by Norah Lofts
Stubbornness was a recognised Tallboys characteristic. Sir Godfrey amiable—some said stupid—had had his full share; the Lady Sybilla and Tana had both been resolute characters.
Deadlock across the kitchen table.
Joanna said, ‘Then I must get John to marry me and use my money. He would, you know!’
With a jolt everything inside Henry, heart, breath, came to a standstill; and then with another jolt went on again. John would!
Ever since the shabby old lute had restored him to life John had been talking about setting out again in the spring and the absolute necessity of having some money to start out with. Unless a musician, however good, had something to fall back upon, so that he could pick and choose, he ended on market squares or village greens, singing, literally, for his supper. He knew, he’d seen it happen. He’d aimed such remarks about equally between his brother and Mistress Captoft and neither had responded immediately. Henry had thought that he would do what he could, when the time came, and Mistress Captoft had realised that to make any promise prematurely would be unwise. While he was still unsure John would continue to be attentive, escort her across the yard and stay for a while, mitigating the loneliness.
‘Yes; he would,’ Henry said almost viciously. ‘He’d take whatever was yours that he could get his hands on and then leave you—like Young Shep left his wife; shamed and deserted. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I know enough to know that that would suit me splendidly! He’s not a person I should wish to live with.’
She spoke lightly but she was watching Henry with narrowed, hard eyes. Behind them some compunction stirred; poor Henry, to be so forced! But it was for his own good.
Henry thought: She’s capable of it! There had always been a wild, reckless streak in Tana. And John, of course, wouldn’t hesitate for an instant.
A feeling of helplessness added itself to his anger. He could do nothing; she was not his ward; she was not a member of the family of which he was the head. If she put this preposterous suggestion to John… Henry was not accustomed to feeling helpless. Within the limits imposed by lack of money he’d always been master in his own small world. True, Griselda had nagged and scolded but he’d soon learned to ignore what was a mere fretful noise. Nothing vital; nothing like this.
‘God damn it all! You leave me no choice! All right. Sooner than see you ruin your life, I’ll take what money the Bishop still holds for you and use it here. Putting what is due to you away, as I put Robert’s.’
‘There is one other thing,’ she said.
Somebody had spilt a little water on the table and she dabbled her finger in it, making a pattern. Watching, Henry thought how strange it was that neither work out-of-doors nor indoors had affected her hands at all; slim, smooth, cream-coloured. Beautiful hands. Her mother’s hands.
Stop that!
‘Well?’
‘Nothing difficult. Just a promise. If I go to Stordford for three years and learn all there is to be learned and behave like a saint; and if you haven’t found someone you prefer—and I haven’t either—you’ll marry me. At least think about it. Seriously.’
Nothing to be lost by promising that. The bargain with Sir Barnabas and his lady—made through the Bishop of Bywater—included the arrangement for a suitable marriage. And just as Henry visualised Joanna being one of the gay, butterfly ladies of Beauclaire, so he imagined suitors, very much like the young knight who, during Sir Godfrey’s absence, had visited Knight’s Acre from time to time. Young, handsome, rich. Once installed at Stordford, she’d forget Knight’s Acre and presently, wooed by somebody young, handsome, rich… Nevertheless, something about that wild threat to marry John had rung a warning bell.
‘In return for that,’ he said, ‘I must exact a promise, too. Nobody expects you to behave like a saint but you are not to do anything secret. Try no madcap scheme or trick.’
‘How could I? You have my promise, Henry, and I have yours. I regard it as betrothal. Tom Robinson once told me about betrothals. As near as nothing to marriages, he said, unless one or the other didn’t agree when the time came.’
Three years of exile; but she’d got what she wanted. Her mother had borne a longer servitude; but nobody knew that.
Mistress Captoft, asked to help and advise in this new direction, was in her element; sensible enough to know that she was herself out of date in the matter of fashion. Of course the girl must have some new clothes but the minimum; Lady Grey would know and decide what was needed apart from two decent dresses, one of woollen cloth, one of velvet; and, of course, a hooded cloak.
Mistress Captoft was, secretly, so delighted to know that the unfriendly girl was about to depart that if required she would have stitched sail-cloth.
Joanna’s going would not only remove something hostile, it would leave a bedchamber vacant. Mistress Captoft would not admit it, even to herself, but she never felt comfortable, really comfortable in the beautiful, silk hung rooms which, only so short a time ago, had seemed like a haven of refuge. She knew, and John constantly reminded her, that Young Shep had died in the bedchamber; that meant nothing to her; it would indeed be very difficult to find a house or part of a house in which somebody had not died. It was just she felt out of place, uneasy, as though—this was the way she expressed it to herself—as though her skin didn’t fit. Once—and it was a moment she remembered with self-shame, she’d heard something, a kind of tap and a fumbling at one of the windows. Just a spray of ivy, moved by the wind, she realised, but not before she had cried out, sharply, ‘Who’s there?’ She looked forward to moving into the main house and to being in full control.
Stitching away, she said, ‘I really think, my dear, that you should master plain sewing. Far more exacting forms of needlework will be expected of you at Stordford.’
‘Embroidery!’ Joanna said with supreme contempt: hurtful to a woman who prided herself on her skill in that art.
‘It is one of the things that a lady needs to know,’ Mistress Captoft said tartly.
‘I have no need to learn how to be a lady. My mother was a lady of Spain.’
A plain statement of fact, innocent of malice, yet it hurt, too. Annoyance deepened the colour in Mistress Captoft’s cheeks. She was herself a member of the emergent middle class, daughter of a prosperous merchant, wife to another. In manners and style of living they were as good as any in the land, in learning and in morals superior to those who regarded themselves as more well-bred. To have such a remark made to her by an unlettered girl who could not even sew a seam! And yet, and yet… It was something, Mistress Captoft reflected, about the way the girl held her head.
‘Unfortunately, she did not live long enough for you to benefit either by her precept or her example.’ That should even the score.
His Grace of Bywater had a liking for Henry Tallboys with whom he had come in contact over the business of Moyidan’s young heir who, by some extraordinary oversight, a failure in communications had, in the winter after the Church had assumed control of the estate, suffered a little privation, grossly exaggerated by the boy himself. He’d gone running to his Uncle Henry and Henry had offered to be responsible for him, with no profit to himself. The fact that the boy was a born liar was proved later when he’d been caught stealing in the market and given as his excuse that he was hungry. A boy born to make trouble, born discontented; as he had vilified the Bishop when he lived at Moyidan and his Uncle Henry when he lived at Knight’s Acre, now he was vilifying Eton where—at some little trouble to himself—the Bishop had secured him a place.
As proof of his approval, the Bishop had Henry admitted immediately and greeted him affably.
‘This is most timely, Master Tallboys. I was about to ask you to call upon me. I have been away for a while and a letter from Lady Grey awaited me here. She and her husband are anxious about the child.’
‘Naturally, my Lord.’ Henry had no intention of explaining the delay. It would sound absurd to say that Joanna had defied him. ‘I have been unab
le to give my full attention to the business.’ He could have listed the distractions, spoken of Griselda’s death; but he wanted no formal expressions of sympathy for a grief that was no grief. ‘She is ready to go now, and I think it would be well if she could be there by Christmas.’
‘An excellent time. She will enjoy the merrymaking.’
Henry had thought of that, too.
It was twenty years since he with his mother, with Richard and Margaret and John, a baby in arms, and, of course, Walter, had set out from Beauclaire, just missing the Christmas festivities; but he remembered the Christmas before that. Everything topsy-turvy, the Lord of Misrule in control for the Twelve Days, enormous feasts and open house for all. At such a time, he thought, a stranger would not feel strange and, by the time the season was over, Joanna would have settled.
Now, he thought, in order to keep his bargain—and he’d never failed yet in that respect—he must raise the question of the rest of Joanna’s dowry. Hateful. Not begging exactly, since he intended to make the money work, but something that went against the grain. His father, Sir Godfrey, had always had a curious, almost ambivalent attitude towards money; it was necessary, something to be pursued at the risk of life and limb; once obtained—by honourable means—to be spent, given away, lent. As a result he had stumbled from crisis to crisis and died poor. Henry had, of sheer necessity, taken a more practical view of money but he never haggled, even on the market. (Unknown to him, that attitude—take it or leave it—had on occasions served him well.)
Now he was spared. The Bishop’s hands moved amongst his papers. On one smooth plump finger he wore the amethyst of his office; on the other the great glowing red ruby which, out of all Tana’s hoard, his covetous and knowledgeable eye had fixed upon. Now he had it; fair commission for his efforts.
‘Then that is settled,’ he said. ‘But I needed to talk to you, Master Tallboys, about the child’s inheritance. You entrusted me with her jewel hoard and of some I disposed easily. As you were informed, wealth enough to secure her a place in Sir Barnabas Grey’s family and a modest but adequate dowry. Some of the stones I held in reserve. As you know, these are troublous times, everything in a state of flux. But the market will recover and my agent in London will be the first to take advantage of it.’
‘Nothing here and now?’
‘I am afraid not.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ Henry said. He looked, the Bishop observed, as though he had just received good, not bad, news. Very odd.
The jewelled fingers moved again amongst the heaped but orderly papers.
‘I have here another letter which may interest you. The boy, your nephew. He has written before, always the same strain. He is ill-housed, ill-fed, ill-treated.’ His Grace listed young Richard’s grievances in a light, mocking voice, inviting Henry’s amusement. Not instantly forthcoming. Inside Henry the sense of family responsibility moved a little. He’d never really liked Young Richard, knew him to be dishonest and a liar; but there were excuses, he’d been so spoiled from the first, and then suddenly no longer spoiled.
‘Is there any truth in it?’
‘None at all,’ His Grace said with conviction. ‘The demand for places in Eton College is now so high that the one schoolroom will presently no longer serve. Men of substance—and rank—Master Tallboys, are not over-anxious to have their sons starved! And certainly, I perceive a great improvement in his writing.’
Never once had Joanna had cause to doubt Henry’s word; but now suddenly she did. He’d been from the first so averse to using her money, except for what he so wrongly thought was to her advantage, that she believed that, forced to it, he had concocted this tale about the rest of her mother’s jewels being unsaleable. She could not hold that against him; he was fiercely independent, he was pig-headed, he was Henry, altogether admirable in all his works and ways. But he was wrong to think she could be so easily fooled.
Between himself and unwanted visitors the Bishop had the great man’s usual defences; servants, secretaries, chaplains, all skilled in the art of diversion and not a few of them open to bribery.
Joanna had seen only one building—except for the church at Baildon—more imposing than Knight’s Acre and that was Moyidan, years ago. There she had not accepted a rebuff; nor did she here.
‘Tell His Grace that I am Joanna Serriff. He will understand. He will see me.’ Told to wait, she said, ‘No, I cannot wait. The days are short now.’ As though in contradiction of this statement she sat down and seemed prepared to wait for ever. There was some scurrying about and then she was admitted into the presence.
The Bishop had seen her once before, at Moyidan where he had been dining with Sir Richard when, dressed like a little plough boy, she’d burst in, demanding to see Robert. Her curtsey and, when she flung back her hood, her hair and face, had revealed her sex and His Grace of Bywater had thought then—Give her ten years and she’ll be a beauty.
It had taken a shorter time. To her, flowering had come early. Vaguely, His Grace remembered some mention other foreign origin. Spanish? Yes. Spanish. And he remembered his pilgrimage to Rome. In the South girls ripened early; nubile at eleven, married, often mothers at twelve. He had always conducted his secret affairs with the utmost discretion but he had great knowledge of, was a specialist in the subject of women and as he greeted her with great cordiality two saddening thoughts flashed through his mind. He, alas, was growing old: and early ripening of beauty all too often meant early decline.
Joanna gave her best curtsey, combining it with a down sweep of long lashes. Her eyelids, her lips, were luminous with youth. An attraction older women strove—sometimes without success—to recover by the use of salves. When she lifted the lashes her eyes, blue as cornflowers, were fixed on him in a look of appeal.
‘My Lord, I was obliged to come to you. Only you can help me.’
‘You did rightly. Rest assured that I shall do all that is possible. Sit here. Loosen your cloak. This room is warm.’
His mind worked quickly. She had come about the rest of the jewels; and he must explain again about the sluggish market. With the Yorkist cause completely triumphant most of those who had supported the Lancastrian side had lost their lands. Lancastrian ladies had sold their ornaments in order to buy necessities; and though there still was, and would always be, a demand for stones of exceptional quality, such as Lady Serriff’s diamonds and emeralds, there was a glut of more mediocre jewels.
And yes, he had been right. That well-shaped head, so elegantly poised on the slender neck; the way the hair grew from the forehead. The hair itself, such a warm brown as to be almost russet, lending warmth to what might have been a rather cold and austere beauty. Nose, perhaps a trifle high at the bridge. As she aged she would probably become sharp featured. In the meantime, delectable.
‘It is about my mother’s jewels—the rest of them. Henry said they couldn’t be sold.’
By accident or intent her glance shifted to the great ruby. She recognised it. She and Robert, finding the hoard in the long-empty rooms, had pried the pretty pebbles loose and used them in their childish games. They had agreed that the big red one was best of all. It had been the prize pebble.
Once more the Bishop explained.
Joanna said, ‘Oh. Then I wronged Henry. In my mind.’ The thought that she had suspected Henry—Henry!—of deceiving her was horrible. And the truth made her errand here seem foolish.
Mistaking her look of dejection His Grace said, kindly, ‘It will not affect you, my dear. Enough of the best stones were sold to ensure your future. And the others will be sold, at the right moment.’
‘That,’ she said, making a gesture with one beautiful hand, ‘doesn’t matter. It is Henry, and Knight’s Acre. Henry needs money now. And all mine is with Sir Barnabas… Can it be recovered?’
‘Not without much inconvenience—and possibly some offence to Sir Barnabas.’
‘I did so want to help Henry. He has been so kind to me. I was an orphan, you know; and unti
l Griselda found those jewels, I was a pauper, too. Henry was always kind and once or twice, when I did silly things, he stood up for me.’
Who wouldn’t?
She looked down at her hands; and then up again. Her eyes had changed, grown paler, harder.
‘Master Turnbull might help.’
The name of that meddlesome, anti-clerical lawyer jabbed His Grace like a knife. Joanna regarded Master Turnbull with great respect.
Ordinarily when she and Henry went to market together they’d gone their separate ways to meet at the pie-stall. But one day Henry had taken her along with him to Master Turnbull’s office and there Master Turnbull had made one more attempt to persuade Henry that saving money for Robert was not very sensible. Joanna had thought: I could prove that. I could tell you something about Robert. He’s dead! She did not speak, of course, because to have done so would be to reveal herself as a cunning and stubborn liar and disgust Henry. So she sat silent while Master Turnbull talked about money, what could be done with it; what he was doing with it; and she had thought him very clever and a friend to Henry.
So she thought of him now. ‘Master Turnbull?’
‘Yes. At Baildon. He’s very clever about money, Henry says. Perhaps he could think of a way of getting some of mine back. Some would do. Henry doesn’t need much; but some he must have.’
His Grace looked at her with close attention and decided that she was innocent of all malice. Had she been less appealing to the eye he would not have reached this decision so readily.
Over the matter of the jewels, the arrangement with Sir Barnabas Grey, there was nothing to be feared from Master Turnbull. All open and above-board, except perhaps a slight overestimation of the value of his negotiations in assigning himself the ruby. Moyidan was another matter. The meddling, near-heretic lawyer was the one who had first drawn attention to Sir Richard Tallboys’ maladministration of that estate and was doubtless enraged by the outcome, the taking over by the Church; the use of the Castle as a summer residence by the Bishop. No legal questions had been asked but they could have been. Still could be. Set a really good hound on a hare’s trail and he might start bigger game.