The Hawthorne Heritage

by The Hawthorne Heritage (retail) (epub)

  And one face stood for Jessica alone in the crowd. A laughing face, lean, dark, strong-boned.

  She stopped.

  Robert pulled at her arm. ‘Come on. There’ll be real blood spilled in a minute.’

  ‘Wait—!’

  But he was towing her through the crowds, following Theo. Frantically she glanced back. There was no sign of that face, for which she had looked for so long.

  Behind them the happy pandemonium grew and a whistle shrieked.

  * * *

  She could not get that face from her mind. Everywhere she went she looked for him. She questioned Theo again about Danny and about the young man who had spoken to her of him.

  Theo did not remember him. ‘So – who is this Danny O’Donnel you seek with such urgency?’ The small, shrewd eyes were inquisitive.

  ‘I told you – I knew him as a child. It was he who first told me of Florence—’

  ‘And – it’s important to you to find him?’

  ‘Very,’ she said, simply. ‘But – perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it wasn’t him. The only person I’ve spoken to who knew him said he left the city a year ago.’

  Theo shrugged. ‘Anyone who truly cares for Florence does not stay away for long. Perhaps he has returned?’

  She nodded. Perhaps he had. With his beautiful wife. ‘Florence is a very big city,’ she said.

  * * *

  Four days later, with the end of the month of carnival approaching Theo gave his own masked ball. The great ballroom of the Palazzo was opened for the occasion, and the guests were drawn from all walks of life – for the native aristocrats of the city in no way joined Theo’s own compatriots in their condemnation of him. He was rich and he was, or could be in the right circumstances, generous; against that his eccentricities counted for nothing. The whole cast of a play that Theo had particularly enjoyed joined them after the evening performance still in costume that in many cases was less flamboyant – and certainly less provocative – than that of most of the non-theatrical guests. Jessica had resisted Theo’s more outrageous suggestions and was dressed restrainedly as a dainty shepherdess, prettily masked. She had just joined a group who stood listening to a young man, well into his cups, whom she had not seen before, and who was evidently fresh from England.

  ‘—and so,’ he was saying, ‘discretion always being the better part of valour, I left. They got my brother, though. Transported him, the bastards. Beggin’ your pardon, Miss,’ he executed a decidedly unsteady bow in Jessica’s direction.

  Someone in the crowd laughed, harshly. ‘Good God, man – what did you expect? This is England you’re talking about! England! Where you can steal a man’s wife – or daughter – from under his nose and be thought a great fellow for it. But burn his crops? A capital offence if ever I heard one!’

  Amidst the general laughter Jessica asked, ‘Why did you burn his crops?’

  The young man fixed her with a drunkenly serious eye. ‘Why?’ He swayed on his feet, marshalling words. ‘They’d cut the wages to the bone an’ put up the price of bread. There’s no work, an’ the village is starving while they feed fat. The parish won’t feed the men back from the wars an’ there’s no way for them to earn a crust—’ He raised a thin finger, wagging it. ‘Happenin’ all over it is.’

  ‘Jessica?’

  Absently Jessica turned.

  Guido smiled. ‘From Theo.’ He handed her a note.

  She took it, smiling her thanks. Her attention was still on the young man who had been speaking. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Cambri – Cambridgeshire—’ He could barely get the word out, ‘village of Uppington. Prett’est little village in the world. Ruined.’

  Jessica opened the note. It contained a brief half-dozen words. She turned to question Guido, but he had gone. The conversation about her had changed.

  ‘—prettiest damned model I’ve ever seen in my life and the bugger stole her clean from under my nose—’

  She excused herself and, intrigued by Theo’s message made her way upstairs to the reception rooms and library. In the lovely reception room that had been her first introduction to this house a few people sat, wine glasses in hand, talking. In a corner behind a vast green palm two lovers kissed. From the ballroom below music lifted. She looked at the note again.

  ‘The library. A present from Theo.’

  She walked to the library door and pushed it open.

  The room was empty and almost dark. A fire glowed in the vast hearth and a couple of lamps had been lit. The shutters were closed against the January night.

  She walked further into the room, glancing around. A present, the note said. She looked at the desks and table, expecting to see something – perhaps a book? – lying there, but she could see nothing unusual.

  In an armchair by the fire someone stirred. A long leg stretched, a scuffed boot was lit by the flare of flame. She jumped, startled and embarrassed that she had approached so close and so quietly without the stranger hearing. The man in the chair turned the page of the book he was looking at. His face and most of his upper body was hidden by the large wing of the chair. Beside him on the table a bottle of wine and a glass half-full.

  Very quietly she turned to leave.

  ‘Who’s that?’ The words were sharp.

  She stopped. Turned. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you—’

  He leaned forward, looking up at her, the light from the lamp illuminating his features.

  The library. A present from Theo.

  She was totally speechless.

  He laughed. ‘Please don’t apologize. I probably shouldn’t be here. I’ve got a strong feeling that the invitation was a mistake in the first place – I don’t seem to know a soul here. Are you the lady of the house? If so then it’s I who should apologize—’ He gestured with the long-fingered hands that she remembered so well at the book that lay on his lap, ‘I couldn’t find anyone to ask—’

  ‘N-no,’ she said. ‘I’m not the lady of the house. Actually there isn’t one. I’m – a friend.’

  He smiled.

  There was no doubt now. No doubt in the world. This was Danny. Changed, older, with a harshness about the eyes and a hardness about the mouth that she did not remember, but Danny undoubtedly. Yet still her voice was hesitant as she spoke his name. ‘Danny?’

  The smile faded and he frowned a little, peering at her. Unsmiling the changes in his face were more marked. Deep straight lines were scored between nose and a mouth that did not seem to smile as readily as it once had. A relatively fresh scar cleft his right eyebrow and another, smaller and older, marked his cheekbone. The beautifully modelled mouth was straight as a drawn line and as harshly uncompromising. He stood. He was not as tall as she had imagined him, though long of leg and wide shouldered as she had always remembered. He was very thin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t—?’ His voice trailed off politely as he gestured at the mask she had forgotten she was still wearing.

  She raised her head hesitantly, then with a quick movement unclipped the mask and raised her face to him.

  He did not recognize her. Nor was there the slightest flicker in his eyes. His puzzlement had deepened. ‘Madam, I’m sorry. I truly don’t know you—?’

  She swallowed an absurd disappointment. Of course he did not. How could he? She smiled. ‘You did once.’

  He studied her face for a moment, a little warily, then shook his head in self-mocking amusement. She turned her face to the light, watching him steadily, a half-smile on her face.

  He laughed at last, bemused. ‘Give me a clue? You have the better of me.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘A small furry animal that owned a large furry animal,’ she said.

  That confused him more. He shook his head.

  Mischievously she held up her hand, counting on her fingers. ‘Your name is Danilo O’Donnel. Your mother was Florentine, your father Irish. You look like your mother and drink like your father. You hate horses. You’re a strong swi
mmer.’

  His eyes had widened. ‘You’re a witch!’

  ‘You like to sing while you’re working. Your ambition is – certainly was – to be the best damned sculptor in Florence—’

  The expression on his face was comical. ‘Please! Stop it!’ He held up his hands in mock surrender.

  She took the plunge. ‘You once loved my sister,’ she said, very quietly.

  That did it. She almost saw the connecting thoughts, the memories that flickered to life behind his eyes. He reached a strong hand and with his finger on her chin turned her face to the light of the lamp. ‘Good God Almighty!’ he said, softly, ‘Mouse!’

  She laughed a little at the silly name, so naturally spoken. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Mouse!’ he said again, and now he was truly laughing, his dark face alight with pleasure. He swept her into a bear hug, crushing her to him, swinging her from the ground. ‘I don’t believe it! I just do not believe it! What in God’s name are you doing here—?’

  Breathless, she could not answer him. She flung her arms about his neck and hugged him tight, her smooth cheek next to his harsh one, the male smell of him sweet in her nostrils.

  At last they stepped back from each other, still holding hands. ‘Mouse!’ he said. ‘Little Jess. Grown up and beautiful—’

  She laughed and shook her head, colouring with pleasure.

  ‘And I didn’t recognize you!’

  ‘You can hardly be blamed for that! I was – what? – eleven? – twelve? – when last you saw me—’

  ‘But you recognized me.’

  ‘I’d recognize you anywhere.’ The words were straightforward, neither coy nor coquettish. They were followed by a breath of silence, and she saw again the faint, wary look in his eyes. He dropped her hand. Then he was laughing again, pulling another chair up to the fire.

  ‘Tell me everything – absolutely every – single – thing that’s happened to you since I left Melbury in such a hurry.’

  She hesitated.

  He smiled, grimly. ‘All right. Let’s get it over and done straight away. Caroline?’

  ‘She’s married.’ She was relieved. ‘To Bunty Standish. She’s Lady Caroline now.’

  ‘And – the child?’ There was a thread of remembered pain in the words that made her flinch. She shook her head. He turned from her and walked to the fire, stood for a long moment looking into the flames. When he turned he was smiling again. She could not tell in the half-light if the smile were forced. ‘You, little Mouse – what of you? And your family – tell me everything—’

  They sat until four in the morning. In the ballroom below the music died. Doors opened and closed, and voices called their goodnights. The house grew quiet though the occasional burst of laughter still rang out. No one came to the library. She told him everything – her unhappiness after he had gone, the death of her father, her discovery about Giles, the astonishing arrival of Patrick and its consequences. She told him too, honestly and with neither excuses nor self-pity, of Robert and of the near-disaster their marriage had proved to be. ‘—You must think me dreadfully stupid. But at the time it seemed the best – the only – thing to do. I didn’t know – didn’t realize what it would involve—’ Not for a moment did it strike her as strange to be confiding so in a near-stranger; sitting here with him it was as if those years had never been, as if no events and no time had ever come between them. This was Danny, and she loved him, as she had loved him from the first moment she had seen him. A different Danny to be sure, and most certainly a different kind of love, but undeniable and overwhelming for all that. The young Jessica had given her heart with no reservations to the young man she had thought of as her dark angel; older and wiser she saw him now with clearer eyes, but was as unhesitatingly ready to love him now as she had been then; she could not have prevented herself if she had tried.

  He was shaking his head, his face sombre. ‘Don’t think you’re alone in that kind of mistake, little Mouse. One way or another we all make them. And we all have to pay for them.’

  She said nothing, watching him.

  He picked up his wine glass and drained it, then smiled a small, bitter smile. ‘You of all people know that my choice of women has not always been the most sensible.’

  ‘I heard you were married,’ she said, non-committally.

  He laughed sharply, reached for the wine bottle. ‘That I am.’

  ‘I heard she was beautiful.’ She kept her voice even.

  He poured the wine very steadily. ‘That she is. Very.’

  In the silence a small branch crackled in the fireplace. ‘And wild,’ he added, and shook his head a little, laughing self-mockingly.

  ‘I heard—’

  ‘Yes?’

  She shrugged. ‘I heard you were devoted to her.’ She looked at him directly, searching his face. ‘Where Serafina goes Danny follows. That’s what I heard.’

  He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. ‘That was the way of it for a while.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He made a small, rather tired gesture. ‘One too many fights. One too many lovers. Enough is enough even for the most besotted of fools.’

  ‘You still live together?’

  He nodded. ‘After a fashion.’

  ‘You – you have children?’

  He shook his head.

  She had not realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out, long and slowly.

  He held the wine glass in front of him, watching the glimmer of flame through its ruby depths. His eyes moved to Jessica and he smiled, ruefully. ‘No great advertisement for the institution of marriage, are we, you and I?’ he asked.

  She had to laugh. ‘Who is?’

  He joined her in laughter. ‘No one I know.’ He sat up, raising the glass in mocking toast. ‘Here’s damnation to the whole damned institution!’

  As he tossed back the last of the wine the door opened. He looked up, and stilled in the act of putting down his glass. Jessica turned her head. Standing by the door, lit by the soft light of candles, stood the most stunningly lovely girl she had ever seen. Her hair was night black, her skin like cream. The body beneath a brilliant emerald green dress was arrogantly beautiful. She was eyeing Danny with something very close to contempt in her gleaming dark eyes. ‘So. Here you are. Amongst the books.’ Her Italian was oddly accented, her voice surprisingly harsh.

  He stood. Though he made no attempt to introduce her, Jessica knew that this was his wife, and her heart contracted at the other girl’s beauty. Behind her, Theo had appeared, like a grotesque gnome, the top of his head, even with its ridiculous wig, barely reaching to Serafina’s shoulder. His yellowed grin gleamed in the candlelight.

  Danny turned back to Jessica. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve kept you far too late. I really must go.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll see you again?’ Despite the listeners she could not prevent herself from asking the question, as she could not help the eager note in her voice. A small, entertained smile flickered across Serafina’s face.

  ‘Of course, if you’d like.’

  ‘I would.’ She did not care what they heard, what they thought.

  He smiled, the wonderful smile she had never forgotten, and with no kiss, no touch of the hand turned and walked through the door, acknowledging Theo with a polite nod of the head, looking at Serafina not at all. The gypsy girl watched Jessica for a moment, the small, amused smile on her lips before turning to follow.

  ‘Well,’ said Theo, advancing into the room. ‘What did you think of my present? What did I tell you – old Theo can do anything—’ He cackled, watching her with an amusement only a little kinder than that Serafina had shown. ‘What’s the matter, gel? Moonstruck, are yer?’

  Quiet and smiling she stood, smoothed her skirt, picked up her mask. Danny, her Danny, had been here with her. She could still hear his voice, still see the sharp lines of his face. As she walked past Theo to the door she paused to drop a light kiss onto the rouged cheek.
>
  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Chapter Twelve

  The strength of her feelings for Danny astounded her. From the moment she had seen him, from the moment he had turned his head and smiled at her she had known that here was a man that she wanted in a way and with a force that she had never experienced before. In those few short hours in his company all the infatuation of childhood had returned in tenfold strength – but now, too, she recognized the grace of his body, the challenge of that dark face, the open, attractive sexuality of the man. She wanted him near her. She wanted his touch and the sound of his voice. She could not be happy away from him. That night, alone in the silent darkness of her room, she relived each moment of their meeting, each word he had spoken, each gesture he had made. She recalled every line of his face, every expression. She counted the ways he had changed, and smiled at the ways he had not. And as the light of a grey winter’s dawn filtered through the shutters and she slept at last it was upon the determination that if she had to die for it she would make Danny O’Donnel want her as she wanted him.

  Twenty-four hours later the ever-smiling Angelina laid a note upon Jessica’s breakfast plate. Robert looked up from his book as she tore it open.

  She looked at it for a long moment before saying, very lightly, ‘Oh, how nice – it’s from Danny O’Donnel – you remember I told you I met him the other night at Theo’s? I knew him at home as a child—’

  ‘The one who renovated St Agatha’s for Giles’ and Clara’s wedding? Yes, I remember.’

  She indicated the note. ‘He wants to call. This afternoon. Will you be home?’

  ‘What time is he coming?’

  Entirely unnecessarily she consulted the precious scrap of paper again. ‘Two o’clock.’