The Hawthorne Heritage

by The Hawthorne Heritage (retail) (epub)

  ‘I don’t. Can’t stand ’em. Pies is the best place fer babies. You told anyone else yet?’

  She shook her head.

  He raised sparse brows. ‘No one at all?’

  ‘No.’

  He grinned his now spectacularly toothless smile. ‘Anyone’d think I was the poor little bastard’s father!’ he cackled, not without some satisfaction at the improbable idea.

  The telling, when it came, as it had to, was not easy. There was no question in her mind but that she would have the child, whatever happened. From the first moment she had known of its conception the thought of it had all but obsessed her, heart and mind. In an uncertain world this small soul would be hers, to love, to cherish, to guide, to protect from all ills, all evils. A small piece of Danny from whom no one, not even Danny himself, could part her. But for all that she did not underestimate the possible problems.

  She told Danny first, on a warm summer’s afternoon at the apartment in the via Condotta. She could leave it no longer. The firmness of her breasts and the darkening of her nipples she knew would soon tell their own story. She told him in the quiet moments after their lovemaking, flatly and apparently without emotion, whilst pure panic fluttered in her breast like a frantic captured bird.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘About three months, I think.’

  A small silence. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  She did not reply.

  ‘Jessie?’

  ‘I – was afraid.’ She got the words out with some difficulty.

  ‘Of what?’

  She turned on her stomach, laying her forehead on her crossed arms. For her life she could not look at him. ‘I don’t know. I thought you might not be happy. I suppose I thought you might be angry. I was afraid – afraid you might—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want this baby,’ she said, fiercely, into her arms, her voice muffled. ‘I want it. I won’t – do anything to hurt it—’

  He seized her by the shoulder and turned her to face him, leaning above her, his face dark with anger. ‘What are you saying?’

  Suddenly she was crying. ‘I thought you might not want it! I thought you might try – to make me—’ She could not go on.

  ‘Good God!’ He caught her to him, angry and tender at once. ‘What do you take me for? You little fool! You honestly think I’d put you through that? If you want the child, have it. It’s your decision.’

  She struggled from him. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘“If you want the child, have it?” Is that all you can say? What about you? Don’t you want it?’

  He hesitated. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘You don’t! I can tell you don’t!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ He kissed her wet cheek in gentle exasperation. ‘What do you expect? Give me time, my little love. Give me time to get used to the idea—’

  * * *

  She told Robert a week later, and if anything that was harder. They had seen little of each other lately, their lives seeming to have separated completely, and she had to make a point of asking him to stay at home to talk with her. After she had told him, stumbling a little over the words, he was silent for a very long time.

  ‘Robert?’ she asked, tentatively.

  He stirred. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I – I don’t know. But we have to talk, don’t we? We have to discuss it. In the world’s eyes the child will be yours. You must realize that?’ He must realize too, she knew, that if he repudiated her and the child, in self-defence she would have to have the marriage annulled, with all the scandal and disgrace for him that might involve. Desperately she did not want to use that threat.

  He nodded.

  ‘Well?’

  His breathing was quiet. She found that her hands were clenched so fiercely that the fingernails were cutting painfully into the skin. With an effort she forced herself to relax.

  He lifted his head, on his face the very shadow of a bitterly sad smile. ‘Have your baby, Jessica. I give you my word that it will have my name and my protection. That’s the least I can do. To all intents and purposes the child will be ours and I swear I will never go back on my promise to care for it.’

  The release from the deadly anxiety she had suffered these past weeks was overwhelming. She bowed her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking, the tension draining from her.

  He laid a light arm across her shoulders, the first time he had touched her in months. ‘Don’t cry, Jessica. I’ve always hated to see you cry.’

  She lifted a tear-stained, smiling face. ‘It’s just such a relief, Robert! I didn’t know what you might say – what you might do. How can I thank you?’

  ‘No thanks are necessary,’ he smiled, and for a moment the old Robert sat there, his hand in hers, comforting her after a whipping from MacKenzie, or a squabble with Giles. ‘I owe you much that I can never repay,’ he said. ‘This is my thanks to you. And anyway—’ he smiled again, a happier smile, ‘what are friends for?’

  * * *

  It was not an easy pregnancy, and the dust and heat of a Florentine summer made it worse. In August, with the heat at its uncomfortable height Theo turned up at her door one morning and insisted with apparently autocratic insensitivity that she accompany him on a carriage ride. Faced with his waspish and adamant refusal to listen to her protests she dressed lethargically and joined him in the shaded carriage.

  She could not deny that she felt better the moment they left the dust and the noise of the city. When they turned along the familiar lane that led to the Villa Francesca she smiled her delight, looking forward to a lemonade and a slice of Lucia’s excellent cake on the cool verandah. She had not been to the villa since her week there with Danny earlier in the year – the week when the baby about which she felt so passionately had been conceived.

  When they turned into the drive, the surprise was immediate. ‘But – Theo! How very pretty!’

  The wilderness of garden had been tamed. Steps had been laid down the hillside through tumbling rock-plants and shrubs to a paved area shaded by a small grove of lemon trees. A fountain played, sparkling in the sunlight. Beneath it the steps continued to a small brick building, a single-storey summer house from the look of it. The villa itself had been painted and gleamed in the bright sunshine. The shutters were thrown wide and fine curtains drifted in the mountain breeze. As they stepped down from the carriage a small bevy of servants presented themselves shyly at the steps, presided over by a beaming Marcos and a still happily grumbling Lucia.

  Jessica looked at Theo in astonishment.

  He did not bat an eyelid, but banged his stick upon the ground in counterfeit of peevish impatience. ‘In with yer then, gel – in with yer—’

  The place had been transformed. From a rustic country retreat it had been turned into a comfortable home. Dining room, drawing room, morning room and library – already well stocked with books – downstairs. And upstairs three bedrooms, beautifully appointed and a nursery suite, complete with tiny cradle. She had completed the tour in a stunned silence. At the door of the nursery bedroom she turned to Theo. He was watching her for once without the evil grin that so often accompanied one of his more unexpected actions. ‘Yer like it, gel?’

  ‘Like it? It’s wonderful! It’s – it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen!’

  ‘Can’t have yer livin’ in that filthy midden of a city in your condition. Not good fer you, not good fer the poor little bugger yer carryin’—’ He turned away.

  ‘Theo!’

  The word stopped him. He turned, belligerently. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s – this – is for me?’

  ‘You know any other breedin’ women?’

  ‘But – I can’t let you do this?’

  ‘Oh? How you goin’ ter stop me? You tellin’ me yer want ter stay in that dirty oven of an apartment of yours?’


  She overlooked the excusable exaggeration. ‘Of course not—’

  ‘Oh—’ He interrupted her, limping past her to the window and pointing to where the tiled roof of the summer house could be seen. ‘Forgot ter mention – small apartment an’ music room at the bottom of the garden. The two dear boys can talk in Greek an’ play famous composers down there to their heart’s content. Can’t have the poor little sod woken up by their caterwaulin’—’

  She was overwhelmed. As he stumped back past her she caught his hand in hers. ‘Theo – how can I thank you?’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Of course there’s need,’ she hesitated a little. ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why you’re so good to me? No one – no friend, no family – no one! – has ever been so kind.’

  For the briefest of moments she thought he would answer seriously. Then the two yellowed teeth that were all that were left to him appeared, gleaming barbarously. ‘Never know when me tastes might change, gel. Never know when I might fancy a young female agen—’

  Shaking her head in amused exasperation she followed him as he cackled his breathless, difficult way down the stairs.

  * * *

  A predictable problem did arise. Robert did not want to remove himself too far from Arthur; Arthur refused point blank to exile himself to the country. A brief and extremely one-sided interview with Theo, however, provoked a change of mind, and Arthur was persuaded to persuade Robert that a country setting was very conducive to genius. In return – apart from the raising of Arthur’s allowance, which was strictly a matter between himself and Theo – two carriages were provided and the narrow road through the mountains improved to make access to the city easier. And so arrangements were reached that suited everyone. Since Theo absolutely refused to accept any rent on the villa they were able to keep on the apartment in the city. Robert spent part of the week there and part in the country, for the sake of appearances. Arthur was a frequent visitor, as was Theo – but not as frequent as Danny. Often as she sat in the pretty garden, her expanding girth tying her close to home she watched Danny as he strode down the hillside coming back from a walk, Marco’s small terrier, that had adopted him as soon as he had set foot in the house, following at his heels, and thought that for those times they were together they might indeed have been a happily married young couple looking forward to the birth of their first child. Of those times they were apart she tried not to think. Sometimes days on end would pass without a visit, and when she saw him it was an unspoken rule between them that no questions were asked about where he had been or with whom. He had his work, and that inevitably occupied some of his time. He had his friends, and from them she would not have dreamed of parting him if she could. He had his wife: and the relationship between those two was, Danny had made it quite clear, not to be questioned or discussed. In his own way he loved Jessica, and she knew it. His anticipation of the coming child had become almost as great as hers. That, she told herself, for now was enough.

  Theo Carradine, mentor of the irregular menage that he had so deftly manipulated, watched and chuckled at the diverse pleasures of the study of human nature.

  On a damp December day in her pretty firelit bedroom in the Villa Francesca Jessica, aided competently by Angelina and Lucia, who had developed a fierce and unlikely conspiracy of affection for their young mistress, was delivered of a daughter. Gabriella FitzBolton was a black-eyed coquette from the moment she was born. Her first unfocused glances conquered the men in her life with ease. Danny was fierce with pride. Robert was gentle. Cynical Theo was – absurdly, as he was the first to admit – enslaved. Jessica, holding the child, feeling her mouth at her breast as she sucked contentedly, had never in her life been happier.

  * * *

  In the few happy years that followed, watching her daughter grow, Jessica sometimes managed to convince herself that this idyll need never end. The news that filtered more irregularly than ever from England gave her no cause for concern – Patrick, after a shaky start at Harrow, had perfectly obviously found his feet and was happy. It was not long before, wrapped in his new life and new friends, he stopped writing altogether. Her mother’s letters did not change a jot; formal and brief, they reminded Jessica of their writer – sharp and to the point, the pillar of the family, never changing. Sarah’s gossipy letters were still an occasional delight. Meanwhile in the Italian sun Gabriella grew straight and strong. Robert, though quiet and frequently absent from the villa, seemed content with things as they were. Danny loved her, and she him, fiercely as ever. Theo’s health failed a little, as he was bound to do, and she worried about him – but always he rallied and as with everything else she put her fears for him to the back of her mind and refused to think about them. Let tomorrow’s worries take care of themselves. For today the sun shone, and she was happy.

  Part Four

  1823–1826

  Chapter Thirteen

  The moment she saw the letter Jessica knew, with no need to open it, that the idyll had ended. She recognized at once her mother’s neat, handsome writing; recognized even quicker the significance of the directions upon the envelope. Since it was not addressed to her she did not open it, but laid it upon the table in the dining room to await Robert’s return. It was February, and snow had fallen on the hills. The distant city was veiled in cloud.

  She stood at the window, taking in the familiar view. For four years now this had been her home, and she had been happy. Those years had been a gift from the gods of fortune; she had known for some time that a price would be exacted, knew now without doubt that the time had come.

  She walked back to the table and stood looking pensively down at the letter. ‘To: Sir Robert FitzBolton, Bart.’

  It came to her with a small start of surprise that if the title had indeed come to Robert then she must now be Lady FitzBolton. She wondered, sadly, when Robert’s father – that calm, kindly, unassuming man – had died; and why the first news of it should come not from Robert’s mother but her own. She wondered too, with some misgiving, how Robert would take the news.

  She tried not to think of Danny.

  ‘Mama – Mama—!’ Four-year-old Gabriella tumbled into the room, bright-eyed and flushed of face, gabbling in rapid Italian. ‘Angelina says she’ll take me out into the snow if you say she can – oh, please, please Mama, say yes! It isn’t very cold and I have my—’

  Jessica held up a hand to stop the torrent of words. ‘English, Gabriella!’ she scolded indulgently. ‘Speak English, now!’

  The child pulled a comical face. ‘Angelina say – says – she will take me into the – the—’

  ‘Snow,’ Jessica supplied.

  ‘—snow, if you say yes. Please? May we?’ The words were stilted and heavily accented.

  ‘Yes. You may tell Angelina yes, providing that you wrap up well.’

  ‘Thank you, Mama!’ In her impulsive way the child flung her arms about her mother and hugged her, then turned and ran from the room, calling excitedly for Angelina.

  Jessica watched her go. Of all the blessings this past five years had brought, this small bright child was the greatest. Gabriella was like a ray of sunshine. Jessica found herself looking once more at the letter. She could not say with absolute truth that she had not been expecting it. For many reasons – and not the least of them the child she loved so dearly – she had known for some time that the moment was approaching when they must return home. She had tried to ignore it, but in the past months the conviction had grown. Gabriella ran wild, petted and spoiled, more Italian than English, a little gypsy; untutored and undisciplined. If she were to know and to understand anything of her English heritage she must be introduced to it, and soon. Last summer’s sunshine still glowed upon her smooth olive skin, her first language was Italian; another few years and she would never adjust to living in England. And meanwhile their money was running low, and Robert was earning nothing. Sooner or later they would have to go home.

 
; She picked up the letter, stood looking down at it thoughtfully. ‘Sir Robert FitzBolton, Bart.’ How would Robert take this? In these past years she knew he had dismissed from his mind any thought of the England that for him had held so many unhappy memories. While in some small corner of her heart Jessica had always nursed the knowledge that one day she would return, Robert had in truth eaten the fruit of the lotus-tree, and had obdurately turned his face from any suggestion. His life was here, his devotion to Arthur, far from waning, was stronger than ever. He had given up his own ambitions and aspirations – he no longer attended the Maestro’s classes, no longer spoke of a future in the composition of music – he had become Arthur Leyland’s acolyte, a willing worshipper at the feet of that talented, handsome and vain young man.

  No – Robert would not want to go home.

  She turned, the letter still in her hand, and walked back to the window. As she stood there, tapping the crisp envelope with a nervous finger, a rider came from under the trees that shadowed the sandy drive. She smiled to see him; Danny may have conquered his initial fear of horses, but he would never make a rider. His dark head was bare despite the cold, the long mouth smiling as he looked towards the house, knowing that she would be there watching for him. She drew a long breath against the warm and painful rise of emotion that the sight of him always brought. Five years, occasionally stormy as they had been, had not served to change her feelings for Danny O’Donnel. Far from it.

  ‘Dan-nee! Dan-nee!’ A small bundle of energy launched herself across the garden. ‘Dan-nee!’

  Danny slid from the horse’s back in time to catch Gabriella and swing her high in the air, squealing with laughter. Their voices came to the watcher in the window. Chewing her thumbnail, her face sombre, she turned away.