‘My brother on his twenty-first birthday. A gift from the tenants.’ He shook his head sadly as he considered the handsome young officer. ‘Family tradition says that the eldest son should stay at home and learn how to run the estate, ready for when it’s his turn. The second son, which is me, should go into the army. But Miles could see that I was never going to be a soldier, so he dashed off himself. Reckons that the pater is good for thirty years or so yet – plenty of time to get in a bit of polo.’
‘So will you be the one who learns to run the estate?’
‘If I do, there won’t be much future in it for me.’ Until that moment his mood, ever since her arrival, had been light-hearted, but suddenly he was serious. ‘Not much fun, you know, being a younger son. You’re brought up in a place, get fond of it and then whoosh, you’re out. Not your home any longer. You’re supposed to make a new life for yourself from scratch. But there’s a long list of professions which are reckoned unsuitable, and a remarkably short list of approved jobs for which one has any inclination or aptitude.’
‘You won’t need to earn a living, will you?’
‘Don’t know. There’ll be an interview just before my twenty-first birthday when I shall find out whether I’ve given the impression of being a steady chap or a wastrel. But I doubt if there’ll be a great deal to spare, either way. It’s one of the things that nobody believes, and I hardly believe it myself. Of course the family’s stinking rich in the sense of owning property, but as far as ready cash is concerned, almost everything that comes from the estate in the way of rents goes straight back into it again. The house costs a fortune to maintain. It’s more of a worry than a privilege.’
‘So you’re well out of it, are you, being a second son?’
‘Only in one sense. I can’t bear the thought of being cut off from Castlemere … Coming back just for Christmas, that sort of thing. While Miles is still in the army, I could make myself useful here for a bit after Oxford if I chose; but that would make it even worse when I had to leave. It’s such a marvellous place.’
She was touched by the strength of his feeling, and his pride and affection as he led her through one room after another in the morning, and one garden after another in the afternoon.
‘My mother mentioned a herb garden,’ she said, when it seemed that the tour was over.
‘Oh yes. On the other side of the walled garden. A bit dull, in my opinion. But very famous. Everything in it is properly medieval.’
‘It was where my mother first met my father.’
‘Then certainly we must see it. Without the herb garden, clearly I shouldn’t ever have had the pleasure of entertaining you here.’
Yes, it was dull. Grace needed all her imagination to picture the scene which her father had often before his death described to her: of the wine merchant’s son bursting upon the most beautiful girl he had ever seen as she painted in the garden. Rupert, waiting until she had seen enough, was thinking of something else.
‘Your uncle Archie, your mother’s brother, had the same problem as me,’ he told her. ‘He wasn’t even a second son. A grandson. But brought up here, because his mother was dead. Never any possibility at all that he could inherit: he’d always have known that. But all those years here as a boy before going out into the world – it made it hard for him to settle down anywhere, I think. So you see, I shall have to be careful.’
‘I do see, yes.’ It was time for her to return home. ‘Did you say you were coming to Oxford?’
‘In October, yes. To The House, to read history. It’s not expected that I shall actually study any history, but as a matter of fact I’m rather keen on it. Here at Castlemere, for instance. Generations of the same family living in the house. And at the same time, you know, generations of farmers and craftsmen on the estate. We have an old carpenter who does repairs in the house, and it was one of his ancestors who fixed the panelling in the long gallery you saw this morning. I like thinking about that sort of thing. But talking of Oxford –’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I did wonder. It’s the Lagonda, you see. I gather there are lots of petty rules about undergraduates not keeping their own cars within so many miles of Carfax. I wondered whether it might be possible for me to garage her with you, and come up by cab whenever I feel like a run.’
A month earlier Grace would have said – and believed – that she had no wish for visitors and no need of new acquaintances. How unexpectedly the events of the past few days had changed her attitude! As she held out her hand in farewell, she surprised herself by the sincerity of her words.
‘Of course. Then I shall see you again. Good.’
Chapter Eight
Grace saw Andy for the first time after the confrontation in her bedroom when she attended his father’s funeral. It was an awkward meeting. She longed to make some gesture which would tell him how much she still loved him, but knew that her earlier decision was the right one: he belonged to another woman. Was there any way in which she could express a hope that they would remain friends? She searched for the right words, but failed to find them.
Andy, doubtless still puzzled and hurt by his rejection, avoided her eye as he supported his mother at the graveside. Only when Mrs Frith was expressing her thanks for the flowers which had come from Greystones, and for the promise that she could remain in the cottage, did he speak directly to the Hardies – and then it was merely to confirm that his son would soon arrive and be at their disposal. Grace told herself that everything had turned out as she wanted it, and tried to be cheerful about it.
In this she was helped by the arrival of her aunt that evening. Midge Hardie, after marrying at a later age than usual to become Midge Witney, had been widowed three years previously and returned to the annual routines of her earlier life as a schoolmistress. She was sixty-seven now, but her energetic nature made it impossible for her to sit idly at home. So she took private pupils for individual coaching during the three academic terms, and spent a month each summer in Switzerland. As usual, she came to Greystones for a meal soon after returning to her house in North Oxford.
For once, after listening to a description of her vacation, the Hardies had news of their own to pass on. Midge had spent many holidays at Greystones, but it had never been her home; so the gardener’s death did not touch her deeply. Of far more interest was the visit of Ellis Faraday. His father had once been her lover.
‘I never met Patrick’s family,’ she said. Her illicit relationship had been a deep secret at the time, but the need for comfort after his death in action brought the subject into the open. ‘Although there was no divorce, his wife had left him and taken the children to Ireland before he and I ever met.’
‘The Faradays don’t seem to be very good at marriage,’ commented Mrs Hardie. ‘This Mr Faraday is equally unencumbered – except by his daughter.’
‘I wonder – thinking about his book of photographs – whether he knows about the school buildings which Patrick designed. Do you expect to see him again, Grace?’
‘Yes.’ Grace flushed slightly. ‘He expressed some interest in my carving. He’ll be back at Greystones in three weeks’ time. Come and meet him while he’s here.’
They continued to talk about Patrick Faraday and his work, and it was not until later in the evening, when Grace and her aunt were strolling together through the gardens, that Grace remembered a second piece of news.
‘There’s been another visitor while you were away,’ she said. ‘One of Mother’s Beverley relations turned up to tell her that her brother Archie was dead. I don’t suppose you knew him, though. Mother hasn’t seen him for years herself.’
‘Archie dead!’ Midge gasped with shock and came to a halt. It was a moment or two before she could compose herself. ‘Well, I haven’t seen him for even longer than your mother. But yes, I knew Archie almost fifty years ago. We were both at the university at the same time. Both reading history. In theory, at least. Archie spent most of his time on the river or cricket field.’ S
he paused for a second time. ‘I’ve never told anyone this. Archie was my first – well, to put it in the language of the time, Archie ruined me.’
Grace could hardly believe her ears. ‘Seduced you?’
‘Yes. Mind you, I wasn’t entirely unwilling. I knew it was wrong, but at the same time I wanted it, if you know what I mean.’
Grace did indeed know what she meant, but made no comment.
‘Of course, I expected him to do the decent thing. To marry me, I mean. He was as much in love with me as I was with him, or so I thought. I’d overlooked the difference between middle-class and upper-class morality. The grandson of a marquess does not marry into trade. A matrimonial connection between the house of Beverley and The House of Hardie was unthinkable.’
‘But Mother and Father –’ began Grace.
‘Yes. Archie’s sister married my brother and that’s why Archie never spoke to her again. Or to me.’
‘How terrible for you.’
‘It seemed so at the time. But only for a little while. Once I’d got my senses back I realized that for someone like me to marry someone like Archie would have been a fate worse than a fate worse than death. All the same, if there’d been a baby …! I can tell you, the three weeks after the night of the great seduction scene were the worst three weeks of my life.’
Midge was talking as one mature woman to another. She would certainly not have spoken to anyone at all about an anxiety of this sort when she was young herself; nor would she have confided in Grace at an earlier period of her niece’s life. She could have had no inkling of the effect that her words produced.
It was as much as Grace could manage not to faint with shock at a remark which – so long after the event – was made almost casually. For the moment she managed to conceal her distress, but when at last she retired to her bedroom in the tower she walked round and round it until she became breathless.
How could she have been such a fool! She was not thinking so much of her passionate hour with Andy when she threw that accusation at herself, but of her blindness to its possible consequences. It had not even occurred to her to worry – but she worried now. How long would she have to wait until she could be sure that there was to be no unwanted pregnancy? So uneventful was her life as a rule that she kept no diary. One day was very much like another, and she made no special note of her monthly cycles.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed in an attempt to calm herself she counted back past her visit to Castlemere to the day when Ellis Faraday and his daughter had arrived without warning – a day which at its beginning had promised to be remarkable only for the prodigious number of raspberries which were to be picked. And then before that … No, there was no need to feel anxious yet. In a week – or even a little less – she would know that she was safe.
The week passed, and another. Perhaps her own panic was having an effect on her body. Or perhaps this stage of her life was coming to an end. Surely at thirty-five she was too old to have a baby.
The days plodded on through August. This summer was proving to be a hot one. Normally she revelled in the sunshine, but now it became insupportable. Telling herself that the sickness which overcame her each morning was caused by either anxiety or sunstroke, she tried to deceive herself, but was bound to fail in the end.
The day came when she was forced to accept the truth about her condition. So what was to be done about it? Could any steps be taken to bring the pregnancy to an end? She was too unsophisticated even to know whether it was possible and far too ignorant to know what to do. Who would tell her? Was there anyone she could talk to? Not since she was six years old had she kept any important secret from her mother, but this one was too shameful and shocking.
Nor could she face the family’s doctor, who was almost a stranger and would need to be paid. Grace had no money and would have to ask her mother for his fee.
The only person who might understand would be Aunt Midge. She was not likely to be of much practical help; but at least she would be a confidante. As much as anything else now, Grace needed to talk. But even this small comfort was to be denied her, for by the time she had screwed up enough courage to approach her aunt, Midge had gone to visit a friend in Scotland.
The heat of the summer at least provided an explanation for Grace’s lethargy and lack of appetite. It was too oppressive to continue with her carving. To remain on her feet for several hours, vigorously hammering at a chisel, was far too great an effort. Abandoning the piece which she had started in the stable courtyard, she retreated to the studio as soon as all her daily tasks in the house and garden were done. There she began to model in clay. The firm movements of her fingers as they pressed and smoothed the shape helped her to be less conscious of the passing of time.
During one of these modelling sessions she was interrupted by her mother.
‘You should have given me warning, Grace. They’re here, and I’ve nothing prepared.’
‘Who are here?’
‘Mr Faraday and his daughter. You agreed, he said, that he might return today to photograph your carvings.’
‘Oh!’ Appalled by her own forgetfulness, Grace wiped her hand on the trousers of her overalls. ‘I hadn’t realized – I’m sorry, Mother. I must have lost track of dates.’
After washing and changing as quickly as she could, she hurried down and made her apologies for not being on hand to greet the guests.
‘Do you want to do some more modelling?’ she asked Trish.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Come into my studio then. It’s too hot outside.’
She settled the little girl down and then asked Ellis what he planned to do.
‘May I walk round with you first, looking at the different pieces again?’
‘Of course.’ Grace could hear that her voice was not completely under control. She struggled to give an impression of calmness and normality, but recognized that she was failing. Ellis, though, spoke of nothing but the carvings until the moment when they reached the furthest point of the serpentine garden which Philip had created. Instead of turning to retrace his steps, he looked straight towards her.
‘You’re not well, I think, Miss Hardie.’
‘Oh yes, perfectly all right, thank you. I find the heat a little trying, perhaps, but that’s all.’
‘Are you sure? You look worried. Distressed, even.’
‘I’m quite sure. Perfectly all right.’ But even as she spoke she could feel her bottom lip trembling. It was because she had had no time to prepare herself to face visitors. Clenching her fists, she willed herself not to cry. Ellis continued to stare at her in a serious manner.
‘I don’t want to be impertinent; but if there’s anything I could do … ? Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger than to one’s own family.’
‘Kind of you to suggest it, but there’s nothing to be done, thank you very much. Nothing to be done at all.’ And then, to her great chagrin, Grace burst into tears.
‘Do sit down for a moment.’ There was a bench in the hidden centre of the garden. She felt his hand under her arm, supporting her as she sank on to it. For a few moments she cried noisily, her breath juddering as she tried to control it. Then she accepted his proffered handkerchief and blew her nose violently.
‘Sorry about that. I’ve been bottling it up, I suppose. Trying to pretend nothing’s wrong.’
‘And what is wrong? I promise to respect your confidence. Is it your health?’
‘Only in a way.’ She bit her lip as though by doing so she could force herself to keep silence. But the need to talk to someone, anyone, overwhelmed her. ‘I’m expecting a baby. My mother doesn’t know, so please –’
‘Of course not. Oh dear! Does the father –?’
‘He’s a married man. I shan’t tell him. It wouldn’t do any good, and I’m not likely to see him again for a long time. But I just don’t know what to do.’ Once again her tears began to flow, but this time she sniffed them back. ‘It was only the once,’ she said. ‘It see
ms hard, when it was never going to happen again anyway.’
‘I sympathize more than you might expect. My own experience … but in our case there was no impediment to a marriage except my own distaste for it. And to me professionally this is not an uncommon story. I take photographs of beautiful young women. Girls who are taken straight from the schoolroom and thrown into a whole summer of parties and dances. It goes to their heads, and chaperones are not always at hand. Accidents happen. The girls talk to me as they sit. There are doctors, Miss Hardie, if you know where to look. Doctors who –’
‘I don’t suppose their services come cheap. I haven’t got any money, you see. None at all. Anyway.’ She stood up, straightening her back and stiffening her resolve. ‘I’m not like those girls, out in society and needing a good reputation to make a good marriage. I live here so quietly that really hardly anyone except my mother and brother would ever know that there was a baby on the premises. A reputation is only the opinion of other people, and we’ve never bothered about that.’
In a curious way, the act of making this statement helped her to believe it. Tomorrow she would tell her mother. Once she had confessed her sin and her predicament, this feeling of panic would surely calm itself. ‘I shouldn’t have burdened you with my problems; but thank you for listening.’
She was anxious now to escape. It had been a relief to tell her secret, but she needed to be private again. Leaving him to set up his apparatus, she returned to the studio.
Trish, seated cross-legged on the floor, was working with a concentration remarkable in a six-year-old, but looked up to ask for help. Grace showed her how to coil and smooth the clay – and then, to amuse her, gave a demonstration of the use of the potter’s wheel. They were both absorbed in watching what they hoped would become a jug rise and fall as her wet fingers squeezed the clay or pressed it outwards when Ellis Faraday came into the room.
The Hardie Inheritance Page 7