The Penny Heart

by Martine Bailey

  It must have been that term Peter used – ‘the ends of the earth’ – that prompted my attempt at guile. ‘You know a good deal of Botany Bay. Did you ever hear of anyone from Earlby or Greaves being transported there?’

  ‘Good God, no. It is merely from my friend in the marine regiment that I glean my intelligence.’

  ‘So you have never heard of a female felon – Mary Jebb?’

  ‘No. Never.’ I was watching him carefully, but as I spoke the woman’s name Peter rapidly rose and peered out of the window. ‘Look at that for an ominous sky.’ Had I seen a start of dismay cross his face? When he turned to me again, his usual joviality had disappeared.

  ‘Grace, may I speak my mind?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I understand you don’t like me to speak of it – but do you truly want to struggle on in that mouldering house? I have seen this fortnight how you like company and entertainments. Let Michael stay on there, while you return to civilisation.’

  ‘It’s not so easy as that. I know Michael is not the perfect husband—’

  He gave a bitter bark of laughter.

  ‘But do you not understand?’ I insisted. ‘I must make the best of it. I must support his plans. Be a good wife.’ As I spoke it occurred to me that I was echoing Peg Blissett’s words.

  ‘I know Michael better than you do. He doesn’t deserve you.’

  ‘I cannot disagree with that, Peter,’ I said drily.

  He sighed, resigned. ‘I wrote to you when you were ill and was made very anxious when I had no reply.’

  ‘Michael dealt with all such matters for me – but it was remiss of him not to reply to you.’

  ‘Michael,’ he scoffed, ‘thinks only of himself.’

  ‘I believe he is starting to trust me. And as for the Hall, he wants to move, too. He hates it there.’

  Peter leaned forward. ‘Then why not move to town? This is your chance. Seize it.’

  I looked away. ‘I’ll talk to him.’ With nothing else to say, he turned back to the window. ‘Well, I must make haste to Scarborough, before the storm breaks. I intend to call on Miss Brighouse there.’

  ‘Miss Brighouse? I’ve heard your parents speak of her with warmth.’

  He grinned. ‘Well, she’s not a bad prospect. It is only that, to be married – it would be rather tying.’

  I couldn’t help but laugh at the face he pulled at the prospect. ‘So why are you leading the poor Miss Brighouse on?’

  ‘Oh, I shall come to my senses. I just need to apply myself, if I’m honest. She is rather fond of me, and not lacking a fortune or a pretty seat at Bleasedale. And you must know by now, I’m not especially eager to get my hands black with oil or whatever the latest vogue for making money is.’

  He held out his exquisitely spotless hand, and I shook it heartily.

  ‘Grace, I hope when I next call, you will not turn me away.’

  ‘I would never do so.’

  ‘Ah, so it was at Michael’s instruction. Since our quarrel, he will not speak to me.’

  I was not wholly surprised, for Michael often complained of his brother: mostly that his parents’ favoured Peter in spite of his being a pleasure-seeking gadabout.

  ‘Remember, write only a line and I am entirely at your service.’

  ‘I will never forget your kindness to Anne and to me. Thank you.’

  And so we parted, Peter to venture out under the louring skies, and myself to order an early supper in readiness for my next day’s journey home.

  I woke to a city blanketed in white. All along Coney Street the steep roofs were bonneted in snow, their chimneys smoking above golden-squared windows. Yet as a traveller, however pretty the scene, the sight exasperated me. My coachman, Tom, called with mixed news: that the road to Tadcaster was passable, but that the London mail had not yet arrived, despite its generally being so timely that the locals set their clocks by it. ‘We might get as far as the inn at Tadcaster,’ Tom advised, for he was eager to be home. ‘At least we shall be moving, Mrs Croxon.’

  Mrs Palmer, however, was against my leaving; and for myself, I was in a quandary. Yet what was there to linger for? I had written only briefly to Michael: that I had enjoyed myself immensely and been to the Assembly and myriad sights, thanks in part to a chance encounter with Peter. The previous day I had received a short but surprisingly affectionate reply that concluded, ‘Do not stay away too long, dear Grace. Your affectionate husband, Michael.’

  He had certainly not written like a husband lost in a lover’s arms. It was enough to goad me to action. Buttoning up my new damson wool redingote, I put on my other new purchases, a hat trimmed with sable and matching muff and tippet. I had at last found costumes that suited my character: gowns in rich sapphire blues, purples, and emeralds, tight-sleeved and high-waisted. Our neighbour the milliner had taught me a voguish way with broad-brimmed hats, worn at the tilt Van Dyke fashion, with feathers and rosettes. Alighting behind fresh horses and with skids for the wheels, we set off across the slippery cobbles and out through the city gates.

  Through the carriage glass I looked out over fields of blinding white snow. At every bridge or hillock the carriage swerved and swung, but inside the coach, with my blankets and a basket of food packed by Mrs Palmer, I was well enough. I pitied Tom outside, growing as stiff as a statue in the bitter snow flurries flying in the wind. By eleven o’clock we reached Tadcaster, and took on food and liquor and advice. We agreed to head for Leeds and pass the night there, but by two o’clock I regretted setting forth. The sky was a sulphurous grey, and we faced the prospect of losing the road, for the hedges were fast disappearing beneath treacherous drifts. On we slithered for another hour, until at last the Half Moon Inn at Top Widdop appeared like a lighted beacon in the murk.

  The landlady greeted us like heroes, and Tom had his health toasted liberally by the company. This humble inn was by sunset near to bursting with journeymen and market folk all stranded by the weather. I secured a tiny garret room, and was extremely glad of its privacy and stillness, for my head reeled from the journey.

  Amongst the other persons holed up in the steaming parlour was the London mail driver so eagerly awaited at York; a crimson-faced barrel of a man, in a state of great agitation over the lateness of the mail. Fixing upon me as the latest arrival from York, he fretted over how he would be fined by the hour for failing in his duty. I reassured him as well as I could, and our conversation then turned to broader matters. On learning of my destination, he remarked, ‘Delafosse Hall? That large estate near Earlby? As chance would fall, I might deliver your mail direct, Mrs Croxon, and so save myself a rambling journey, if you are agreeable.’ He handed me a letter addressed to ‘Whosoever Be At Delafoss Hall, Earlby, Yorkshire’. Up in my garret I studied it by the light of a fern-frosted window.

  To Whosever,

  This letter be a second inquiry to the whereabouts of my sister Mrs Eleanor Jane Harper, a widow, she being engaged in September as Housekeeper at this same Delafoss Hall. I pray you write me if she may be fell ill or in some manner is in need of her family for she is not replied to my letters as she is customed to do so. Most especily she is at all times wanting news of her boy James what is apprentice and he is now needful of his £5-00 fee what she is certainly willing to pay of her own account. I beg you do send a few lines in charity to me Mistress Bess Doutty at the Dog Inn, Pontefract, to put my mind at ease. God bless you for your goodness,

  Bess Doutty

  My first thought was that poor Mrs Doutty had no notion of what Nan had called her sister’s ‘gin-bibing’ ways. I supposed it a sad case, but not an unusual one.

  Then, for the first time since I had questioned Nan, I asked myself why our first housekeeper Mrs Harper had departed so hastily. The influence of that drinking companion of hers was a part of it, perhaps. Yet, to neglect her sister, and leave her son without his fee? Like a loose skein, my pulling at the question unravelled all the worries I had gathered tight this last fortnight, and broug
ht my musings back to Michael himself.

  I had not thought deeply about Michael since arriving in York, and I wondered if Peter’s company had lulled me into complacency. Had the two brothers’ resemblance somehow tricked me into forgetting how much of Peter’s affability Michael lacked? I had considered them both on first acquaintance to be handsome and desirable men. Yet now I knew Peter better, I recognised he was of a more amiable stamp, at ease with women and able to form rapid, warm attachments with everyone he met. Michael was civil when he wished it, but beneath his veneer, was too self-interested to care for any human conduct save his own. Indeed, Michael was, as John Francis had perceived, neither kindly nor sensible. For the very first time I allowed myself to speculate whether Michael might know something about Mrs Harper’s untimely disappearance. He had certainly met her before we married; yet he showed not a jot of concern at her disappearance. But how great a leap was that, from self-absorption to something far more sinister?

  Mrs Doutty made mention of this being her second attempt to solicit news. Setting that beside Anne’s observation about her letter not reaching me, I came to a decision. I would ask Peg if she suspected any message boy of stealing the mail. After all, I had seen cases in the newspaper, of scoundrels opening letters in hope of money or gifts. I also resolved that whenever I anticipated, or wished to post an important letter, I would hand it to the postmaster in Earlby myself.

  Next, and more reluctantly, I fully reflected on Nan’s observation that Mrs Harper was not the possessor of long black hair. The conclusion was inescapable: Michael had visited Delafosse before our marriage and most likely slept with the black-haired woman in my own bed. Since then, they had met at least once at the tower. Suddenly the self-pity that had overwhelmed me after my accident returned. Sternly, I told myself that Michael’s manner towards me was improving, and that Peg was no doubt correct about bachelors needing time to leave their free and easy habits behind them.

  The dinner bell interrupted my thoughts. That evening the entire inn’s company dined together, cheered by our landlady’s cauldron of hot-pot and solid plum duff. The mail driver entertained us with tales of vagabonds and highwaymen, mysterious French packages, and secret letters with royal seals. Afterwards, a local fellow pressed him to talk of his route across the country, marvelling at tales of such distant places as Rugby and Stamford. Pleasantly relaxed by a bottle of claret, I listened to the chatter. From nowhere, it seemed, a preposterous idea erupted in my mind – that I might abandon my home and instead take a passage on the next mail coach to London. Bizarre as it was, it gripped me as a most attractive plan. Unlike Anne, I was not so dependent on my husband that I must follow his whims like a slave. Besides, Michael had not even made me his wife by all legal standards. I might still be free and happy, and live a private life alone. I was intoxicated, of course, but I was not drunk solely with wine. I had been in good free-thinking company, and had even read a few pages of Mrs Wollstonecraft’s Rights of Women. Liberty: the word itself excited me. If I left Michael, he might never find me again. I felt my cheeks burn – how angry he would be! The thought was not an unpleasing one.

  *

  By the glittering morning, my delirium had passed, and the many reasons to return to Delafosse jostled in my head. Foremost, and most mundane, in York I had ordered many goods for the Hall, which would soon be delivered. Also, Anne would write to me there within the week, with news of her departure from England. By breakfast time, I had decided the wine had simply made me cowardly. All these notions of running away, I scoffed inwardly, were mere signs of weakness. For the truth was that now I was alone again, I had let myself grow anxious at being left alone with Michael, which was absurd.

  I wrote a few lines to Bess Doutty, detailing the circumstances of her sister’s departure. As for her apprentice son, I inquired into his circumstances, for I do not like to see industry unrewarded. My friend the mail-coach driver took the letter from me, and also a testimonial to the mail authorities in his favour.

  News came that day from Halifax that the road was passable, and so we set off again. Very slowly we progressed across the great moors of Yorkshire, seeing nothing stir save foraging birds and a single fox, a streak of red disappearing into a white hedge. I made sketches of the frost-bound trees, encrusted with crystals as bright as marcasite that sparkled in the winter sun. By three o’clock the sun was reddening, and the spire of Earlby church pierced the horizon. In the far distance, a wisp of smoke rose from Delafosse. I could not be still. I clung to the glass as we drew ever closer to the drive.

  A lone horseman waited there, muffled in a snowy greatcoat. It was Michael, as motionless as an antique statue, mounted upon Dancer. The carriage halted. Michael opened the door and I turned to face him.

  ‘Grace, thank God you are home. I have been looking out all day.’ Michael was flushed from the cold, his hair long and wet, his expression fiercely intent. He opened his arms, and, bewildered, I went to him. I felt mystified by his anxiety; but also suddenly, vibrantly alive.

  The drive was too deep with snow for the carriage to pass, so Michael lifted me up to ride before him on Dancer’s back. ‘You are cold,’ he said, in a low voice. I was shivering, though not entirely from cold; rather from a deep, uncanny excitement. Opening his coat, he wrapped it around me, so I could lean against his body, cradled in animal warmth. Our path grew darker by the moment, but I felt no fear as Dancer picked his way over high banked snow. The silhouettes of trees overhung us, glittering with frost in the unnatural hush of twilight. Michael was silent, managing Dancer’s nervous steps and reaching around me to pat his mane, occasionally speaking the horse’s name in encouragement.

  At last we emerged from the tunnel of trees. The Hall rose above us, its windows shining rose-gold in the setting sun. For a delirious moment, it looked as if it had sprung to life while I was absent, housing magnificent revelries; illuminated by thousands of burning candles.

  ‘It is so beautiful,’ I murmured. Michael held me closer and, pulling my hair aside, dropped his lips on the back of my neck like a benediction. Whatever happens, I will never forget this moment, I told myself – the muffled hoofs in the snow, the pink-gold windows, the thrill where Michael’s lips had kissed me. But the glorious reflection was short-lived; the sun dropped in a moment, and the mass of windows were snuffed out and blinded. Before us stood the Hall as I knew it, black and sombre below its mantle of snow.

  At the great entrance door Michael dismounted and helped me down. The air was preternaturally quiet, save for the ringing jingle of the horse’s harness.

  ‘I have missed you,’ Michael said, his breath hot against my cheek. A voice whispered in my head that he must be lying. Yet to surrender was irresistible. His words were everything I wanted to hear. I leaned on his arm and we went inside.

  ‘Look.’ He threw open the drawing-room door; it was utterly transformed. Gone was the mournful decay; in its place was a vision of luxury: papered walls, brocade divans, a fireplace of marble, a ruby carpet. ‘How is all this possible?’ I asked, sinking into a chair beside Michael, who still gripped my hand.

  ‘I looked at the plans and knew I was wrong to deny you. I insisted it must all be made ready for your return. Delahunty worked his men day and night.’

  I had barely a moment to think how this changed my affairs – that I could no longer cherish hopes of my townhouse – before Peg ran into the room, so overjoyed to see me that I swear tears shone in her eyes. ‘See here, Mrs Croxon,’ she cried, pointing out the various wonders, one by one.

  One matter alone jarred. ‘Did the plans not call for bronze wallpaper?’ I asked. ‘This is green.’ I inspected it closely. ‘It is quite a contrary shade, next to the red.’

  ‘It looks splendid to me,’ said Peg.

  ‘And to me,’ echoed Michael.

  ‘It is of no consequence,’ I said, not wanting to break the spell. For that was how it felt – as if my home was at last the Castle Amorous of my daydreams, and Michael, my Sa
d Knight.

  Michael and I ate in the dining room. This room was also tricked out in the finest style, the new ceiling gilded and the walls papered sapphirine blue. Peg’s food matched in every way the grand surroundings. It was a procession of my favourites: trout with almonds, roast chicken, quince tart, orange custards. Michael produced a bottle of champagne and, despite my tiredness, I grew lively in a vinous haze.

  The food was eaten. Michael pushed the green decanter of Usquebaugh away and reached his hand to me across the table. ‘I have missed you. Come here.’

  In a moment I was in his arms, warm but agitated. He cupped my face in his hands and whispered, ‘Your absence was a harsh lesson. I thought you might leave me.’

  I kept my eyes lowered. I couldn’t lie to him.

  His fingers lifted my face up to his; he was trembling very slightly. Then he said what I had wanted to hear ever since we were first married. ‘Shall we go to your chamber?’

  I followed Michael upstairs, so full of trepidation I was scarcely able to feel the boards beneath my feet. Inside my chamber a fire burned low and the great curtained bed loomed large. I stood awkwardly while Michael took off his coat. In his shirtsleeves he turned to me and said, ‘Take that off,’ indicating my gown. It had been my belief, from hints in sentimental novels, that a man liked to undress a woman. Instead, Michael kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed in his shirt and breeches and waited, his arm thrown across his eyes, obscuring his expression. I undressed, unknotting the laces of my gown with horrible difficulty. Then I lay down beside him in my thin shift; my old bed seeming suddenly a vast and foreign kingdom. To preserve my modesty, Michael snuffed out the candle. In the dim firelight he moved towards me and caressed me roughly, running strong hands over my arms, breasts, stomach. From the dark I heard him whisper harshly, ‘Have I made you angry?’ I didn’t reply. Then, ‘I’ve behaved so badly. I cannot help myself.’ Too surprised to answer, I flinched as next he grasped my wrist, encircling it painfully, pushing it backwards against the pillow.