue, definitely. And the striped – but for the spring the yellow would be so pretty – and if Bunty and I are to announce our engagement at the May Ball—?’
Her mother gave a small, indulgent laugh. ‘Have it by all means. If I didn’t buy it for you I daresay your father would—’
‘Bunty likes me in yellow. He said so just the other day—’
By the window Giles lifted a sudden, impatient head, flicking the fair, untidy curls from his eyes, and then was still. Jessica eyed him warily, as she might a chancy dog.
Murmuring ingratiating thanks Billy Heckford packed his goods and picked up his orders.
‘Ask Smith to take you to the housekeeper’s room. We need some more material for uniforms, I believe.’
‘Yes, Madam. Thank you, Madam—’ He left.
Giles turned. ‘Mother—’
Maria ignored him. ‘Come here, child.’ She beckoned again to Jessica, who had moved a little away from her.
Quailing a little Jessica obeyed.
‘Let me see – how old are you now?’
‘Twelve-and-a-half, Mama.’
‘As I thought. In a year or so you’ll be quite the young lady.’
Jessica did not voice her own doubts of that.
‘And how do your lessons go?’
‘Well, I think, Mama, thank you.’ Eyes downcast Jessica prayed that the inevitable question would be an easy one.
‘Who is your favourite poet?’
She let her breath out in a small puff of relief and lifted shining eyes. Safe ground, this. ‘William Wordsworth, Mama.’
Giles made a small, impatient sound.
Maria, real interest at last in her eyes, put her head on one side, surveying her small daughter. ‘Recite something for me.’
Jessica lifted her head, dark eyes half-closed in concentration, thin face intent. ‘Ethereal minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound—?’ She spoke the poem well; it was indeed her present favourite. Finished, and suddenly self-conscious, she opened her eyes to find her mother regarding her with quizzically amused approval, whilst Caroline’s blue eyes were turned upon her in sheer astonishment. Giles tapped a polished table with a long fingernail.
‘Well done! So – you have finally discovered something in life beside horses? I think – yes, I really think that we must consider taking you from the nursery. There is no reason at all why you shouldn’t join us at luncheon once or twice a week now that—’
‘Mother!’ Giles, his hard-held control suddenly breaking as he all but overturned the small table as he swung round to face her. His brilliant eyes, the exact colour of his mother’s, were ablaze with anger and impatience. ‘I will not be treated like this! It’s intolerable! Second to talleymen and to babies! I need your decision on a matter of importance!’
The silence that fell was dire. Jessica shrank back against the table, her worried eyes moving from her brother’s furious face to her mother’s apparently calm one.
Maria stood. She was not a particularly tall woman, but the straightness of her spine and the arrogant lift of her head at that moment made her seem so. Her expression was icy, as was her voice. Only the slightest tremor betrayed her rage. ‘You’ve had my decision Giles, and no amount of questioning will change it. The answer is no. Your father gave Fallows Farm to me, as a present. While it is mine the Salcomes are my tenants, and you shall not – You shall not! – turn them out, as you have turned others out—’ Giles began to speak but she pressed inexorably on, ‘I know that your father agrees with what you are doing. But in this he has promised to abide by my decision. And the answer is no. A thousand times. The Salcomes stay.’
Giles fisted one hand into the other, fuming. ‘Mother – listen! You don’t know them! They’re an idle bunch – good for nothing! Fallows doesn’t pay. It never will. If we take it back we can enclose the common pastures beyond—’
‘No!’
Jessica, struck speechless by the raised adult voices, felt her hand taken by Smith, who jerked her head towards the door. Caroline nodded. Reluctantly Jessica allowed herself to be led away. Her mother did not even look at her, did not, apparently, notice her going. At the doorway Jessica glanced back. Giles, knowing the argument lost, was stiff with anger. ‘You do this deliberately to frustrate my plans—’
‘I do it to prevent a family being turned out to starve!’ Her mother’s voice was scathing.
‘They starve already! They waste what they have – live on the charity of others—’
The door shut on her mother’s answer.
‘Come on, Miss Jessie.’
She trotted beside Smith, hearing her brother’s raised, angry voice dying behind her, and inwardly seething.
Giles had done it again!
How dared he? Second to talleymen, he had said – and to babies! Babies! Away from the over-awing scene her own temper rose explosively. Of all the hateful, black-humoured people, why did she have to be landed with Giles for a brother? And – interrupted as she had been – would Mama even remember that she had been on the point of promising Jessica a release from the choking confines of the nursery and MacKenzie’s constant and detested supervision? Jessica doubted it. Blast Giles! Blast him!
Even the thought of the sprigged muslin could not greatly console her; though by the time they had climbed the stairs to the nursery door one small bright thought had afforded her at least a gleam of satisfaction. The interview may have ended in something of a disaster: but at least this time no one could say it had been her fault.
At first it seemed that Jessica’s worst fears might be realized – for three long weeks nothing happened, and she languished, convinced that her mother’s half-made promise had been utterly forgotten. A week after the Scotchman’s visit Jessica’s parents, accompanied by Caroline, went to stay with friends in London, where the Season was in full swing. With John away at school this left Giles as the only other member of the family in residence, and the house was oppressively dull. Mrs Morton the housekeeper took the opportunity to clean the place from cellar to attic, and New Hall became a scurrying ant heap of servants with mops and buckets, scrubbing brushes and polishing cloths. Maria Hawthorne’s luncheons and dinners, the morning calls and the afternoon carriage rides, all ceased when the mistress of the house was away. The weather too was dreary, cold and wet with barely a day without driving rain, and Jessica – worst of punishments! – was confined indoors. Each morning she watched enviously as her brother rode out whatever the weather on the business of the estate, and wished more than once that she had been on the kind of terms with him that might have enabled her to beg him occasionally to take her with him. Apart from those glimpses she rarely saw him; but once, surprisingly late at night, she was woken by his return. Hearing the commotion of a hard-ridden horse on the drive she crept from her bed and peeped from the window. Lucy snored, undisturbed. Below, servants hurried, cressets and torches hastily lit. Uncharacteristically clumsy, Giles swung from the saddle, abandoning Belle to a manservant. He stood for a moment, unsteady on his feet, before weaving his way up the steps to the door, brushing roughly aside a half-dressed footman’s attempt to aid him. Jessica stared, wide-eyed and fascinated. Drunkenness was not countenanced at New Hall; but she had once seen one of the farm boys on Plough Monday down four pints of strong ale in quick succession and then try to walk a straight line. No doubt about it – Giles was managing no better than had that inebriated lad.
A few days later her parents and Caroline returned, and once again her nerves were strung, waiting for the summons that she feared would not anrive. Almost it had been better, she decided, when they had been away and there had been no chance of its coming. She had not and still did not say a word to MacKenzie, for fear of her scoffing.
Lucy it was who brought the news first, long before the official summons, whispering excitedly behind her hand, one eye on the door. ‘Ooh, Miss Jessie – ’tis said you’re to eat with the family tomorrow—’
‘Who says? How do you know?’ Jessica grabbed her arm.
‘Ouch! Tha’ss not very nice, Miss Jess! Now you’re hurting me—!’ The aggrieved Lucy pulled away from her.
‘Oh, I’m sorry! But – please—! Tell me how you heard?’
‘Why down in the kitchen. An extra place to be laid tomorrow, they said. For the young mistress. Tha’ss what they said.’
Jessica drew away from her. The young mistress. She lifted her head. ‘Thank you, Lucy.’
That evening, before going to bed, she stood for a moment before the mirror, surveying with an earnest frown her slight, nightgowned figure with its mass of freshly-brushed mousey hair. No doubt about it, her sister was the beauty of the family and had no rival here. But – if her hair were up so – she lifted her hair that still crackled from the brush and piled it untidily on her head—
‘Miss Jessie! Whatever are you up to now? Into bed with you before you catch your death!’ Lucy bustled in with a steaming cup of hot milk. Jessica turned from the mirror and took a single flying leap into bed. Lucy, tutting, fussed around her, tucking in the bedclothes, plumping the pillows, picking up the all-but-dismembered doll that had been Jessica’s constant bed-time companion since babyhood and which had been flung onto the floor by her owner’s over-energetic bound onto the bed. ‘Poor Betsy-doll! Just look at her—!’ She held out the doll.
Jessica lifted her hand, hesitated, and then shook her head. ‘Put her on the shelf, Lucy. I really am too old for dolls now.’
With Lucy snoring on her pallet beyond the open door and the nightlight flickering comfortingly upon the ceiling she envisaged her triumph:
‘Why Jessica, my dear,’ her handsome father said admiringly, ‘how very pretty you look! And how much you’ve grown! See, Maria, our daughter is quite the little lady—’
‘Really, Jessica,’ her father said, only faintly admiring, ‘I truly don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a little person eat so much. Has Cook stopped feeding the nursery?’
Jessica blushed to the roots of her hair and almost dropped the silver fork she was awkwardly holding. Then violently, she shook her head at the laden platter that an attentive footman was offering and from which she had fully intended to help herself to a third portion of sweet-sauced pudding. Beside her Caroline pecked like a bird. Giles, sitting opposite, had greeted her civilly enough but after that had not addressed her at all. The whole conversation, indeed, had been about the London visit and to her own disgust Jessica had been too overawed to do anything but listen. And eat. Her father’s remark had been the first directly addressed to her.
‘The fork in the other hand, if you please, Jessica,’ her mother said, quietly, ‘and sit up straight, there’s a good child.’
Jessica transferred the fork and then put it down with a great clatter upon the table. She straightened her back like a guardsman’s, and fortunately did not see her father’s hidden smile. A few moments later her mother folded her napkin and stood. ‘Caroline – Jessica – we’ll take tea in the drawing room and leave your father and brother to talk their business.’ Gracefully erect she swept from the room. Caroline, smiling at the two men, followed, no less collected. Jessica, as she slid from her chair, knocked the wretched fork onto the floor and then clashed with the footman who stood behind her as they both bent to retrieve it.
‘Leave it and run along, my dear.’ Her father’s smile, though a shade impatient, was by no means unkind. He was a tall, well-made man, broad-shouldered and long-boned. The red- gold hair had silvered a little at the temples and cheeks of his narrow, angular face, but still the resemblance to dead Edward was remarkable. Not for the first time Jessica found herself wondering as she trailed after her mother and sister how it was that only she of all the family seemed to have missed out entirely on her parents’ striking looks. Even John, if not as handsome as Giles or as Edward had been, had inherited something of the look of his father.
‘—dancing lessons,’ her mother said.
She started from her reverie. ‘I beg your pardon, Mama?’
‘I said I have arranged for you to take dancing lessons,’ Maria repeated, and shook her head a little, despairing. ‘Though how successful they’ll be I have my doubts. Lift your head, my dear. And do try to walk more like a young lady and less like a stable lad—’
Spring came at last, and with it in the towns and cities of industrial England came the first stirrings of Luddite rebellion. In the country, however, it brought as always the fresh green of bud and leaf, the busy excitement of nesting birds. Easter Day was glorious, a promisingly bright and windy day, exhilarating and aglow with the dancing flowers of spring. Jessica attended church with her family and was then allowed to join the children of the servants and of the village in their hunt for the painted eggs that had been hidden all over the house. A few days later Robert came home, his studies and his Cathedral duties finished now for four glorious months.
‘Oh, Lord, you’re so pale! I hope you haven’t been ill again? Oh, Robert – it’s been so deadly dull without you!’ Jessica and Bran danced about him as they walked through the spring-bright woodlands. ‘You’ll come riding with me tomorrow, won’t you? I have a new pony – an absolute darling! You can ride Spot if you like –I know he’s your favourite – and, Robert, I’ve started dancing lessons, and they’re really quite fun – and I take lunch three times a week with Mama and Papa in the dining room – and oh, I’ve so much to tell you! Still – there’s all summer to tell it, isn’t there?’ Without waiting for his reply she darted off, skirts lifted, Bran bounding by her side. ‘Come and see the bluebell glade! They’re growing already – they’re going to look perfectly lovely in just a couple of weeks—!’
It took only a week or so for her to realize that Robert had changed, but a little longer than that for her to fathom exactly in what way he was different. Certainly in the few months he had been away he had altered physically, the planes of his face firmer, the softness of boyhood almost gone. But the change went deeper than that and it worried and upset her.
‘You’re always going off on your own,’ she complained one day, ‘and even when you’re here I sometimes think you’d rather not be. You’re in a kind of dream half the time. What’s the matter?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
Jessica put an arm about Bran and made a great play of stroking and pulling his ears. ‘Don’t you like us any more?’
‘Oh, silly goose, of course I do! It’s just that—’ He stopped.
She turned swiftly, her face accusing. ‘Just what?’
‘Just – well, Jessica, you surely must see? I’m – we’re – growing up. We can’t just keep on doing the same things for ever, you know. We aren’t children any more.’
‘Well, I know that. But—’ For a moment she looked lost and anxious, a child if there ever had been one, ‘—that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends any more, does it?’
He caught her hand. ‘Of course not! We’ll be friends for ever and ever. You know that.’
‘You promise? You swear?’
He spat on his finger, slid it across his throat. ‘I promise! I swear! Robert FitzBolton and Jessica Hawthorne will be friends for ever and ever!’
She smiled at that, relieved if not altogether convinced. ‘Do you want to come and help me groom Spot and Dancer? You don’t have to do anything,’ she added hastily, eyeing his immaculate clothes and fastidiously clean hands. ‘Just talk to me while I do it.’
He came to his feet neatly. ‘What do you have stable lads for?’
She grinned. ‘Once a week I’m allowed to do it myself.’
He pulled a disbelieving face. ‘A treat?’
She wrinkled her nose at him, daring him to laugh. ‘Yes. A treat.’
So she accepted his explanation and his assurances, and tried not to bring up the subject again, knowing it might irritate him. He was fourteen – almost a man – and a large part of his life was now lived away from Melbury and from her. She supposed he was right when he spoke of the inevitability of change. But still it saddened her.
‘You don’t seem to see so much of your friend Robert any more, do you?’ Caroline asked idly one day. It was late April, a chill lingered in the air, but the sun shone high and bright in the sky in which white clouds flew like great birds. She and Jessica were walking in the park, well wrapped against the April breeze. They had been, at their mother’s behest, to visit Old Marjorie, who lived alone in a cottage on the edge of the estate. Caroline swung the basket, empty now, in which they had carried eggs and butter to the ailing old herb-woman.
Jessica shrugged.
Caroline smiled, a little slyly. ‘I saw him the other day. When I was visiting with Clara.’
‘Oh?’
‘He mooned about the place like a wraith. Didn’t hear a word that was spoken to him. And didn’t touch his tea and scones.’ She turned sparkling, mischievous eyes upon her small sister. ‘Clara declared him quite a nuisance. If you ask me—’ she swung the basket, watching Jessica, ‘I’d say he was in love.’
‘What?’ Jessica stopped walking and stared at the older girl, aghast. ‘Robert? What are you talking about?’
Caroline tossed her head, her escaping curls flattening themselves prettily against the wide velvet rim of her bonnet. ‘Well – what’s so strange about that? He’s a growing lad – and a handsome one, too, though a little weakly-looking for my taste. Why should it surprise you so?’
Jessica was astonished and a little alarmed to discover that her heart was pumping hard, hammering against her ribs as if she had been running. ‘Of all the stupid things to say!’ she muttered. ‘Just because you think every man who looks at you is in love with you doesn’t mean that the whole world’s the same. It’s ridiculous.’
Caroline took no offence. She laughed, and swung the basket high. ‘You just wait, my pet. In a year or so you’ll be talking from the other side of your face! You mark my words – young Robert is in the throes of his first love affair! The sister of some schoolfriend, no doubt. Or a master’s daughter, perhaps. Assignations in the Lady Chapel!’
‘Don’t be stupid!’
She laughed again, light-heartedly. ‘It might even be the sister of this schoolfriend he’s going to stay with this summer—’
Jessica’s heart appeared to stop altogether, then resumed its odd, lurching beat. A visit this summer? Robert had said nothing to her.
‘Two months, Clara said he was going for. Seems a long time to visit with a friend he sees often enough at school, don’t you think—?’
‘Two months!’ Jessica faced Robert, furious. ‘You’re going away for two whole months, and you didn’t tell me?’
He made a small conciliatory gesture with his pale hands. ‘Jessie, I’m sorry. I meant to – I was going to – but – the opportunity never seemed to come up—’
‘Yet Caroline knows. And your family. And the whole village as far as I know—’
‘Oh, come on, Jess—’ Righteous indignation showed for a moment. ‘You don’t own me! I know I should have told you, and I’m sorry. I was just waiting for the right chance—’
She tugged viciously at a tuft of grass. ‘Who is this schoolfriend, then?’ She invested the norm with disdain.
‘His name’s Paul Aloway. He sings in the choir with me. He’s – a little older. He lives in Devon. My parents thought the change might do me good.’
‘I see. And—’ she lifted her head, watching him, ‘does he have a family, this Paul Aloway?’
He nodded. ‘Parents and two sisters.’
‘You’ve met them?’
‘Yes. His father has business interests in the City and they often travel with him.’
‘Are they—?’ She stopped. ‘What are they like?’
‘Who?’
‘His sisters.’
He shrugged. ‘Pretty. Rather lively. One has a lovely voice. We plan some musical evenings.’
‘Well, I hope you enjoy them.’ Stiffly she stood and stalked away from him, leaving him watching after her with an expression half amused, half exasperated.
The May Ball at Melbury New Hall was an annual event in which, one way or another, almost the whole countryside participated. The festivities of May Day started in the village in the morning as the children danced around the decorated Maypole. An ox, donated by the estate, was roasted overnight and almost boundless supplies of ale and cider from New Hall’s brewery were there to help the proceedings along. In the afternoon the fun included dancing, and games – both official and unofficial – the tossing of horseshoes, a bruising game of football, the chasing of surprised pigs and the courting of not-so-surprised village girls. By early evening, however, the focus shifted to the Hall itself as the lanes and byways filled with the carriages of the gentry from miles around as they converged on New Hall for the Masquerade Ball. This year there was added spice to the excitement, for it was an open secret throughout the county that an engagement was to be announced between Caroline Hawthorne and the Honourable Bunwood Standish.
The week before the ball the house was in subdued uproar. Everyone from the lowest servant girl upwards was infected by the excitement, and Jessica was no exception to that rule. Despite the fact that she had still not reached that magic age when she might attend the masque herself she was pleased that her father had prevailed over her mother’s reluctance to hold the ball this year. Edward had been dead for nearly nine months, and sad as it was her practical mind knew that no amount of mourning would bring him back. For William Hawthorne’s part, business was done each year in the smoke-wreathed library over his fine brandy whilst the ladies gossipped and the young things danced; nothing came before that. Even MacKenzie, for these pleasantly frantic few days, seemed mellower. She spent most afternoons in the village ‘helping with the arrangements’. Jessica spared a wryly sympathetic thought for the Reverend Jones.
The ball was to be held, as always, in the Long Gallery, in the west wing of the house two floors below the nursery suite. The great room, unused except for these special occasions, was a marvellous sight once Mrs Morton and her army of helpers had finished their assault upon it. For days they scrubbed and cleaned and polished, until windows and mirrors gleamed, crystal chandeliers glittered like diamonds and the shining wooden floor, perfect for dancing, reflected the room’s splendours like a still pool in sunlight. Chairs were brought from all over the house and ranged against the walls or clustered around small tables, where the evening’s chaperons could sit and exchange scandal behind their lifted fans whilst their charges flirted upon the dance floor. Supper was to be served in the anteroom, a large room which overlooked the front court with its champagne-cup fountains. The gravel of the court and drive was raked and cleaned, the box hedges clipped, the already immaculate lawns cut and rolled until they resembled swathes of green velvet.
Jessica was everywhere, at every elbow, under every foot. Freed for a welcome couple of days from her studies – for no one could expect her to work with such noisy excitements happening just beneath her feet – she joined in the fray with a will. In her oldest clothes she polished and she cleaned and she carried chairs from the far reaches of the house. She watched fascinated as Joey the gardener’s boy cleaned the fountains, scraping out yards of clinging green slime with his net, a furrow of concentration on his usually vacant face. Traditionally the family kept from each other the secrets of their costumes for the night, but Jessica pestered so that she was allowed to see Caroline’s outfit – a truly marvellous diaphanous affair of gold and blue silk sewn with ribbons and strewn with real flowers. What else could Caroline be on that day but the May Queen, the centre of attention? To Jessica’s dazzled eyes she looked magnificent. A filmy train swept from her shoulders, and a gleaming gold crown woven with flowers and a golden sceptre completed the ensemble. And in Caroline’s pretty ears and around her slender neck bright sapphires blazed, a gift from her father upon her betrothal, and a gentle reminder to the baronet, in case of second thoughts, of the wealth that was pledging itself to his son.
‘Oh, I do wish I were coming—’ Jessica said wistfully, watching as her sister pirouetted before the pier glass, the almost transparent, clinging skirt of the high-waisted dress drifting about her. Even for masquerade Caroline had no intention of being anything but fashionable.
‘I expect you will next year. How should I wear my hair, do you think? Up, like this—?’ She swept the mass of her lovely hair into a pile on her head, turning this way and that to see the effect. ‘Or loose – perhaps with flowers in it—?’ She fluffed it out with her fingers and it lay upon her slim bare shoulders like a cloak of gold.
‘Do you really think so? I shall be nearly fourteen—’
‘Down I think. Everyone else will have theirs up.’
‘Will you dance every dance with Bunty?’
Drawn from her preoccupation with her own reflection Caroline glanced at her sister in surprised amusement. ‘Oh, Lord, no! He’s an abominable dancer. And besides – we aren’t married yet! He’ll have to take his turn with the others.’ She smiled back into the mirror. ‘He’ll take me in to supper of course.’
‘Is that when the announcement will be made?’
‘It is. Now – run along, do. I’ve a million things to do.’
It was the next day, two days before the ball, that the bombshell was dropped that astonished them all and enraged Caroline to distracted, self-centred tears.
Giles had that morning formally requested an interview with his father, the outcome of which William Hawthorne announced, as surprised as anyone but not at all displeased at the luncheon table.
‘—so the rogue has stolen a march on us all!’ He turned to Giles. ‘Not perhaps the match I might have made for you myself, my boy, but a very suitable one nevertheless. Old blood, and well respected. A FitzBolton, mistress of New Hall. Very appropriate, I must say. She’s a fine girl. Has breeding. A toast, everyone – to Clara and to Giles—’
Everyone around the table was too thunderstruck for a moment to do anything but raise a glass and murmur an assent. Jessica stared at her brother. Giles and Clara! What a dreadful combination!
The storm broke later, in the drawing room over tea. Not even Caroline would dare to create a scene of any magnitude before her father. She had, however, fewer inhibitions before her mother and sister. ‘But, Mama – they can’t!’ she wailed. ‘It’s not fair! This was to be my day – my betrothal! And now they want to ruin it by making it a double announcement! They’ll spoil everything entirely – why can’t they wait—?’
Maria was looking thoughtful, as she had ever since the surprise had been sprung. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Your brother is apparently set upon announcing it at the ball.’
Caroline stamped her foot. ‘You mean Clara is!’ she snapped with a quick flash of spite, and then the tears came. ‘A fine friend she turned out to be! It isn’t fair. They’ll spoil my betrothal – and, oh, Mama – Clara will be married before I will, and she’s younger than I am—!’ Her voice was tragic. Jessica watched with unfeigned interest. How did Caroline manage to cry without making her face blotchy and her nose run, like other people’s did? Caroline dropped to her knees beside her mother, ‘Oh, Mama, please, talk to Papa for me—?’
Maria shook her head firmly. ‘Truly, dear there’s no point. Your father won’t hear of your marrying before your twentieth birthday, and that’s final.’
‘But that’s almost two years! And Clara’s only seventeen, and she’s to be married this year—’
‘What difference does that make?’ Jessica asked, ingenuously, and was treated to another furious burst of tears from her sister.
‘What difference? She’s younger than me. And I’m—’ she stopped. ‘I should marry first,’ she said, sulkily. ‘Oh, I’ll never forgive her for this. And to announce it at the ball! When all along she’s known this was to be MY day—!’
But rant as Caroline might – and she did – her brother was not to be moved. He had spoken to Clara’s father and to his own. Both were more than happy with an arrangement that would bring back an ancient family connection to New Hall. The decision had been taken and was to be announced. That was that. The wedding was to be in October, in deference to his mother’s feelings, giving a full year of mourning for Edward. Since Clara was to be married from Old Hall it was her wish that the ceremony be conducted from St Agatha’s, the family’s old church. The delay until October would give time to spruce the place up a little. He conveyed all this to his family briskly and in much the way he might deliver any other estate news. Jessica wondered if she were the only one to find his apparent lack of ardour peculiar. A secret courtship, successfully concluded – a betrothal – a wedding – surely even the most temperate of men – and Giles could hardly be called that – might be forgiven for displaying some emotion? Yet he betrayed nothing, behaving in an uncharacteristically contained manner. Perhaps cool Clara had influenced him with her own restraint? Or perhaps, Jessica added gloomily to herself, Caroline’s self-centred histrionics at what she saw as Giles’ and Clara’s deliberate upstaging of her betrothal were enough emotion even for Giles?
‘Did any of you have any idea?’ she asked Robert as they stood watching the Maypole with its multi-coloured ribbons and crown of flowers being erected on the village green.
Robert shook his head. ‘It was a complete surprise. Giles simply turned up and asked to speak to Father. Clara hadn’t said a single word.’
The tension between these two had eased a little in their shared astonishment at the news, though Jessica still nursed her hurt and Robert, knowing it, was awkward.
‘What does everyone think?’
‘Father and Mother are delighted, of course.’
‘And you?’
He shrugged, grinned sideways at her. ‘Me too! Anything to get rid of her!’
‘It’s all very well for you!’
He laughed outright at that, and she could not help but laugh with him, easing the atmosphere further. Companionably they turned and strolled towards the gates of New Hall, waving to the lodge keeper as they passed.
‘Caroline’s absolutely FURIOUS!’
‘What about?’
‘I don’t know – everything! That they want to announce it tomorrow. That Clara will marry now before she does – as if it matters! What a storm in a puddle!’
He laughed. ‘It’ll all settle down after the ball. You’ll see.’
May Day dawned cloudy, but with gleams of sunshine promising better. Jessica was up with the lark and swallowed her breakfast bread and milk almost at a gulp. She had been given permission to spend the day in the village with Lucy and would not waste a minute. But early as they were the village was up and about before them. Upon the green the ale casks had already been broached and the smell of roasting meat from the cooking pit was mouth-watering. The fiddler tuned his instrument and everywhere there were children, dressed in their best, bells upon their wrists and ankles, dashing about like beings demented, under everyone’s feet. By the time they took their places, giggling and pushing excitedly, it seemed to Jessica that most of them must be exhausted before they were ready to start. Prettily they danced, though, weaving the coloured bands into clever, intricate designs about the pole and then unravelling them, ducking and swinging in the age-old pattern of the May Day dance. When the dance was done the ox was carved, and succulent it was, with juices running. As Jessica and Lucy sat upon the grass eating their portions, wiping greasy mouths with even greasier fingers, Robert joined them, neat and clean as ever.
Jessica gestured with a rib bone. ‘Aren’t you going to have any? It’s very good.’
‘I know. I’ve had some.’
She pulled a face. ‘Then why aren’t you messy?’
He laughed, and settled himself beside them. ‘You’re messy enough for both of us. Have you heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘They say Boney’s on the run in Portugal. There’s going to be a battle, Father said—’
‘Oh.’
He grinned at her lack of interest, reached to pick a small and dainty morsel from her bone. ‘Are you staying to watch the football? Hall’s playing village over on Bonner’s Field and there’s likely to be bones broken—’
The day wore on in games and laughter. It was with some reluctance late in the afternoon that Jessica allowed herself to be detached from the crowd that was noisily egging on Brewer the ploughman as he chased a full-grown and indignant pig about the green and marched back to New Hall to rest.
‘If you’re to be allowed to stay up awhiles tonight your Mama said you was to sleep this afternoon,’ Lucy reminded her scowling charge.
With bad grace Jessica allowed herself to be undressed to her petticoat and tucked into bed. In the Long Gallery below she could hear the muffled small sounds of last-minute preparation; a lifted voice, the scraping of a chair, footsteps upon the polished floor.
She awoke, astonished that she had slept, to the sound of music from the room below and the sight of Lucy, beaming, with a tray in her hands. ‘There, now – get that inside of you, and we’ll pretty you up in your new muslin, for your Mama says you may watch the guests arrive—’
They watched together, from the top of the main stairs. Carriage after carriage rolled to a halt outside the door: at one point the waiting queue reached almost the length of the drive. Maria and William Hawthorne, splendidly robed as King Arthur and his Queen, stood in the hall beneath, meeting their guests as they arrived. Fortune tellers and Indian nabobs, gypsies and Romans, Greeks and figures from legend advanced, were greeted, and disappeared up the secondary staircase to the Long Gallery. To the watching child it was the most splendid and exciting gathering she had ever seen, and she longed almost to the point of sickness to be a part of it.
At last the flood of arriving guests became a trickle. From the Gallery came the sound of music and of laughter. Almost the last to arrive were Robert’s parents and their daughter Clara.
Jessica’s eyes and mouth opened together in wondering astonishment. Sir Thomas and Lady FitzBolton, dumpy, homely figures both, had chosen the roles of Pierot and Pierette, at least the dozenth couple to have done so and, Jessica had to admit, dearly as she loved them, possibly the least distinguished. Clara it was who drew the eye. If Jessica had not known herself certainly to be the only person who knew of Caroline’s costume for the evening she might have believed Clara to have designed hers in deliberate opposition. For Clara, May notwithstanding, was an Ice Queen, decked in lace fragile as frosted cobwebs, glittering and sparkling, feathered with snow. Upon her piled dark hair a tall and elegantly needle-pointed crown of silver icicles added to her height and to her regal bearing. Never had she looked so handsome. As she stood, waiting to be presented, Giles appeared at the top of the stairs that led to the Long Gallery. Seeing her, he stopped, poised. Clara lifted her eyes and smiled, very slightly. Giles, a dashing and very handsome cavalier, did not. Long sword swinging easily at his side, his hat with its sweeping plume in his hand he walked slowly down the stairs, his eyes intent upon his future bride. Always graceful in his movements it seemed to Jessica, watching, that in that moment he moved like a stalking cat, tension singing in him, barely constrained. Irresistibly she was reminded of the scene in the woods. Clara had greeted her future parents-in-law and now composedly awaited Giles’ approach. As he neared her she lifted a graceful yet oddly imperious white-gloved hand. For a single moment he hesitated, then took it, and in keeping with his gallant role lifted it and brushed it with his lips. Clara’s mother clapped delightedly. Jessica frowned. Something, somehow, was horribly wrong. She could not explain her feeling, even to herself, she only knew in that moment that in Giles some violence lived and that Clara, far from gentling it, as was needed, thrived upon – perhaps even encouraged – it. The two were mounting the stairs together, a fine-looking young couple. Their parents, from below, watched them, pleasant pride upon the FitzBoltons’ faces, a smile upon William Hawthorne’s. Only Jessica, from her vantage point, saw the look that Clara turned upon Giles; sweetly barbed, purely triumphant. And only Jessica saw the flinch of pain in the girl’s face as Giles’ hand tightened brutally over hers, a flicker only, and then she laughed, the same pealing laughter that Jessica had heard in the woods, that was then swallowed by music and the hum of voices as the pair entered the ballroom.
‘Time for bed, Miss Jessie,’ Lucy said, regretfully, from beside. ‘Come down to say goodnight to your Mama and Papa, and then we must go.’
Later, and for a long time, Jessica lay listening to the sounds that filtered to her ears from the rooms below. Next year – oh, please God! – next year she would be down there – dancing, laughing.
Her imagination furnished her with a silken dress, a handsome partner. Somewhere in a corner Robert glowered jealously.
Yet, oddly, the last thing that slipped into her mind before she drifted at last into the mists of sleep was a sound; the sound of laughter, mocking and musical.
Clara’s laughter.