by Jane Steen
“How much?” I looked at Michael, noting that the fingers of his right hand had curved inward and were scratching vigorously at his palm. Michael always did that when he wanted something very badly. Hyrst depended on sheep farming a great deal more than Whitcombe did, and I knew Papa’s debts were a great worry to my brother.
“We wouldn’t ask more than you could easily afford. Brandrick has a plan to send the meat to Smithfield as well as selling locally. If we succeed, we’ll both be better off.”
Faced with the prospect of helping Michael and his family, I felt myself relenting. After all, what good was wealth if I couldn’t use it for those I loved? And I did love Michael, for all his faults.
“I would be willing to listen to your plans,” I conceded. “Of course if I do marry again, my new husband might not like having the management of my land in someone else’s hands.”
“Safe, family hands.” Michael scratched harder at his palm. “Your new husband should be content with the money. And if you have any sense, you’ll marry someone of substance, and Whitcombe can be let when you leave for your new life.”
“Hmmm. So if I go to London—and let you manage Dene Farm—and allow whatever silly gossip may have arisen to die down, I would like Susan Hatherall to remain at Whitcombe at least until she’s had her child. Then we’ll see what’s to be done.”
“What you do in your house is your affair.” Michael had visibly relaxed, folding his arms and looking almost expansive. “Although if you’ll take a brother’s advice, I hope you’ll see less of that Frenchman.”
“I have no intention of seeing anything much of Monsieur Fortier in the future.” I refrained from telling Michael that we’d argued over the business of the letter. “I’ll leave instructions that he should be called in if Susan becomes ill. Otherwise, all she’ll need is the care of a competent midwife when her time comes. I’m sure Mrs. Eason can see to that.”
“An unmarried servant with child, kept on and not dismissed without a character.” Brandrick shook his head. “It’ll still be talked about.”
“You can smooth it over, can’t you, Michael?” I asked my brother. “After all, you’re the earl. Call it charity on my part. Or eccentricity. You can take your pick.” I looked hard at Brandrick. He, in turn, looked at Michael and gave a quick lift of his eyebrows.
“The bargain’s sealed, then,” I said. “We’ll talk about the investment you want me to make later.”
How much would Susan Hatherall cost me? I wondered as I settled into my carriage for the short ride back to Whitcombe. On the other hand, I saw no actual harm in Brandrick’s scheme for the farm. I had to do something with those blessed sheep, and investing money in an expansion would no doubt have been Justin’s preference over abandoning his enterprise.
“Well?” O asked when I found her in the morning room.
“I suppose you and Michael win. In fact, I think I’ve conceded rather a lot. I forgot to make it clear to Michael that I won’t have him throwing suitors at me, for one thing.”
O rose and came to kiss me. “That’s what I mean about you being restful, Baby. You’re so good-natured.”
“Meaning I let my family twist me around their little fingers.” I sat down in my favorite chair with a sigh. “I suppose I’d better tell Guttridge to start packing for London.”
21
The return
To my surprise, once I’d settled into the elegant but dilapidated house the Scott-De Quincys had somehow managed to hang on to since the reign of William and Mary, I started to enjoy myself. Scott House boasted only a housekeeper, a maid, and a manservant they called a footman but who filled a variety of roles. A plain cook, another maid, and a second man lived out, and we breakfasted on hot rolls delivered to the door each morning. Even the gardeners found employment elsewhere for the winter. The house, nestled inside walled gardens that hid it completely from the din of London’s streets, had a strangely cozy feel to it, as if O and I were almost alone. The coziness was intensified by my insistence on paying for extra coal so that the rooms could be properly heated; no wonder Michael didn’t stay there much.
I didn’t see all that much of O for a large part of the morning and early afternoon. While the light was good, she worked in her studio—two large rooms at the top of the house that had once been a nursery and schoolroom. At two o’clock, she would join me for a late luncheon, after which we would take the air in London’s parks with Scotty.
We rode in a closed carriage since I was recently widowed, but O always seemed to find acquaintances to stop and talk to. We had a number of places where we liked to walk, and at times we entered the public buildings. I liked the new Natural History Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum best, but O was fondest of the National Gallery. I had to admit it greatly entertained me to see how many working-class families derived entertainment—sometimes of a vulgar nature—from the pictures. Being in this great metropolis where few knew who I was freed me to watch other people for a change.
The silver salver in Scott House’s front hall quickly began to overflow with cards, often bearing notes of condolence. In the end I had black-bordered cards printed to the effect that I was at home two days each week between two and three o’clock. We received visits from bohemian oddities as well as society notables. I was glad to note that some of O’s friends were highly intelligent and exceedingly amusing.
Some visitors I easily identified as sent along by Michael to inspect me with a view to marriage. One gentleman in particular was quite persistent. He was fairly good-looking apart from the fact that one eye was oddly sunken, and I spent my time wondering whether he could see out of it. He had fought the Ashanti under General Wolseley and carried a folded engraving of that illustrious personage, cut from The Illustrated London News, in his pocket-book. He clearly thought everyone was as fascinated by the subject of African warfare as he was, and it took a considerable degree of rudeness on O’s part to drive him away. I was grateful; I had begun to dread spending yet another hour watching the flicker of the black iris in his sunken eye and the peculiar way the eyelid wrinkled when he smiled.
I put my reader’s ticket for the library at the British Museum to good use. My theoretical knowledge of the uses of plants grew fast, and my journal filled with notes of remedies I wanted to try once I got home to Whitcombe. I visited several interesting shops in London and sent packets of seeds, exotic ingredients such as cinchona bark from India, and a few books back to await my return, enclosing instructions to Susan on how I wanted them stored or arranged.
“Does that girl ever write back to you?” O asked one evening when I had finished writing to Susan.
“A few words here and there. Mrs. Eason is a better correspondent. She says Susan is plagued by pain in her left hip and lower back. And that she occasionally has recurrences of fever and has lost weight. Mrs. Eason’s not sure if she’s just pining for her father or really ill.”
“She’s malingering, you mark my words.” O closed her eyes in pleasure as she sipped her coffee, which she took strong and black.
“I don’t think so. She doesn’t have enough work, of course, when I’m not there.”
O sniffed. “Couldn’t Mrs. Eason find her some work to do in the house?”
“And impinge upon some other servant’s province? You should know better.”
“You know, one of the things I love about living in Scott House is the minimal presence of a bunch of silly servants with their notions of hierarchy and their continual bickering.” O stretched and leaned back in her chair. I sipped my own coffee, well sweetened and laced with cream.
“I’m sure my servants don’t bicker. I hardly notice them—well, except Guttridge, of course.”
“Hmph. You really don’t need a woman to wash you and dress you like a doll. It’s easy to hook a corset and button a bodice all by yourself—look at me, I do it every day. It keeps me supple.” O, whose hair was a darker shade of blond than the others but who was a true Scott-De Quincy in
every other way, tall and slender, proved her point by folding her long body in half until her forehead touched her knees.
“Guttridge is essential to my well-being. And I can hardly run Whitcombe without servants. I might have to hire an extra gardener when my herb garden is finished.”
O rolled her eyes. “Michael’s right, that whole business of trying to step into Mama’s shoes is ridiculously expensive. Quite a dreadful waste.”
“When did he say that?”
“Oh, he said something to Annette.” O stretched, an easy thing to do in her “artistic” dress, which was daringly loose. Beside her on the sofa, Scotty whined in his sleep and moved his paws as if chasing a dream rabbit. “But I do understand, Baby. You’re trying to recover the sense of purpose you had as Justin’s wife. Not that I think there’s much purpose in being a wife, but to most women it’s the be-all and end-all of their existence.”
“Perhaps you should be glad, then, that I’ve departed from the path of most women. After all, why should you be surprised? When I was younger, I fully intended to make healing my vocation.”
“But you’re trying too hard too soon. It’s too early to make big decisions about your life. You must give yourself time to grieve, Baby. That’s why deepest mourning should be carried out with the mirrors covered, you know. You’re not supposed to be looking at yourself and considering who you are. You’re supposed to be thinking of Justin.”
“I do think of Justin. I think about him all the time. But I feel so different now that he’s gone. He’s left me with resources I never dreamed of having to myself.” I shifted round in my seat. “Look at it this way, O. You’ve done what you wanted to do—what you’ve felt called to do—but you’ve always had to do it in the context of dependence on others. The allowance from Michael, living in the house he owns—”
“Well, I do make some money from selling my paintings.” O lifted her head in a proud gesture.
“You do? I’m glad. But put yourself in my position. Suddenly, I realize I never have to depend on anyone else again. And at the same time, I realize I’ve healed from the shock of Daniel’s death. The scab, for want of a better word, that formed over my heart after he died has dropped off. Justin did that. Feeling that raw place where I’m grieving for Justin has made me see how much he did to put me back together.”
“The dear man.” O sighed.
“Yes, the very dearest. And now I’m me again—the me from before Daniel died—but I’m no longer a girl, dependent on Mama and Papa. I’m a woman with . . . well, with power.”
O made a small noise but then fell silent, as if she were considering what I’d said. In my own mind, all I could see was that day in the orchard, feel the moment when for the first time in my young life I had felt utterly powerless. Daniel and I, together, had seemed so strong. We had been so happy, engaged in the tentative and wonderful transition from cousins to lovers. We’d rejoiced in the gift of young, strong bodies, indulging in a childlike game of tag simply because the weather was bright and breezy and we’d been too long inside. I could still hear myself screaming for help, see my beautiful cousin with his shock of rust-colored hair drop like a stone, his lips blue. For months after that day, I had heard my screams inside my head.
“I brought one or two of Mama’s journals with me,” I said at last, to drive my memories out of my mind. “I’m at the point when Mama found she was with child again—of course, she didn’t yet know it was twins. She seems happy.”
Indeed, at this point in her writings Mama mentioned Papa frequently. She had even gotten him involved in a new venture, that of beekeeping. Since I’d never known hives to exist at Hyrst, I supposed this particular experiment had failed.
“Five years and more before I was born,” Odelia mused. “Heavens. Fifteen years at least before you made an appearance. Why does the past interest you so much, Baby?”
“I suppose I’m trying to reach Mama,” I said. “And perhaps myself—the younger myself, that is.”
O came to me then, draping a long arm around my shoulders. “I rather like the self you are now. The woman of power.” She was laughing, but not cruelly, as she kissed me on the top of my head. “Just don’t change too fast, will you?”
O’s words were very much on my mind as our carriage bounced along the road from Hastings on our way home. Guttridge and I had been obliged to hire a carriage instead of following our plan of taking the train to Littleberry. It appeared the sudden cold snap that had settled over Sussex was interfering with the mechanism of the steam train.
It had grown cold indeed. The frost rimed the bare twigs of the hedgerows with white, making the rose hips and the few hawthorn berries the birds hadn’t yet eaten stand out starkly red. Holly berries there were too, the leaves shining deep green where the low rays of the sun had struck them and melted the frost a little.
It was so cold I’d insisted Guttridge borrow one of my fur muffs and sit next to me rather than opposite. That way we could huddle together under three woolen rugs with Scotty for additional warmth and make the most of the footwarmers provided for us in Hastings. I was grateful for Guttridge’s solidity so close to me, her faint fragrance of wool and soap pleasantly human on a day where the cold had robbed the land of its usual smells of dirt, sheep, and green growing things.
“Ah, it’s good to be out of those woods.” Guttridge moved slightly so she was in the sunlight that now shone through the dirty glass of the carriage window.
“Yes, I always like this part of the journey. I don’t mind not coming by train at all, except for the temperature. Who’d ever think I’d pine for the ladies’ waiting room at Hastings and its smoky fire?”
Guttridge laughed. “I’ve walked along this road of a summer. I’ll say this for the countryside, the views are very fine.”
“This ridge was part of England’s southernmost cliffs once, did you know that? The sea came right up to the foot of them. Broadmere was a port—a very prosperous one.”
“The Littleberry people say the sea’s always waiting to take its own back.” Guttridge stared out to where the sea showed as a sparkling dark blue strip with a line of azure on the horizon. “They talk of a huge storm, hundreds of years ago, that washed Old Broadmere under the waves. They say if England’s in peril, you can hear the bells of the old church ringing, far out in the water.”
I snorted softly at the old tale, settling back into the faded velvet of the carriage seat. Brought up within two miles of the sea, I had, since my earliest memories, sought the sight of it on every return from a journey. How could I ever ally myself with any man who dwelt inland? I couldn’t possibly live far from the coast.
“Ah, there’s Whitcombe.” Guttridge’s words brought me out of my reverie, and I looked out of the other side of the carriage. My home was an airy confection of red brick and sandstone, serene and shining in the sharp morning light. From a distance, perched on the top of its hill, it looked like a dolls’ house waiting for a giant child to swing open the front and grasp the little people within.
Now Littleberry appeared to our right, its brownish-red houses huddled around the great church whose distinctive tower could be recognized from as far away as the Downs. We would have to descend the hill and wind our slow way through its narrow streets to find the other turnpike road, up, up again until we reached Whitcombe Lane at the road’s highest point. This part of the journey always made me feel oddly impatient. I had seen my home but must needs delay the welcome moment of stepping over the threshold because of the natural obstacles of hill, valley, and river that turned our part of Sussex into a maze to puzzle strangers.
“Ugh.” Guttridge and I held our noses at the same moment. The belching fumes of kilns had given way to the worst of Littleberry’s odors, the salty stench of the fishing boats that lined the spreading river, beached on the mud till the tide returned to float them off again. Farther along, the fish smell would compete with the tar of the boat builders and the stink of the weekly market, the dung of the sheep
and cattle driven into Littleberry as the halfway point of their journey from green field to butcher’s hook.
We rattled over the new bridge that, mercifully, had replaced the river ferry, over the railroad, and into the street of humble dwellings that ran along the lower edge of the town. There, inevitably, we were delayed.
“Hmph.” Guttridge managed to push down the window on her side enough to stick her head out. “There’s a horse in the way.”
I took her place at the window, shivering as the frigid air from outside hit me. Two huge drays, one laden with barrels and the other with what looked like the entire contents of a house, blocked the road. Their drivers were engaged in a furious altercation with each other and with a person hanging out of the upper window of one of the houses. The cause of the blockage was clearly the large black horse tied by its reins to a fence; it had, in the contrary way of horses, decided to move itself out into the road so that it narrowed the thoroughfare substantially.
“It’s a gentleman’s horse,” said Guttridge.
“It’s Monsieur Fortier’s horse.” I had recognized it instantly. “I don’t think anybody else in Littleberry rides such a huge animal.”
I was proved right by the appearance of the horse’s owner, who clapped his silk hat onto his head as he hurriedly shook the hand of the householder. He was carrying his medical bag, from which I deduced he’d been called out to a patient.
My insides gave a funny little squirm as I watched Fortier untie his horse and lead it round in our direction, apologizing to the drivers as he did so. He was dressed for riding, as I’d so often seen him, in breeches, tall boots, and a cutaway coat. He looked somehow more real than any of my hopeful male visitors in London.