The enmity lay between them like a drawn sword. No one spoke. Clara’s hands were clenched white in her lap, dislike and hostility written upon her face. John’s calm eyes moved from one to the other. Very composedly, though her heart thumped in her chest like an urgent fist, Jessica bent and kissed her mother. ‘I’ll come next week and bring the money.’
Maria nodded. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ She smiled with difficulty, a small grimace as of pain.
Jessica turned to John, refusing to be hurried by the hostility about her. ‘You’ll come and see us before you leave?’
‘I leave tomorrow. May I come today?’
‘Of course.’ Coolly Jessica nodded to Clara. ‘Goodbye Clara. Giles.’
Neither said a word.
Straight-backed she left the room, shutting the door very quietly behind her.
* * *
She rode home through the darkening afternoon, still lost in anger despite her apprehension about facing Robert. The despicable way that Giles had been ready to use his regained power to punish Maria revolted her. Even if the threat had no substance, even if the moneylender had not been intent upon his pound of flesh, she could not have stood by and let her mother live in such a shadow. In her present state of health it would undoubtedly have killed her: which, she surmised grimly, would have suited Giles and Clara very well. Maria was a thorn in their side. Her death would bring them no grief.
She stabled the mare herself, rubbing her down and bringing her water, murmuring and stroking, soothing herself as much as the beast. As she crossed the drawbridge to the courtyard the rain that had been threatening had finally started, cold and hard, stripping the leaves from the creeper that clung to the old walls.
At the foot of the great staircase she met Sarah, a shawl about her head.‘Oh dear, oh dear! Just look at the rain! And Sir Thomas not home yet! Why, hello, my dear—’ she smiled vaguely at Jessica. ‘Have you come to see young Robert? He’s about somewhere. I’m sure I’ve seen him. But you will excuse me? My husband isn’t home yet, and I’m a little worried. It’s raining, you see, and I’m sure he went out without his hat. Such an absent-minded man he is—!’
‘Lady Sarah? Lady Sarah!’ Janet came bustling down the stairs. ‘My, oh my, we are naughty sometimes, aren’t we? Come along now – Mrs Williams shall make us a nice cup of tea. This way, my lady, this way.’ With a motherly arm about the old lady she guided her away from the front door. As she did so she threw an apologetic glance at Jessica over her shoulder. ‘Good afternoon, Your Ladyship.’
‘Good afternoon, Janet.’ Jessica tossed hat and gloves onto the table, then stopped, lifting her head and sniffing the air.
Janet nodded, briskly disapproving. ‘Lord alone knows what it is, Your Ladyship. But nothing good by the smell of it,’ and she bustled after her disappearing charge.
Jessica knew what it was. Too well she knew. Her stomach protested and in vain she tried to blot out the picture that rose in her mind of a dark church, lamp-lit and wreathed in drugging smoke.
She ran up the stairs. The Old Drawing Room was empty, and so was the small parlour. Rain beat against the window, a tattoo to herald winter. The smell was stronger. She ran to Robert’s bedroom and pushed open the door. The room was empty, the blinds drawn. In the half-light a lamp burned, set upon the floor, and beside it the same paraphernalia she had seen in the church. A pipe lay discarded and still smoking in a bowl. Beside the bed stood a great trunk, the rug beneath it ruckled as if the huge thing had been dragged carelessly across the floor. Tumbled into it were clothes, books and music manuscripts. More manuscripts were strewn across the bed.
There was no sign of Robert.
It was a sixth sense that took her to the library. The opium smell that he carried with him reached her as she pushed open the door. She stood in silence and watched him. A fire had been lit and the flames danced brightly, throwing shadows in the rain-darkness of the afternoon. He stood by the safe, his feet braced apart as if he had some difficulty in balancing. He was dishevelled, wearing neither jacket nor cravat for all the cold of the day. His cuffs were unbuttoned, his shirt rumpled. His smooth dark hair, that he had grown longer of late, fell across his face. In his hand he held a piece of paper.
She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
He looked up, slowly, and as slowly his eyes focused on her face. He said nothing. Then, very precisely, he folded the paper he held and tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt.
They looked at each other for a long moment in utter silence.
‘Robert, you can’t take that,’ she said at last, very quietly. ‘You know you can’t.’
‘They were my books,’ he said, calmly. ‘The money is in my name. It is legally mine. I can do as I like with it.’
‘It’s for the house.’ She kept her voice even and reasonable.
He shook his head. ‘No, Jessica. It’s for my music. It’s for Florence. I’m going back.’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’ His eyes were well focused now, and his voice was quiet and determined. ‘You shan’t stop me. I have to go. It is a matter of survival. You want the house, and you want the land. For a reason that is a mystery to me you seem ready to take on the whole Pandora’s Box of miseries that goes with them. Take them. I give them to you, freely and without stint. I’m going back to Florence.’
She drew a long, shallow breath. ‘Please – Robert – you can’t simply take every penny we have and leave? You can’t! What of your mother? What of Gabriella?’
He shook his head, utterly calm, utterly unreasoning.
Still she kept a rein on her temper and her fear. She stepped towards him. ‘All right. Go if you feel you must. Take some of the money. But not all of it. In God’s name, Robert – not all of it!’
‘I need it more than you do,’ he said, ‘I’m going to buy a villa. So that Arthur can come and live with me. So that we can look after each other. Try to understand, Jessica. I can’t stay here. I can’t. There is no hope for me here.’
‘So – to feed your own hope you would shatter ours?’ she asked, still quietly.
He shook his head, an odd, sad smile on his lips. ‘While you breathe, Jessica, you’ll have hope. Don’t you see the difference between us? You’re too strong for me. I can’t take your strength. I can’t live with it. I need Florence, and Arthur, and music—’
‘And opium?’ she asked.
He shrugged. There was an unusual stubbornness about the set of his jaw, an obstinate line to his mouth. ‘You can’t stop me, Jessica.’
‘What of your responsibilities here?’
‘What responsibilities? What do I do? Who needs me? I’m good for nothing here.’
‘That isn’t true!’
‘Of course it’s true. Do you think I’m stupid as well as useless? I’m going back to Florence. Arthur is there. The life that I want is there. You’ll be better off without me.’
She said nothing. The enormity of what he was doing had half-stunned her. Florence? Arthur? Did he truly believe that she would rather be here, struggling with the problems of a decaying estate and a warring family than in the sunshine of Italy with Danny?
Danny.
She turned her mind from the thought of him. From the endless ache of his absence.
‘Robert,’ she said, desperately reasonable. ‘Please. Think what you’re doing. You can’t abandon your home and your family—’
‘The money is mine,’ he said, stubborn as a child.
‘I know that! But – what of the house? The land? We’re winning – beginning to turn the corner. But Robert, we need that money—’
‘Not as much as I do.’ His eyes held hers, painfully intense.
‘You’ll destroy us,’ she said softly, bitterly. ‘You’ll destroy Old Hall.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It would take more than this to destroy you. And Old Hall is lucky. It has you to fight for it. I have no one.’
The self-pity of it took her breath away.
She stepped back from him. Avoiding her eyes he made to move past her.
‘Robert!’
The sharp word stopped him. It was a long moment before he raised his eyes to hers.
‘I want a promise.’ Her voice was steady, though her body trembled, very slightly, as if she had contracted a fever. Yet through the shock a clear thread of anger ran, preventing tears, preventing pleading.
He waited.
‘If you go—’ she said, ‘if you take that money – I want your word that you’ll never come back. Old Hall is mine.’
The dark eyes searched her face. ‘You have it. For what it’s worth – you have it.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Jessica.’
He turned from her, walked steadily to the door. With his hand on the handle, however, he stopped, hesitated for a moment, his back to her. Very slowly he lifted his free hand to the pocket in which crackled the Sotheby’s draft. She sensed the battle taking place in him, and held her breath, hope surging. Then, with no word and no glance in her direction he swung the door wide and walked into the darkness of the corridor beyond.
She watched him go with blank eyes. The unexpectedness of the blow had all but paralyzed her. A log shifted in the fireplace. A candle guttered and blew.
The rustle of movement by the door startled her.
‘It’s all right. It’s me.’ John stepped into the room, his dark habit emerging, ghost-like from the shadows.
She looked at him with no vestige of expression. ‘You heard?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s leaving. Going back to Florence. And he’s taking the money. All of it. I never thought – it never occurred to me—’ She stopped, making a small, distracted movement with her hands. ‘The house is falling down about our ears. Mother needs the money I’ve promised her. The farm needs investment to make it pay. There are men and women depending upon Old Hall for their livelihood – men and women who have worked for nothing for months, in trust. And he’s going to Florence. To Florence!’ She turned away with a sudden, angry movement. ‘Damn him!’ she said, quietly and with bitterness.
He watched her in silence, sympathy in his eyes.
‘What am I going to do? How are we going to manage with no money—?’ She sat down very suddenly in a small armchair by the fire and stared miserably into the flames. ‘I had such plans. So many ideas. And Charlie – how will I tell Charlie there’s no money after all? He’s worked so hard—’ Her voice trailed off. She lifted her head. ‘I’ll have to sell the place. That’s what he wants, isn’t it? So why not? I don’t suppose it would bring much as it stands – but enough to buy somewhere for me and Gabriella and Mother Sarah to live. Enough for Gabriella’s education and future—’ She stopped and turned her head, frowning. ‘What are you laughing at? I’m serious!’
He made no attempt to disguise the faint, affectionate smile she had surprised on his face. ‘No you aren’t.’
‘And I tell you I am! Why should I stay here and fight alone? Why should I struggle to keep the wretched place together? Robert’s doing as he wants. Why shouldn’t I?’
‘But – Jessica – you are. Aren’t you?’
She held his eye for a long moment, and then the anger leeched from her and she let out a pent breath. ‘Yes. Of course, you’re right. I’ll die if I have to sell Old Hall. But – what can I do with no money?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. All I know is that you’ll try.’
She pulled a rueful face.
‘You won’t leave this place, Jessica,’ he said softly. ‘You know you won’t. It’s in your blood. You need it as much as it needs you. And – do you know something—?’
She turned her head. ‘What?’
‘An awful lot of people would envy you, despite your problems. I’m not saying it isn’t going to be hard – perhaps even impossible – but at least you know what you want. You know where you belong.’ He paused, watching her. ‘—Jessica? What is it?’ He smiled, puzzled. ‘What have I said?’
She was looking at him intently, her eyes oddly abstracted, a small frown on her forehead. ‘Something you said reminded me – someone else said something like that – someone – Theo! It was Theo! Good God! Of course!’ She struck her forehead with the flat of her hand. Her face was suddenly alight. ‘Oh, what an absolute idiot I am!’ She jumped to her feet and ran to the desk, scrabbling amongst the piles of books. ‘Theo! Darling, darling man! You’d think he knew!’
John had followed her, was watching her frenetic search with almost comic puzzlement. ‘Jessica? What are you doing? What are you looking for?’
‘I think I’m looking for the answer to all of Old Hall’s problems. Theo won’t mind. He’ll understand – ah!’ She pounced, and picked up a book, brandishing it in triumph.
‘What is it?’
She turned to him, bright-faced. ‘It’s a lovely, lovely thing. A unique treasure.’
‘A book?’
‘A book. Two books in fact. Written and illustrated in the twelfth century. In Provence, at the courts of, love. A troubadour’s precious offering to his lady. Do you know where the word troubadour comes from?’ She did not wait for the shake of his head. ‘Troubar – trouver – to seek, to find – to seek stories, and love, and magic – and to find them!’ She paused for a moment, her eyes far away, remembering.
‘May I see it?’
She handed it to him. He carried it to the light, opened it carefully, turning the pages slowly. She watched him. He whistled a little, under his breath. ‘This is exquisite!’
‘It’s more than that. It’s nearly priceless! To a collector it must be worth – oh, I don’t know, but possibly – with the other one – more than all the others we sold put together! And they’re mine! Not Robert’s. Mine!’
He handed the book back to her. The brilliant jewel-colours glimmered in the firelight as she looked at it. Then she closed it and ran a gentle finger over the tooled leather.
He smiled. ‘I’m surprised you can bear to part with it.’
She lifted level eyes. ‘I’d part with blood if I had to, to get the money to keep Old Hall. Of course I hate to part with it – all the more because it’s all I have of Theo. But – it is funny—’ She had started to laugh a little, an infectious giggle that wasn’t far from tears.
‘What is?’
‘For five years Theo tried to give me money. And I’d never take it. And now – the only gift I ever had from him I’m going to sell just as fast as I can!’ She hugged the books to her, clenching her eyes for a moment. ‘But he won’t mind,’ she said. ‘I know he won’t.’
Chapter Sixteen
Charlie’s prediction turned out to be absolutely right – it was a very hard winter, and in more ways than one. With Robert gone, responsibility for Old Hall and its occupants fell squarely upon Jessica’s shoulders. And although Mr Sotheby himself showed a degree of excitement concerning Theo’s book, which was in itself promising, he regretfully told her that the next auction at which it could be sold was not until March. With such an item, of course, a private buyer could almost certainly be found – but if she wanted to make the most of her legacy she would be well advised to wait.
Jessica, though a little disappointed, had been prepared for such news, and decided to take the advice. This windfall was all that she had and she intended to get the very best price for it that she could. If she had to wait a little longer, then so be it. When she left the auction rooms in Yorke Street she went straight to a pawnbroker’s shop that she had marked on her way through Covent Garden, and a little over two hours later was climbing aboard the creaking coach for the journey home with enough money tucked into her reticule to see them through the winter safely, if not in the lap of luxury. The small diamond earbobs that had been Robert’s wedding present to her had never been her favourite items in her jewel case; she doubted that she would even bother to embark upon the uncomfortable, bone-shaking journey from Suffolk back to the city in order to redeem them.
Through
that long hard winter she heard not a word from Robert – she did not even know for certain if he had arrived safely in Florence. Neither, if she were honest, did she greatly care. Her anger and disgust at what he had done in taking the money and deserting them was this time too deeply rooted. She felt nothing for him, and his absence was a relief. She did not care if she never saw him again.
But she was lonely.
She tried to deny it, tried to ignore it, tried to bury it beneath the bustling activity of a busy life, but loneliness ate at her, cold as the winter wind and comfortless as the deserted cottage that had once held Danny O’Donnel’s life and laughter and now stood empty and rotting. She passed that cottage every week as she walked to the churchyard to tend Patrick’s grave, and each time she saw it the pang was as painful as ever, a physical pain in her heart. The nights were the worst. With the big old house creaking around her, and the silent darkness made deeper by the small flicker of a night candle’s flame she would lie, restless and alone with no one to talk to, no one to confide in, no one to laugh with, no warm body by her side, no strong arms to comfort her.
As an early and bitter cold gripped the countryside, stripping the last leaves from the stark skeletons of the trees and freezing the ground to iron she sought to assuage the nagging ache of loneliness with activity. With the help of the village carpenter she went through every inch of Old Hall discovering and noting the worst of the damage and listing it ready to be acted upon when the money was available. She refused to think of the choice that she might be called upon to make if Theo’s books did not make enough to cover her pledge to her mother as well as the repairs to the house. Local workmen were called in to patch those parts of the house where inaction and another winter’s attack might cause deterioration too bad to be reversed. Those rooms in best repair were made more habitable, the best and most comfortable of the furniture being moved into them, the draughts stopped, the chimneys swept.
She rode often, too, to Home Farm. Apart from being genuinely interested in the well-being and progress of their small flock of South Down crossbred ewes she enjoyed Charlie’s company – sometimes found herself asking his advice. He knew the local people and the village craftsmen better than she did, was happy to advise and help when it came to choosing a particular man for a particular job.
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