The Price of Beauty

by McCabe, Helen

  The Price of Beauty

  Helen McCabe

  Copyright © Helen McCabe 2014

  The right of Helen McCabe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2001 by Ulverscroft Large Prnt, as Raven’s Mill.

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Author’s Note

  There has been salt in Worcestershire since Roman times and, at the end of the first century, the Evesham Chronicle, written by monks, records the name of Upwych as the site of a salt house, which yielded two bushels of salt a year.

  By the nineteenth century, brine masters had become powerful men, who strived in competition with their rivals in the town, which had become a thriving industrial centre producing up to 120,000 tons of salt annually.

  The river Salwarpe, which is now a sleepy stream, was also of much importance but the notion that the mill or the court ever housed a Vyne or a Stretton is wholly fictitious.

  Worcester, 1996

  To Caroline, Philip and Lucy

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  Extract from Chance Encounters by Helen McCabe

  CHAPTER 1

  “Did you sleep well, aunt?” asked Lydia.

  “Well enough, my dear.” Elizabeth Annesley sighed, spreading her hands to the welcoming glow of the coal fire in the grate of the sitting-room.

  “But when one reaches my age,” she added, “a strange bed is an uncomfortable companion, and I will not be sorry to be back in Upwych.”

  Then Lydia’s elderly aunt looked up from the dancing flames and glanced fondly at her niece. “I saw your trunk and hatbox in the hall when I came downstairs. Is everything ready for the journey?”

  “Almost.” Lydia needed to add just a few personal possessions.

  “Then we will leave as soon as the hired carriage arrives whether your stepfather has come home or not.”

  A small troubled frown puckered the girl’s fine brow. “He’s home, aunt, I heard him in the night.”

  Elizabeth Annesley moved forward to pat the small hand of her niece affectionately.

  The pale shrewd eyes of the older woman were lit with such a genuine warmth that Lydia knew instinctively the observation was spontaneous. It seemed she much admired the courage of the green-eyed, chestnut-haired girl standing so stiffly before her.

  “Don’t look so distressed, dear. Life at Upwych will be very different from your life here in London, but you will find much warmth and solace there, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, aunt.” Lydia hoped so with all her heart. Suddenly, Aunt Elizabeth looked very sad.

  “You are so like your poor dear mama,” she observed softly. “Such a face your mother possessed, like the madonna.”

  Then the old lady chuckled. “But you’re like Bertram, too, you have his eyes and, I sense, a little of his spirit - a true Annesley!”

  Those same eyes smiled candidly back, green like emeralds, eyelashes strikingly long, and her eyebrows dark, darker than her hair.

  “Thank you, aunt. Come, I have prepared breakfast in the dining-room.”

  Lydia led the way along the wide tiled hall, immensely touched by her elderly relative’s compliments. When her aunt had arrived late yesterday afternoon, she had been afraid that she might be disappointed and, as she had held her hand in greeting, she wondered if Aunt Elizabeth had noticed that it was not quite as smooth as it should have been for a young lady of her social standing.

  Now, as they walked along the corridor together, discoursing on the whims of the chilly autumn weather, Lydia instinctively curled up her hands, as if to hide the offending palms; in spite of the fact that she had spent most of the morning trying to soften them by smoothing in glycerine and witch hazel cream.

  It had been an impossible task. Her daily turns at sweeping and dusting - not to mention the arduous task of hearth blacking - had left their indelible, calloused marks.

  Lydia found herself warming to the plump, fussy lady by her side. This was the first time that they’d had an opportunity to converse at any length, for when she had arrived yesterday her aunt had been tired and had retired early.

  But now Lydia felt she had a friend. Except that her relative’s references to her parents had shaken her a little. She had only a slight remembrance of her father but the recent loss of her mother had been hard to bear.

  Lydia sighed inwardly. It had been hard enough making ends meet before, but now, in the few months that had passed since her mother had gone from them, her step-father’s rash investments had swallowed up most of what little money had been left, making domestic life far from easy. She had been forced to dismiss the servants long ago.

  Lydia led her aunt into the dining-room, glad that she had taken more care than usual with her dress. She wondered, too, whether the elegant old lady had noticed that her unhooped skirt was lacking in circumference by many an inch than those worn by the fashionable ladies of the day; that her petticoats, peeping below the green cambric dress, were plain; and that the same green cambric dress was untouched by even a wisp of lace? But, if she had noticed these things, the lady had given no sign.

  Her aunt glanced around with approval at the pleasant decor of the dining-room; at its square mahogany table and the hard, upright chairs placed around in a prim line.

  “A handsome room,” she commented approvingly. Then Lydia saw how her eyes were drawn to the picture on the wall, a landscape of hills and bright open skies reflected in a gleaming river.

  As her aunt examined it, she remembered her mother’s delight the day she had brought it home as a gift for her birthday. Was it only ten short months ago?

  Remembering, Lydia’s gaze drifted to the vase of flowers on the small table by the window, and thought again of the daffodils she had placed on her parents’ grave. They would be withered now, the loving words, so carefully written, washed out by rain and only the smudged card left to tell of her love and grief.

  The familiar stab of pain forced her eyes back to the lady gracing her dining-room as she tried to control her tears.

  “What a striking picture!” Aunt Elizabeth’s gentle voice broke into her silent thoughts and made her start and, when Lydia nodded, she commented softly, “What a talented artist!”

  She adjusted her lorgnette to peer more closely at the painting. “I must confess I’ve never seen this artist’s work before, but he shows great talent - I rather think the young man will go far.”

  “Yes, it - it belonged to my mother. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is. I will arrange for it to be brought to Upwych along with the rest of your things.”

  Elizabeth Annesley turned away from the painting and placed an affectionate hand on Lydia’s arm. “And you, my dear, you too are lovely. So like your dear mother, yet with my family’s eyes.”

  Lydia allowed herself to believe that, although she couldn’t possibly be as beautiful as her mother, she shared, at least, some of the handsome Annesley features.

  “Ma’am!”

  The door opened abruptly to reveal the tall, broad-shouldered form of her stepfather. Both women turned as one to face him.

  Brodrick Forte
y, the eyes in his gaunt face dulled from lack of sleep, cleared his throat as Lydia eyed him warily. Still a handsome figure in his dark blue velvet frock-coat, he regarded Aunt Elizabeth stiffly for a moment before stepping forward to take the lady’s hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing the fingertips briefly.

  “Mr. Fortey.” The warmth had suddenly gone from Elizabeth Annesley’s voice. “So at last we meet.”

  “Indeed we do, Miss Annesley.” He stood, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for your arrival yesterday - business, you know. I trust your journey to London was comfortable?”

  And, when Lydia’s aunt inclined her head in acknowledgement, he cast his glance around: “Ah, I see Liddy has made breakfast!”

  Lydia winced at the sobriquet - a diminutive she had allowed only her mother - and her lips tightened with distaste.

  He was acting with impeccably good manners as usual but she knew just how he could turn that devastating charm to his own ends when it suited him. Hadn’t he beguiled Mama in that way?

  Instinctively, Lydia moved away. She couldn’t bear to be near him. Handsome he might be, his tall figure still able to move with athletic grace, but Lydia, although inexperienced in the ways of the world, was sensitive enough to realise that outwardly charming people can, inwardly, often be ugly and cruel.

  Her eyes registered a cold indifference as she regarded him now. Two wings of thick dark hair sprung from his forehead to reveal an intelligent but sardonic brow.

  Yes, he was still a fine-looking man, but already his cheeks were beginning to display a few broken red veins, come from too much port and too much time at the gaming table, and his ringed hands were mottled and showing signs of podginess.

  Lydia dutifully poured some tea as she tried to stifle her disgust. Living alone with him these last six months had been intolerable.

  Not that she could accuse him of anything. His behaviour had been quite proper towards her whenever anyone was present. But she knew to her cost of his darker side.

  He had never quite disgraced himself, explaining his fumbling attentions to her person as nothing more than solicitude for her grief.

  But she had heard his drunken footsteps outside her door on many a night, calling her name and begging her to let him in. And she’d lain, her young body shaking in the thin muslin of her nightgown, waiting for the worst.

  But, thankfully, perhaps because of her stricken silence, he had eventually lurched away. He had never broken down the door as he had often threatened, and lately he’d left her alone.

  He’d started to console himself with other women again - just as he had when her mother had lain sick and dying - and there’d been many a night when she’d heard the coarse, shrill sound of female laughter come from his bedroom.

  That was surely the worst betrayal of all! Lydia would never forgive him that!

  Her sombre reflections came back to the present as she heard her aunt’s persistent voice in response to her stepfather’s question.

  “I did indeed,” she was saying. “You received my correspondence, I trust?”

  “I did, ma’am.”

  “Then you already know the reason for my brief visit here - and you are quite satisfied with the purpose of it?”

  “Satisfaction is hardly the word I would choose,” Brodrick answered sharply. “Especially as you are about to take Liddy away from me.”

  The old lady took a step forward. She was clearly not a woman to be intimidated and her slight flush of indignation was only thinly veiled.

  “You’re blunt, sir,” she retorted spiritedly, “and so I shall be also. It has been agreed. And it will be better for all of us if Lydia comes with me to Upwych.”

  “Away from her father? Come, Miss Annesley, is that how you see your duty?”

  “Her step-father, Mr. Fortey.”

  Lydia moved out of earshot, crossing to the open window and looking out as her aunt and Brodrick engaged in confrontation.

  Her eyes clouded as she watched a flock of rooks rise, wheel, and caw above the poplars. She pondered momentarily on her destiny and wished she could be left in peace instead of being argued over like this, as if she were nothing more than a piece of fine china to be bargained for. After a moment, she turned back to them.

  “Aunt,” she began, her high clear tone breaking into their discourse, “my stepfather and I have already discussed my leaving and, in spite of his objections, he knows quite well my intention to go with you.”

  Lydia spoke as she felt; it was her fashion, and, as she caught the look in Brodrick Fortey’s eyes, her chin tilted defiantly.

  “Good girl!” smiled her aunt. “Well, Fortey..?”

  He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation, then stuck his thumbs into his waistcoat pocket. He shook his head wearily before taking out of his pocket a gold-chained watch, looked at the time and shrugged.

  “What can I do? It would seem that I have no further say in the matter. If you must take Liddy, then you must, ma’am.”

  As he replaced his watch, his dark eyes regarded his step-daughter coldly. Then, to Lydia’s discomfort, he moved towards her, took her hands in his and pulled her towards him.

  “A delicate little flower like my Liddy needs a strong man to guide her until she finds a husband,” he murmured thickly. “You know I don’t want you to go. This is your home and you will always be welcome here, for your mother’s sake.”

  “I am not your Liddy, sir! And I am well able to take care of myself!” Lydia answered coldly as his words oozed over her like dripping marzipan, making her want to shrink away.

  A little nagging voice in her brain was telling her that maybe she was being too hard on him. After all, he had been mourning her mother, too, and she had perhaps not given him a chance.

  But then she remembered his womanising, the times he had caught her unawares, repulsing her with his wet kisses and fumbling acts of false condolence!

  Her eyes closed tightly against his face as he brought it down to kiss her on both cheeks. And a louder voice, crying over the ruin of her mother’s wasted love, soon silenced the other.

  ‘He betrayed Mama,’ she thought grimly. ‘Now I must leave here and make my own life. No man is going to hurt me as Fortey hurt my mother.’

  Some of the distaste she felt for Brodrick must have communicated itself to her aunt.

  “Come, Lydia,” the old lady was saying softly, her protective arm around her niece’s waist, “it’s time to leave. Hurry and put on your travelling gown and cloak. I will wait for you in the hall.”

  They moved away from Brodrick towards the door. Once there, Elizabeth Annesley turned again to Lydia’s stepfather and said in a satisfied manner, “I’m sure Lydia will be most grateful to know that she would be welcome here, sir, but she’s almost eighteen and must take her rightful place as the future heiress of Upwych.”

  Then, turning back to Lydia, and in a different tone of voice, she instructed, “Now, go to your room, child, and change quickly, we must not be late for the train.”

  Lydia left the room silently, going upstairs into her bedroom on the second floor. Suddenly, she sat down in the comfortable wicker chair by the open window and, for a brief moment, felt her courage desert her.

  She tried to reason. At least she would be free of Brodrick Fortey. But he was the only man she had known, her father dying when she was less than twelve months old.

  Too many things were happening too fast and it all seemed so unreal. She got up and, going over to her dressing table, brushed her long chestnut hair before putting on her new bonnet.

  Then a small feeling of excitement began to nip away at her stomach as she thought of the new life beginning.

  What did the future have in store for her now? What did she know of Upwych? What would she find there? Hadn’t her mother once told her that it was gracious in parts? That it had an Assembly Room?

  Wasn’t that where her parents had met each other, dancing together into the night? It had soun
ded so romantic to Lydia’s young ears. Would she find romance, too?

  And herself as an heiress was something she had to try hard to imagine. She racked her brain, attempting to dredge up the sketchy details Mama had confided to her. Annesley House was a grand place with a clutch of servants and stables and horses. How was she going to fit in? But, then, she was remembering her mother’s tales of her childhood home.

  “Upwych is a cheerful place and you will love it there, dear,” Mama had promised. “And, one day, you will have to take your place as the owner of the finest salt factory in the world.”

  “The owner?”

  “Yes, dear. Aunt Elizabeth is no longer young, and soon, perhaps, it will be passed down to you. It is a great privilege, but a responsibility also - the whole of Upwych life revolves around the salt works. You will soon have to learn of it.”

  “Learn of what, Mama?” Lydia had asked naively. “What can one possibly learn about salt?”

  “You will see, dear. In Upwych, one cannot avoid the salt.”

  Lydia’s eyes misted with tears as she remembered those loving moments with her mother, but she knew, too, that she was wasting precious time dreaming like this. Moving quickly, she changed into her blue woollen gown and packed a few of her most treasured mementoes into her travelling basket; a miniature of her father, a childhood sea-shell and a small pearl brooch that had belonged to her mother.

  Soon, she was ready. Lydia took one last look round at the only room she had ever known and then, picking up her bonnet and closing the door softly behind her, she went downstairs.

  Her aunt and stepfather were still at their debate.

  “Liddy, a business woman?” Brodrick was sneering as she reached the bottom stair. “My late wife’s family, like my own, have little knowledge of trade.”

  “Trade, Mr. Fortey,” her aunt responded sharply, “has assured my family of prosperity, and it is a situation that is decent and to be respected. You will note that I have no repugnance in mentioning money. In Upwych, salt men are gentlemen --” adding caustically, “ -- which is more than I have found during this, thankfully brief, sojourn in London.”