The Hawthorne Heritage

by The Hawthorne Heritage (retail) (epub)

  ‘Yes. Would you say – my soul would be damned?’

  ‘Good heavens no! But – Jessica! – you surely aren’t—?’

  ‘No! Of course not! Don’t be silly. I just wanted to know what you thought, that’s all. I’ve really no one else to talk to. I’m afraid my parents aren’t as open-minded as yours.’

  He grinned in acknowledgement of that, and she smiled back, relieved to see the sudden relaxing of tension in him. ‘When do you go back to school? You’ve missed the first part of term, haven’t you?’

  The smile left his face as suddenly as if a lamp had been extinguished. He turned from her, hunching his shoulders very slightly. ‘I’m not going back.’

  She was truly shocked. ‘You’re – what?’

  ‘I’m not going back. Not to St Paul’s anyway. There’s no point.’ He cleared his throat. The forced evenness of his tone grated the nerves.

  Jessica was shaking her head, bemused. ‘I don’t believe it. I don’t understand. What are you saying?’

  He snapped at her. ‘Jessica, don’t you ever think of anyone’s problems but your own – don’t you ever see what’s right under your nose—?’

  That stung unfairly and she blinked, surprised and hurt.

  ‘I’m not going back to school,’ he said, slowly and clearly, ‘because my voice has begun to break. I can’t sing any more.’

  She stared at him in silence, all words fled.

  He stood up, his slight figure a shadow in the growing darkness.

  ‘Will you – will you be able to sing again? Afterwards, I mean?’

  Faintly she saw the slow negative movement of his head. ‘I don’t know. But somehow I suspect not. It’s finished, I think. Finished.’ He stood for a long moment in lonely and brooding silence before turning and walking back into the Old Drawing Room. Frozen where she sat she heard the piano start again, hesitantly, then stronger, then crashing to silence in a discord that made her flinch.

  Opposite where she sat, lit by the last of the dying light, a portrait hung: an earlier FitzBolton, foppish and elegant in the style of his times, in his hands a stringed instrument that, neglected and dusty, now hung on the wall of the Old Drawing Room. Robert had told her that family tradition had it that he had inherited his voice and his musical talent from this great-uncle. Jessica had never actually much cared for the portrait, something in the guarded eyes, the self-consciously effeminate pose raising her hackles each time she saw it. ‘Great-Uncle Cecil,’ Robert was fond of saying, ‘has a lot to answer for.’

  Above her in the drawing room the piano began to play again, softly melancholy.

  * * *

  She woke at dawn to the gleam of a red sunrise and the song of birds. With her mind at rest about John after her conversation the evening before with Robert she had slept well and was refreshed and excited. The house was still; not even the servants were stirring yet. Unable to lie still she sat up, tousling her tangled hair with her fingers. In the corner of the shadowed room hung the lovely dark cream silk and lace dress that she was to wear that day as Clara’s chief maid. She slipped from the bed and drew back the curtains, then padded across the cold floor on bare feet to look at the dress. It was certainly the loveliest thing she had ever possessed, and she knew that it suited her. Carefully she lifted it from the hanger and held it to her, peering in the long mirror. In honour of the day and her part in it she was to be allowed to wear her hair up, beneath a small circlet of pale roses that matched those that Clara would carry. And Giles had given her a maid’s-present of a silver bracelet, a pretty thing that shone and jingled on her wrist as she moved.

  She drew a small, explosive breath of excitement and danced a few steps, the dress drifting against her bare legs beneath the short summer nightgown she wore. In an hour or so Lucy would come to help her dress and to do her hair. Then she was to go to attend upon Clara, to make herself as useful as might be necessary as the young bride made her toilette. After that would come the short procession to St Agatha’s, where Giles, the family and their guests would be waiting. Jessica had been instructed minutely as to her duties once the bride entered the church. Apart from keeping a stern eye upon the two small cousins that were to be Clara’s other attendants she would hold Clara’s fan, scent bottle and bouquet during the ceremony and should help Clara remove her gloves when the time came for Giles to place the ring upon her finger.

  Traditionally the gloves then would be hers, a gift from the bride to her maid. Ruefully she surveyed her small fingers with their flat, square nails; there was never a likelihood that Clara’s elegant gloves would fit that hand! She must sign the church register as a witness, and then would ride in the grand new carriage, attending bride and groom, back to New Hall and the wedding breakfast. All in all it was a heady prospect: characteristically impatient the next hour stretched endlessly. She could not – she simply could not! – sit here twiddling her thumbs until Lucy came.

  She ran to the window. The brightening sky was red as blood in the east, and streaked angrily with cloud, but nevertheless the sun shone and the sky above was blue. Impulsively she pulled on her old dress and boots, threw a woollen shawl about her shoulders and slipped out of the door. Downstairs there was movement now as the house came to life; the clatter of a pail, heavy footfalls on the flagstoned floors. She ran across the courtyard, greeting a sleepy and surprised-looking maid gaily, then she was over the bridge and running along the river path. The air was exhilaratingly cool, and fresh with the first breath of autumn. In moments her feet were soaked in the dew-laden grass. The rising sun glinted jewel-like between the trees as she ran. She paused at Danny’s cottage. It was shuttered and still, no smoke yet rose from the chimney. Danny was still abed. She skipped on, past the church and down to the lakeside. The water was a glimmering sheet of silver tinted dramatically with rosy fire. Water-birds paddled by the shore, swallows and martins, gathering for their end-of-summer flight, swooped across the glittering surface. She blinked her eyes, dazzled. A gust of wind danced through the trees, rattling the leaves that were touched already by the first flame colours of autumn.

  In the distance, around the curve of the lake’s shore, a movement, barely perceptible, caught her eye. She frowned, screwing up her eyes against the shifting light and shade. Then she saw it again and perceived in the dappled shadows a horse and rider. She recognized at once Belle’s handsome lines, and for a moment the sun shone clear on Giles’ bare yellow head. He sat, a living statue, staring out across the bloodied, wind-rippled waters, and with a quick pang of pain Jessica guessed that he was thinking of Edward: Edward, who should on this happy day have been his younger brother’s groomsman, who would have laughed kissing the lovely bride, his own childhood sweetheart. Edward, who was a year dead.

  She blinked against the swift and unexpected rise of tears. The sound of the weir was muffled by the wind that gusted through the trees; the deadly currents that had taken Edward, and so nearly claimed Giles as he had struggled to save his brother, barely rippled the smooth and shining waters. Abruptly, then, as Jessica watched, horse and rider wheeled and plunged at reckless speed down the woodland path towards New Hall. The sound of Belle’s hooves echoed back to Jessica for a moment, then died. Disturbed, the waterfowl fluttered and fussed, one of them squawking indignantly with what sounded like manic laughter as it paddled away from the source of the commotion.

  The wind shivered again through the woodlands. Jessica pulled her shawl about her shoulders and, shrugging off sadness, turned back to Old Hall, to the cream lace dress and to what promised to be the most exciting day of her young life.

  By the time they set out for the church the sun was high enough for warmth and the October wind had settled for the moment to a fresh breeze. Along the path, watchers had materialized – villagers and servants wearing white bridal favours waved and called as the wedding party passed. At his cottage gate Danny leaned, waiting. White ribbons streamed from the hawthorn that grew in the yard and he wore a huge white rose in hi
s buttonhole. Clara smiled a little and inclined her head at the sight of the prettily decorated tree. Danny blew her an impudent kiss, and then directed another at Jessica, who blushed like a poppy. He smiled, white teeth flashing against dark skin, and her heart skipped a beat in that now familiar, achingly pleasurable way, and then they were past and approaching the church. The breeze played with the wisp of gauzy train that drifted from the back of Clara’s silver headdress. Annabella, one of the small cousins, sweetly dressed in two shades of blue, a little straw basket of rose petals clutched in her plump and dimpled hand, stumbled upon the path and almost fell. At considerable risk to her own dignity Jessica grabbed her before she could sprawl full length and set her back upon her feet, righting the basket and putting a stop to easy tears. Clara did not turn; did not indeed even appear to notice the small commotion. Her head was lifted, her striking features composed. The smallest of smiles hovered about her mouth, her eyes were fixed on the open door of the church. Jessica had the notion that had the world in that moment splintered into flame it would not have prevented Clara FitzBolton from joining the man who waited within at the altar rail.

  The church was packed, the whispering, shifting shadows of the congregation making the building seem even smaller than usual. As Clara appeared at the door faces turned, smiling, and the murmuring grew. St Agatha’s shone, the altar decked with silver and gold, lit by a hundred wax candles, and fragrant with flowers. As the bride stepped over the threshold voices were raised in a triumphant anthem. Beside the altar rail Giles stood. He too turned as his bride entered, his face pale and strained in the candlelight. Remembering the scene she had witnessed that morning by the lake it occurred to Jessica to wonder if he had slept at all that night. Then the music died, the priest stepped forward and the ceremony, simple and straightforward, began. When the moment came for Jessica to help her brother’s bride to remove her long kid gloves so that Giles might slip the ring upon her finger she was astonished to discover that Clara’s hands were ice-cool and steady as rock, whilst her own were overwarm and shaky. As she fumbled with the tiny buttons on the gloves Clara, smiling that same small, imperturbable smile with calm deliberation undid each of the minute pearl fastenings and then stripped the gloves herself from her slim wrists and hands, handing them to Jessica without once taking her eyes from Giles’ face. Jessica, glancing at her brother, was surprised to see that his hands, that held the ring, were trembling worse than her own. The faint, secret smile still on her lips Clara gently guided his hand and slipped her finger through the golden circlet that made her his wife. Left to himself Jessica was certain that her usually assured brother would have dropped it. And then the bells were ringing, joyful in the rising wind, as man and wife were joined before God, till death should part them.

  They rode to New Hall, to the bride-cake and the wedding breakfast, along flower-strewn paths. In the Long Gallery in the west wing a feast fit for princes was laid, whilst in the grounds outside servants and villagers celebrated the young master’s marriage and the return at last to New Hall of a FitzBolton bride. Ale and wine were supplied in vast quantities – a suspicious amount of the wine French, and certainly smuggled – and the food was plentiful and good. Dressed in their Sunday best the country folk toasted the young couple and told ribald stories of weddings past. Children scrambled and shrieked, were petted and slapped; their granddams settled beneath the trees, ale glass in hand, to watch the dancing. Old Guy the fiddler, supplied with jug after jug of liquid sustenance, outdid himself, and as the gentlefolk rose from a meal that had taken a full four hours to get through the country dances were in full and energetic swing.

  Jessica, her duties done and her head swimming just a little, confusingly but by no means unpleasantly, from the wine she had drunk, stood on the terrace and watched the celebrations on the lawns beneath her. Girls, bright-faced, colourful skirts swinging in the wind, danced in a circle, ducking and weaving about the clapping young men who called and shouted as they danced. The fiddler’s music, infectious and gay, had even the old folk stamping in time. Around her on the terrace the house-guests watched, hands clapping, feet tapping, caught by the music and the easy laughter. A young man near Jessica, unable to resist longer, caught a village girl by the hand and swung her, shrieking laughter and insincere protest, into the circle. As if at a signal others followed, some with their own partners, some with strangers. Village boys that had been standing about the lawns extended with great daring work-stained, roughened hands to the gentler-born girls who stood on the terrace above them. Some refused. Others, more adventurous, did not. The circle widened and split into two, until the lawns were a kaleidoscope of changing patterns and colour. Jessica, dying to join in, hopped from foot to foot. And then she saw Danny pushing his way through the crowd towards her. She held her breath. Could it be – could it? – that he was going to ask her to dance?

  From behind her then she heard Caroline’s voice, strangely sharp, discordant with nerves. ‘No, Bunty! No! I don’t want to dance!’

  ‘Oh, come on, Carrie-oh! Don’t be a spoilsport!’ The Honorable Bunty Standish all but knocked Jessica from her feet as he dragged his protesting future wife down the steps of the terrace and into the dance. Caroline’s face was like thunder.

  Danny stopped. Jessica almost choked with disappointment. Then he came on, smiling, hand outstretched. ‘A dance, Lady Mouse?’

  They swung into yet another circle.

  ‘You look – enchanting,’ he said.

  The roses of her headdress were shedding their petals and the cloud of her hair was tumbling about her shoulders. ‘Really?’ She so wanted to believe him.

  ‘Really,’ he said.

  They had no breath for more. He caught her hands and swung her giddily. Above her on the terrace she caught sight of Robert, watching them, his face alight with laughter. Then the line broke and, hand in alternate hand, they danced in a great chain, the boys in one direction the girls in the other, stopping now and then and at random to link arms and swing wildly. Smiling faces passed her in a blur; blue eyes and brown, fair skin and dark. Strong hands caught her, swung her, released her and passed on. Ahead of her she saw Caroline, and as her sister turned her head she saw again the signs of fierce ill-temper. For the first time it struck her that she had hardly seen her sister smile all day. Did she really find it that hard to surrender the limelight to Clara for this short space of time? Caroline was dressed in sapphire blue, her pale skin, untouched by the summer’s sun, gleamed like pearl. But there was a set and unhappy line to her mouth.

  The music was slowing a little. A young man swung Jessica almost from her feet, then handed her on to another. The sun had disappeared behind a lowering cloud and the wind was cool on her burning cheeks. Danny was coming, moving up the line towards her; but no – towards Caroline. She it was he reached first, and instead of dancing past he caught her about the waist, laughing easily, and lifted her from her feet, swinging her high in the air to the delighted applause of the onlookers.

  Caroline’s reaction was extraordinary. As he set her gently on her feet she pulled away from him, obviously furious. He laid a conciliatory hand upon her arm. She shook it off, the angry words she shouted lost in the hubbub around them. Oblivious, the other dancers danced on. Scarlet-faced Caroline turned and pushed through the crowd, up the steps of the terrace and, without a backward glance, into the house. Danny was left looking after her~;~ hurt, surprise and a certain anger in his face. Then a pretty girl, only too pleased, caught his hand and drew him back into the circle. Yet his eyes, Jessica saw, remained fixed on the spot where Caroline had disappeared.

  Jessica, panting in a most unladylike way, her hair thoroughly and irrecoverably unpinned, found herself caught by a pair of hard hands, the face that belonged to them vaguely familiar. ‘Beats trying to knock each other into fits, eh?’ The swarthy young man laughed, and then she recognized hiin.

  ‘Charlie Best!’ she panted, close to indignation, ‘I owe you a bloody nose!’


  ‘Dance with me instead,’ he said with subversive and ale-fed brashness. ‘It’ll be a month of long Sundays before we get another chance!’

  By the time the newly-weds were ready to depart the long-threatened deterioration in the weather was almost upon them. Building clouds had obscured the sun, early darkness shadowed the landscape and the wind gusted, cold now and unpleasant. Across the empty lawns overlooking the lake litter lifted and tumbled in the wind. Small flocks of birds pecked at the crumbs in the grass and on the trestle tables that were cluttered with dishes, plates, glasses and beakers. All attention had moved to the front of the house and the carriage that waited to take Clara and Giles on their wedding trip, to London and then to Brighton to view the progress of the Prince Regent’s idiosyncratic new toy and to enjoy the bracing sea air. Changed into a travelling costume of warm brown velvet trimmed with gold, Clara was radiant, poised beside her handsome husband, her hand lightly and possessively on his arm. Giles looked tired – relieved, Jessica guessed, to have the celebrations over. She had heard that a wedding traditionally was the bride’s occasion; and that it was neither unusual nor unnatural for the groom to wish it past. Perhaps this was true?

  The guests gathered to see them off. The courtyard was aswarm with well-wishers, and the mile-long drive lined with servants, estate workers and villagers.

  Caroline was nowhere to be seen.

  Standing at the top of the steps in her place of honour as chief maid, a white satin slipper in her hand, Jessica wondered a little worriedly about that. Automatically her eyes wandered, looking for Danny; but, of course, if he were anywhere it would not be here. If he were waiting to catch a glimpse of the departing couple it would be out in the windy parkland, with the other estate workers.

  The matched bays pranced. The carriage started to move.

  ‘Come on, dreamy! Throw it!’ Robert caught her arm.