For herself she was, she told herself, happy enough. Old Hall was safe, its future – and Gabriella’s – assured. Gabriella grew, it seemed, by the day, a child full of laughter and of love, tall and straight, dark as a gypsy and with a promise of beauty.
* * *
It was on a late summer’s day in 1826, three years after Robert had left, that Jessica finally had news of her husband.
She returned from a visit to her mother who, pain-ridden but indomitable as ever, still stubbornly refused to leave Tollgate House for what she saw as the doubtful luxuries of Old Hall, to discover a small sealed package, grubby and battered-looking, on the table at Old Hall. It was addressed to her, and marked ‘By Hand’. Intrigued she tore it open. A piece of stiff paper fluttered to the floor. She picked it up.
‘I, the undersigned, do hereby certify that—’
She stared at it for a long time, numbly. Dead. Robert was dead. In an epidemic of yellow fever, three months since, in Florence.
Dead.
Strangely, though in some ways it could not be called a surprise, she felt a small contraction of pain in her heart. For a moment she allowed herself to remember not the Robert who had faced her, desperate, drugged and hateful, the money that might have saved Old Hall in his pocket, but the Robert who had been her steadfast friend in an all but loveless childhood. The Robert who had played in the park with her, who had supported her through the death of her father. The Robert who had sworn, on a day that now seemed so very long ago, that Robert FitzBolton and Jessica Hawthorne would be friends for ever and ever—
There was a letter with the certificate, addressed to her in a hand that, though as shaky as if it might have been written by an old man, still she recognized as Robert’s own. She held it for a long time before she could bring herself to open it.
‘My dear Jessica,
Florence has become a city of death, and I die with her, in good company and without regret. You will not grieve for me, and I cannot blame you for that. My one sorrow is that my life has so shadowed yours. You deserve better, and in the name of our friendship I now make amends. My death will set you free. Hermes is my gift to you. Clip his wings if you must, but be happy, for all our sakes.
Your loving friend Robert.’
She frowned a little. Hermes is my gift to you. Hermes?
Still holding the letter she reached to the bellpull that hung by the fireplace. Her summons was answered by a small maid, neat in apron and cap. ‘Yes, Ma’am?’
‘Mary – did you see who delivered this packet?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘Who was it?’
‘A—’ the maid hesitated for a telling moment, ‘—a gentleman, Ma’am. A foreign-looking gentleman.’
‘Is he still here?’
The maid shook her head. ‘No, Ma’am. He wouldn’t give his name, nor wait.’
‘I see. Thank you, Mary.’
Hermes is my gift to you.
Jessica, the letter still in her hand, stepped out into the September sunshine. The sky was a clear and limpid blue, the rustling trees still heavy with leaf. Spiky green chestnuts hung in bunches, attractively bright against the darker foliage of the spreading trees. The river moved beside her, soft and tranquil. She passed the spot where Caroline had stood that day so many years ago, looking down at Danny, and felt again the pang of pain and loss that the child she had been all those years ago had felt. She passed too the cottage, derelict now, from which she had sent him flying from the wrath of her father. As she neared the church a small figure tumbled towards her, dark tangled hair flying, eyes wide. ‘Mama! Mama!’ Danny’s daughter exclaimed excitedly, ‘There’s a stranger in the church!’
‘I thought there might be.’
Hermes is my gift to you.
She was absurdly calm. ‘Wait here a moment, Gabriella. I won’t be long.’
‘But, Mama—!’
‘Wait. I’ll be out in a moment.’
The church was dark after the brilliance of light outside and, as always, cold. He stood by the altar, head thrown back, looking at the smiling statue of St Agatha. A dark angel, limned in the light of the stained windows, as she had seen him before, as she had so often conjured him in loneliness and longing. She watched him for a moment in silence. Her heart was hammering now, her calm deserted her. As she started towards him he turned, and she saw clearly the changes that the years had wrought. His dark skin was sallow, as if with ill-health, and his face was gaunt, the scar still showing white upon his cheekbone. His eyes were shadowed and tired, the long mouth no longer smiled so easily.
They stood looking at each other from the space of a few feet for a long, quiet moment.
‘Danny,’ she said.
He smiled a little at the sound of her voice.
‘It was you who brought the packet from Robert.’
‘Yes. He asked me. Begged me. He knew he was dying. Half of Florence was dying. The worst epidemic in years. Robert’s friend – Arthur? – had died the week before. I think Robert was happy to follow him. But – he was desperate that you should know, that you should have the death certificate. He said he could not bear to think of you tied to a dead man for the rest of his life. And so – he asked me to bring them.’
She looked down at the letter in her hand, her eyes unexpectedly blurring. ‘Did he – show you the letter?’
‘No.’
She stepped a little closer and offered it. ‘Please. I’d like you to read it.’
He hesitated for a moment, then reached a hand to hers. As he took the letter their fingers touched, and for a moment their eyes clung, searching. Then Danny took the paper and opened it. She saw him read it, saw his eyes run back over it. He was frowning a little. ‘Hermes is my gift to you,’ he read aloud after a moment. ‘Clip his wings if you must, but be happy for all our sakes. That’s a bit obscure, isn’t it? What does he mean? Who or what is Hermes?’
She smiled a little, watching him. ‘Hermes was a messenger, who served the Greek gods.’
He thought about that for a moment, then a flicker of amusement crossed his face. ‘Then Robert’s gift to you—?’
‘Is you. The messenger that bore it.’
He laughed a little, but quickly sobered. She watched him. He had made no move towards her, had not attempted to touch or kiss her. ‘It was a gift not his to give,’ she said, quietly.
He turned his head from her.
‘Danny?’ Her questioning voice sounded small, lost in the spaces of the old building.
‘I don’t know—’ He stopped.
She waited, but he said nothing more. ‘Serafina?’ she asked, quietly.
His head snapped up. ‘No! No, it isn’t Serafina. Jessie – Serafina’s dead. She’s been dead for nearly a year—’
She said nothing. Hurt filled her. Dead for a year, and he had not come.
He sat down on the front pew, leaning his elbows on his knees. His bowed dark head was close enough for her to have put out a hand and touch it. She clasped her hands before her, willing them to stillness.
‘She betrayed a man once too often,’ he said, at last. ‘Oh – not me. I was far beyond that by then. A lover. One of many.’
‘What happened?’
‘He killed her.’ His voice was absolutely neutral, absolutely devoid of any emotion.
She caught her breath.
‘It was bound to happen. She always knew it. Sometimes it seemed she deliberately provoked the violence that would eventually be her death.’
‘And you?’
‘I? I got drunk. I got drunk and I stayed drunk until Robert sent someone to find me.’ He lifted his head and looked at her then, reaching a hand. ‘Jessica—’
It was all she had been looking for, that half-pleading gesture. She dropped to her knees beside him, slipping into his reaching arms, tears running suddenly down her face. He kissed her fiercely; her mouth, her eyes, her wet cheeks, his hands cradling her head. ‘See – see what I’ve done – I’ve made y
ou cry already!’
She shook her head, half-laughing through the tears.
He held her, her face cupped in his hands, his face passionate with conflicting emotions. ‘Jessie – supposing I hurt you? I couldn’t bear to do that again! I want to stay – I want to be with you. In all the days and nights of travelling, in all the weeks that I’ve carried that packet I’ve known, I’ve thought of it. But – supposing I can’t? Supposing I can’t settle? Supposing I leave you—?’
She sat back on her heels, her head tilted to look at him.‘That’s what you’re afraid of? That you won’t be able to settle?’
‘Yes.’
She kissed him very hard, then sat back again, her hands in his. ‘Listen to me. I love you. I have always loved you. I think I always will. I know I can’t tie you down. I know what you are – and that’s why I love you. Perhaps you’ll go. Perhaps you’ll leave me. But we don’t have to think about that now. We don’t have to think about it at all if it doesn’t happen. I won’t – I won’t! – give up a chance of happiness just because it might not last! Oh, Danny! How silly even to think it—!’ She jumped to her feet, pulling him after her. Infected by her happiness he caught her to him, kissed her again. She flung her arms about his neck. ‘Danny O’Donnel, do you want to stay with me today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then do it. Stay while you can – leave if and when you must – but come back to me, Danny. Always come back to me. Robert was wrong – I wouldn’t – I couldn’t – clip Hermes’ wings. But I’ll show you someone who just might – come – quickly! Come and see—’ She caught his hand and drew him from the chill darkness out into the warmth of the day to where their daughter, eyes bright with excited curiosity, waited, smiling, in the sunshine.
First published in Great Britain in 1988 by William Collins Sons & Co., Ltd.
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Teresa Crane, 1988
The moral right of Teresa Crane to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788633598
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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