Melbury New Hall was struck to silence by the rage of its master. The household’s servants scurried like frightened mice from door to door, footmen stood blank-eyed, mouths like shut traps. No voice was raised. Even the clocks, it seemed to Jessica, muffled their ticking and their chimes in the atmosphere engendered by William Hawthorne’s fury.
In the dining room the family sat in a tense silence that was broken only by the chink of cutlery against china. At the far end of the table Maria Hawthorne sat, eyes downcast to her plate, face impassive. Caroline sat beside Jessica, white-faced and miserable, toying with her food. Opposite them, alone on the other side of the long mahogany table, sat John, the lines of his usually open face grimly obdurate and bleak with pain. He had not even picked up his fork, and his food lay untouched and cooling before him. He had cried out just once in the course of the thrashing he had received at the hands of his father; the rest of the punishment he had borne in obstinate silence, which had by no means encouraged his father to lay on the strap with a lighter hand. Jessica had run upstairs to the nursery and sat on her bed, her fingers in her ears, yet still she had felt she could hear the ghastly sound of that strap rising and falling, though common sense had told her she could not. She glanced now from under her lashes at John. He sat like a statue, eyes on his untouched plate, a faint sheen of sweat on his sun-browned skin. Beside her Jessica could all but feel the shrieking of Caroline’s nerves, strung almost to breaking point.
William Hawthorne with calm deliberation cleared his plate, laid down his fork, sipped his claret, his face unreadable as he watched his younger son over the rim of his glass.
‘You cannot win, John,’ he said, quietly, the first words that had been spoken in the course of that awful meal. ‘Accept that now, and spare us all a deal of pain. I’ll see you dead before a son of mine joins the whoremongers of the Roman Church.’ The last words were spoken as quietly and with as little emphasis as the first, yet something in the level tone made Jessica’s skin creep.
John lifted his head in sharp protest and, despite himself, flinched at the pain the movement caused him.
His father, seeing it, nodded grimly. ‘I’ve thrashed you once. I’ll thrash you again. And again. Until you see sense, boy. Until you apologize – to me, to your mother, to your brother and sisters – for bringing such disgrace to the Hawthorne name.’
John’s mouth suddenly set in the identical line to his father’s. ‘And is that your answer?’ he asked, abruptly, deep anger sparking in his eyes. ‘Is it your argument that because you are stronger than I, and think you can beat me into submission, you are right, and I am wrong?’
Jessica’s stomach lurched uncomfortably; never in her life had she heard anyone take such a tone with her father. Beside her Caroline drew a sharply distressed breath and laid down her fork with a quick, nervous movement.
Colour flared in William Hawthorne’s fair, handsome face. ‘Argument, boy?’ His quiet voice held the cutting edge of a razor. ‘There is no argument! I’m telling you. No son of mine dabbles in Popery. No son of mine involves himself with a nest of traitorous idol-worshippers. There is no argument,’ he repeated, the words softly adamant. ‘I’ll see you starved under lock and key before you’ll shame me so.’
No one knew how William Hawthorne had discovered about John’s visits to the Catholic Bartletts in Melford: but certain it was that hearing it from an outsider had doubled the rage that had greeted John’s consequent and defiant admissions. The beating had been a brutal one, and the threats of further discipline were not, they all knew, empty. Unhappily Jessica watched poor John, willing him to give in. Nothing, surely, could be worth this humiliation?
John’s chin was up. He shook his head, slowly. ‘No, Father,’ he said.
The fine stem of the claret glass in William Hawthorne’s hand cracked like a pistol shot. A footman, eyes downcast, stepped forward and took it. William Hawthorne did not even glance at him as he relinquished his hold on the shattered glass.
‘No,’ John said again. ‘Nothing you can say – nothing you can do short of killing me – will stop me. I will be a Roman Catholic priest if it takes my life to do it.’
Face suffused, very slowly William Hawthorne rose, leaning across the table upon his hands, towering above the son who defied him. ‘Brave words, Sir! Brave words from a foolish schoolboy who knows nothing – nothing! – of what he speaks! I’ll break you, boy – you hear me? – I’ll break you before I see you do this. I’ll see you chained in Bedlam! For that is most assuredly where you belong—!’
Even John flinched at the pitiless anger in his father’s face. He bit his lip, said nothing.
‘And also,’ William said, more quietly, ‘I’ll see to it that the full force of the law is brought down upon those that have done this – those blackguards that have subverted you, turned you against your family and your heritage—’
John’s fear fled. Pain notwithstanding he leapt to his feet, all but overturning the heavy chair upon which he had been sitting. ‘Heritage?’ he shouted, his face inches from his father’s, his rage an equal of the older man’s. ‘What heritage? You talk of disgrace? You dare to talk of right and wrong? Oh, no Father, don’t preach to me of my heritage! I want none of it. There is nothing you can give me, Father – nothing you could possibly offer – that would be worth that to me—’ He snapped his fingers beneath his father’s nose. ‘Nothing! And as for persecuting those kindly souls who have helped me, that have shown me the truth – may God forgive you for the very thought. But I tell you I will not—!’
‘Silence!’ William Hawthorne’s fist crashed upon the table, and glasses and cutlery jumped. Caroline gave a small, muffled shriek and shrank back in her chair. ‘Silence I say!’
‘No!’ John was as angry as his father and as far beyond reason or control. His face was chalk-white, his eyes blazing. ‘You’ll flog me anyway, no doubt, so I’ll have my say first. Listen well, Father, for I mean every word. Beat me, starve me, chain me – oh, I know you can do all of that – but you’ll not stop me! Sooner or later, unless you truly are willing to kill me, you’ll have to let me go. Sooner or later I shall be free. And then I shall become a Catholic and a priest of the Roman Church, if they’ll have me. And, as for all of this—’ with a scornful sweep of his arm he encompassed the table with its rich food, its silver, its crystal, its fine china, ‘my heritage – as you’re pleased to call it—’ his voice had dropped to a calm anger, his eyes were steady in his pale face. ‘I spit on it. Ill-gotten gains, ill-kept. Proceeds from a shameful trade that keep us in luxury whilst those that provided it still bleed to death in chains.’ He raised a shaking finger, pointing, ‘Try as you may, Father, you’ll never escape that. That’s the Hawthorne heritage—’
William Hawthorne had taken two swift steps. John saw his intention and made no move to avoid it. As his father’s hand crashed across his mouth he staggered, then righted himself. William hit him again, with all the force he could muster. Caroline screamed, then crammed a small bunched fist into her mouth, her breath coming in uneven sobs. Jessica’s heart was thumping against her ribs. In desperation she glanced at her mother. Maria Hawthorne sat with bowed head, hands clasped tightly upon the table before her. Behind her chair a footman stood impassive, staring into space. A third time William Hawthorne struck, the back of his hand catching his son’s face so hard that the boy was knocked sideways across the table. He sprawled for a moment, stunned, shaking his head. Blood marked his face, and for all his anger there was fear too in his eyes at the unprecedented rage he had provoked. His father caught him by the collar and, big as he was, hauled him upright. ‘Puppy! Puking, yapping little puppy! And like the ill-mannered, ill-behaved pup you are you’ll be treated, by God! You’ll fetch the strap, and you’ll go to the library, boy, and there you’ll wait for me.’ William’s voice shook with the effort he was making to control it. ‘You’re about to leam a lesson you’ll never forget, Sir, I promise you.’ He let go of John, almost throwing him from him. ‘You’ll regret for the rest of your life the day you dared to cross me, boy. Now, go!’
John swayed a little on his feet. William lifted a hand. His son flinched away, putting up his hands to protect his face.
‘Go!’ William thundered.
Cowed, the boy turned, his defiance fled. Slowly he walked to the door. William returned to his seat, sat down, glanced about the table. Caroline was openly crying, Jessica was white-faced and frightened. He ignored them both. ‘The dessert, my dear,’ he said to Maria, his voice hard as iron.
She nodded and lifted an almost steady finger to the footman.
The meal struggled on in a fraught silence that was punctuated by Caroline’s sobs. At last, after what seemed to Jessica an age, Maria rose and signalled to her daughters. Thankfully they stumbled to their feet and followed her. At the door Jessica glanced back at her father in time to see him, face set to a mask of anger, pour a large glass of port, toss it back in one quick movement before striding from the room towards the library where poor John awaited him.
Miserably Jessica trailed after her mother. Once in the drawing room she caught her hand, urgent and pleading. ‘Mama – please! Papa’s already beaten John once – isn’t that enough? Can’t you stop him—?’
As she spoke they all heard the sound of raised voices – William’s, deep and resonant, John’s lighter and cracking with fear and anger.
Maria Hawthorne shook her head. ‘Your father is the head of this household, Jessica,’ she said quietly. ‘It is not my place to question his decisions or his authority. And most certainly not yours. Kindly pour the tea.’
Rebellion stirred. ‘But—’
From the direction of the library came a muffled shriek, and then another. The blood drained entirely from Maria Hawthorne’s face. ‘The tea, Jessica,’ she repeated.
Caroline sobbed, clapped a hand to her mouth and ran from the room.
Jessica, aching to follow her, carefully poured the tea and for the only time she ever remembered was not reprimanded as her shaking hand spilled the golden liquid into the delicate saucers.
From the library the sound of John’s torment had reduced to rhythmic, gasping sobs as already bruised flesh suffered more punishment.
Jessica looked down with blurred eyes at her teacup, praying in her innocence that John might beg for mercy, admit his sin, promise apology, reform – anything! Anything to stop the remorseless, ruthless sound of the rise and fall of the strap.
John did not. Confined to bed in a locked room for four days he stubbornly refused to capitulate. On a bread and water diet and in pain after the truly savage beatings he had suffered he grimly stuck to his guns. Threatened with further punishment he reacted by refusing to utter another word to his father. The last word had been said, his silence inferred. No brutality would make him change his mind.
No one, not even his mother, was allowed to visit him.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, why doesn’t he give in?’ Jessica asked Robert miserably one day. ‘He can’t win against Father – he surely must know it? He’ll just make things worse for himself than they are—’
They were sitting in the oriel window of the Old Drawing Room. The autumn evenings were drawing in, promising the approach of winter, and the courtyard was dismal with drifting rain; but cold as it was no one had yet got round to lighting the fire. Jessica breathed on chilled hands and reflected a little ruefully upon the clockwork running of New Hall where by now upwards of a dozen fires would have been lit and tended by two maids whose whole duty it was.
Robert shook his head thoughtfully at her question. ‘That obviously isn’t the way John sees it. It must be very important to him indeed. I’m surprised, to be honest, that he should prove so strong—’
‘Strong? Or stupid?’ Fraught with anxiety Jessica kicked her heels irritably against the ancient panelling. ‘What good is he doing? And – oh, I’m so afraid that Father will beat him again. It was horrible!’ Restlessly she slid from the seat and wandered to the piano. The lid stood open. She ran one finger sharply along the keys, producing a discordant sound. ‘What I can’t make out is how Father found out?’
Robert shrugged. ‘Gossip. John was very naive if he believed that he could visit the Bartletts without word getting back sooner or later. The family are known as staunch Catholics, and unpopular with some because of it. They frequently have priests staying there and quite openly celebrate Mass. Your family is one of the most prominent in this part of the country; nothing any of you do is likely to go without comment—’ he stopped.
She had turned to stare at him. ‘But – that’s awful! You mean – people watch what we do? People who don’t know us?’ The thought had never occurred to her, and she hated it.
‘Of course,’ he said, unfeelingly cheerful. ‘It’s the price you have to pay for being filthy rich.’
She hunched her shoulders and turned from him. Of all the distressing things about this distressing business John’s violent condemnation of their way of life had not been, for Jessica, the least. ‘Well, I just wish he’d see sense so that things could go back to the way they used to be,’ she said, gloomily. Aimlessly she wandered back to the window seat, hitched herself up beside him again. ‘Home’s not a nice place to live at the moment, I can tell you. Mama hardly says anything, Caroline keeps having fits—’ She cocked her head. ‘I suppose at least it’s a small mercy that Clara and Giles aren’t home!’
Robert laughed. ‘They’re in Brighton. It’s cold and it’s wet and no one who’s anyone is there so they’re going back to London, to visit Lady Belworth. We heard yesterday. They must be there by now.’
‘When are they coming home?’
He shrugged. ‘A couple of weeks, I think.’
‘Well John had better sort himself out by then,’ Jessica prophesied grimly. ‘Father’s one thing – but Father and Giles—!’ Her expression was comically graphic.
Robert looked around the room. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it – that Clara doesn’t live here any more?’
‘Mmm.’
Robert stood, and stretched. ‘One of the few things in life that will give my sister real pleasure, I should think.’
Jessica jumped down beside him. ‘What?’
‘Why, living at New Hall. She’s always wanted to go back there. Ever since she was a little girl.’
Jessica stared at him in surprise. ‘Whatever for? Old Hall’s much nicer!’
He nodded. ‘I agree with you. Clara wouldn’t. Old Hall isn’t grand enough for her. She’s always resented the fact that the FitzBoltons had to leave the new house. She was very small when it was sold, of course. But I honestly think she never forgave Father for it.’
‘More fool her. If I’d known I’d have swapped with her any time. Well, at least, as you say, she ought to be happy now. Shall we go and see if Mrs Williams has done any baking? I’m starving—!’
A week later, with his wounds barely healed and still not a word spoken to his father, John climbed from his bedroom window and vanished.
House and countryside were in an uproar; and William Hawthorne’s fury this time knew no bounds. At least, rumour and gossiping servants notwithstanding, John’s disgraceful behaviour had until now remained a private family affair. Now the word was out, and he saw a knowing smile in every eye, heard sympathy or scorn – both to him equally unacceptable – in every voice.
When Danny asked Jessica in the midst of the commotion to carry a note to Caroline, she all but refused. The thought at the moment of being caught in the slightest wrongdoing was daunting to say the least.
‘Come on, Mouse – please? I have to talk to her.’ Danny was at his most charmingly persuasive. ‘I haven’t seen her for days! I’m worried about her.’
‘You can worry about all of us if you like, while you’re about it,’ Jessica said, for once unimpressed. ‘Honestly, it’s like living on a barrel of gunpowder that’s likely to blow up at any minute—!’ Reluctantly, nevertheless, she took the note he held out. ‘You can’t blame Caroline if she doesn’t come.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with her, then? I was afraid she might be ill.’
Jessica hesitated. ‘No. Not ill. She’s – upset. We all are.’
‘There’s no news of John?’
She shook her head. ‘Not a word yet. Papa rode to Melford, to the Bartletts, but they swore they hadn’t seen him. Oh, Danny – I’m so worried about him! Where on earth can he be? Supposing—’ She stopped, biting off the words, turning her head, blinking, her eyes on the river.
He put an arm about her shoulders in a characteristically warm gesture. ‘Oh, no, Mouse – he won’t have done anything so silly! Not John. He’s already shown more strength than most. He’ll be all right, you’ll see.’
Easily said. But as Apple plodded, head down against a blustering wind, back across the park, Jessica wondered. John had left with nothing but the clothes in which he stood. He had been gone for two full days. Anything might have happened.
In the distance, above the sound of the wind, the weir roared.
Caroline was in her room. She was sitting before her mirrored dressing-table brushing her hair when Jessica peered cautiously around the door.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, come in and shut the door! Do you want me to catch my death?’
From long practice Jessica ignored her sister’s peevishness, which under the stress which at the moment held the household seemed to have come back in full force. She glanced warily about the room, peered through the open dressing room door. ‘Where’s Maisie?’
‘I sent her away,’ Caroline said, snappishly. ‘The girl’s as clumsy as an elephant! She pulls my hair just looking at it! If only this stupid war would end and I could find a decent French maid—’
Jessica did not bother to protest that there might be good reasons beyond that to end a war that was devastating Europe, widowing wives and orphaning innocent children. ‘I’ve a message from Danny,’ she said, shortly, and proffered the note.
Caroline stilled as if frozen, the brush poised in mid-stroke. Then very slowly she lowered her arm, her eyes on the scrap of paper her sister held.
‘Well?’ Jessica asked impatiently, ‘aren’t you going to read it?’
After a moment’s hesitation Caroline snatched it and turned her back as she unfolded it. Jessica wandered to the window, which overlooked the front courtyard of the house. This was a pretty room, warm and cosy with firelight, the canopied bed draped in ivory and gold brocade, the lit candles of the branched chandelier glowing brightly. Beyond the window it was near darkness, and an autumn gale was blowing. ‘I wonder where John is?’ she asked, quietly, almost talking to herself.
‘Wherever he is it’s his own fault that he’s there.’ Caroline’s voice was abstracted and totally lacking in any feeling. She folded the note, turned back to the mirror. On a chair by the bed was draped a dress of deep claret velvet, the matching gloves, scarf and fan ranged upon the bed, set out by Caroline’s despised maid. Jessica fingered the soft material of the dress. ‘I do hope he’s all right.’
Caroline shrugged.
‘It was awful, wasn’t it – Father finding out like that?’ Jessica was talking more or less aimlessly, wanting only to share her own worries, her own fears. ‘Robert says it was gossip. He says that because we’re who we are people watch us, and talk about us. He says we can’t do anything without everyone knowing about it. Isn’t that—’ She jumped as her sister slammed the hairbrush violently onto the dressing-table and the glass pots and jars rattled fiercely. ‘Wh-whatever’s the matter?’ and then ‘Oh – sorry,’ she added, sheepishly, her eyes on the note, ‘I didn’t mean—’
Caroline buried her face in her hands. ‘Go away, Jessica.’
‘But—’
‘Go away!’ Hysteria hovered in the barely controlled shriek.
Jessica pulled a face at the bowed golden head. ‘All right. I’m going. Isn’t there any answer then?’
‘What?’
‘To the note. Danny’s note. Isn’t there any reply?’
Caroline turned her head, and the expression on her drawn face struck her sister to silence. Caroline lifted the note and held it in front of her, staring at it as intently as a child that studied its first words and tried to make sense of them. ‘No,’ she said, ‘there’s no reply.’
‘But Danny said—’
Caroline’s hands moved convulsively, and the note crumpled. ‘I don’t care what Danny said. I don’t care what anyone says! I’m tired. I want to be left alone—’
Jessica lifted her head sharply. ‘What’s that? A carriage? Who on earth can it be? We aren’t expecting anyone, are we?’ She ran to the window. ‘Oh, Caroline, look! It’s Giles and Clara! Father must have sent word to them. Oh, Lord! Giles is going to be absolutely furious with John—’
Caroline had joined her at the window. Beneath them Giles handed Clara from the carriage. ‘Damn!’ Caroline whispered, viciously, under her breath. ‘Damn!’
‘What’s the matter?’
Caroline shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘It doesn’t sound like nothing. I’ve never ever heard you swear before.’
Caroline turned on her, levelling the hairbrush threateningly. ‘Out,’ she said, flatly.
This time Jessica did not argue.
Downstairs the new arrivals, still dressed for travelling, were already with her parents in the drawing room. Jessica slipped quietly through the door, grinning quick acknowledgement of the conspiratorial wink of the footman who stood guard by it.
‘—what the devil’s been going on? – Begging your pardon, Mama—’ Giles added automatically. ‘Father, your message said that John had run away. Run away—?’
Clara, dressed in brown velvet and smooth fur, a sweeping, elegant hat upon her dark head, stood by the fireplace warming her hands, her sharp eyes taking in everything. ‘Good evening, Jessica,’ she said, pointedly.
Every eye turned to Jessica who had been trying to make herself inconspicuous if not invisible behind a large sofa. She blushed violently. Trust Clara! Back in the house for five minutes, and a pain already!
‘Hello Clara. Hello Giles. I saw your carriage arrive. I just thought I’d – come and say hello—’ she broke off.
Giles nodded brusquely. Clara smiled. Jessica’s mother stood up. ‘You’ll see them at dinner, my dear. Meanwhile your father has things to discuss with Giles, so run along now. Clara – a cup of tea after your journey?’
At dinner, presumably by mutual agreement of the adults present, nothing was said of John. In face of this obdurate refusal to discuss what was uppermost in all of their minds Jessica did not have the gall to broach the subject herself, though she seethed at her own cowardice. Desperately she wanted to know what was being done about finding him – what might happen to him once he was found – but her courage failed her and she ate in silence as the others lightly discussed the marriage trip.
Jessica it was who heard the faint sound of the crunch of footsteps on the gravel, that was followed by a brisk knocking on the great front door. She cocked her head, listening. No one else took the slightest notice.
‘—and is this Pavillion as much of a monstrosity as I’ve heard?’ Her mother was asking, as if the foibles of the man who ruled England as Regent for his mad father were the most interesting subject she could possibly wish to discuss.
‘Indeed it is, Mother-in-Law—’
The door opened, and the head footman entered and made his silent way to the head of the table, where he bent to whisper in William Hawthorne’s ear. Jessica saw the blood rise in her father’s face, and then drain away leaving it bleached of colour. He stood up. From the hall below the sound of a familiar voice drifted, loud in the silence that had fallen about the table.
With no word William strode from the room.
‘And was the weather really so bad?’ Maria asked, politely, the hand that held her delicate glass shaking almost imperceptibly.
‘It was dreadful,’ Clara said. ‘It rained all the time.’
‘And Lady Belworth? She was well?’
‘Wonderfully. I don’t know how she does it at her age. She was to have given a ball for us next week.’
‘Mama,’ Jessica said urgently, ‘that’s John’s voice.’
Maria surveyed Clara with unseeing eyes. ‘Really? How very kind of her. What a pity you had to leave—’
‘Mama!’ Unable to contain herself longer Jessica leapt to her feet. ‘I’m sure I heard John!’
Maria said nothing. Giles pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘If you will excuse me, Mama?’
Maria nodded without looking at him.
The women watched as he left the room.
Jessica could not bear it. ‘Mama! Please! Can’t we at least go and see if it’s him?’ she begged, tears standing in her eyes.
For a moment she thought that her mother would refuse. Then Maria lifted a finger to the footman who stood behind her and he stepped to her chair, pulling it back so that she could stand. ‘Come,’ she said.
The room led on to the spacious landing from which the great curved staircase swept to the marble-floored entrance hall below. Here Jessica and Lucy had stood to watch the guests as they had arrived for the May Masque. She stood in the same spot now, leaning over the ornate banister. Below in the hall, facing his father and Giles, stood John, dressed in poor and ill-fitting clothes, his face thin and strained. Beside him stood an imposing figure – tall, thin, with a dark, aesthetic face that was dominated by a beak nose, wearing unfamiliar garb that Jessica took to be that of a Catholic priest. In his quietly folded hands he carried a broad-brimmed hat. The skirts of his soutane were mud-stained.
‘—if you aren’t out of my house in ten seconds—’ her father was saying, levelly, his rage on tight leash, ‘—I’ll take a horse-whip to you. How dare you, Sir? How dare you cross my threshold? You, I have no doubt, are the one who has subverted my son—’
‘No,’ John said, hoarsely.
His father did not even glance at him. ‘—And yet you have the gall – the impertinence to—’
‘Please.’ The stranger held up a long, narrow hand. His quiet, pleasant voice was placating. Yet, oddly Jessica thought, William Hawthorne fell to silence. Even the watchers on the landing could feel the quiet power of the man’s presence. ‘Mr Hawthorne, I understand that you are angry – hurt – outraged, even. It was wrong of John to run away as he did. It solves nothing. I bring him back to you—’
‘No!’ John cried again.
‘I bring you back your son,’ the stranger repeated, gently and inexorably, ‘so that we may discuss what troubles us. I would suggest there are arguments you have not considered—’
William recovered his voice. ‘The law will hear your arguments, Sir. And the law will not take a light view of this!’
‘Father—!’ John pleaded.
‘Shut up, John!’ Giles, standing beside his father, glowered at his brother. ‘Haven’t you caused enough trouble?’
The stranger lifted his head, and again Jessica was struck by the commanding aura of the man. ‘I fear that you are right, of course. The law of the land is on your side; sadly it always is when it come to matters of Holy Mother Church. But Mr Hawthorne, I entreat you, for your son’s sake – for his happiness and for the good of his soul; what of God’s laws? What of His claims upon us?’
‘Claptrap!’ Giles snapped.
William raised a hand that enjoined silence. He and the strange priest studied each other for a long, level moment.
‘Do you know your son?’ the man asked, at last, quietly. ‘Do you know his strength? You’ll never break him. Who, ever, has broken you?’
There was a strange moment of silence. Then, ‘Come,’ William said, brusquely, and turned, leading the way upstairs. The priest, the boy and Giles followed. The women drew back as the odd little procession passed. Jessica caught John’s eye and his attempt at a reassuring smile failed miserably. He passed his mother with downcast eyes. ‘Attend the ladies, Giles,’ William said, quietly and in a tone not to be questioned. ‘We’ll not be long.’
As the library door closed behind them Maria unclasped hands that had been white with tension. ‘The food will spoil,’ she said. ‘We’ll dine without your father—’
It was nearly an hour before the strange conference was done, and the rest of the company by then had given up any pretence of eating and had retired to the drawing room and the teapot, though Giles had resorted to the brandy bottle.
Jessica, hearing the library door open, jumped up. ‘They’re coming!’
‘Sit down, please, Jessica.’ Her mother’s admonition was not unkind, ‘We will discover soon enough what is to happen.’
Reluctantly Jessica sat, picked up the ill-executed sampler she had been struggling with.
‘Please, Father,’ – John’s quiet voice filtered through the open door. ‘Do I have your permission to say goodbye?’
There was a moment’s quiet. Then, ‘As you wish,’ William Hawthorne grunted.
Maria rose as her son entered the room and faced him coolly.
‘Father has agreed that I may go with Father Peter,’ the boy explained quietly. ‘It’s what I want more than anything. I’m sorry, Mama. Truly sorry.’
Maria said nothing.
John stepped to her and his lips brushed her cold cheek. She did not move to embrace him. He hesitated, as if to say something further, then shook his head slightly and turned to where Caroline sat. His sister averted her head and neither moved nor looked at him as he quickly kissed her cheek in farewell. Clara offered a hand, gracefully. To Jessica’s surprise she was smiling, very slightly, a small, secret light of pleasure in her eyes as she looked at John’s bowed head. Giles ignored John’s tentatively proffered hand, turning from him in deliberate insult, saying nothing, tossing back the last of his brandy in a swift, angry way. Hurt in his face John shrugged, and turned to Jessica who, uncaring of the proprieties, launched herself at him, flinging her arms about his waist, burying her head in his chest. ‘Oh, John!’ her voice was desolate and wobbling with tears. ‘I wish you wouldn’t go!’
He held her tightly for a moment, stroking the mass of her hair, then gently he put her from him. ‘I must, Jessie. Please try to understand. I must.’
Mute with misery she stepped back and watched him as he walked past his father to where Father Peter waited, calm faced, by the door.
‘Understand,’ William Hawthorne said, coldly, to his son’s back, ‘that this is the end. There will be no going back. You are no longer my son. Not now. Not ever. You have no birthright. You’ll get not a penny nor a brick of mine.’
John stopped, then turned, shaking his head, his face sad. ‘Father – and father you’ll always be, admit it or no – will you never see? I don’t want your money. I never wanted it. You have tonight given me the only thing I have ever wanted, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Please believe that I’m sorry to have caused you so much distress.’ He glanced at his mother’s still face, then turned abruptly and left the room, the priest’s dusty skirts swishing in his wake. Profound silence followed their going. Giles, in a sharp release from tension, stormed to the window and stood nursing his empty glass looking into the darkness. William extended a steady hand to his wife, who as steadily accepted it, and together they left the room. Jessica wondered if she imagined the extra brilliance of her mother’s blue eyes.
Caroline clicked her fan nervously upon her velvet-clad knees. ‘Well, thank heaven for small mercies. Now perhaps we can all get back to normal.’
Clara had joined her husband at the window. She touched his arm lightly, and he turned. She tilted her head and smiled, that strange, small, secret gleam of pleasure once more in her eyes. ‘Poor misguided John,’ she said, gently. ‘We must all pray for his happiness, mustn’t we?’
It was less than a week later that Jessica began to realize that matters were far worse between Caroline and Danny than she had first believed. The meetings that she witnessed between them were no longer the joyous affairs they had been. Certainly Danny still watched for Caroline with intent and anxious eyes, certainly he still hurried to her side when she appeared, but his manner was strained and, alone with Jessica, he often fell to brooding silences. Then one day she came upon them quarrelling violently. Caroline, on seeing her, turned and fled, tears streaming down her face.
‘Caroline!’ Danny shouted after her, his voice a mixture of anger and entreaty, ‘Caroline, come back! It does no good to run away—!’ But on she ran, and Danny with no word had brushed past Jessica and gone into his cottage, slamming the door behind him.
Caroline kept to her room for a day or so after that, pleading a migraine, and Jessica did not see her until, upon answering a summons from her mother, she entered Maria’s small and elegant sitting room to find Caroline already there, perched sideways upon the deep windowsill gazing in brooding silence out across the park where the last brazen colours of autumn blazed like fire and the leaves skittered across the grass in the breeze. Her sister did not turn as she entered the room, but her mother looked up from her embroidery with a small, welcoming smile. ‘Ah – Jessica. You’ve brought the book?’
Jessica nodded shyly, offering the book of poetry that she carried for her mother’s inspection.
Maria waved a white hand. ‘I leave it to you, my dear. Start with your favourite, if you wish. Mr Wordsworth suits my mood well enough this afternoon. Caroline – ring for some tea, would you? Now, Jessica, let us see if MacKenzie’s grudging praise of your reading talent is justified—’ Her mouth quirked in a small, surprising smile and her glance was almost conspiratorial. Astonished, but more than happy to oblige her mother in this, the only ladylike pursuit in which if she did not actually excel at least she could hold her own, Jessica settled upon the stool next to her mother and opened the book at a much-thumbed page. The next hour passed very pleasantly. She had a true love of poetry, and could communicate that as she read, the lovely rhythm of the words singing in her mind as she spoke, the imagery firing an imagination already, according to MacKenzie, woefully inclined to the romantic. After a while her mother laid aside her needlework and took the book, and in her low, well-modulated voice read extracts from her own favourite work, Milton’s Paradise Lost. Jessica was enthralled, John Milton’s command of the poetic language conjuring for her another world, of fiery angels, mystic landscapes and searing emotion.
‘—Now glowed the firmament/ With living sapphires: Hesperus that led/ The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon/ Rising in cloudy majesty, at length/ Apparent Queen, unveiled her peerless light—’ Maria stopped.
Jessica, absorbed, her eyes upon the glowing depths of the fire, looked up in surprise at the sudden silence, then saw, as her mother had a second before, that Caroline, who for an hour or more had sat staring from the window contributing little or nothing to the conversation, had bowed her head to her hands and was crying desperately and silently, her shoulders shaking.
‘Why, Caroline – my dear – whatever is the matter? Are you ill?’ Maria, concerned, laid aside the book and went to her daughter, laying a light arm across the narrow, heaving shoulders.
Caroline did not lift her head, but her sobs redoubled.
‘Caroline?’ Maria’s voice had sharpened and was edged with worry. ‘Come, child. What is it?’
‘I – have to speak to you—’ The words were muffled, broken by sobs. ‘Oh, please, Mother, I have to! I fear I shall go mad—!’
‘Oh, come now!’ Firmly Maria lifted her daughter’s chin and looked into the lovely, tearful face. ‘What can possibly be that bad?’
Caroline pulled away from her, crying distractedly. ‘Send Jessica away. Please! Oh, please, Mother – I have to talk to you. Alone!’
Maria hesitated, frowning. There was no doubting Caroline’s distress, nor the fraught edge of hysteria in her voice. She turned to Jessica, who had come to her feet and was staring at her sister an odd, half-concerned, half-wary expression on her face. ‘Jessica—’ her mother was faintly apologetic, ‘—you see the state your sister is in. It’s best that you should go.’
Jessica stood a moment longer, desperately and fearfully – and unsuccessfully – trying to catch Caroline’s eye.
‘Please, Jessica.’ Her mother was gently insistent.
‘Very well, Mama.’
‘Good girl. I’ll see you at dinner. Do wear the brown velvet. It suits you very well.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Caroline sobbed on, frenziedly, her face buried once more in her hands. Jessica cast her one, ferocious look. ‘Caroline—!’
‘Best you should leave her to me, I think, Jessica. Off you go.’ The slight sharpness in her mother’s tone brooked neither argument nor any further delay. Reluctantly Jessica left.
Outside, with the door not quite shut, she stopped. In this private and more informal part of the house the corridor was empty. In suspicion and fearful distrust she leaned to the door, listening. She heard her mother’s quiet, soothing voice, then Caroline’s, lifted hysterically, the words all but indistinguishable in the wild sobbing that accompanied them. Jessica strained her ears. ‘—Oh, Mother, the disgrace! I shall die! I know I shall! I can’t have it! I won’t! Oh, I wish I were dead – and the child with me! I’ve been so afraid! Afraid to tell you – to tell Father – oh, Mama, please! Don’t let him beat me – don’t let him beat me as he beat John! I couldn’t bear it! I couldn’t—!’
Maria’s voice murmured again, low and sharp.
‘No! Of course not! How can you think it!’ Caroline was all but screaming, entirely out of control. ‘He forced me! I swear it! It was horrible! He hurt me – and I was so afraid – so ashamed – I couldn’t tell you! I couldn’t. And now – oh, God! I’ll kill myself, I swear I will—!’
‘Caroline!’ Maria’s sharp voice carried clearly to the all but paralyzed child hidden beyond the door. ‘Calm down! Caroline!’ There came the swift and unmistakable sound of a slap. Caroline drew a gasping breath and for a shocked moment was silent. ‘Now.’ Maria’s voice was grimmer than Jessica had ever heard it. ‘Begin at the beginning. Tell me everything.’
Jessica leaned against the wall. Her heart was beating painfully and the blood rushed uncomfortably in her ears. There was no doubt in her mind as to what Caroline was doing – nor what the consequences for Danny would be once the squalid story Caroline was sobbing out so pathetically and so treacherously to her mother was carried to her father. That Caroline would save her own skin at the expense of Danny’s she had no doubt; yet in that awful, blank moment she could see no way to stop it. No one would listen to her, of that she was sure – confronting Caroline with her lies would do nothing but harm.
As she stood, trembling and irresolute, she heard sudden movement within the room, and once again her mother’s voice came clearly to her. ‘Stay here. I’ll see your father at once. You’ll have to face him later – but once he hears the truth of it be assured he won’t punish you.’ The emphasis on the final pronoun was grim. ‘For now, I’ll see him alone—’
Hearing the brisk, hurrying footsteps Jessica gathered her wits enough to duck into a nearby open doorway. She caught the briefest glimpse of her mother’s face, bone-white and outraged, as she passed and then she was gone and Jessica flew back to the sitting room door, throwing it open with a crash fit to tear it from its supports. ‘What have you done?’
Caroline was sitting in an armchair, her face blotched, sobbing into a sodden rag of handkerchief. She jumped, startled and afraid, at her sister’s precipitate entrance.
‘What have you done?’ Jessica was across the room and was upon her, shaking her. ‘You’re wicked! Wicked! What have you told her?’
Caroline, face blazing, wrenched herself from the younger girl’s grip. ‘Go away! Go away! This is all your fault—!’
‘You’ve told her something awful about Danny, haven’t you? You’ve told lies about him, haven’t you? Haven’t you?’
‘Get away from me!’ Caroline pushed her hard, and she almost fell. The hysterical tears had started again. Jessica stood for a moment staring at her sister in disgust and dislike before whirling and running from the room, following the direction that her mother had taken. If her father were out – if there were just some time to warn Danny—
She heard her father before she even reached the main wing of the house. ‘Giles? Giles! Here, to me! At once!’
Jessica flew to the top of the stairs. Down in the entrance hall her father, his face grim with anger, was struggling into his riding coat assisted by a frightened-looking young footman. ‘Giles!’
Giles, his face the picture of astonishment, was standing halfway up the stairs. ‘Father? What is it?’
William looked up and never, not even in facing John’s defiance, had Jessica seen such a distortion of rage upon his face. ‘Fetch the gunroom key. Get four men together. Tell Jessup to saddle half a dozen mounts. Hurry.’
‘But what—?’
‘Do it. I’ll tell you as we ride. We’ve vermin to hunt.’ William took his riding whip from the quailing footman and slashed in furious impatience at a small marble table. ‘The gunroom key, Giles! Hurry, I say!’
Jessica ran. Fighting tears of terror she ran on slippered feet along the corridor to the west wing, almost bowling over an astonished maidservant as she turned a corner. At breakneck speed she tumbled down the stairs and out into the cold and darkening afternoon, dashing to the stables, her feet winged by fear for Danny. She hardly felt the cold that struck chillingly through her thin indoor gown nor felt the sharp stones that cut her feet through slippers thin as paper. As she reached the stables Apple lifted his head, blowing warm affection, and Bran launched himself at her all but bowling her over. ‘Oh, no – Bran, you can’t come! Stay! Bran – stay!’ Frantic, she shrieked the word at him. The dog’s ears drooped. ‘Down!’ Her hand was entangled in Apple’s shaggy mane. There was no time for saddle or bridle. ‘Down!’ she shouted again at the dog. Bran, dispirited, fell back upon his haunches. She jumped and swung herself onto the pony’s warm, smooth back. Fortunately at this time of day the stables were quiet, though in the distance she could already hear the sound of raised voices and running feet. Her heart in her mouth at their closeness she guided Apple out of the stableyard and set him at a flat run across the park.
Danny was in his cottage, as she had guessed he would be with the early darkness closing in. Before the labouring Apple had fairly stopped Jessica had flung herself from his back and was pounding at the door. ‘Danny! Danny, open the door!’
The door swung back and Danny stood there, blinking in astonishment. ‘Jessica! What in the world—?’
She wasted no words. ‘Father’s coming!. And Giles! They’ve got guns! Danny, they’ve found out! About you and Caroline – she’s told the most terrible lies – they’re going to kill you! You have to get away. Hurry—!’
He stared at her. Shook his head.
‘Danny!’ She was frantic. ‘Don’t you hear me? Caroline’s told them—! They’re coming here with guns—’
‘Told them? About the child? But yes – we knew she’d have to, now—’
She shook his arm fiercely. ‘You don’t understand! She lied! She said the most terrible things about you. And Father believes them. And now he’s coming with men, and guns – oh, Danny, you’ve got to get away—!’ She was crying now, tears streaming disregarded down her cheeks. ‘Oh, please! – hurry!’
He stepped back, shaking his head. ‘No – Caroline? She wouldn’t—!’ He stopped, baffled incredulity in his eyes.
‘She did! I heard her! She told Mother that you – forced her – that you hurt her—’
‘Oh my God,’ he said.
‘And now they’re coming, with guns. Danny, you have to get away. You can’t face them. They’ll kill you!’
‘She – said that? That I’d – forced her? – hurt her?’
His face was white as paper. She could not look at it. ‘Yes,’ she said.
He shook his head, shock still holding him. ‘But – there must be a mistake. A misunderstanding. We were to leave together. Tomorrow—’
For the first time Jessica noticed the bare tidiness of the hut, that was usually such a living shambles. A small bundle of clothes lay upon the table. She shook her head fiercely. ‘Caroline? Oh, Danny – are you mad? Caroline won’t come with you. She never would.’
But I would. Oh, I would. Anywhere— The words echoed wildly in her heart, unspoken. Unwanted.
He was still struggling with disbelief. ‘But she said—’
She all but screamed at him. ‘Will you stop arguing? They’re coming! Now! They’re coming with guns because of the lies that Caroline has told them. Danny, she doesn’t want your baby. She told Mother she wished she was dead, and the child with her. I heard her!’
He stood for a single moment longer, and then, at last galvanized into action he turned, moving swiftly to the table and grabbing the bundle that lay there. ‘Money,’ he said, his voice suddenly sharp and clear, ‘I’ll need money—’ He went to a drawer and took out a small bag that clinked as he dropped it into his pocket. Then he ran back to the door where Jessica waited. Faint hoofbeats sounded, and a man’s voice lifted distantly.
‘It sounds as if they’re going to the church first,’ she said, more calmly than she could herself believe, though her voice trembled and her stomach roiled with sickness. ‘You’ve a few more minutes. Take Apple. He’ll carry you. But hurry!’
He shook his head. ‘No. I’m better afoot. That beast would unseat me in a hundred yards – and if they caught me there’d be a hanging charge to my name if I were riding your horse. Anyway, I’ll not embroil you further. I’ll get down to the bridge and slip across country to Sudbury. There’s a coach leaves for London—’
‘No! They’re bound to look there when they realize you’ve gone. Go further afield before you take a coach!’
He nodded and turned to go. Then, swiftly, he turned back and hugged her fiercely, hurting her with the strength of his arms, his cheek pressed hard against her hair. ‘Thank you, little Mouse. God keep you.’ He turned his face in her hair and she felt the pressure of his lips. ‘Bless you,’ he said, and then he released her and was gone, fled into the darkness of the woods. And with him fled the last vestiges of Jessica Hawthorne’s childhood. She had saved him, her dark angel, but in doing so she had lost him. She would never see him again.
Dully she remounted Apple and trotted him back through the woodlands towards the park and the great house.