by Lucy Gordon
Kate had also written:
It would mean so much to Philip to know that you liked the picture. He knows you have always despised his gift for drawing, feeling it to be unmanly. But he thought this time you might be pleased. You could tell him what it meant to you to have it for her birthday, and how glad you are to know that they are all still thinking of her. She would have been so proud of him, and if he heard that from you it would delight him more than anything. Of course, you will wish to choose your own words, but if you could say something like this it would make him so happy.
`You will wish to choose your own words,’ made him grimace wryly. Kate knew better than anyone, he thought, how hard the words came to him.
To Philip he wrote:
My dear boy
I cannot tell you the pleasure it gave me to receive your picture and know that you are thinking of your mother at this special time. You were always a good son to her, and I know she would have been proud of you now. Mama often told me how pleased she was about your gift for drawing, and now I too am glad, for you have given me something of her.
His son’s response startled him. It was as though a window had been thrown open, allowing thoughts and feelings to run free. In another letter he talked to his father as he had never done face to face, and suddenly Justin found it was possible to tell his own thoughts to his son.
He also wrote to Kate. Thank you.
He was touched to receive a letter from Tom, sent to Farringdon Park and forwarded by Kate. He smiled to think how she must have longed to read it first, but the envelope hadn’t been tampered with. It was a cheerful epistle about life in the army. Whatever the hardships, Tom was clearly happy. Justin sent the open letter straight back to Kate, trying to picture her face as she read it.
Spring passed into early summer. Philip was now writing to him regularly, his tone confiding, and he ended one letter, PS Kate’s birthday is on 13 May.
That made him smile wryly, thinking that his son understood too much for his years. He thanked him for the reminder and went to a jeweller. Suddenly he saw her eyes again, as clearly as though they hadn’t been apart for months. He bought a sapphire brooch that was exactly the same shade, and despatched it to her.
Her letter of thanks was kind and cheerful as always, but his instincts were growing more acute now, and through the lines he could detect her surprised pleasure that he had remembered her. By chance, the letter reached him on the anniversary of Amelia’s death. He spent the day alone except for his memories. They were still clear but no longer tormenting. Once her name had conjured up only the misery of loss. But now the loss was accepted he found that the times of happiness lived again for him. And for this he had Kate to thank.
The temptation to return and see her was overwhelming, but he found himself fighting it down. Not yet, was the thought that drove him. Some day. Not yet.
He left Davington Manor with the determination to quit the country for a spell. A gentleman could still travel in reasonable safety in Spain and Portugal, and so he headed for Portsmouth with the idea of finding a ship and putting distance between himself and the woman who troubled his thoughts.
It was the month of June, 1813. The weather was fine and, when he reached Portsmouth, he felt he might linger a few days in that cheerful town where the sun shone and the wind made the waves dance. He put up at the Grand Hotel while he studied arrivals and departures, but without any great urgency. A few walks along the strand helped to blow the darker thoughts from his mind, and he was able to look at the sunlight glinting on the water without feeling like an outcast, banished from the world’s joys.
On one of these journeys he caught his first sight of the madman everyone called ‘the preacher’. He was elderly, with wild eyes and long white hair. He wore knee breeches, after the fashion of an earlier age, and a long black cloak that streamed behind him as he stalked the promenade, sometimes talking to himself, sometimes mounting the steps that led up to the breakwater and using this perch as a makeshift pulpit. There he would stand, haranguing the passing crowd, never seeming to notice that they ignored him, or gathered to mock. He had one theme, and one only: mercy and the need for forgiveness. The thought haunted him, tortured him, but brought him no relief as mercy should. Rather it seemed to increase his anguish unbearably.
He was accompanied by a frail-looking woman, also in shabby, old fashioned clothes, who tried vainly to protect him,
When he was too exhausted to declaim further she would take him, half fainting, to whatever private hell was their abode. Something in their wretchedness pierced Justin’s own melancholy. He began to watch for them in a spirit of protectiveness, and before too long his protection was needed.
He had begun hiring a phaeton from the hotel and driving for miles out into the open country. Returning one afternoon he saw the preacher who seemed to be seized with a wilder spirit than usual. Standing on the steps, the wind in his hair, raising his arms to the sky, he seemed to be trying to storm a heaven that had shut its door in his face.
‘Mercy,’ he cried repeatedly. ‘Who shall ask for God’s mercy if he himself has shown none? If we do not forgive, how shall we hope to be forgiven?’
A crowd had gathered around him, mostly of young men of the rougher kind, who found him excellent sport. The more they laughed, the more he exhorted. Justin handed the reins to his tiger and got down from the curricle, frowning.
‘Let the foolish man pause while he can, and ask what he has done to earn forgiveness,’ the preacher shrieked. ‘Who knows when the day will come, and we will implore Heaven to turn back the clock? Ah, but it is too late...too late for repentance, too late. My God’. Too late...’
This was too much for some wits in the back row who began chanting, ‘Turn back the clock...turn back the clock...’
‘Oh Tom,’ the woman begged, ‘come home with me.’
‘Go home with her Tom, before it’s too late,’ shouted a lad, to a roar of laughter.
The next moment the lad had let out a roar of pain as a pair of fingers tightened like a steel clamp on his ear.
‘Be silent and listen to me,’ Justin said coldly. ‘When I release you I’ll give you one second to get out of here. If I find you tormenting this man again I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life. Is that clear?’
‘Ow!’
‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes...yes...let me go.’
Justin did so and the boy vanished as if the devil was after him. His companions edged away before turning tail, alarmed by the sight of Justin’s eyes. He wasted no more time on them. The man was in a state of collapse and the little woman was struggling to prevent him falling to the ground. Justin relieved her of the burden and gave her his most winning smile.
‘Let me convey you both home, ma’am.’
‘Oh, sir,’ she wept, ‘your kindness...’ She stopped, trembling, almost in as bad a state as the man.
‘It’s nothing, ma’am,’ Justin said. ‘My phaeton is here.’ As he spoke he was helping the man climb in. The little woman followed, and in a trembling voice gave their direction. From the tiger’s disgusted face it was clear he knew the place and had only contempt for it.
‘Take us there at once,’ Justin told him briskly.
The preacher sat motionless, his head fallen back. His wife looked at him in silent anguish, her heart in her eyes. He was half mad, his madness made him ridiculous, and caused him to lead her a dog’s life. But she loved him with a fierce protectiveness. Justin watched her with a strange pain somewhere about his heart.
At last the phaeton stopped in the poorest part of town, a place where the houses were so close together that Justin thought no light could ever penetrate. Their arrival caused a mild sensation. The landlady, a large middle-aged woman, emerged and eyed them with an expression that spoke of rent arrears. But she took in the message of Justin’s costly attire and stood aside for him civilly enough.
After instructing the tiger to drive the phaeton back to the hot
el he raised the preacher in his arms, startled to find how light he was despite his size, and carried him indoors. The apartment, such as it was, was on the third floor, and was little more than a hovel. The furniture was the barest minimum and the small windows let in very little light. But the place was clean. In the midst of her misfortunes its mistress was still houseproud. Justin carried the old man inside and laid him on the bed, where he tossed and turned, muttering wildly.
‘He needs a doctor,’ Justin said to the landlady who had followed him in.
‘Doctors are expensive,’ the woman muttered with a significant glance at her tenants.
‘That will be taken care of,’ he said quietly. He produced a gold coin which she pocketed at once. ‘And be so good as to send us some refreshment at once.’
The woman nodded and hurried away.
The wife had gone to sit beside her husband, regarding him with anguished pity. He lay more quietly, but still he murmured in a hoarse voice, tormented by some inner demon that would not let him find peace.
A young girl appeared bearing a tray, loaded with tea and buttered toast. The little woman’s eyes widened in dismay. ‘But we have no money to...’
A gesture from Justin silenced her.
‘Leave the practical problems to me,’ he said. ‘For now, you need to recruit your strength.’
‘You’re very kind, sir, but I cannot eat.’
‘You must take something.’ When she still hesitated Justin poured the tea himself, and set a plate of food before her. ‘To please me,’ he said gently.
‘Very well, sir.’ With an attempt at dignity she added, ‘Allow me to introduce myself and my husband. He is the Reverend Thomas Ward, vicar of the parish of...’ she faltered, and two tears rolled slowly down her face. ‘There is no parish, sir. He had a parish, a fine place where he was respected and looked up to. But we had to leave when he...lost his mind.’
‘I doubt he has really lost his mind,’ Justin said. ‘He is, perhaps, a little troubled. Has he been this way for long?’
‘For sixteen years, ever since we lost our daughter.’
‘And he cannot come to terms with her death?’ Justin asked, with a sound that might have been a sigh.
‘She isn’t dead...except to us. She did wrong. I know it was very bad, but she was so young, little more than a child. They had been very close. She was bright and clever and he was so proud of her. But when she fell, he couldn’t accept it, and at first he rejected her. He cast her out, and said she was no daughter of his.’
She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Justin didn’t speak, but he laid his hand on her shoulder, and after a moment she looked up. Something in the grave kindness in his face gave her the courage to continue.
‘But that night Tom repented of his harshness, and we returned to the school where we’d left her, to take her home. But she’d vanished. We searched everywhere. We went to many towns before coming here, but in all these years we’ve never found a trace of her. His mind broke. At first he wanted to tell her that he forgave her, but that was long ago. Now he longs to hear her say that she has forgiven him. But I fear he will never hear her say it. We drove her out to bear her child alone, and in my heart I know we shall never see her again.’
A hoarse cry came from the man on the bed. The other two hurried to the reverend just as he awoke. He clutched Justin, wild-eyed.
‘Have you found her?’ he demanded. ‘Can you take me to her?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Justin said.
‘I must find her...so that I don’t die without her forgiveness. She said in her letter...I have it somewhere...where is it? Where is her letter?’ His voice became a shriek as he scrabbled frantically.
‘It’s here, my dearest,’ his wife said, producing a much worn sheet of paper. ‘After she ran away she wrote to us. There was no address but we hurried to the town it came from. Nobody knew of her, and we have searched ever since. He keeps her letter near him always.’
‘See what she writes,’ her husband gabbled. ‘See what a good girl she is...she says she’s sorry...she is a good girl...a good girl...and she will forgive her father when we meet again.’
‘To be sure she will, sir,’ Justin said soothingly. He was reluctant to intrude on the couple’s privacy by reading the letter but it was clear that nothing else would calm the old man, so he took it and read,
Dearest Mama and Papa
I beg you to read this letter, the last time I shall ever trouble you. Please forgive me for doing wrong, although truly I didn’t mean to. You said I was not your daughter, and I think you are right, for your daughter could never have been so wicked. Let it be as if you never had a child, then perhaps you won’t be so unhappy. I promise never to write again. Please don’t hate me too much.
Melissa.
‘She was fifteen,’ Mrs Ward whispered. ‘How can she have survived in a harsh world? I do not tell him but I think...I know my child must be dead.’ Despite her despairing words she wept no more. She was beyond tears.
The doctor’s arrival reassured Justin. He was a young, competent man, stern but kindly. He administered a soothing draught, and privately told Justin that the old man’s condition was worsened by malnutrition.
‘What do they live on?’ Justin asked quietly.
“I believe Mrs Ward has a small annuity, but it’s a pittance.’
‘How much do they owe you?’
‘They pay me when they can. They are good people.’
‘I agree. Then let me help them also. How large is the bill now?’
The amount was pitiably small to him, but he guessed it loomed large to the Wards. He handed over the money and while the doctor was writing a receipt and giving it to Mrs Ward, Justin went downstairs and bearded the landlady in her lair, where she was surrounded by steaming pots. She was a decent woman, not harsh but with a living to make. He paid the rent arrears, received a promise that she would deal gently with the Wards, and returned upstairs.
His final act was to place a sum of money in Mrs Ward’s hands. Her gratitude was beyond speech, so he took his chance to leave without more ado. He walked back from the wretched neighbourhood in sombre mood, and when he finally reached the more prosperous part of town, and gained sight of the sea, it was like emerging from Hell. Dusk had fallen, yet he still had the feeling of having come up into the light. He walked slowly back to the hotel, thinking of the Wards and their misery which had briefly distracted him from his own sadness.
His thoughts turned to Kate, and he wondered about her feelings. Was she content in her present life? Seemingly she had gained much. From the poverty and insecurity of a governess to the wealth and status of a countess. But she had also lost her son, and when her husband departed, she’d been left stranded in a house of which she was nominally the mistress, but in which her position was equivocal.
He paused in his walk and, standing there in the starlight, he wished that Kate was there with him, so that he might have explained that he hadn’t meant to be unkind. And then, perhaps, they could have had one of their old talks. And then he could have taken her to bed.
In this peaceful moment he could think of that night without guilt, or any feeling other than a wistful yearning for the chance to hold her again.
He found that the urgency to quit the country had left him. He lingered another week, sometimes calling on the Wards, and taking pleasure in the reverend’s recovery. With medical treatment and good feeding, the old man’s strength returned, and with it, his senses. When himself, he was a scholar who could discuss subjects that Justin had to admit were above his head. But even at his best he was weighed down by a melancholy that never left him. He related the story of his daughter, seemingly unaware that it had been told before, and making no effort to check the tears that rolled down his cheeks.
Justin also struck up an acquaintance with Christopher Thornton, the young doctor, a man of advanced ideas, full of passionate sincerity and enthusiasm. They spent a pleasant evening
in a tavern, before the doctor was summoned away to a dying patient. Justin remained to finish his ale and was about to leave when he heard his name called, ‘Farringdon? By God, if it isn’t Farringdon?’ and turned with real pleasure to greet an old friend.
‘General Hartley! By all that’s wonderful!’
The general had been a family friend and an open-handed dispenser of guineas in Justin’s boyhood. He was now in his seventies but still bright-eyed and hearty. When they had shaken hands vigorously and thumped each other on the shoulder Justin demanded, ‘What the devil brings you here?’
‘I’m waiting to meet the Henrietta. She arrives tomorrow with the poor fellows who got the worst of it at Vittoria. No, I don’t exactly mean that. Wellington won the battle, damned fine show of course. But the losses were very heavy, especially in the 52nd.’
Justin became alert. ‘I’ve been distracted by other things,’ he said. `I hadn’t heard.’
`My grandson George is in that regiment,’ the general went on gruffly. ‘Thing is, the list of wounded is incomplete...what with there being so many of them and having to get them away in a hurry. Too many for the field hospitals to cope with y’see. Ship ‘em back here fast. The Henrietta is due in tomorrow and nobody knows exactly who’s on her, or what state they’re in.’
‘Have you any special reason to fear that George may be among the wounded?’ Justin asked.
‘Rumours at the Horse Guards,’ the general said, naming army headquarters. ‘Load of nonsense, but since the boy’s father’s dead, well...it’s up to me.’
‘Yes,’ Justin said, frowning.
The general seemed to realize that his companion had become abstracted. ‘Hey, don’t know anyone in the 52nd yourself, I suppose?’
‘My wife’s son by her first marriage is in that regiment,’ Justin said quietly. ‘In fact, I helped him join up against her wishes. I’d be glad to know him safe.’
‘Not your fault if he ain’t,’ the general pointed out. ‘She can’t hold that against you.’