by Janet Tanner
He scuttled away and left alone Blanche pressed a lace handkerchief to her cold lips to stop them trembling. She had never seen Gilbert so furious before and she realised she had made a bad mistake in attacking his patronage of Sarah. Clearly for the moment she was going to have to suffer the child. But Gilbert’s very stubbornness in the matter served only to heighten her suspicions and his anger was yet another factor. Altruistic Gilbert might be, in this case Blanche was beginning to be convinced there was more to it than that.
As a young girl Rachel Thomas had often stayed in this very house. From what Blanche had heard Rose, Gilbert’s first wife, had been a dull soul and remembering Rachel’s obvious charms Blanche thought it was quite conceivable that even a man as honourable as Gilbert might have been tempted to stray.
If her suspicions were correct then it would be that much more difficult to get rid of Sarah. But Blanche had never been one to give up without a fight. When the opportunity arose she would grasp it with both hands. She crossed to the window and the sky, grey and leaden now above the thinning leaves of the still brilliant-hued trees, seemed to reflect the steely determination in her heart.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Sarah said. ‘I don’t believe you!’
She stood in the centre of the schoolroom, her hands clutching the folds of her skirt, her eyes huge in her small face.
Alicia glared at her maliciously. ‘ It’s true. James was outside the door. He heard every word. You’re a bastard!’
Sarah almost sobbed aloud. ‘ Don’t say that word! It’s bad!’
‘But it’s what you are. That makes you bad too.’
‘It’s not true! My dad was a soldier. He died in India …’
‘Ha-ha!’ Alicia said scornfully. ‘That’s what your mother told you because she was ashamed. He never married her, whoever he was. She was a fallen woman.’
‘She wasn’t. She wasn’t!’
‘Yes she was. I expect that’s why she died. It was a judgement.’
‘What about your mother?’ Sarah sobbed. ‘ She died too. Was she a fallen woman?’
‘No she was not!’ Alicia’s hands screwed into fists. ‘Don’t dare to say such a thing! She was married to my father.’
‘I’ll say if it I like. You said it. You said it about my mother!’
‘Because it’s true.’
‘It’s not. It’s not!’
‘You’re a bastard.’
‘I’m not! You are. You’re the bastard!’ She flew at Alicia, grabbing a handful of the thick dark hair and pulling and suddenly they were scrapping like a pair of young puppies, kicking, biting, tearing at one another’s hair and clothing. For long seconds they fought, their hatred of one another finding expression in violence, and it was only when a voice from the doorway thundered: ‘ Girls! What are you doing?’ that they parted, shame-faced yet still glowering at one another.
‘It was her – she started it! She called me a terrible name!’ Sarah sobbed.
‘What name?’
‘Bastard.’
His eyes behind his thick spectacles expressed his shock.
‘Sarah! Where did you learn such a word?’
‘She said it. She said I was … and my mother was …’ Her eyes were wild, her blouse torn, her ribbon dangling loose.
Alicia drew herself to her full height. ‘I never said any such thing!’
In spite of the scrap she looked miraculously cool, with only her slightly tumbled hair evidence of Sarah’s attack. Richard Hartley looked from one to the other of them.
‘I think we had better begin on our lessons,’ he suggested, turning as always in moments of crisis to what he knew best. ‘Sarah, go and make yourself look respectable. Alicia, tidy your hair and take your place. And both of you try to behave like young ladies.’
Stung and resentful still they did as they were bid. And if either of them noticed Leo, his epicene mouth twisted into a gloating expression as he watched them from the doorway, then for the moment at least they really did not care.
As if in defiance of Blanche’s revelations Gilbert began Sarah’s riding lessons the following week. One of Alicia’s old riding habits was altered to fit her by the seamstress who had succeeded Rachel and every day for an hour Sarah had to endure the torment of putting it on and presenting herself at the stables for an hour’s tuition from Turner, the groom.
She did not like the stables. She did not like the smell and she was nervous of all the horses, even the gentle pony Blackie whom Turner had decided would be the most suitable mount for her. But Sarah was growing used to having to do things she did not like and she was determined not to give Alicia the pleasure of knowing she was frightened. She persevered, Turner persevered, and at last she became competent enough at balancing on the side saddle and handling the pony to be allowed to gallop and even take a small jump or two.
Once when she was riding with Alicia and Leo the boy managed to get close enough to her to take a surreptitious swipe at Blackie with his riding stick in the hope of making the pony bolt but Blackie was too good tempered to respond to such a ploy and since no-one but Sarah knew what he had done the incident never reached Gilbert’s ears.
He kept his promise too to include Sarah in some of the family’s activities but this did nothing to lessen her sense of alienation from them. They hated her, she knew, and she hated them, but she kept her own counsel. There was no-one she could turn to in any case. She belonged nowhere, she thought wretchedly, for the village children no longer treated her as one of them either. At Home Farm she did the chores which Bertha had allotted her uncomplainingly and if she ever cried she did it in the privacy of her room, her head tucked under the pillow to stifle the sobs so that no-one should hear. At the house she was constantly aware of the resentment she aroused and the antagonism between her and Alicia was almost tangible. Unwillingly she admired the older girl, envied her self-possession and her confidence, her pretty clothes and the fact that she was Gilbert’s daughter – more because Sarah hero-worshipped Gilbert than because she had any conscious desire to be one of the Morse clan. But any overtures of friendship were quickly slapped down, any hint of an alliance which glimmered occasionally on the horizon when Alicia and Leo were engaged in their frequent clashes was quickly negated and Sarah realised that Alicia had not mellowed towards her one jot. Part of her was glad. She had not forgotten the terrible things Alicia had said about her mother and she did not think she ever would. The name Alicia had called her still haunted her in the night, making her cringe with its ugliness and filling her with a fierce hatred of the girl who had thrown it at her with such malice. Yet in spite of this there was an undoubted glamour about Alicia and perversely Sarah longed to be accepted by her, to be a part of her charmed world and no longer the butt of her spite.
They should be able to be friends, she thought. Both of them had lost their mothers and instinctively, with a maturity far beyond her years, Sarah sensed that Alicia was as unhappy as she. Sometimes when Gilbert was there Alicia would put on an act for him, drawing Sarah into the circle of her activity so that Gilbert looked at her with affection and Sarah dared to hope that after all things were going to be different.
Only they never were.
At Christmas when Lawrence and Hugh came home the atmosphere improved a little. Alicia was on her best behaviour for them and Hugh, at least, made quite a fuss of Sarah. She was grateful for his attention but also a little scared lest Alicia should be jealous and take it out on her later. Sarah was invited to the house for the festivities and she and Alicia trimmed the tree together with Gilbert looking fondly on. The tree was an enormous one, perhaps ten feet high, and Turner had to bring a step ladder into the drawing-room for them to be able to reach the top of it.
‘Take care, girls,’ Gilbert warned. ‘ We don’t want any broken arms or legs for Christmas. Perhaps you should allow Leo to do it.’
Alicia tossed her head. ‘ Why? He’s so clumsy he’d only break the baubles. He can put up the holly and mistl
etoe.’
So Leo was delegated to hang the mistletoe boughs from the doorways and Sarah and Alicia took turns to steady the step ladder for one another to climb up with the dainty glass ornaments and the tiny lanterns each containing a minute candle.
It was when the presents were hung on the tree however that Sarah began to feel like an intruder again. There were so many for the others and she could not see a single parcel bearing her name.
There was though and when she opened it on Christmas day she was overjoyed to find a little silver bracelet inside of the finest filigree. Gilbert was smiling at her and for a moment joy spilled through her.
‘Oh it’s beautiful!’ she whispered. ‘ I’ve never seen anything so beautiful!’
Then she became aware of the other faces watching her with thinly veiled hostility and her joy died. She clutched the bracelet to her as if afraid it might be snatched away and knew instinctively that if Christmas was meant to be the season of goodwill, as far as Blanche, Leo and Alicia were concerned at least the goodwill did not extend to her.
She treasured the bracelet all the same. Gilbert fastened it around her wrist and that night back in the bare bedroom at Home Farm she replaced it carefully in its tissue paper and laid it in the drawer with her few knick-knacks.
‘You see, Rose?’ she said to the doll which had once been Alicia’s and who now sat on the cupboard beside her bed. ‘I have two beautiful things now – you and my bracelet.’
The doll gazed back at her with unwinking glass eyes and silently Sarah promised herself that one day there would be other treasures, other beautiful things. And perhaps, if she was very lucky, there would be someone to share them with. She would have a happy home again, she decided, with all the love and warmth she had known in the cottage at Starvault but it would be encompassed by the sort of surroundings and possessions the Morse family took for granted.
One day I’ll be somebody, Sarah promised herself. Not just the little outsider there because of the charity of others but a very special somebody in my own right.
Secure in her dreams Sarah slept.
Chapter Ten
On a warm summer afternoon in July 1906 Hugh Morse left Chewton Leigh House carrying a picnic basket which Cook had filled with all manner of delicious goodies and made for the yard where his father’s latest acquisition, a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, was parked. The Rolls was a beautiful motor and Hugh had been longing for an opportunity to take it for more than simply a token spin ever since returning home from the public school where he had just completed his last term.
When he had driven with his father beside him Gilbert was continually warning him to ‘Slow down or you’ll have us over!’ or ‘Don’t tax the engine so, my boy!’ and Hugh had been impatient to be left alone to try out his own skill and the full potential of the motor. Now that opportunity had come. Gilbert had gone to France where he had been invited to take a look at the progress Santos-Dumont, the brilliant Argentinian engineer, was making in the construction of a flying machine and Hugh had been quick to seize his chance to drive the Rolls.
As he swung the picnic basket into the luggage dickey he whistled a snatch of Gilbert and Sullivan and his blue eyes twinkled merrily in his handsome face. But it was not only the prospect of driving the Rolls that lifted his spirits and made small spirals of excitement twist deep inside him. Unknown to his step-mother, who would certainly not have approved, he had invited Sarah Thomas to accompany him.
Still whistling Hugh jammed the starting handle into place and swung it effortlessly. Five years had seen him develop from a good-looking lad into a handsome and well-made young man. At five foot ten he was already as tall as his father and since he was still only eighteen years old there was always the possibility that he might yet grow another inch or two. Added to this his sporting activities had helped him develop a fine physique. At school Hugh had been a keen cricketer and rugby footballer, at home he rode regularly and swam in the lake and the deep river pools, and as a consequence his shoulders had broadened and muscles rippled across his back beneath the fine white lawn of his shirt and in his strong arms. His hips however had remained as narrow as they had always been and the light cream trousers he was wearing flattered both them and his long muscled legs.
Hugh took a pride in his strong and healthy body and was now eagerly looking forward to the day when he would clothe it in the uniform of an army officer. He had passed the entrance examination for Sandhurst with flying colours and in the autumn he would be going there to begin his training. In the meantime he had the long hot days of summer to while away – and he intended to make the most of them.
The engine of the Rolls turned over and as the motor car began to tremble convulsively Hugh leaped up into the seat and gripped the steering wheel. A honk on the bulbous rubber horn to warn Brandy and Bet, two of the family’s labradors who were lurking curiously in the yards, and he was off, bouncing over the cobbles and out into the lane, the wind streaming in his jet black hair.
This was the life, he thought, laughing aloud as a startled magpie rose from the road before his wheels in a flurry of outraged black and white feathers, and experienced a moment’s pity for Lawrence, his brother, who would be wasting this beautiful afternoon away at the Works.
As Gilbert had anticipated the results of Lawrence’s endeavours to gain academic qualifications had not been good enough to take him to University and when he had left school he had gone straight into Morse Motors. The move had suited him. On a practical level Lawrence was indisputably able, he was as enthusiastic about the family firm as Hugh was for the military, and was already establishing himself as a force to be reckoned with. Less adventurous in outlook than either his father or grandfather had been and without their flare for recognising the forward trends of progress perhaps a decade before they occurred, yet he had a solid and reliable base of practical knowledge and sound common sense. This, coupled with his capacity for hard work, inspired confidence in the work force; they might think him a dry stick for a young man barely out of his teens, but they respected and liked him all the same and believed, with reason, that the future of the company was safe in his hands.
Thank heavens for Lawrence! Hugh thought gratefully as he steered the Rolls around a bend in the lane. Without him his father might have been less ready to allow Hugh to fulfil his own ambitions. Frank Raisey might be an excellent general manager and quite capable of overseeing the running of the works, Joe Isaccs, in his dusty little office, might keep the accounts in apple pie order and advise on each point of legality which arose without ever bothering the firm’s solicitor, but Hugh knew that Gilbert would consider it unthinkable that there should not be a member of the Morse family at the helm. Fortunately Lawrence was perfectly happy to take on that responsibility and Hugh was left free to pursue his own fortune, wherever it may lead him – and to enjoy his pleasures.
This afternoon those pleasures could hardly have been more enticing. A drive in the Rolls with no-one to criticise or curb – and the prospect of impressing Sarah with his driving ability into the bargain.
At the thought of Sarah his spirits rose another notch. She was a little peach and no mistake! Hugh had almost forgotten now what a pathetic little thing she had been when his father had first introduced her to Chewton Leigh House; he only knew that when he had come home last year for his Christmas vacation he had been amazed to find such a lovely young girl beneath his very roof.
The change of course had been gradual. Years of tuition from the conscientious Richard Hartley had sharpened her already quick mind and expanded her knowledge, and continued proximity with the gentry had refined her speech, eliminating the sloppy syntax and reducing her accent to an almost unnoticeable burr which she was capable of losing altogether in the company of the Morses and their friends although she still retained it as a defence mechanism when she was with her adopted family, the Pughs, or her old village friends, the one passport to belonging still available to her. She had gained in confidence, her m
anner was now easy and positive and she had learned well from Alicia so that slowly, almost imperceptibly, she had ceased to stand out like a sore thumb amongst the well-bred Morses and begun to behave as if to the manner born.
Her physical development had been longer in coming and then more shockingly sudden; almost overnight it seemed her figure had blossomed from that of a skinny child into the curves of young womanhood.
Now Sarah was tall and slender with long legs and nut brown hair which streamed free of the ribbons she had worn as a child. Her breasts were firm and high, her waist as small as it had ever been and her hips, not yet rounded to the fullness of maturity, had a neat streamlined flair that was pleasing to the eye. Good food and plenty of it had put roses in her cheeks and her eyes, blue as cornflowers, sparkled with health and with fun. But perhaps it was her freshness that was most appealing of all to Hugh.
Since his early teens Hugh’s startling good looks had made him the object of attention of practically every girl with whom he came into contact. In spite of his youth he had been pursued relentlessly in every possible way and he was familiar with – and immune to – every flick of the eyelashes and every sidelong glance that told him he had made yet another conquest. And it was not only young women. There had been one or two older ones too, more subtle and yet at the same time more provocative, who had expressed their interest in a variety of ways as old as time. But not Sarah. Never once had she showed the slightest interest in him except as a friend and the omission inflamed him as none of the coquetry of the others had done.
Why didn’t she notice him, dammit? Was she still so much a child inside that new and voluptuous body that she did not experience the slightest curiosity or desire? Alicia was only a year or so older and she had flirted shamelessly with Hugh’s friend Oliver when he had brought him home for the holidays. But then Alicia was very aware of the power of her body. Once or twice they had conducted experiments of their own – the memory was enough to bring the blood rushing to the surface in a hot flood, pounding at his temples and suffusing his skin with a rosy glow. But he knew experiments with Alicia were dangerous. If Father ever so much as suspected he would take the horsewhip to Hugh, big as he was. And besides, how could one’s own sister be half as interesting as this lovely young woman who had blossomed unnoticed?