As she took her leave Jessica could not entirely blink away the tears.
‘Fer Gawd’s sake gel,’ he said, with amiable asperity. ‘Turn off the waterworks. This is my scene, not yours. Fine thing when a gel’s last performance gets upstaged by a silly chit’s overactin’—’
She kissed the hand she held. ‘Thank you, Theo. Thank you for everything.’
He lay quietly for a moment. Almost any effort seemed to be too much for him now. But when she made to stand the pressure of his hand drew her back down beside him. ‘If I’d – had a daughter—’ he said, speaking with difficulty.
She waited. ‘Yes?’
The pale, tired eyes searched her face. And then, predictably, the gleam of mischief appeared, echoed by the ghost of the old, imp’s grin. ‘She’d ha’ bin well ruined by now, wouldn’t she? Off with yer, gel. Go live yer life. Yer doin’ the right thing, yer know that, don’t yer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well go on an’ do it then, an’ stop botherin’ me.’
* * *
They left Florence at the beginning of March, travelling this time straight up the west coast into a France whose dreams of imperial glory had finally seen an end on Napoleon’s deathbed on Elba the year before. The journey was arduous, made more so by a fretful child and a mildly hysterical Angelina, who had never until now strayed further from Florence than the Villa Francesca, and who could not be convinced that every Frenchman she saw was not bent upon rape or at the very least murder. At last in desperation Jessica had to threaten to send her back, and the thought of being parted from her darling Gabriella stiffened her backbone and stilled her tongue marvellously. Reaching Calais at last they boarded one of the new passenger steamers that had the year before begun to ply between the French and English coasts and in the miraculously short time of three hours, in bright spring weather they sighted at last the white cliffs of a Dover that looked at the same time incredibly familiar and ridiculously strange to English eyes that had become so accustomed to foreign cities. They landed on English soil on a lovely May day that might have been sent to welcome them home. Jessica thought she had never seen anything so green as the lovely Kentish countryside. She had forgotten the majesty of oak and elm, the pale and delicate delight of a field of wild flowers blowing in the wind. They rested overnight at Canterbury, and again in London. Then they took the coach at last for Sudbury, and home.
* * *
The FitzBolton carriage awaited them at the inn at Sudbury. Stiffly they climbed aboard whilst Blowers the coachman saw to the stowing of what luggage had travelled with them. ‘Welcome home, Sir Robert, Your Ladyship—’ he had said when they had met, and the titles rang strangely still in Jessica’s ears. When at last the loaded carriage, squeaking noisily, rolled into the Suffolk lanes she found herself watching eagerly for landmarks.
‘Look, Gabriella – that’s the stream that feeds the lake at New Hall—’ She had spent hours on the journey speaking to the child of her new home. ‘—and there are the gates – do you see the big house in the distance? That’s New Hall, where I lived when I was a little girl like you. Your Grandmama—’ she corrected herself quickly, ‘—one of your Grandmamas lives there still.’
The child watched from the window, overtired, overawed and unusually silent. Angelina huddled in a corner shivering in the fresh May air that came through the open window. They skirted the parkland of New Hall and crossed the river.
‘Oh, Robert – isn’t it lovely? I had almost forgotten!’ For the moment the pleasure of homecoming outweighed all else for Jessica. Two swans moved, regal heads high, upon the wide waters of the river. The willows bowed gracefully, drifting in the current and in the breeze. In the distance the sound of the weir made itself heard over the noisy movement of the carriage. In the shadowed woodlands across the water the misty, pale carpet of the budding bluebells delighted the eye. ‘Look – oh, look! There’s St Agatha’s.’ Like an eager child Jessica leaned to the window and watched the small, ancient church on the other side of the river as they passed. ‘It’s more overgrown than ever. Oh, Robert, we must do something about that – it’s such a pity to see it so neglected—’
The carriage was slowing. With a hollow rattle it crossed the bridge that spanned the river and rolled to a halt outside the gates of Old Hall. Blowers clambered down and stood tugging at his hatbrim apologetically. For the first time Jessica noticed with some surprise that his worn trousers did not match his livery jacket. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir Robert, Your Ladyship – but we can’t take the carriage across the old drawbridge. It wouldn’t stand the weight. Failin’ to pieces it is.’
It was not, Jessica saw with a shock as she stepped from the carriage, the only thing at Old Hall that was falling to pieces. At first sight unchanged and dearly familiar, a second glance swiftly showed how much neglected was the house itself. Tiles were missing from the roofs, not just singly but in some cases in patches. Several windows were broken and patched with wood. The gates stood open, jammed by their broken hinges. Ever since she had known it the old place had been fighting a battle against the merciless depredations of the years, but never had she seen it looking so pathetically run-down. Water plants clogged the stagnant waters of the moat and the growth of weeds in the courtyard as they crossed the creaking bridge and entered the gates was such that it was lifting the flagstones and all but hiding the well from sight. As they stood, nonplussed, in the desolation, a dog came barking from the stables, wagging its tail in greeting. Automatically Jessica bent to pat it, as she looked around. ‘Where is everyone?’
Angelina looked about her in disbelieving horror, and even the child was struck to silence by the oppressive quiet of the place.
‘Christ!’ Robert said, quietly and grimly.
‘Who’s there?’ A very plump figure had appeared at the doorway of the Great Hall and stood, her hand shading her eyes, peering vaguely at them. Her voice was querulous. ‘Who is it?’
Robert stepped forward. ‘Mother – it’s me – Robert. And Jessica.’
‘Who?’ Sarah put her head on one side, frowning, ‘Who did you say?’
‘Robert, Mother. It’s me—’
‘Robert! Good heavens!’ She lumbered forward. Her clothes were worn and stained, her hair a bird’s nest. ‘Of course. I’d quite forgotten. And Jessica, my dear! How are you? How is your mother? I really must pay some calls – there just always seems so very much to do. And who in the world is this? Never mind, never mind. Robert – your father is around somewhere – see if you can find him for me, would you? You know what a very naughty man he is when it comes to timekeeping – I really must get that watch of his mended – not that he ever thinks to look at it of course,’ she added in confidential tones to Jessica.
Robert opened his mouth. Jessica put a quick hand on his arm and shook her head. In the doorway behind Sarah FitzBolton a woman had appeared, small and birdlike, with a kindly face. She hurried to Sarah and took her arm. ‘Now, now, Your Ladyship – what are we doing here? We’re supposed to be resting, aren’t we?’
‘Oh, don’t fuss Janet! See – Robert’s back from university. I had quite forgotten he was coming. And Jessica’s come to visit – we must find Father – tell him to come—’
The little woman turned apologetically to Robert. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. She isn’t always like this. Not one of her better days. She’s a little confused I’m afraid. I’ll take her inside if you don’t mind? She’ll be right as rain by tea time.’
‘Yes – yes, of course.’
‘I’ll tell Mrs Williams you’re here. She’s been watching for you all day. But there was some crisis in the kitchen—’
It took less than an hour for the sad state of affairs at Old Hall to become painfully apparent. The near-empty house was decaying, most of the servants were gone. The loss of her husband had affected Sarah very badly; most of the time she lived in a world of her own, a world long disappeared. At supper it was clear that she still thought Robert home on vacation
from university and Jessica visiting from New Hall. She smiled vaguely when Gabriella, overawed, was brought in to say goodnight and obediently pecked her upon the cheek. Sarah smiled, vaguely. ‘What a very pretty child.’
No one mentioned Clara until Jessica asked Mrs Williams and was answered by a sharp cluck of the tongue and a tightening of the mouth. ‘Miss Clara’s otherwise occupied, Your Ladyship. She has no time for us at Old Hall.’
‘Do you know why she didn’t write to tell us what had happened?’
‘Everyone assumed she had. They thought—’ She stopped abruptly.
‘They thought we wouldn’t come home?’
‘Yes, Your Ladyship.’
Jessica had to laugh. ‘Oh, Mrs Williams – can’t you go back to Miss Jessica? I can’t get used to this “Ladyship” business at all, and from someone who used to let me steal her biscuits—’
Mrs Williams’ plump face creased into a small smile.
‘So – Clara never comes to see her mother?’
The smile went. ‘No, Miss Jessica, that she doesn’t. Neither she nor Mr Giles. They’ve no time for our troubles, it seems.’ Her mouth shut like a trap, and Jessica asked no more.
Sarah and the few remaining servants lived frugally from the rents and tithes of the Home Farm. There was no money, and there were debts. In the small parlour that was almost the only habitable living room in the house apart from the little apartment in the turret wing occupied by Sarah and Janet, Robert threw himself into the armchair that had always been his father’s and buried his head in his hands. ‘My God! – How can things have got into this state so fast?’
‘We’ve been away six years. And I don’t think even before that your father was a very good manager. The house was neglected even then—’
‘Neglected? The damned place is falling down!’
‘It’s certainly in a bad way.’ Jessica was tired. The journey had wearied her, she had spent the past two hours coping with a distressed and homesick Angelina and an even more distressed and homesick Gabriella. ‘Do you know what the debts are?’
He shook his head bleakly. ‘No.’
In the silence the tall, ornate grandfather clock that stood in the corner ticked rhythmically. With a spurt of tired irritation Jessica saw that it was more than two hours slow.
‘We shouldn’t have come back,’ Robert said.
Jessica would not be provoked. She said nothing.
‘You hear me? We should never have come back!’ He stood up and strode to the table by the window, upon which stood a brandy bottle and glasses. She watched him pour himself a generous tot. ‘We should have stayed in Florence.’
‘What good would that have done?’ She tried to keep her voice calm and reasonable, but a small grating edge of nerves sharpened it despite her efforts. ‘We couldn’t possibly have left your mother here in her condition and with the roof falling in over her head!’
He shrugged, moodily.
‘Robert – it’s no good letting ourselves be overwhelmed by it. We have to think. We have to find out what we have and what we owe. We have to find out how much it will take to put the house to rights – or at least to prevent it from decaying further. We have to find out what the land is yielding and—’
‘I don’t care!’ He slammed the glass down so hard upon the table that the brandy splashed and spilled. ‘You hear me? I don’t damned well care! I won’t be buried alive here! I won’t have this place bleed me dry! I’m going back to Florence—’ He tossed back the remaining brandy in one gulp and nearly choked.
Furious, she was out of her chair and beside him in a moment, catching his arm, almost shaking him in her anger. ‘You can’t! Robert, you can’t do that! You can’t run away—’
‘Oh, can’t I?’
‘No! Listen to me – please! If we can sort this out – if we can get the place on its feet again – then in a couple of years perhaps we can go back? Oh, not for ever I don’t mean – but for a few months each year?’
The look he turned upon her was pure, blistering scorn. ‘And what do we use for money to achieve this fantasy? Buttons? Jessica – this place needs thousands – thousands! – of pounds spent on it! Where are we going to get that kind of money?’
Jessica opened her mouth. Shut it again.
‘—I tell you the place will wring us dry!’
‘Don’t be so ridiculously melodramatic.’ Exhausted she dropped into a chair, picking at the worn upholstery. ‘Your family have lived here for generations. I don’t care what you say, it’s your duty to care for it. It’s your duty to try. We’re here. We have to do something.’
He poured himself another drink. ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ he said, grimly. ‘We’ll close the house and go back to Florence. Damn the place! Let it fall to pieces!’ He tilted the glass and drained it.
‘And your mother? Are you suggesting we take her with us?’
‘Clara can have her.’ His words were becoming slurred. ‘Why not? She can live with Clara.’
Jessica almost laughed. ‘What? With Clara? Robert, Clara hasn’t been near her for months! If she cared a pin for your mother she wouldn’t be living here on her own now, would she?’
His mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘I’ll go and see her tomorrow. Talk to her about it.’
Jessica stood up. ‘I wish you luck. You’ll need it. Something tells me that whatever else has changed around here your sister is much the same as ever. I’m going to bed. And Robert – tomorrow we must talk. Really talk. We have to work out what to do.’
He turned his back to her, stood looking out of the window as she left the room.
* * *
She spent a restless night and woke with the early May dawn to find the rest of the house still sleeping. She lay for a while listening to the blithe torrent of birdsong beyond the window, then on impulse she slipped from her bed and dressed swiftly. The risen sun gleamed through the trees and reflected, shimmering, from the quiet, clear-rippling waters of the river. Very quietly, reminded irresistibly of childhood escapades, she crept down the stairs. As she passed Robert’s open door his rasping breaths were loud and rhythmic. She could smell the brandy fumes from where she stood.
She let herself out into the brilliant morning, crossed the drawbridge and stood for a moment breathing the heady air, fresh and sparkling as chilled wine, and listening to the heartstoppingly beautiful song of a blackbird that was perched high in a fragrantly blooming hawthorn tree. In the distant woodlands a cuckoo called. She turned to look at the old house, and in the golden morning sunshine it was again the fairy castle that she remembered, a place of magic and enchantment. In this light and at this distance the crumbling fabric of the place was not apparent. But the beauty of the ancient brick and timber was there, and the idiosyncratic twist of the tudor chimneys, added when the house was already old. Generations of FitzBoltons this house had sheltered; it deserved better treatment now, she thought sadly, than to be cursed and left to rot.
She shook her head, her mouth set. Not while there was breath in her body would the old place be left to fall down or abandoned to stangers.
She set off along the riverbank, each bend and twist of the path so familiar and well remembered that it felt strange not to have Bran sniffing excitedly at each fascinating hole and bush. The old dog had died two years before, but not before siring, according to Patrick, a happy pack of mongrel offspring over several square miles of the county. She wondered if she could find one of his progeny for Gabriella. She stopped for a moment, disentangling her skirt from a grasping bramble. The path that once had been so clear to follow was overgrown. Thorns clawed her skirt again, and a new growth of nettles brushed her unprotected ankles painfully. If the way were not cleared, by high summer it would be impassable. She picked a heavy stick from the ground and beat her way through with it. The small cottages, where Danny had lived, were boarded up and nearly lost in the jungle that had sprung up around them. She stood for a long moment by the broken gate remembering the
day that a small girl had crept down this path to watch a dark and handsome stranger wash in water from the well in the middle of a yard that was now so overgrown that the gate would not open. A little further on the church had fared no better. It was as if since her wedding six years before no single soul had been near the place, and jealous nature had reclaimed the churchyard and surroundings swiftly for her own. Jessica edged her way up the path and went in, leaving the door ajar behind her. The air of the small building was exactly as she remembered it – cold and dank, musty with age. The easterly rising sun gleamed through the stained glass windows, flooding the place with glittering patterns of light, like a bright, jewelled shawl flung across walls and floor. She walked to the altar, very quietly, her footsteps light, her breathing shallow. St Agatha smiled still from her niche, restored by Danny’s loved and loving hands. With a faint rustle of her clothing Jessica sat in the front pew and tilted her head, looking at the statue. A small, frightened something scuttled away from her feet, the sound loud in the silence.
She sat so for a very long time. Outside the sun rose higher and gained in strength. The cuckoo flew, calling, across the treetops. The flowers shed their dew and spread their pale petals to the warmth of the day.
Still she sat.
The world rose and went about its business. Small animals scurried in the undergrowth, blind babies blinked in the milky light.
She stirred at last. She was stiff, and very cold. But in that long quiet time many answers had come to her and her heart was calm, close even to happiness despite all. Outside the light and the warmth all but dazzled her. She stretched her goose-fleshed arms, rubbing them briskly. Even her nose was cold, and her feet were like blocks of ice. She pushed her way along the familiar path around the lake, stopping for a while to watch the nesting waterbirds and the lovely play of the sun on the water. A flustered moorhen with a small flotilla of young paddled away from her, scolding angrily. She sat on a fallen log and let the sun warm her cold flesh. The bluebells here were in their first bloom, laying their carpet of deep and beautiful blue about the woods.
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