The Hawthorne Heritage

by The Hawthorne Heritage (retail) (epub)

  Maria had lifted her head, frowning. ‘Mr Giles is cutting your wages?’

  ‘Yes, M’m. By more than half he says. I tell you, M’m – we can’t live on that—’

  ‘No.’ Briskly Maria stood. ‘No, of course not. I see that.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Might I ask – why have you come to me?’

  There was much shuffling of feet and clearing of throats.

  She nodded grimly. ‘You’ve already spoken to Giles.’

  ‘Tried to, M’m.’

  ‘And?’

  The man shook his head, almost puzzled. ‘He threatened to have us thrown out, M’m, for a bunch of trouble-makers. He says the estate can’t afford to pay the wages—’ His tone clearly indicated what he thought of that for a story. ‘—He says that the parish will make up the difference. But, M’m, you know they don’t make it up to a livin’ wage – Mr William always said—’

  ‘Yes. I know what Mr William always said.’ Maria paused for a moment. Then, ‘I’ll speak to my son for you,’ she said quietly, and lifted a hand to stem their muttered thanks. ‘That doesn’t mean I’ll get anywhere. On the contrary,’ the words were edged with bitterness. ‘But I’ll try.’

  ‘Thank you, M’m. Thank you kindly.’ They shuffled out, pushing and shoving at each other in their eagerness to get out of the unfamiliar and to them obviously uncomfortable environment of the house.

  Jessica closed her book with a snap and laid it aside. ‘He can’t do that. Surely he can’t? Father always said that New Hall would never use the Speenhamland system! We’ve never sent our people to the parish for poor relief !’

  Her mother sighed. ‘That was your father. We’re dealing with Giles now.’

  ‘But he knows as well as we do that the relief only makes up the wages to barely above starvation level.’

  ‘He knows also,’ Maria said quietly, ‘that very many farmers in the southern counties use the system to line their own coffers and force the parish to feed their people.’

  Jessica shook her head violently. ‘But it’s immoral! It pauperizes the people! Not even Giles would do that!’

  Her mother did not reply.

  * * *

  Giles’ fist slammed the table and silver cutlery jumped. ‘I tell you, Mother, I’m tired of your interference! This is none of your business!’ He levelled a long accusing finger. ‘Clara’s right. You try to keep me at your apron strings! When Father was alive you never tried to interfere with the running of the estate!’

  ‘When your father was alive,’ Maria returned with calm asperity, ‘there could never have been any question of cutting the workers’ wages by half.’

  ‘The war is over, Mother. Food prices are falling. There’s a depression coming in agriculture. Profits are going down—’

  ‘By how much?’

  He ignored the sharp question. ‘If we are to restore our profits we must do as others do – use the supplementary system—’

  ‘Abuse it, you mean!’

  Giles sat for a moment, fists clenched upon the dining-table, head down like a baited bull’s as he forced control upon an all but uncontrollable temper. When he lifted his head his face was a mask of calm in which his brilliant eyes, so like his mother’s, blazed with rage. When he spoke his voice was absolutely steady. ‘Understand this, Mother. I will not discuss estate matters with you. My decisions are not open to your questions or to your criticisms. New Hall is your home, and of course always will be. But I have to remind you that your presence at this table is at my sufferance. I will not tolerate your interference—’ He stopped as, very collectedly, Maria laid down her fork and stood, the footman behind her hastily stepping forward to move her chair.

  ‘In that case,’ Maria said, quietly and clearly, ‘I no longer choose to eat at—’ her scathing glance moved from her son to his wife and back again, ‘—your table. From now on I shall take my meals in my own rooms. No, Jessica,’ she added gently as her daughter started to rise, her usually pale face flushed with anger, ‘You will remain, please. This is not your quarrel, and I would not make it so.’ And in the utter silence that followed her words she turned and left the room.

  ‘Damn!’ Giles in a frustration of fury buried his fair head in his fists.

  Clara laughed quietly, the heartless, beguiling, tainted laughter that Jessica so hated.

  ‘Damn!’ Giles said again.

  * * *

  Maria kept to her word. For months she did not eat with her family, neither if she could help it would she set foot in any part of the house but her own small suite of rooms. To Giles and to Clara she was invariably civil but always cool. With Jessica she refused to speak of the quarrel, was adamant that her daughter should not take sides. She had made her gesture, there was nothing else she could do. Giles went ahead and cut the wages; and on the estate and in the village the effects began to show.

  Jessica hated it all. She hated the atmosphere in the house, could not face the workers, who had known her all of her life and whom she had considered without thought and in the true sense of the word her friends. She did not now begrudge them their resentment against her family, but that did not ease the hurt or the embarrassment.

  This year it had been planned that she should spend at least part of the Season in London. With no word spoken it was understood that the hunt for a husband was on. Jessica kept her own thoughts on that subject to herself. Her mother planned to take an apartment near Hyde Park, it now being out of the question that they should share a house with Giles and Clara as had been originally intended; though to keep up the fiction of a united family much of the entertainment would be shared. As autumn wore on, damp and melancholy, Jessica submitted with little grace to sessions with dressmakers, sessions with hairdressers, sessions with the makers of dancing slippers. She did not want to go. Yet neither did she want to stay. As melancholy as the weather she wandered the parkland with Bran, isolated in that half-world between childhood and adulthood, unhappy about the present, confused about the future.

  It was upon one of these aimless expeditions that she chanced across an old woman and a child plodding up the drive from the village. She watched them, frowning. The woman was decently if shabbily dressed, a threadbare shawl about her grey head to keep out the mist of drifting rain. It was the child who arrested the eye. His face beneath the bright, dripping hair was sweet as a summer’s day, his brilliant smile as he looked at Jessica tugged at her memory and at her heart. It had been a long time since she had seen such a smile. The sapphire eyes were merry and trusting. He was better dressed than the woman, his shoes stout, his coat of good and sober cloth. Bran licked his hand and as the boy chuckled delightedly the dead lived again. He was perhaps eight or ten years old. His hair was bright as marigolds in sunshine.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Jessica addressed the old woman uncertainly. She could not take her eyes from the child, who was playing now totally unselfconsciously with the dog.

  ‘Yes.’ The old woman was short of breath, and her colour was not good. ‘You can tell me if the lady of the house is at home?’

  ‘Yes. That is – I’m not sure if you mean my mother or my sister-in-law?’

  The shrewd old eyes were thoughtful. ‘Not the young one,’ she said at last.

  ‘Then it’s my mother you’re looking for?’

  The grey head nodded affirmation.

  The child shouted with laughter and ran with the dog.

  ‘Come on, boy! Come on! Oh, look, Gran! He’s just like old Tim!’

  Even his voice held that light, pleasant timbre that Jessica remembered still in Edward’s. ‘I’ll take you to her,’ she said.

  Chapter Seven

  The child’s name was Patrick; and he was Edward’s son.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Clara said, flatly, her voice tightly controlled.

  ‘Then you ignore the evidence of your eyes.’ Maria’s words were cold. The child sat, all but lost in the depths of a leather armchair, his eyes moving uncomprehendingly from one face to a
nother, ill-concealed anxiety making the soft lips tremble. Impulsively Jessica crossed the room and perched on the arm of his chair, smiling reassuringly at him. The child smiled back, a little wanly, the blue eyes understandably wary. Straight-backed upon a chair by the library’s tall window sat the elderly woman who had brought him. She looked exhausted and far from well, but her eyes were calm as she studied the faces about her.

  ‘Oh, the child is his,’ Clara conceded. ‘A byblow. A bastard. He isn’t the first and he won’t be the last. It’s this talk of a marriage that I dispute. It’s palpable nonsense.’

  ‘I am assured it happened,’ Maria said quietly.

  Clara glanced in disdain at the woman by the window. ‘And the proof?’

  ‘—is evidently in Cambridge. In the church register and in the testimony of the priest who married them.’

  ‘You surely aren’t taking her word for that?’

  Maria made an impatient gesture. ‘Of course not. I have already sent an urgent message to Sir Charles Sanders, our solicitor. He will be here within the week. In the meantime—’ Maria surveyed the faces about her calmly, ‘—I intend to visit Cambridge myself to make preliminary enquiries.’

  Clara lifted her head sharply, frowning, her expression quarrelsome. But as she started to speak Giles, who had until now barely said a word, said suddenly, ‘Be still, Clara.’

  She turned angry eyes upon him, and he shook his head. ‘Be still!’ he said again, his voice tense.

  Clara took a sharp breath. ‘If you think I’m going to sit by whilst a chit of a child—’

  For a moment it looked as if Giles might strike her. Ignoring the onlookers he caught her wrist and hauled her to her feet where she stood, unafraid, glaring, equally as angry as he. ‘This is Edward’s son!’ Giles said, the words grating harshly. ‘Look at him! Edward’s son! There’s no doubt!’ His fingers still in painful grip on his wife’s wrist he swung to look down at the frightened child. ‘Edward’s son!’ he said again, very quietly.

  ‘Edward’s bastard,’ Clara snapped.

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ Giles let go of her wrist and his hand dropped to his side. ‘I’m not sure that it matters.’ The words held a weary contempt that to Jessica seemed directed as much at himself as at Clara.

  Clara stared at him incredulously. ‘You aren’t going to accept this? You aren’t going to give up all we’ve done, all we’ve fought for, for this – this brat?’

  Maria was watching them both narrowly, making no attempt to interrupt or interfere.

  Giles’ face was like granite. ‘If the story is true – if Edward did marry this girl secretly – if the child is legitimate – then we have no alternative.’

  ‘And if he did? A runaway marriage – Edward was under age! A student!’

  ‘That would neither invalidate the marriage nor affect the legitimacy of the child,’ Maria put in, quietly.

  Beside herself Clara swung on her. ‘Oh, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you ? Well let me tell you this—’ she stepped forward, rage bringing colour to her clear-cut, striking face, ‘—if you think I’m going to be cheated of my rights you can think again, Mother-in-Law! And if you think that I’d trust you – you! – to go to Cambridge alone to verify this story then you must be mad!’

  Maria drew herself up, her face a mask of chill outrage. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Clara was beyond discretion or control. ‘Do you think I don’t know that you’d do anything – anything! – to get your hands on this house again—?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I conjured the boy out of mid-air?’ The calm voice was icy, ‘Are you – can you be? – suggesting that I could possibly be party to some kind of conspiracy? Beware what you say, Clara.’ She turned to her son. ‘Giles. Please control your wife. She’s behaving like a fishwife.’

  Clara was trembling. ‘I won’t let you do this,’ she said. ‘I won’t!’

  ‘Clara, be quiet.’ Giles turned abruptly and took two long strides to the table upon which stood a decanter half-full of brandy. With a jerky movement he poured himself a glass and tossed it back in one movement.

  ‘Giles—!’ Clara began, impatiently.

  He spun on her, levelling a finger. ‘Quiet I say!’ and the dangerous force of the words struck her for an unexpected moment to silence. Giles poured himself another drink. Then he strode to where the old woman satr, watching him. ‘You say that my brother married your daughter nine years ago, whilst he was a student at Cambridge?’

  ‘Yes. The child is nearly ten years old.’ There was neither servility nor fear in her voice.

  ‘And his mother is now dead?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’ There was a small silence. The woman looked at Maria. ‘He was a handsome lad, your boy. Handsome, and kind – or so he appeared. He and our girl seemed made for each other. And then—’ She paused for a moment, shaking her head, her face bitter. There was another moment of quiet. ‘When Anne told her father, he all but killed her. He couldn’t stand the disgrace. The shame. He threw her from the house.’

  ‘She was breeding?’ Giles asked, bluntly.

  The woman nodded. ‘She was desperate. She went to your brother’s rooms. She took his razor and she cut open her wrists.’

  Jessica made a small, stifled sound. No one else stirred.

  ‘He found her. Just in time. He swore he hadn’t known about the child until then.’ Jessica remembered Edward – gay, warm, lovingly impulsive. What else would he have done in such circumstances but marry the girl?

  ‘They loved each other.’ The woman was looking down at her clasped hands. ‘Anne didn’t want your money. She didn’t want anything to do with you. She wanted him. She wanted a father for her son.’

  ‘And so – you say – they married?’

  ‘Yes. He warned her that the marriage would have to remain a secret. At least until he came of age.’

  ‘And she didn’t mind that?’

  ‘Mind? Of course not.’ The woman lifted her head, looked Giles in the eye steadily. ‘I keep telling you. She wanted none of this. None of it. She wasn’t stupid. She understood. If he’d brought her here what would have happened? Would you have accepted her?’

  Clara was staring in clear disbelief.

  ‘She had a house and she had some money. She had her child, who she loved more than anything else in the, world. Even when she realized that his father would probably never openly acknowledge their marriage – even when she began to suspect that one day he would find some reason to deny it, she would never even consider coming to you. She was afraid of you. She knew that the least that would happen if she came to you was that she would lose the child. She knew enough of the ways of the gentry to be sure of that. And at the worst she feared you’d find some way to disprove the marriage, to make of her boy a bastard.’

  ‘But you’ve brought him to us now?’

  She shrugged tiredly. ‘Needs must. She’s dead. And I’m dying.’

  Jessica heard the sharp intake of the child’s breath beside her. She put out a hand and he took it.

  ‘The money’s gone. There’s no one to care for him. She came to me at the last. Now I bring him to you, for the alternative is the parish, and we all know what that means. God will watch how you deal with him.’ She fell to silence, her breathing heavy and difficult. Her eyes were on Maria.

  ‘He’s Edward’s son,’ Maria said. ‘We’ll deal with him well, I promise you.’

  ‘This is absurd!’ Clara spun on her heels and marched to the door. ‘Have you all taken leave of your senses?’

  The child watched her with fearful eyes, his hand clutching Jessica’s. She squeezed it reassuringly.

  ‘Edward’s dead!’ Clara snapped, and the words were for Giles. ‘Dead! And nothing can bring him back. New Hall is yours by right. Fight for it! Or by God, I will!’

  Giles was upon her in a movement of such violence that the child clutched at Jessica’s hand, frightened. Giles grabbed his wife’s shoulders, shaking her savage
ly. ‘By Christ! One of these days I swear I’ll—’

  ‘Giles! Clara!’ Maria’s command cut like a knife.

  Giles let go of his wife and swung to face his mother. Clara rubbed her arms where he had bruised her with his grip, breathing heavily. There was a long tense moment of silence. Then Giles caught his furious wife’s arm and propelled her through the door, slamming it behind them.

  Jessica was watching her mother. Maria sat still as stone for a moment, her eyes upon the closed door, and in them a gleam of something close to triumph. Jessica could stand it no longer; sick at heart she forced a smile, bending to the child. ‘Do you like marzipan?’

  Wordless he nodded.

  She stood up briskly. ‘Then follow me. I know where Cook keeps her secret store!’ She was well rewarded by a brilliant, tremulous smile before the child followed her to the door. As she opened it she glanced back. Her mother had moved to the window where she stood beside the other woman, a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. Tiredly the sick woman looked up, and Maria smiled. Deep within Jessica some unease moved. She turned away, holding out her hand to the boy. Trustingly he took it. And, troubled, she found herself wondering how long, in the hostile and suspicious atmosphere that had invaded her home, his innocence could last.

  * * *

  The next day Maria, accompanied by Patrick’s grandmother, left for Cambridge. The boy stayed at the house, cared for by a happily fussing Lucy. He cut a subdued and pathetic little figure, the immediate uncertainties of his young life quelling spirits that Jessica suspected might under more normal circumstances be cheerily high. She spent the first morning with him, walking in the park with Bran after breakfast and then taking him up to her own rooms to see if she might find in the schoolroom trunks something of interest to keep him occupied – and out of Clara’s way – for the rest of the day.

  ‘Poor little mite,’ Lucy said. ‘All alone in the world at such an age!’