At the end of May Robert left to visit his schoolfriend in Devon. The day before he went, Jessica dined at Old Hall – the meals there following the traditional fashion of dinner at midday and supper in the evening rather than the new trend of dining in the evening as Jessica’s parents did – and in the afternoon she and Robert walked along the river to St Agatha’s and climbed onto ‘their’ tombstone. Jessica drew her knees up and rested her chin on them, gloomily and in silence picking at the burrs that had attached themselves to her skirt.
‘Oh, do cheer up, Jess!’ Robert’s voice, whilst not altogether unkind, held an unmistakable edge of impatience. ‘Anyone would think I was going away for ever! It’s only a couple of months – I’ll be back before you know it. And then it’ll be harvest time – think of the fun we’ll have—’
She scowled. ‘It’s all right for you! You aren’t going to be stuck here on your own with Caroline moping and Clara lording it over everyone!’ She stopped, biting her lip, then burst out, ‘Oh, Robert, I do wish you weren’t going!’
Robert watched her for a moment, his face intent, then he turned away. ‘You’re acting as if it were a hanging offence to visit a schoolfriend. Lord, your own brother’s off visiting friends, isn’t he? He didn’t even bother to come home at the end of term!’
Jessica, who in common with the rest of the family had in fact hardly noticed quiet John’s absence, shrugged peevishly and said nothing.
‘You have to understand, Jessica, that you can’t order other people’s lives. I’m going, and I refuse to pretend that I’m not looking forward to it. I’m sorry to be leaving you, but I intend to enjoy every minute of being with Paul and his family, of seeing somewhere different—’
Shaken from her woeful self-absorption by the near-anger of his tone she cast a swift sideways look at him. ‘I’m sorry. Of course you’re right. And I do hope you have a lovely time. Truly I do.’ Visions of Paul Aloway’s no doubt charming sisters – she had a clear picture of them both as Dresden figures, fair and tiny and very beautiful – rose in her mind and, miserably, she leaned on her knees again, chewing at a dirty thumb.
They sat in silence for a while.
‘My father’s found someone to do the church,’ Robert said after a moment, his voice challengingly light in the awkward silence.
‘Do it?’
‘Yes. You know – clean and renovate the statues and things, so it’s worthy of a FitzBolton-Hawthorne wedding.’ The words were dry. ‘Lord, you don’t think Clara’s going to be satisfied with it the way it is, do you?’
Jessica shrugged. ‘Strikes me she isn’t satisfied with anything. Caroline said she’s already talking about the changes she’ll make at New Hall when she’s running the house—’
‘Deer in the park and peacocks on the lawns—’ Robert said.
‘She’s told you, too, has she? She’s got some sauce your sister, hasn’t she? It’s Mama’s business to run New Hall, after all – and will be for years yet—’
‘How does your mother get on with Clara?’ There was real interest in Robert’s voice.
‘Mama?’ Jessica shrugged again. ‘She likes her well enough, I think. With Edward gone Giles certainly has to marry, and she seems to think Clara as good a choice as any.’
‘Wait till she has to live with her.’
‘Wait till we all do!’ Deep gloom had descended upon Jessica again.
Robert laughed. ‘Oh, come on, she isn’t really that bad!’ He jumped lightly down onto the path and waited as she scrambled down beside him. ‘She can actually be quite civilized when she tries—’
This was not, however, a view with which Caroline would have agreed. Her erstwhile, never more than circumstantial friendship with the other girl had failed totally to withstand what she saw as Clara’s deviousness, firstly in courting Giles with never a single confidential whisper or hint to her, and then, crime of crimes in Caroline’s eyes, in persuading him to marry her before Caroline herself had a ring upon her finger. Over the past year, her own match made, Caroline had made too many sweetly commiserating remarks about ‘poor’ Clara’s apparent lack of prospects to doubt the direct malice of the timing.
‘The airs and graces Clara FitzBolton’s putting on, you’d think she was mistress of New Hall already!’ she said indignantly to Jessica, a couple of days after Robert had left for Devon. The sisters were sitting in the garden, the drowsy scents and sounds of a warm early June day about them. Not far away a young gardener clipped a box hedge, his dark eyes flickering with interested frequency to the seat where the two girls sat. Caroline, in soft lemon sprigged cotton and with a wide, ribboned sunhat shading her face, was showing elaborate unconcern at his presence; but Jessica, noticing the animation with which she spoke, the slight exaggeration of her gestures, the provocative tilt of her head, was not naive enough to suppose that the pretty performance was for her benefit. Caroline now lifted a slender arm to adjust, quite unnecessarily, the ribbons upon her hat. The young man stared, openly entranced, and then, catching Jessica’s caustic eye upon him, hastily turned back to his task.
‘I mean – for instance – why can’t she get married in St Mary’s like everyone else does? Why all this sudden interest in St Agatha’s? She’s just got to be different, hasn’t she? No common or garden village wedding for Madam FitzBolton—’
‘The church does belong to them. She has every right to get married there, I suppose.’ The conversation was of no interest at all to Jessica. She had collected Bran from the stables, where he lived, and he leaned now beside her. Absently she rubbed his head, watching as a sweeping skein of water birds flew overhead, gliding in a graceful ribbon of flight towards the still, summer waters of the lake.
‘She just wants to show off, that’s all. I think it’s a shame – putting poor old Sir Thomas to all that trouble – I mean, it would be different if they had two pennies to rub together—’ The young gardener had not glanced their way for several moments, and appeared now to be absorbed in his task. Caroline stood up, shaking out the folds of her skirt and laughing prettily. ‘Lord, just look! I do believe there’s a grass-stain on my dress! I must get Maisie to clean it for me—’ On pretence of examining what Jessica had no doubt was a nonexistent stain she lifted her skirt a little, displaying as she did so a slim ankle in a white silk stocking.
The young gardener’s eyes, warm and dark, showed every sign of renewed interest. Satisfied, Caroline shook her skirt straight and turned her back on him. ‘Shall we stroll down to the lake? We’ve time before luncheon—’
With Robert gone Jessica found that time hung heavily on her hands. Somehow, all the things she had planned for the summer – the rides, the exploration of the lake’s islands, the games, lost their savour when undertaken alone. She missed Robert – missed his companionship and his dry humour, his understanding, his occasional confidences – and, oddly and extremely irritatingly, she found that no matter how she tried she could not rid herself of the image of those Dresden-figure sisters. Before he had gone to Devon, and after Caroline’s apparently careless but nevertheless shrewd comments, she had watched him, and had been forced to the conclusion that her sister, for once, was probably right. Robert’s anticipation of this trip had held a suppressed excitement that led her to suspect more than simple pleasure at the thought of visiting a schoolfriend: and she had been surprised to discover how much the thought had pained her.
The weather, however, was fine and all that could be expected of June. Every free minute she could contrive was spent in the fields and woodlands of the park. She sat one day by the lakeside, her fingers rippling the water, trying hard to dismiss from her mind a vision of Robert, in equally idyllic surroundings, paying court to one – or perhaps both! – of the Aloway girls. And no doubt sparing not a thought for her, left here alone. Wallowing pleasantly in self-pity she pictured him, his neat dark head inclined to a diminutive, doll-like being with peaches-and-cream complexion, clean fingernails, spun gold hair and a lovely voice. She scowled at an inoffensive butterfly. That really was going too far – was it fair that the Dresden-creature could sing as well?
She lifted her head in surprise, her train of thought broken. In the distance, clear and infectious, sweet as a bird, someone was whistling, a gay and cheerfully lilting tune she had never heard before. She stood, a warning finger on Bran’s muzzle, and turned her head, listening. The whistling stopped, and a man’s voice took up the melody, light and true, both the rhythm and the language of the song foreign to Jessica. Intrigued, the dog a shadow at her heels, she slipped through the trees towards the path. As she stepped on to it she was just in time to see the back of a man as he disappeared where the path curved into the trees. He was swinging along briskly to the time of his own singing. Her curiosity thoroughly aroused, she followed. By the time she reached the turn in the path he had gone, but she could hear him still ahead, alternately singing and whistling, his footsteps light in the woodland litter of the path. The glimpse she had caught of him had shown a young man dressed simply in shirt and breeches, tall and broad-shouldered, though slim, his bare head black as a gypsy’s. On his back he had carried a small sack. Pleased with this diversion she followed, Bran romping beside her. She would discover what right this assured young man had to walk through her father’s woodlands as if he owned them. Only when they reached the river-path and she heard the creaking of the lych-gate did a disappointingly obvious explanation for a stranger’s presence occur to her; surely, this must be the craftsman, or one of them, hired by Sir Robert to ready the church for Clara’s wedding? She slipped around the side of the church, and, having enjoined Bran in a fierce whisper and not with over-much confidence to sit and stay, climbed the ramshackle wall and scrambled through the overgrown churchyard. It was a game now, and an exciting one, to get close to him without his seeing her. He had gone into the church, no longer whistling, but humming still beneath his breath. Like a small shadow she followed, on quiet feet, sharp eyes probing the gloom.
The stranger had moved to the altar and stood with his back to her, his head flung back as he surveyed intently the faded wall paintings. She flattened herself against a pillar, peeped round it. He swung the bag he carried to the floor, then straightened, turning, and as he did so the light from the narrow stained glass window fell directly upon his face. Gleaming dark eyes, polished olive skin, proud bright bones and a long, sweetly chiselled mouth: Jessica had never, in life, seen such a face. The features were clear cut and sharp in the shadowed light. She stared, the bright lines of that still, intent face holding her spellbound. The young man dropped to one knee beside the carved altar rail and ran a long, none-too-clean finger over the wood. Then, still kneeling, he lifted his head to look up at the ancient, decaying statue of St Agnes that stood above the altar. Jessica swallowed, awkwardly. Something extremely disturbing appeared to be happening to her usually reliable insides. Her heart was racing as if she had run a long way and her stomach churned, oddly and uncomfortably. Forgetting secrecy she moved, and the rustle of it echoed in the stillness. The young man turned, surprised, coming to his feet in one fleet, graceful movement.
Without thought and for no good reason, Jessica took to her heels. Like a small, startled animal she fled, across the churchyard, over the wall and into the woods. Bran, seeing her coming, leapt to her side, tongue lolling, his great bony frame all but knocking her from her feet. The young man did not call after her, neither did he follow. She ran to the lake’s edge, close to the weir where Edward had lost his life. The stranger in the church must, she estimated, be about Edward’s age, and something of his build, too – tall and limber and long of leg. But there any resemblance ended, for the stranger was night-dark, and Edward had been fair as the day, and if Edward had been handsome then to Jessica’s dazzled eyes the young man in the church was something beyond that. In the library of Old Hall were books – books that had been collected by past generations of FitzBoltons at a time when such things were rare and precious – and often she and Robert had spent long afternoons poring over the treasures that those shelves contained. Her own favourite, to which she returned again and again, was an ancient, fancifully hand-illustrated book of stories of the Crusades. And of all the illustrations the one that had always most fired her imagination was the last, a picture of Jerusalem, restored to Christendom and guarded by a fierce and fiery being, a dark-faced warrior angel, arrogantly beautiful. And now, today, in tiny St Agatha’s she had seen that face imbued with life; the young man in the church might have been the very model for that figure. A dark angel, fierce and sweet.
Thought of the stranger was never for the rest of the day far from her mind, and too the odd excitement he had aroused in her tingled strangely on the edge of her consciousness. He was her secret, the dark angel of Jerusalem come to St Agatha’s.
The next day, as soon as she could escape, firmly suppressing her feelings of guilt at leaving the immoderately excitable Bran behind she slipped down to the church, and on finding it empty experienced a disappointment out of all proportion to its cause. Some days having passed since she had visited Robert’s parents, and with the ulterior motive that someone at Old Hall might know the whereabouts and identity of her dark young man, she took the path that led along the riverbank to the old house. A few hundred yards from the church she passed a row of all-but-derelict cottages that had stood empty for as long as she could remember; and there, with a strange, almost panic-stricken lurch of her heart, she saw him. He had drawn a bucket of water from the well in the overgrown front garden and, stripped to the waist, dark hair glossy and dripping, he was washing in it. Behind him the door of one of the cottages stood open. As she shrank back into the shadow of the trees he reached for his shirt, dried his face on it and rubbed his hair briskly before pulling the shirt over his head. Then, whistling again that same lilting tune she had heard yesterday he turned and walked into the house, stuffing his shirt tails carelessly into his breeches as he went. No angel this, in the bright light of day; on the contrary, even to her eyes he looked like nothing so much as a picturesque and rather disreputable young gypsy. From within the cottage she heard his voice lift again in song. Shamelessly curious she slipped through the overgrown garden and peeped in at the tiny window. In the dark little room, singing cheerfully to himself, he was busying himself as might any cottage housewife, arranging the few sticks of furniture to his own satisfaction, lighting the stove. She watched as he put the kettle on the hob and took a loaf of bread and some cheese from a cupboard. In the half-light of the room he moved like a shadow, quick and graceful, once again oddly mysterious, and again she felt that perturbing sensation, an excitement that quickened heart and pulse, as if at the approach of danger. A dauntless and confident rider she nevertheless knew the exhilarating fear of facing a risky jump, and was at an absolute loss to understand why the proximity of this total stranger should have much the same effect. She slipped away from the window and, uncommonly preoccupied, continued on her way to Old Hall.
Two days later – two days in which Jessica all but haunted both the church and the cottage in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of the intriguing stranger – John came home to New Hall. He had been visiting friends in Kent, and this was the first time he had been home since Easter. Jessica was glad to see him – if nothing else at least his presence ensured that the odd remark might be addressed to her at the luncheon table – John, it seemed to her, being the only one who ever bothered to include her in the general conversation. Approaching now his sixteenth birthday he was smaller and broader-built than either of his brothers, and his pleasant and honest face showed a calm maturity beyond his years. He was a quiet boy, not in the least given to the other Hawthorne children’s impetuous habit of speaking first and thinking later – a restraint he inherited from his mother, while his looks in the main came from his father. He had been destined for the Church more or less since birth, and since, coincidentally, his own inclinations followed his father’s wishes exactly the choice of career had been a happy one and his considerable strength of will, hidden as it was beneath an affable and kindly nature, had so far been used to further the family plans rather than oppose them. It would not have occurred to William Hawthorne to be thankful for this for, quite simply, it would not have occurred to him that any other course was open to the boy. John, quietly, knew differently. He was now already studying for the Ministry, and the plan was that he should follow in Edward’s footsteps to Cambridge University before being ordained. William Hawthorne was determined to have a bishop in the family: needless to say it occurred to no one to consult with John about that. Jessica had always liked him. The nearest to her in age, he had never aroused her resentment as the others so often had by treating her as some kind of half-witted inferior. In fact long before her age or understanding had justified it he had spoken to her as an equal, and if the bond between them was not as close as that she had for years shared with Robert FitzBolton, nevertheless she was fond of him, and he of her. Utterly trustworthy and always ready with a kind word, in him the easy, indolent warmth and charm of Edward had been transmuted to a rare and genuinely unselfish generosity. However not even her newly-returned brother’s account of his weeks in Canterbury could draw her from her absorption with the strange young man at St Agatha’s. Absently she picked at her luncheon, hardly hearing the conversation about her.
‘I trust the Hely-Browns were well?’ Maria Hawthorne, to be honest, often found herself forgetting this quiet, youngest son almost entirely in his absences, and was always mildly surprised upon seeing him again, though she was much too courteous to show it and would have been appalled had she realized that he knew it as well.
‘Very well, Mama, and send their regards.’
Jessica fidgeted. Her morning had been a disaster – French verbs, and a deportment and dancing lesson that, for the last thirty minutes of its duration had seen her standing in a corner in disgrace, a heavy book balanced upon her head. Her neck still ached. After luncheon – providing sneaky Mr Appleday her dancing teacher had not taken it upon himself to apprise MacKenzie, and hence Jessica’s mother, of what he had described as his pupil’s ‘scant o’ grace’ behaviour, an uncharitable trick that she would not for a moment think beyond him – she was free for the whole afternoon, and the sun shone sweetly beyond the tall windows, calling her. John was still speaking.
‘—asked me to do them a small favour, and so of course I agreed. They have some friends in Lavenham, to whom I am to deliver a small package. I thought I might ride out this afternoon.’
William Hawthorne nodded. ‘Good idea. Don’t suppose you’ve had much exercise at the Hely-Browns’, eh? Penned in the middle of Canterbury? They don’t even have a stables, do they?’
John smiled a little, and shook his head. ‘No, Sir. They don’t.’
‘Humph.’ The small, sharp sound indicated clearly William Hawthorne’s opinion of the bookish and theological Hely-Browns.
Maria rose gracefully. ‘Jessica – Caroline—?’
The two girls rose also and obediently followed their mother from the room. Within the folds of her skirt Jessica’s fingers were tightly crossed in superstitious defence against Mr Appleday’s malice. Her fears, however, were groundless. An hour later she was free and, giving poor Bran, confined in the stables, a quick kiss and a promise of atonement she ran towards the lake. It was a warm afternoon, and the sun shone from a clear sky, although a dark band of cloud, at the moment not much more than a smudge on the western horizon, threatened a break in the weather.
Reaching the church she paused first to catch her breath, then slipped into the gloom.
The building was empty.
Disappointed again, and about to turn away, she stopped: the dark young stranger might not be here, but evidence of his presence and of his craft lay neatly upon a small strong table beside the altar. The statue of St Agatha, crumbling with neglect, stood there, and beside it a malet, several chisels and some other implements she did not recognize, and a bowl of what looked like clay. A stone bottle of wine stood open beside the tools. Curious, she crept forward, touched a finger to the razor-sharp edge of one of the chisels. The wooden handle was smooth and shiny with use and with the patina of age. She picked it up, appreciating even in her inexperience the lovely weight and balance of it.
From very far in the distance came the first muted grumble of thunder: and, closer, the sound of a light step upon the gravelled path.
Quick as thought she darted into the darkest corner of the nave and slipped into a box pew, its door hanging drunkenly on a broken hinge. She crouched on the floor, that was thick with dust and smelled villainously of dirt and decay.
He came from the light into the shadows, blinking. In one hand he carried a sheaf of papers, in the other candles, which he set into holders already gathered on the table and the altar, and lit. By their flickering light, his face absorbed, he studied the drawings he carried, his eyes moving now and again to the statue. Absently he reached a hand to the bottle, tilted his dark head and drank. Bottle still in hand he bent again to the drawings. Jessica watched with held breath. There in the glow of the candles once more was her dark angel, beautiful and for the moment tranquil, his face burnished by the light.
Thunder rumbled again, still distant, barely a breath of threat on the summer air.
The young man set down the bottle, lifted a hand to the statue, ran a long, gentle finger along the crumbling outlines of the saint’s draped garments. Then he picked up a soft brush and began to clean the figure of dust.
Jessica, penned in her pew, watched. The young stranger was completely lost in his task, his light breathing and the rustle of his movements the only sound as he examined the worn and defaced stone. Jessica had been told by Sir Robert that it had been Roundhead soldiers who had caused most of the damage to St Agatha’s, whilst hunting for fleeing Royalists after the Siege of Colchester. She did not know the truth of the story. The young man picked some clay from the bowl and began moulding it between his fingers. So totally preoccupied was he that the child was certain that if she had wished she could have made good her escape; but she did not. Enthralled she watched him, watched the play of light on the skilful fingers and on the grave and flawless face as he began to work upon the statue. Again she experienced the now familiar, though still inexplicable mixture of feelings that the presence of the young man stirred in her; excitement, an odd tenderness at the sight of the bent, absorbed head, a yearning – for what she could not say, but none the less strong for that. Quiet as a mouse she crouched, eyes wide and unblinking upon the stranger, whilst in the world outside the summer storm moved closer.
It was the storm that broke the spell. For almost an hour it had rumbled from a distance, sunshine still falling softly through the church’s tiny windows to add to the illumination of the candles that flickered on the table and on the altar. It was with the abruptness of a closing curtain that the light was suddenly cut off as the storm clouds rolled across the sun. The young man looked up, frowning, his concentration broken by the unexpected darkness. Jessica heard him mutter something under his breath. Then, wiping his hands on his shirt he strode to the door and looked out. In the same moment it dawned on Jessica that if she were to have any chance of avoiding MacKenzie’s wrath at wet clothes and hair she had best leave now. Under cover of an ear-splitting crash of thunder she slipped from the pew and scuttled through the shadows towards the door. Beyond the young man’s silhouetted figure she saw a violent and jagged flash of lightning, livid in the queer storm-darkness. The man stood for a moment looking out to where the pre-storm wind tossed wildly through the treetops then, shrugging, he turned. Jessica slipped behind a pillar, then, choosing her moment, she picked up her skirts and ran like a hare. She heard a shout from behind her, and something that sounded suspiciously like laughter, then she was gone, running sure-footed through the trees towards the park.
She had left it too late. By the time she reached the edge of the woodland huge spots of rain had started to fall, rattling through the branches above her head like flung stones. Overhead thunder and lightning crashed together and she jumped at the violence of the sound. The roiling, purple clouds echoed menacingly. The rain was coming down harder with every second, threatening a downpour to drown her. She hesitated, uncertain whether to stay beneath the trees and risk the lightning or make a dash for it across the open, rain-lashed but relatively safe expanse of the parkland. As she stood, undecided, the sound of hoofbeats lifted above the buffeting of the wind. Skirting the woodland from her right came John, grinning and waving, riding sturdy Old Jenny as hard as the staid and solid mare could manage. Puzzled for a moment as to where he could have sprung from she remembered the small bridge that crossed the river from the Long Melford Road, close by Old Hall. He must have cut across it trying to beat the storm home. Relieved, she smiled widely and waved back.
‘Here—’ He reached a hand. ‘Hop up!’
Laughing she allowed him to swing her, light as a bird, before him on the saddle. Jenny tossed her head as the storm crashed above them again, and John clapped his heels to her side, urging her to an ungainly gallop. Minutes later, with the downpour truly upon them, they were safely in the stables of New Hall, none the worse for wear.
It was not until that night, comfortable and close to sleep, that it occurred to Jessica to wonder how it was that John, who had ostensibly set off on an errand to Lavenham, had come back from entirely the opposite direction via the Long Melford Road. Sleepily she resolved to ask him the next day, but by morning had quite forgotten the resolution.
It was two days later that – almost certainly by design – the stranger caught her.
She had ridden to Old Hall to take tea with Robert’s parents, and to discover if they had news of him. The short note they had received assured them of his good health and happiness and asked that he be remembered to Jessica. As she mounted Apple, her pony, to ride home – Old Hall being virtually within the park she was allowed to ride there unaccompanied – she reflected with faint surprise that it had been some time since she had fretted jealously at the thought of the Dresden-figure sisters. She set Apple to the river path, his hooves quiet upon the grass. She hoped – sincerely now – that Robert was having a happy time. She had thought his note a little non-commital, though Clara had dismissed any worries about that brusquely – ‘Heavens, Jessica, he’s a boy! What else do you expect? When did you ever know a man write a civilized letter when a military note will do?’
She was approaching the church, and could make no pretence to herself that she could ride by without seeing if her stranger were there. She tethered Apple near the river and slipped through the gate and along the path. The church was empty, dark and silent. Disappointment, surprising in its depth, drew her straight brows together in a frown. She did not understand why it had become an irresistible compulsion to see the strange young man, she only knew that undeniably it had. She knew his face now as well as she knew her own, knew too his habit of singing to himself beneath his breath, recognized now the foreign-sounding tune that he most often hummed. Pausing for a moment now to reassure herself that the church was indeed empty she slipped through the shadowed gloom to the altar. The statue stood, the implements he had been using laid at her feet, as if just that moment discarded. A warning bell rang in her mind. She turned.
Silent as a cat he had come up behind her, and stood now, grinning. ‘So. My little Mouse in a trap at last.’
She took a couple of stumbling steps backwards. He reached for her. Suddenly and irrationally afraid she shrank away from him, trapped by the altar rail.
The smile left his face. He shook his head. ‘Don’t be afraid, little Mouse. I won’t hurt you.’
She said nothing.
He let his hands drop to his sides. Swift as thought she launched herself past him, but he was as quick as she. A long arm took her about the waist and swung her from the floor.
‘Oh, no you don’t, little one! Not as easily as that! Not until I know why you’ve been spying on me—?’
That cut sharply. ‘I haven’t been spying!’ Something in the indignant tone arrested his laughter. Very carefully he set her upon her feet, his hands upon her shoulders, that dark face bent to hers interestedly.
‘You haven’t? Then it must have been another little mouse that I started the day before yesterday? Is the country full of them?’ He raised quizzical eyebrows.
She did not answer, but treacherous colour crept into her cheeks.
‘It wasn’t you?’
She shrugged. His speech, like his appearance, was different from any other she had ever encountered. Clearly enunciated, the tone obviously educated, yet there was an indefinable accent there, more perhaps in the rhythm and cadence of his voice than in the pronunciation itself.
‘So. It was you.’ He regarded her solemnly for a moment, then let go of her shoulders and straightened. ‘Perhaps – we should start again?’ He waited, then as she did not respond, sketched her a small, half-mocking bow. ‘My name is Danilo. Danilo O’Donnel. My friends call me Danny.’ He waited, expectant.
‘I’m Jessica Hawthorne.’
‘Jessica Hawthorne.’ He rolled the name portentiously, then smiled a smile of pure mischief that made her heart lurch in a most uncomfortable way. ‘Personally, Miss Jessica Hawthorne, I think Mouse suits you better. Small, brown, and quick as that!’ He clapped his hands sharply, and she jumped, then flushed again as he laughed.
He sat on a pew, patted the seat beside him. ‘Come.’
Her escape route was clear. She had only to run, and they both knew it. Gingerly she perched herself beside him.
‘Now, where do you come from, Jessica Hawthorne?’
She indicated a general direction with an inclination of her head. ‘From the house at the top of the lake. New Hall.’
His eyes widened very slightly. ‘Do you indeed?’ He paused for a moment, to consider this. ‘So – you are a relation of the groom?’
‘He’s my brother.’ As always at thought of Giles Jessica grimaced a little, and the young man laughed.
‘I see. And – may I ask—’ the words were teasingly courteous, ‘—how it is that our paths seem to have crossed rather frequently lately?’
She kept the shreds of her dignity about her and refused to be seduced by the open invitation to laughter offered by his merry eyes and smiling mouth. ‘I wanted to see what you were doing.’
‘Ah.’ Strangely, the answer appeared to satisfy him completely. Silence fell.
She eyed him. ‘Where do you come from?’
‘The cottage down the lane.’ His expression was innocent.
Still she would not laugh. Neither would she be deflected. ‘I mean – before.’
He nodded, accepting her question seriously for all his teasing. ‘Edinburgh. And before that Lincoln. And before that London. Anywhere that folk will pay me to restore ruin to beauty.’ He glanced about him.
‘What did you say your name was?’ In her interest she was forgetting her fright. She leaned forward, intent.
‘Danny. Danny O’Donnel.’
‘No. I mean—’ she paused, ‘—the other name. The funny one.’
He laughed. ‘Danilo. Danilo O’Donnel. A little strange, yes?’
She nodded.
‘My mother was Italian, my father Irish. An explosive mixture, I’m afraid.’ He smiled, the warmth of him like the summer sun. ‘I look like my mother, and I drink like my father. I was born in Florence. I am an artist. A sculptor. But at the moment a little down on my luck. My birthday is in March, I have all my teeth and I’m scared to death of horses. There. Danny O’Donnel in a nutshell for you, little Mouse.’
She laughed delightedly. ‘You can’t really be scared of horses?’
‘Can’t I?’ He put his head on one side, comically, as if considering. ‘And here I’ve lived for twenty years thinking I was!’
She giggled again. ‘Are you Irish or Italian?’
He looked at her admiringly. ‘What a very perceptive question. I don’t know. What do you think?’
Jessica considered. ‘Irish, I should think.’
He shrugged. ‘That’ll do. For now anyway.’
‘Don’t you care?’ The child, brought up in the unthinking nationalistic pride of an English upper middle class family, was astonished.
For a moment the laughter fled the dark face. ‘Oh, yes, little Mouse, I care. For I am Florentine. Italian? Irish? This means nothing. But Florentine – that is to be a part of the most beautiful city in the world. To have some share in her treasures – her art, her music, her sculpture. To be at home in her squares and gardens. To be at one with her people.’
Jessica had never come across anyone with quite such a poetic turn of phrase. She was enthralled. ‘Did you just make that up?’
He shouted with laughter. ‘I most certainly did.’ He pretended indignation.
‘It was very good.’
He bowed, gracefully for all that he was sitting down. ‘Thank you.’
Her mind had jumped back to the original thread of their conversation. ‘Why don’t you live there?’
‘Ah.’ In the turning of a moment again the merriment fled. He turned his head a little, looking with unseeing eyes up to where the multi-coloured light flickered through the stained glass windows. Her heart lurched, watching him, seeing the sadness. After a moment, as if realizing she still awaited an answer to her question he said, ‘For the moment I cannot.’
‘Why not?’
Half exasperated he smiled. ‘What an extremely inquisitive little mouse you are!’
She flushed, and seeing it, he laid a hand on her arm, gently. ‘Ah, no. Don’t be angry with me. I’ll tell you. My mother was of good family, my father a penniless sculptor. The marriage – if indeed there were a marriage, I’ve never been truly certain—’ Jessica’s eyes widened at such devastating honesty, ‘—was not one of which my mother’s people could approve. We lived in the tenements across the river from the city, on the banks of the Arno, near the Pitti Palace. We lived with others of our kind – penniless artists, sculptors, actors, musicians – and, oh, little Mouse, what a world it was!’ His head was bent to her, his eyes bright as gems in the shadows. Jessica was enthralled. ‘Life was a celebration. Always there was sunshine, and laughter. Always there was wine, and music and above all friendship. Sometimes my mother would take me across the Ponte Vecchio to visit my grandparents’ house. Very fine it seemed to me, with a courtyard, and a fountain and marble floors. But home was where my parents were, and their friends, and their laughter and loving—’
‘What happened?’
He shrugged. ‘The French came. There were disturbances. The French preach revolution. My grandparents were of the old order. My grandfather defied them. When they came to arrest him he resisted and was shot. My mother and grandmother were shot with him. Accidentally, so the soldiers said.’ He paused for a moment, then added softly, ‘See what happens when men of violence rule—’
The child had drawn from him in horror, her hands at her mouth. As if coming to himself he shook his head, and his voice was gentle. ‘Don’t grieve. There is nothing to be gained.’
‘But—’
‘But, yes, it was a terrible thing. A savage thing. A waste. But it is over. My father escaped from Florence, taking me with him, and brought me to England. He educated me and cared for me. Before death took him he taught me much, perhaps enough for me one day to be a great sculptor. I don’t know. This is for the future. For now—’ he spread long-fingered hands, ‘I am what you see – a mender of statues, a redeemer of churches, a fighter against the decay of beauty – and yes, before you ask, I made that up myself as well—’
The mood lightened. They smiled. Then, reluctantly, she stood up. ‘I have to go. Will you be here tomorrow?’
He nodded.
‘If I can get away – may I come again?’
His smile was warm as the June sunshine. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’
She rode home across the park, singing.
From that moment every second spent away from Danny was for Jessica wasted, and the friendship between child and young man became as firm as it was unlikely. Any moment she could snatch was spent in the church with him, and the scoldings and slappings she risked from disappearing so often from New Hall deterred her not at all. They talked of everything under the sun – of the ways of birds and the flight of butterflies, of the sound of a word and the subtlety of its meaning, of the smell of new-baked bread and the delights of clover honey. Now that she no longer hid from him Bran came too, and it was no surprise at all to Jessica that man and dog became friends on sight. Danny talked easily of his recent life, and from him she learned of the ways of a rootless itinerant artist, feckless, free and devoted to two things – the stone he worked and, always, the city in which he had been born. ‘Ah, Mouse – when you are a beautiful woman you must visit her! Her young men will court you and paint wonderful portraits, and I, a penniless sculptor living in a hovel on the banks of the Arno will say – I knew her first, before her fame—’ The summer rain pattered beyond the doors, and the air was chill. ‘Wait till you see the golden light of sunset on the river – the tumbling red roofs, the towers and spires – it is a city of magic.’
She was enthralled. ‘Is it really that beautiful? I mean – really and truly?’
‘Really and truly.’ He turned from the statue on which he had been working, gesturing with clay-damp hands as if to conjure the city from the dark air. ‘Palaces. Churches. Tall campaniles whose bells are the music of Florence. Museums. Theatres. In the Boboli Gardens the lovers kiss and the children play, and at every turn there is a sculpture to delight the eye. Paris? Rome? St Petersburg?’ He shook his head, making a small puffing noise with his mouth, ‘None of them can compare
Her eyes widened. ‘You’ve been to Paris? And St Petersburg?’
He smiled gracelessly, and shrugged a little. ‘Not yet. But what difference? The impossible is impossible – and it isn’t possible to find another city as lovely as Florence.’ He picked up the stone bottle that always stood beside him as he worked and tilted his head to drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. She watched him, as she watched the smallest of his movements, in fascination. He pointed a finger, his face almost serious. ‘One day, Mouse, when Europe is free again, I shall go back. And I shall be the greatest living sculptor in Florence.’
She believed him implicitly; for Jessica, innocently, had lost her heart entirely. On the vulnerable threshold of adulthood, and until now, for a child who lived apparently with almost constant companionship, strangely lonely, she had found in this warm and volatile young man a prince, the fitting subject of all her half-formed growing dreams. She listened, enchanted, and, in listening so, encouraged him to greater and more bewitching flights of fancy. As he spoke she could all but see and smell and hear the city he extolled – the wide, slow-moving river, amber ripples beneath the shadows of the Ponte Vecchio, the green hills beyond patched with olive groves and the dark fingers of cypress, the busy, colourful streets and squares, the lovely buildings. In her mind Florence became a place of mystery and delight hardly second to paradise if Danny were there to share it. As for Danny himself – he found in the child an open, astute and receptive mind, a flatteringly attentive audience for the expression of his own dreams. Not for one moment did the young man perceive the quality of the devotion in the bright, dark eyes that watched him as he worked, nor the depths of his own influence on the child. He saw a charming and intelligent little girl, perhaps a little solemn but with a sturdy independence and a subversive sense of humour that delighted him; in short, he saw a friend, improbable perhaps, but none the less welcome for that. Not once did it occur to him to see in her the budding of adolescence and with it the pain and wonder of first love.
The communication between them was by no means one-way. Almost as interested in her way of life as she was in his, he encouraged her to talk of it. She told him of MacKenzie and of Lucy, of life at New Hall, of her friendship with Robert and – finally and painfully – of Edward’s death.
Danny cocked his head, listening to the distant waters of the weir. ‘That must have been very sad for you all.’
‘It was awful. Mama still cries, I think. Edward was her favourite.’
‘But – now? A wedding in the family? Surely, all will be well again? Life has to go on, Mouse.’
‘Hmm.’ Thought of the coming wedding never particularly cheered Jessica. Even the prospect of being the chief of Clara’s maids did not really ease the odd disquiet the thought of Giles and Clara always brought to her.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘You don’t approve?’ He was always interested in her opinion, having discovered long since that, child or not, her eye was remarkably clear.
It had not occurred to her to look at it in those terms. She thought for a moment. ‘It isn’t that. It’s just – the whole thing seems so – so odd to me. I thought that when people were in love they – well, they held hands, and kissed and things – you know.’ She had suddenly flushed bright as a poppy. ‘Well, that they were kind to one another—’
‘And they aren’t?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’ She stopped, biting her lip in perplexity. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t say that? I mean – how do I know how they act when they’re alone? Not that they hardly ever are – they don’t seem particularly to want to be – oh, I don’t know – it’s just that it seems to me that something’s – well, wrong—’
He had stopped working and was regarding her, surprised interest in his eyes. ‘Wrong? How, wrong?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I can’t explain. And I suppose I really shouldn’t be talking about it. It isn’t my business, is it? Please – tell me some more about your grandparents’ house in Florence—’
For several reasons, some more obvious than others, Jessica kept this new friendship very much to herself. She was as certain as she could be without putting it to the test that if her parents – or anyone else at New Hall – found out about it they would find some plausible adult reason to put a stop to it. Yet beyond that was something else; Danny, for this short time, was hers, and shared with no one. She had never had such a private and singular relationship before – even Robert was Clara’s brother, his parents’ son, an approved friend of the family. And of course the very secrecy of their comradeship added spice to it. They met usually in the church, though on rare occasions she would go to the cottage where he would sit at the table with wine – which she had long since noticed with some degree of admiration he drank in copious quantities – and bread and cheese whilst she sipped at a mug of milk that somehow always tasted better than the milk she drank at home. They never seemed to stop talking. With no concession to her youth and inexperience Danny talked with indiscriminate and undisciplined intelligence of anything that came into his head; of religion, of art, of the passionate and idealistic ideas of his Republican father. That his mother had died because of these very passions had not passed him by and his general attitude to politics was cynical in the extreme. ‘They’re all after something, little Mouse, mark my words. Never believe any of them. If you want the truth look into the hearts of your friends—’ he grinned and lifted his flask of wine ‘—or in the bottom of one of these—’ They discovered a shared love of words that delighted Jessica, and when she shyly brought to the church a book of poetry he insisted that she read to him as he worked. For Jessica these were perhaps the happiest hours she had ever spent, reading aloud to him, stumbling occasionally over unfamiliar words or ideas, filled with happiness when he took the trouble to explain or discuss them. It was obvious that his education had been as unconventional as everything else about him. For ten years after his mother’s death he and his father had moved from city to city, living always in colonies of artists, artisans and craftsmen. Inevitably these communities had grown up usually in the poorer parts of the towns but their lack of affluence and physical comfort was more than countered by the warmth, colour and variety of the life they led. Danny’s father, despite his feckless inability to stay in one place, had been devoted to the child and had passed on to him both his own passion for stone – and to a lesser degree the carving of wood – and his not inconsiderable store of knowledge and appreciation of all the arts. A well-educated man himself he had, until the day three years before when he had been killed in a drunken brawl in a Southwark brothel, made sure that their gypsy life did not deprive his son of learning. That there were great and intriguing gaps in Danny’s education – Jessica was delightedly scandalized to discover he knew nothing whatsoever of the kind of arithmetic without which, in MacKenzie’s opinion, it was impossible to live – made him all the more interesting to her. Sometimes the strength of her feelings for him disturbed her. A day that passed without their meeting was a tragedy, the prospect of seeing him more exciting than anything she had ever experienced. Too young to recognize either infatuation or the growth of true passion she only knew that she could not bear the thought of being parted from him. And so she kept her secret.
July brought a heatwave. The countryside shimmered, day after day, beneath cloudless skies and a blazing sun. Dust lifted from the grassland of the park and the green was bleached from the landscape. In the fields of the estate sweat ran in dusty rivulets down the faces of the haymakers despite the protection afforded by the wide brims of their straw hats. Even the lofty, usually cool rooms of New Hall were not immune. With all the windows open the silken summer curtains hung like rags in the still air and the atmosphere was stifling. Tempers grew short. Caroline drifted about, gossamer clad and still contriving to look cool as a cucumber, declaring herself to be quite expiring from the heat. Giles’ brow furrowed as days turned to weeks without rain. Even Jessica’s energy deserted her a little, though nothing would prevent her regular trips to the church and Danny. He was working now on the lovely ancient wooden rood screen, his fingers deft and sure and loving as they patched and polished the ornate wood. In point of fact St Agatha’s was probably at this time the most comfortable place on the estate, and it was with relief that Jessica would enter the cool dark interior and settle herself to watch Danny work.
It could not, of course, last. Such a secret, in such circumstances, was certain sooner or later to be discovered.
It happened on a blazing hot July day. There had been, over luncheon, some talk of a trip into Long Melford – Lavenham being thought too far to travel in the sweltering heat and the dust of the roads. Jessica needed some slippers and her sister, who already owned more bonnets than Jessica could believe she knew what to do with, had expressed a need for another, a need which could wait neither for the Scotchman nor for an order to London. Lately she had been affecting a charming simplicity in her dress, a stylized ‘milkmaid’ look which suited her well – uncharitably Jessica had once or twice been tempted to remind her of the fate of Marie Antoinette not so many years before. No firm agreement had been reached about the trip however and, assuming her freedom, Jessica had collected Apple and Bran from the stables and ridden to the church. Danny looked up, smiling, at her entrance. His dark hair was plastered to his scalp and his shirt clung wetly to his body. ‘I’ve been for a swim in the lake,’ he said, in answer to her questioning look. Bran bounded to his side, flag tail wagging. Danny patted him affectionately before reaching for the stone bottle that stood on the table, tipping his head and drinking. ‘It’s too damned hot to do anything today.’
‘You shouldn’t swim this end of the lake,’ Jessica said automatically. ‘It’s dangerous unless you’re a really strong swimmer.’
He shrugged and his teeth flashed again. ‘I am,’ he said, modestly. He took another mouthful of wine then put the bottle down and tapped the cork back into place. ‘Jessica Hawthorne – little Mouse – I hereby declare a day of rest. I’ve got bread and cheese. Let’s go and eat them by the river.’
She clapped her hands. ‘What a lovely idea!’
He led the way outside. She took Apple’s rein and, Bran trotting beside them, walked beside him down the river path.
‘There’s a place along here – ah, there. Will this do, my lady?’
The bank of the river here sloped gently away from the path, from which a natural screen of hawthorn hedge hid it. Downstream a willow dipped graceful, drifting fronds into the slow-running deep water. Even the grass, this close to the water, was still emerald green and untouched by drought. On the river two swans sailed, snow white and graceful.
‘Lovely!’ Jessica tied Apple in the shade of a tree. Bran ambled on a half dozen steps then flopped down, one eye closed, the other devotedly upon Jessica.
Danny threw himself, long and limber, upon the grass, stood the wine flask carefully on the uneven ground and unfolded the kerchief he had been carrying. Courteously he offered bread and cheese to Jessica.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve eaten, thank you. I couldn’t manage another mouthful in this heat.’ She dropped down beside him, took off her wide-brimmed sunhat and tossed it onto the grass. ‘Blessed thing!’
He grinned through a mouthful of bread and cheese. ‘You’ll end up brown as a berry if you aren’t careful. Then what would your Mama say?’
‘Just at the moment I don’t care a fig, so there!’ She laid back, staring through the still, laden branches above her to the vast, endless blue of the sky beyond. The river rippled gently and musically against the bank. Bran snored.
‘Jessica? Jess-i-ca!’
Jessica started bolt upright at the sound. Danny stopped, the wine jar poised halfway to his lips.
‘Jessica!’
Caroline’s voice, impatient, from the path above. Jessica scrambled to her feet. Apple, innocent traitor, lifted his head and nickered at the familiar voice.
‘Oh, there you are! Jessica, really, what a dance you’ve led me—!’ Before Jessica could move to cut her off Caroline had appeared above them, dressed in palest pink, golden hair piled beneath a wide brimmed hat that was laden with pink and white roses and was tied beneath her chin with a wide silken bow. Winsome curls had escaped confinement and strayed around her long white neck. She stood, perfectly poised, her wide blue eyes taking in the scene before her. Danny had not moved; he sat as if struck to stone. Bran lolloped to his feet and went to Caroline, sniffing her skirt, tail swishing. She ignored him. Her eyes were upon Danny.
Slowly and with grace he stood. From the moment she had appeared his eyes had not left her flushed and lovely face.
‘Well, well,’ Caroline said, thoughtfully. ‘What have we here?’
Jessica looked from one to the other.
‘Mama sent me to find you,’ her sister said, addressing Jessica whilst her eyes still clung to Danny’s. ‘We are to go to Melford after all.’
Jessica said nothing. She stood awkwardly, hands clasped childishly in front of her, rank misery rising in her heart. She looked at Danny’s lifted, burnished face, lit to angel’s glory by the sun, and child though she was she saw the blinding of his eyes, saw too the expression on her sister’s face as she looked down at him. For a truly terrible moment she felt as if she herself must have vanished or become invisible, for neither of them glanced at her, so absorbed were they in each other.
‘It’s my fault, I fear,’ Danny said quietly, ‘I’ve kept Miss Jessica talking.’
Caroline inclined her head. Her eyes flicked to her sister. ‘Jessica?’ she prompted gently, and her eyes returned to the dark, admiring face of the young man who stood so gracefully assured before her.
‘I – oh – this is D-Danilo O’Donnel,’ Jessica stuttered. ‘He’s restoring the church for Clara’s wedding. Danny – this is my sister Caroline.’
And in the brief, telling silence that followed the introduction she knew, surely and beyond doubt, that she had lost him.