‘Tha’ss right. An’ I’d like to leave the kale till spring – give it a chance to side shoot. We could do with a few more acres for the winter rye—’
‘What about the pasture land? Is any of that suitable for crops?’
He shrugged, clattering about the kitchen range. ‘Then where’d we put the new stock in the summer?’ He hesitated a moment, then turned his shaggy head, ‘Your brother—?’
‘What?’
‘Wouldn’t let us use the New Hall parkland, I suppose? I do hate to see that good land goin’ to waste—’
She laughed aloud. ‘What? Sheep with Clara’s peacocks? Oh, no, Charlie, he most certainly wouldn’t let us use the parkland. He called our sheep “those damnable beasts” the other day. He thinks they’re a waste of time and money. You can’t buy a machine that will look after a flock of sheep—’ She saw, or sensed, the change in him, put her head on one side, watching him. His smile had gone. He had turned back to the milk jug, reaching for two mugs, but the ease had left him. ‘Charlie?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘What is it?’
He shook his head a little. She sat in silence, frowning, as he poured the milk and brought it to the table. She sipped the rich, frothing stuff, watched as he drained half the mug and with an unthinkable movement that made her mouth twitch with a laughter she would never have allowed him to see wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked worried, his usual clear, uncomplicated expression clouded.
‘Charlie – what’s wrong? Is it something to do with Giles?’
He took a breath. ‘Aye, Y’re Ladyship,’ he hesitated. Jessica frowned at the use of the title. ‘Aye,’ he said heavily again. ‘Him an’ them machines. To tell the truth your brother isn’t the most popular man in the world about this part of Suffolk—’
She almost laughed. ‘Oh Charlie – is that all? I thought you were going to tell me something I didn’t know! I don’t think it will surprise – or even bother – Giles if he isn’t elected May Queen next year!’ She laughed a little, mischievously, at the thought, and teased him with her eyes, expecting him to laugh with her.
He didn’t. ‘It’s no great laughing matter.’ He paused, as if weighing his words. ‘There’s a lot of wild talk,’ he said at last.
‘What sort of wild talk?’
He looked uncomfortable, as if he wished he had not said so much, but she would not leave it.
‘You mean – threats?’
He shrugged a little, his eyes on the foaming milk.
She shook her head sharply, disbelievingly. ‘The people of the village have known us all our lives. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt us.’
‘Not you, Miss Jess. Him. Your brother. Him an’ his machines. Tha’ss not right, takin’ the bread from the people’s mouths, starvin’ their little ’uns. But you? – you an’ your is as safe as houses. Not the worst of ’em’d touch you. ’Sides anythin’ else—’ he lifted his great brown head and looked directly into her eyes, ‘—they know they’d have to go through me—’
The tiny silence that followed the words was a strange one, loaded in some way with a meaning that Jessica for the moment could not fathom. There was pride in that sudden lift of the man’s head, a perhaps unconscious but deeply disturbing challenge in his direct gaze. Absurdly she suddenly found she could not hold his eyes. ‘I’m sure that no one from the village would dream of harming Giles.’ Her voice was cooler and sharper than she had intended it.
He stood up abruptly, scraping his stool with noisy force upon the flagstoned floor, draining the rest of his milk at a gulp. ‘’Course not, Y’re Ladyship.’ His voice too had changed, and was level and all but expressionless. She could not avoid the feeling that something, somehow, had gone badly wrong between them. ‘Now – if you don’t need me for anythin’ else I’ll get across to Barn Meadow. I’m movin’ the flock to the river fields – Here, Bess!’ He whistled, shrilly, and the dog appeared like a shadow from nowhere. He stood for a moment towering above Jessica, looking down at her, his usually open face shuttered as a closed window. Then very deliberately he bowed his head and pulled at his brown forelock in a gesture of servility she had never seen him make before, made now in the least servile way possible. Then he turned and strode away, the dog at his heels, the set of his head and the lines of his broad back taut with inexplicable but unmistakable anger.
Jessica could not have been more astonished had he slapped her. She watched the tall, retreating back, puzzled and disturbed; puzzled at his anger, disturbed at the sudden confusion of emotion it had awakened in her. She had of course known all along that Charlie Best was no longer the village boy who had taken her birds’ nesting and had tossed one of her best slippers into the river – no more than was she the undisciplined urchin who had launched herself at him and all but sent him into the water after the mistreated footwear. But for the first time now, and with a shock, she saw him as a man, with a man’s dangerous pride and – she faced it honestly, her cheeks burning – a man’s attraction.
She stood up, brushing down her skirt, walked very quickly to where her mare was tethered by the battered stone mounting block. Mounted, she turned the little horse and set her at a fast pace down the stony track. Down by the river she could see the man’s tall form, striding fast and purposefully, the black and white shadow slinking at his heels. He did not turn.
* * *
Jessica found herself pondering on Charlie’s warning, obscure as it had been, as she rode across the park a couple of days later to New Hall and the meeting she had been dreading for a week. The other and odder aspects of that rather strange afternoon she had put firmly from her mind, had indeed almost managed to convince herself that the curious, electric flash of emotion she had thought she had detected in Charlie had been a figment of her imagination. Yet despite her efforts the thought of Charlie Best had taken to popping into her head at odd times in the most distracting manner. Now, however, with the great house shining in the distance beneath scudding rainclouds her thoughts were more of his warning than of his more personally disconcerting behaviour. Should she perhaps warn Giles that local feeling was running high against him? She pulled a small, sour face: he would probably laugh at her. As she had pointed out to Charlie his popularity with the local people was and always had been the least of Giles’ concerns.
She rode to the front courtyard and handed the reins to the lad who waited to take them, walked slowly up the steps to where the door had already been opened by a smiling footman. For some reason she had found herself taking considerable care with her appearance today – her riding habit was her favourite, the russet brown of bright autumn leaves that she knew brought out the best of her own colouring. It was stylishly cut with a full skirt and a mannish jacket set off by her cream silk cravat. Her soft leather boots were of the same shade of red-brown, as were her gloves. Her hair she had caught becomingly at the nape of her neck and fastened it with a small bow. She handed hat, gloves and whip to the footman.
‘The family is waiting in the library, Your Ladyship.’
She smiled her thanks. Outside the library door she hesitated for a telling second, then took breath, pushed open the door and walked in.
They were all there but Caroline. Maria sat by the window her back half-turned to the room, her hands folded upon the blanket that covered her lap. Her face was drawn. John stood near her. He had spent the last couple of days at Tollgate House. Clara sat, beautifully disposed, upon a small settee. She was dressed in dark red, a colour which suited her admirably. Her skin was flawless, her profile clear and sharp as a new-minted coin. Giles stood by the fire, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He was dressed for riding and his boots were wet from his morning’s inspection of the estate. To everyone’s relief Caroline had refused to come. She had sent a politely querulous note delivered by a spectacularly liveried servant pointing out that any unfortunate repercussions arising from Patrick’s death were absolutely nothing to do with her. Since Bunty’s youngest and prettiest sister had married into ne
w and vast industrial money and the Standish family fortunes had been happily re-established Caroline’s interest in her own family had waned considerably.
‘Ah, Jessica. Come in.’ Giles strode to the door and closed it behind her. ‘Is Robert not coming?’
Jessica shook her head. There was someone else whose interest in family affairs was minimal. In fact since Patrick’s death Robert’s interest in almost anything seemed to be nonexistent. The only thing that had aroused him even slightly from the brown and brooding study into which the boy’s death had thrown him had been the arrival of the draft from Mr Sotheby – and even then after enquiring the amount he had simply grunted, as if in disappointment, and said no more.
Jessica nodded coolly to Clara, smiled at John, dutifully kissed her mother. Maria smiled faintly. Jessica took the chair that Giles indicated and waited.
Characteristically Giles came straight to the point. ‘I’ve called you here for two reasons. First: after the – unfortunate machinations—’ His eyes were cold as he looked at his mother. She did not even glance at him. ‘—of the past few years I want it understood here and now that my title to New Hall and its lands is clear and incontestable.’ He lifted his handsome head and glanced at each of them, challengingly, in turn. Maria’s eyes were fixed upon her folded hands. John shrugged. ‘I shan’t dispute it, brother,’ and he turned away, stood with his back to the company, looking out of the window. Jessica thought she heard Clara let out a small breath, perhaps of relief. When Giles’ cold gaze crossed her own she nodded. Much as she disliked him there was no doubt in her mind as to her brother’s right to the position of master of New Hall.
‘Very well. That’s settled. Now, with regard to Mother – since the land she owns in her own right, on the New Hall side of the river, has no house with it I have decided that she should have Tollgate House until her death.’ He spoke as if Maria were not in the room. ‘After that it will revert to the estate. She has agreed that she will take no income. Brights Meadows, her land by the river, will be farmed with New Hall land as always, and a percentage of the profits made over to her. She has agreed.’
Silence. Beyond the window the rainclouds were building, a great purple mass that oppressed the air and turned the waters of the lake leaden.
‘Secondly—’ Giles waited until all eyes were upon him, then lifted the papers he held. ‘I felt I should tell you what I have done – and what I have not – about the debts that were all that Patrick left.’
Jessica stirred, and sighed. Poor Patrick, even now, was not to be left to rest at peace.
‘Some of the debts were personal,’ Giles was saying. ‘He borrowed, it appeared, from absolutely anyone stupid enough to lend to him. Most of those, as a matter of honour, I have settled. There is one, however, that I have not.’ He took the top sheet of paper and held it up. ‘This is a demand from a moneylender. A threatening demand, I might add. It seems the money was long overdue. I think you should know that I have absolutely no intention of paying the scoundrel.’
Jessica saw her mother’s head move a little, sharply. John turned, frowning. Clara smiled.
‘This is Patrick’s debt. So far as I’m concerned it dies with him. He was a minor. We have no obligation to discharge his debts.’
‘No legal obligation,’ John said, gently.
‘No obligation whatsoever.’ Giles’ voice was strong. ‘I have paid the personal debts. That is as far as I’m willing to go. I will not deal with this usurer.’ He paused. ‘There is however one thing I think it only fair to tell you—’
He had all their attention now. Maria had lifted her head sharply and was watching him intently.
‘This – moneylender—’ the word was spoken with disgust, ‘who says that Patrick mortgaged land to him as surety of this debt, is not happy at the situation. Since Patrick was a minor, and since the land did not rightly belong to him anyway, he had no right to pledge it, of course, and the lender had no right to accept his pledge. However, he did, and is aggrieved by the loss of his money—’
‘How much?’ Jessica asked, quietly.
‘Nearly a thousand guineas. For the past two years it seems that Patrick has been gambling with every penny he could lay his hands on, honestly or dishonestly. He borrowed to cover his debts, and then borrowed again to cover that borrowing.’
‘And – what does the gentleman intend to do about the loss of his money?’
Giles smiled humourlessly. ‘The man is no gentleman, Jessica. And he’s very angry indeed. He has promised to go to extremes to extract the money from us.’
‘What extremes?’
‘He threatens us with the courts—’
‘He has no case,’ John said.
‘—and he threatens us with scandal.’
No one said anything for a very long time. Maria’s hands twitched in her lap, and were still. It was John who spoke again. ‘What does he know?’
Giles shook his head. ‘It’s hard to tell. But he has it seems approached some of the servants and has been snooping about the village. He’s smelled a rat and intends to start it, unless we pay him.’
‘If he begins to make enquiries – serious enquiries—’ Jessica said, quietly, ‘—amongst the servants – in the village – there’s no knowing what wild stories might be concocted—’ Nor what truths might be uncovered. She did not say the words aloud, but they hung in the air, tensely.
‘Quite.’
‘We have to pay him.’ It was Maria, speaking for the first time.
Giles looked directly at her for the first time. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’ Jessica asked, her eyes worriedly upon her mother. A scandal of the magnitude that this might bring about their heads would undoubtedly kill Maria Hawthorne and destroy her reputation for ever.
Maria sat now, her head turned to her son, her face ashen. And Giles watched her, smiling. He knew precisely who would suffer most if he did not pay. ‘I’ll not pay blackmail,’ he said, ‘And besides, the estate can’t afford such a sum.’
‘I don’t believe that!’ Jessica was fighting to keep her temper. ‘You can’t be that short of money.’
His eyes flicked to her and back to his mother. ‘I have discharged the other debts,’ he said, evenly, ‘—a considerable sum, I might add. There is no more money. I need it for seed, and to buy new stock. I need it for the new thresher—’
Maria’s shoulders were rigid. Her hands in her lap were tightly clenched. ‘Give him the land,’ she said composedly. ‘My land. I have no need of it.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Giles was impatient.
John moved to his mother’s side. ‘I think that Mother is suggesting that since the usurer took the pledge of land for his money then she is willing to part with her land – Brights Meadows – to settle the debt. The land is hers, you said. She may do as she wishes with it.’
Giles barked with laughter that in Jessica’s ears was tinged with spite and triumph. ‘He won’t take it.’
Jessica hated him. She hated what her mother had done, she hated the destruction of that bright-eyed, scared little boy who had sat in this very room six years before: but in that moment, for his laughter, she hated Giles more. ‘Why not?’ she asked.
He turned on her in scorn. ‘He doesn’t want the land! What would he do with it? Hang it in his window for sale to the highest bidder? Mother’s land is no good to anyone but New Hall. It is part of the estate. There’s no right of way. It’s caged between the estate and the river.’
‘And you’d deny a right of way?’
‘Of course.’
‘So the land is unsaleable?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you won’t pay the money to keep this beastly man quiet?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Then I will.’
Clara turned sharply. The expression on Giles’ face was almost comical. ‘You can’t!’
Ignoring him she walked to where her mother sat. Maria lifted bright, sombre eyes to hers.
‘Mother? Will you sell Brights Meadows to me? We don’t need right of way. The land is opposite Home Farm – we can put a bridge across the river. I’ll give you—’ she sent a venomous glance at Giles, ‘—a thousand guineas for it.’ She would not think of Robert’s anger. She would face that later. She searched her mother’s face to make certain that she understood what she was saying, and then added pointedly. ‘You may, of course, do anything you like with the money.’
‘You’re mad!’ Giles snapped angrily. ‘That land isn’t worth two hundred.’
‘To me it is.’ Jessica threw the words over her shoulder. ‘We’re extending the flock. We need more grazing. Mother—’ she turned back to Maria, ‘—will you sell it to me?’
Maria’s hands were trembling very slightly. The old lady lifted her head proudly. ‘You’re sure? That you want the land?’
‘Yes. We need it. Charlie wants to grow more feed. And some of it can be put to pasture for next year.’
‘Then – of course you may have it.’
Jessica stood, still pushing to the back of her mind the thought of Robert’s reaction when he discovered that a thousand precious guineas had been impulsively expended so. The books and manuscripts had realized just over 2,000 pounds. A small fortune, she had thought, when first she had received the draft. To spend half of it on land worth less than a quarter of what she had offered to pay was, as Giles had said, madness, when they needed every penny for the house and the farm. But she did not care. She would not stand by and see Giles – of all people! – engineer their mother’s disgrace. She turned. John was standing beside her, and the look in his brown eyes warmed her. But as she faced her other brother, master of New Hall, the look in his blue ones might have chilled her had she not been so angry. His face was tight with fury. ‘You’re a fool, Jessica,’ he said, quietly.
‘And you’re a barbarian!’ All the savage disgust she felt was in the quiet words.
The Hawthorne Heritage Page 48