The Hawthorne Heritage

by The Hawthorne Heritage (retail) (epub)

She threw the slipper after the carriage as, to cheers, it moved off. At her signal more slippers and shoes flew through the air. The cheering was picked up in the courtyard and rippled down the drive in a wave of goodwill.

  Jessica, quite suddenly, felt very tired.

  ‘There’s more food being put out in the ballroom,’ Robert said.

  Guests, laughing and talking, were moving up the steps into the house.

  She shook her head. ‘I think I’ll get a breath of air.’

  He laughed. ‘Plenty of that about.’

  As if to underline his words a gust of wind battered them. Ladies squealed, holding on to hats and skirts. The move into the house accelerated.

  The carriage had gone. The crowds strung out along the drive were heading for the gates and thence the village, where more free ale was on tap for the evening.

  Jessica pushed her way against the tide of people coming into the house, down into the courtyard. Servants passed her, gossiping excitedly, called back to duty by the house-guests’ renewed desire for food. She walked around the east wing of the house and out of the wind. In the park beyond the ha-ha the great specimen trees – oaks, elms and chestnuts – tossed wildly.

  The gardens and terrace behind the house were a shambles. An army of servants scurried now, cleaning up the mess. She stood for a moment, idly watching them, wondering at the desolation where such a short time before had been life and laughter.

  ‘Jessica!’

  Danny’s voice, soft but unmistakable, and urgent. She turned.

  He was standing in the shadow of a tree. He signalled sharply with a jerk of his head. With what she knew to be an absurdly conspiratorial glance about her she went to him.

  ‘Where’s Caroline?’ he asked.

  She lifted her head in surprise. ‘I don’t know. I thought – I thought she was with you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen her for two days.’ He was frowning.

  She shrugged, nonplussed.

  He had put a hand in his pocket. Rain now hung on the wind. Jessica shivered.

  ‘Please. Take this to her for me?’ He handed her a crumpled piece of paper. ‘She’s angry with me, I think. I don’t know why.’ His dark face was intent. ‘Bring her answer to me at the church tomorrow. Sir Robert is pleased with my work. I’m to stay a while longer.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘We have plans,’ he said, firmly. ‘We must discuss them. Tell her she has to come.’

  She nodded, hiding her disquiet. ‘I’ll tell her.’

  He smiled his fleet, attractive smile. ‘Thank you, little Mouse. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She watched him go, then looked down, sighing, at the scrap of paper she held. The excitement was over. The magic was gone. Life was back to normal, and the pretty, nearly-grown-up girl in the pretty, very-grown-up dress was a mere go-between again. The handsome prince had hardly noticed her. Glumly she tucked her head down against the wind and, ignoring the driving rain, ran back to the house.

  Chapter Five

  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 over
turning 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 busine
ss 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.