A Green Bay Tree

by Margaret James

  * * * *

  Having borrowed an old–fashioned, lumbering carriage and its equally stolid coachman from one of Jeremy's business associates, who had been most anxious to help the young heiress in any way he could, Rebecca ate her breakfast, put on her best black bonnet, and said goodbye to her aunt.

  Climbing into her conveyance, she spread her black silk skirts, then settled back to enjoy the long drive through the Warwickshire countryside, which was just now quite lovely in its livery of fresh, April green.

  Neither the terrible state of the roads nor the bone–shaking jolting of the vehicle did anything to spoil her pleasure, and she was almost sorry when the coachman passed a lodge cottage, turned into a gravelled sweep, and hailed a man on horseback who had followed the coach for a mile or so and now caught up with it.

  ‘That's Easton Hall, is it?’ demanded the coachman, pointing his whip in the vague direction of a large house whose tall chimneys were just discernible through some trees.

  ‘That's right.’ The man on horseback who was, Rebecca guessed, a land agent, apothecary or well–to–do yeoman farmer, nodded. ‘Take the fork to your left. It's a quarter of a mile or so. No more.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The coachman touched his hat. He drove on and, five minutes later, drew up before a perfectly beautiful house. The most beautiful house Rebecca had ever seen, or expected to see.

  Rust–red brick combined with pale grey timber to produce an architectural perfection which, although its irregularity was hardly in keeping with the modern concept of beauty, delighted her. Dozens of small, leaded window panes winked and sparkled in the sunlight. The uneven, red tiled roof, surmounted by tall, Tudor chimneys, completed the picture charmingly.

  There were birds everywhere. Black rooks cawed and squabbled among the tall oaks which sheltered the house from the cold east winds. White doves strutted along the apex of the roof. Starlings and song–thrushes gathered on the lawns, while peacocks stared haughtily from across a beautifully– kept gravel courtyard. Enchanted, Rebecca gazed. Forgetting why she'd come, she began to walk towards the exotic blue birds.

  But then, with a start, she recollected herself. She remembered why she was here. After conferring with the coachman, who assured her his own employer always used the front door when calling on business, and Rebecca should certainly do likewise, she walked up the main steps and rang the bell.

  Admitted by a very smartly–dressed butler, she was asked for her card. Having none of her own yet printed, she handed the servant one of Jeremy's, and explained she was Miss Searle, Jeremy Searle's grand–daughter. A few minutes later, she was led into a large, panelled drawing room where a man — another indoor servant, or perhaps a tutor — stood looking out of a window, apparently in a daydream.

  Now, Rebecca wondered what Mr Darrow would be like. Most probably, he'd be a fop. A dandy in a brocade coat, who would look at her as if she were the source of a bad smell. Who would —

  ‘Sir? Here is Miss Searle. From Birmingham.’ Raising his voice in order to gain his master's attention, Simmons sounded extremely put out. As if Miss Searle from Birmingham had no business whatever to call at Easton Hall.

  To Rebecca's astonishment, the man standing by the window turned to greet her. He was tall, dark–haired and dark–eyed. He was, in fact, the man she had first seen a quarter of an hour ago, who had directed the coachman to the house.

  Looking at his face, Rebecca guessed he must be about ten years older than she was. At any rate, he was no more than thirty. Was this some sort of joke? For, thought Rebecca, as her nervous hands smoothed the black silk of her mourning gown, the man could not possibly own a house like this. To begin with, his clothes were all wrong. They were of the kind seen on the back of a respectable tradesman. A shopkeeper's Sunday best. Indeed, the butler wore finer broadcloth than this man did. Of the two, the servant looked far more the gentleman.

  As was increasingly the fashion, the tall man wore his own hair. But this, innocent of powder or any other sort of dressing, was cut so short that its curls stopped well short of his collar and left his ears bare. Anyone even aspiring to gentility would surely have grown his hair just a little longer. Used just a little powder. Even Jeremy Searle had worn a wig, although this had admittedly been a penitentially uncomfortable thing of coarse, brownish tow, and sat most uneasily upon his large, craggy head.

  Rebecca's heart sank into her shoes. This Mr Darrow was an eccentric. Eccentrics were notoriously lax about paying bills. Eccentric misers were more lax still. Was Mr Darrow a miser? Well, even if he was merely careful, someone whose coat was made of stuff costing sixpence a yard could hardly be expected to commission anything very lavish in the way of wrought–iron gates.

  As she looked at this freak of a man, Rebecca made up her mind. She would make her excuses, and leave.

  But then Mr Ellis Darrow smiled at her. ‘You have come on behalf of Mr Searle?’ he asked. He glanced at the letter in his hand. ‘I was expecting a Mr Jeremy Searle,’ he explained. ‘Mr Searle, the ironmaster. You are?’

  ‘I am Rebecca Searle. I too am an ironmaster.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mr Darrow's fine black eyebrows rose.

  ‘My grandfather died two weeks ago. I am the manager of the manufactory now.’ Rebecca met Ellis Darrow's eyes. ‘It was always intended I should take over the business. I'm perfectly competent, let me assure you of that.’

  ‘My dear young lady, I'm sure you know your business through and through.’ Mr Darrow smiled again. ‘Well now, Miss Searle — may I offer you some tea? We'll take it in my study. Then I can show you some drawings of what I had in mind.’

  Opening the door, Mr Darrow held it while Rebecca walked into the passage. ‘Simmons,’ he said, ‘be so good as to arrange tea. Ask Mrs Dale to send up some cake or shortbread. Miss Searle, it's this way. Down the corridor here.’

  He led her into a small, square room, oak panelled like the drawing room, but furnished with a desk, cabinets for papers, and a tall thin cupboard, presumably for maps or plans. Laden bookshelves lined the walls, and two new, upholstered armchairs were placed either side of the fireplace. A new Turkey carpet covered most of the floor. It was a pleasant, comfortable room, and Rebecca felt far more at ease here than in the larger, more splendid salon.

  Delving into a drawer, Ellis produced a sheaf of papers. ‘These are my provisional plans,’ he said. He spread the sheets on the desk. ‘Look, consider. Then tell me what you think.’

  Rebecca looked. ‘This is perhaps possible,’ she said, pointing to the drawing on the top of the pile. She leafed through the other sketches. ‘This, however, isn't feasible at all. The weight of metal at the top of the gate would eventually distort the whole thing. That is, unless it were braced here, and here. Which would spoil the symmetry of the design entirely.’

  ‘Yes. I see.’ Ellis nodded. ‘Then perhaps something like this?’

  ‘Yes. That's better. Perhaps, though, we could have a little extra detail there. Then here, we might add some arabesques.’ Rebecca pencilled in an alteration.

  ‘That's splendid.’ Ellis Darrow nodded. ‘Well now, what about this? ’

  Both client and expert were soon thoroughly engrossed. Delighted to find that far from simply demanding his whims must be satisfied, Mr Darrow was interested in technical difficulties and constraints, Rebecca now began to rough out a proposal of her own. One which included most of the features Mr Darrow seemed to like best.

  As for Ellis, he was pleased to discuss his enthusiasms with someone who treated them as seriously as he did himself. An hour, then another, quickly went by.

  Finally, Rebecca sketched a design for a pair of gates representing a near perfect compromise between what Ellis wanted and what her craftsmen could produce. ‘What do you think of this?’ she asked.

  ‘That looks splendid.’ Ellis took the drawing. He studied it. ‘Could we perhaps have a fleur de lys here?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Rebecca drew it in.

  ‘Perfect.’ Elli
s nodded. ‘Miss Searle, that's exactly it. What is it, Simmons?’ he added, absently. For now the butler came silently into the room.

  ‘You have a visitor, sir.’

  ‘I'm very busy just now.’ Ellis picked up a pencil. ‘Tell him to wait.’

  ‘Ah.’ Simmon sniffed. ‘Well, sir — ’

  ‘I'm engaged for the next ten minutes. If the fellow can't wait, tell him to go away.’

  Simmons sniffed again. ‘Mr Lowell, sir,’ he said.

  Pushing past the servant, Alex Lowell flicked fastidiously at the point where the fine twill of his own coat had made contact with the coarser broadcloth of the servant's attire. ‘So what keeps you so occupied?’ he enquired, smoothly. ‘What can possibly prevent you from talking to me?’

  ‘Alex!’ As if waking from a dream, Ellis shook his head. ‘I thought you were in London.’

  ‘We came home yesterday.’ Alex looked quizzically at his friend. Then, glancing at Rebecca, he smirked. ‘I understand now,’ he said, somewhat waspishly. ‘All becomes plain.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Standing up, Ellis brushed pencil shavings from his breeches. ‘This is Miss Searle,’ he said absently, still examining the drawing which Rebecca had completed just a few minutes ago. ‘She came over from Birmingham earlier today. Miss Searle, my close friend Mr Lowell.’

  ‘A most exquisite pleasure.’ Alex held out his hand. ‘How do you do?’

  Rebecca took his hand. His fingers were as cold as glass. She let them go almost at once.

  ‘Do go on with whatever you were discussing,’ Alex murmured now. ‘I'll sit here by the fire, and read. Do you know, it's devilish cold outside. Damned chilly for April!’

  While Rebecca and Ellis talked, Alex Lowell took books from the shelves, flicked through them, then tossed them aside. Every so often, he yawned. It was clear to Rebecca that he wanted her gone. So very soon, her business concluded, she stood up to take her leave.

  She gathered up the drawings and walked towards the door. As she reached for the latch, Alex Lowell coughed. ‘Miss Searle?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lowell?’

  ‘A family by the name of Searle once lived very near this place. Would you happen to have relations in the area, by any chance?’

  Rebecca shook her head. ‘I've no connections in this district,’ she replied. ‘My parents were born in Birmingham. My mother lived and died there, and I myself have never lived anywhere else.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Rebecca smiled. ‘Mine is not an unusual name,’ she said. ‘There are at least a dozen Searles in the town gazetteer. As far as I know, none of them are related to me.’

  ‘I see.’ Alex looked at Rebecca again. He wondered if there were a likeness. She was the right age, after all. She was the right sex. Her light build, fair features and blue eyes were characteristic of the Lowells. But then, he reflected, such colouring and stature was common enough everywhere. There were girls like this throughout the whole of the British Isles.

  Initially puzzled by Alex's apparently pointless questions, now Ellis realised why his visitor was being interrogated. Lyddy Searle. That was her name. He remembered now.

  He looked at Alex Lowell's face. There, he saw relief. The ironmaster's grand–daughter was not, after all, the abandoned by–blow for whom he'd promised his father he would provide.

  Alex settled into his comfortable armchair. Ignoring Ellis and Rebecca completely now, he picked up his book and began to read.

  Instead of ringing for the butler to see her out, the master of the house took his visitor to the front door himself.

  ‘The gentleman whom you met in my study is anxious to trace a connection of his,’ he explained, as he led her across the hall. ‘A young woman who happens to share your surname. I have an interest in the matter too. You see, Mr Lowell is my brother–in–law. As well as my particular friend.’

  ‘I see.’ Rebecca nodded. None of this was of interest to her. ‘I shall write to you within the next couple of days,’ she said. ‘I shall let you have an approximate price. Then, if you wish to take the matter further, I shall send a man over to take the exact measurements.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Ellis met Rebecca's eyes. He held out his hand. ‘I'll look forward to hearing from you.’

  Ten minutes later, Rebecca was in her carriage, bouncing along the ill–made country roads on her way back to the dirty town.

  * * * *

  She was pleased with her day's work. Although she had not received a firm commission, she felt it was more than likely Searle's would be asked to make Mr Darrow's gates. Then all Mr Darrow's friends would see them. They too would admire...

  Rebecca stretched. Contentedly, she yawned. After years of being Jeremy Searle's mere grand–daughter, the irrelevant female relation of a difficult old man, it had been delightful to be treated as a businesswoman. To have been taken seriously, to have had her opinions asked for and, finally, accepted.

  Of course, the men in the factory obeyed her. They had no choice. But Mr Darrow was under no obligation at all to listen to her.

  Yet he had done so. He had listened to what Rebecca Searle had to say, and spoken to her as his equal.

  Rebecca's intensely Puritanical upbringing had not given her any great idea of her own consequence, however, and it had certainly not prepared her to meet such fine gentlemen as Alex Lowell on equal terms. His languid tones and faintly insolent demeanour had embarrassed her. The way he looked at her had made her flinch. She did not feel at all easy in the company of persons of quality. She now decided that she much preferred the style of the plain– speaking merchants in the manufacturing town where she had always lived.

  So she returned to Birmingham as disquieted by the stares of Mr Lowell as she had been charmed by the courtesy of Mr Darrow.

  ‘You shouldn't have waited up,’ she said, looking with concern at her aunt's tired face.

  ‘I wanted to see you safe home, that's all.’ Wearily, Lyddy smiled. ‘Well, how did you get on?’

  ‘Splendidly!’ Rebecca replaced her empty chocolate cup on the tray. ‘He was such a charming man. So easy, so pleasant. Not a trace of stiffness or reserve!’

  ‘He was familiar, you mean? He spoke to you as if you were a woman of the streets?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Vehemently, Rebecca shook her head. ‘I don't mean that at all. He listened to my advice. He didn't insist on having everything his own way, as gentry often do. I have the commission. I'm almost sure of that. He was very pleased with the final designs.’

  ‘Good.’ Lyddy rose to her feet. ‘I'll fetch your candle.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rebecca yawned. ‘I met a friend of his, too. A Mr Lowell. He looked pretty rich to me. So, if I please Mr Darrow, perhaps Mr Lowell will take an interest in our work.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rebecca took the candlestick. ‘But he was not as pleasant as Mr Darrow. Nothing like it. He looked as if he might have whims. Order a thing, then not like it when it's made.’

  As one whose entire life had been blighted by the whims of men, whose very soul had been warped and twisted — first by Henry Lowell, then by her own unforgiving father — Lyddy drew breath sharply when Rebecca mentioned Alex Lowell. But of course she could say nothing about him. Could admit to no previous knowledge of this man.

  It was hardly likely, she told herself, that Alex Lowell would take any interest in a manufacturer's grand– daughter. Either professionally, socially or otherwise.

  Chapter 7

  Peter Darrow had died in the cold winter of 1777, expiring at last of what his physician said were natural causes. As he'd followed his father's coffin to the church, watched while the vault was opened and the most lately dead of a long line of Darrows interred amid the dust and bones of his ancestors, Ellis was inclined to wonder how his father had lasted so long.

  Always a heavy drinker, Peter Darrow had punished his constitution for fifty years or more, but thought nothing of it. After all, his friends had been tipplers t
oo. Then, one evening, he had gone rather too far. At the conclusion of a particularly successful day's hunting, he had stopped to eat his supper at an inn. There, he drank his usual three bottles of port, chased these down with a pint of spirits, then fell dying into the arms of his companion, a fellow Nimrod who later came to comfort the family. Who called the gods to witness that Peter Darrow was a moderate man.

  ‘He was a sot.’ Disinclined to weep for a father who had certainly done her no favours, who had sired her then ignored her existence, Lalage pursed her lips. ‘We're well rid of him,’ she muttered. ‘Ellis is worth twenty such wastrels. Come, Mama. Dry your eyes. You can't deny it's so.’

  ‘All the same, Lally — ’

  ‘You hated him! You know you did.’ Lalage took her mother's hand. ‘Don't cry,’ she whispered. ‘Look forward now. Not backwards, into the past.’

  But still Mrs Darrow wept. Within a fortnight of her husband's death, she had retreated into a self–imposed purdah, and seldom left her room. She was to survive the man she had always insisted she loathed, but evidently could not live without, for a mere eighteen months.

  The new squire had no time to grieve. Indeed, he was happier than he'd ever been, for he could now do just as he pleased. No entail frustrated his schemes, no disappointed relations disputed his inheritance. Lack of cash was indeed a problem, but he solved this by selling off some of his best agricultural land, and re–mortgaging large parcels of the rest.

  He thus incurred the reproaches of his mother, who wept that he had diminished an estate held intact since Domesday. But he brushed these complaints aside. ‘He couldn't sell,’ said Ellis tartly, as Mrs Darrow sobbed that not even her drunkard of a husband had sold land. ‘I did what was necessary, that's all. From now on, this estate will pay its way.’

  Two years later, Ellis began to see financial daylight. At long last his childish dream of restoring his family's home to its former glory was about to come true. He would live to see Easton Hall free from rot and decay. Once again it would be beautiful, as it had been two hundred years ago.