The Clouded Hills

by Brenda Jagger

  He was a sensualist then, my cousin, my husband, but no despoiler of virgins. A man with a taste for women of character: mature, forceful beauties beside whom I must appear tame indeed. Although I had a fair enough opinion of my own character, privately considering myself to be as honest as anyone else and a shade more intelligent than some, and although my face and figure did not altogether displease me, I knew I lacked the flamboyance, the variety, the experience to which Joel had grown accustomed.

  Not that I believed he ever deliberately hurt me. I had not forgotten his compassion in the hours before Blaize was born. I knew he was fond of me and pleased with me more often than not; and I knew, dimly, that I should perhaps be grateful he had not attempted to use his skill and charm to turn my seventeen-year-old head and make me fall in love with him. He had not amused himself with my untried, uncertain emotions as some men could well have done. He had done nothing, in fact, by Law Valley standards, about which I could reasonably complain. And, at the end of the day, I could do no more than admit the wisdom of my mother’s words. If Joel took a mistress, if he already had a mistress, it would mean very little to him. Whatever it meant to me – if it made me angry, or if I were stung by the injustice of it; if it gave me a sense of failure or futility, or even if it hurt me – my best defence would be to pretend that I did not care.

  Elinor deserted me somewhat that fragrant May, being little inclined to sit and marvel at the infant Blaize when Emma-Jane Rawnsley was fast reaching an understanding with Bradley Hobhouse’s mother, if not with Bradley himself. And so she took her carriage drives with Emma-Jane, keeping her eyes peeled, to the great annoyance of Mrs Rawnsley, who knew quite well what Elinor was up to, even if Emma-Jane did not. But Hannah paid me regular visits, growing more stately than ever in her plain brown taffeta, her mauve silk, the mourning brooch of Edwin’s hair always on her collar, and although she was not fond of babies in the physical sense and appeared most ill at ease on the few occasions Blaize was allowed on her knee, she was his godmother and took her responsibilities seriously.

  Indeed, an afternoon with Hannah was always a serious business, for she was more engrossed than ever in the Sunday School movement, spending a full eight hours every Sunday at Ramsden Street Chapel, near Low Cross, where poor children were taught first to read and then to read the Bible, and spending considerably longer than that in explaining to the minister how best to organize his congregation. Ramsden Street Chapel, it seemed, depended very largely on Hannah’s support; it would, I feared, be very likely to crumble and fall down should she ever desert it. So accustomed was I to her feuds with various old ladies who dared to question her advice and, on one or two occasions, had gone so far as to accuse her of bullying the minister, that when, one afternoon, she broke off in mid-sentence and said, ‘Verity, I believe you are acquainted with Mr Morgan Aycliffe,’ I assumed he was chapel business too.

  Only her silence, the tension vibrating inside her as it, sometimes did in Joel, made me look at her and realize that, whatever it was, it was personal, vital, enormous.

  ‘Am I? Mr Aycliffe the builder? Oh – just barely acquainted with him, Hannah, although I think my father knew him well. I understand he is in a very large way of business, and he was to have built Edwin’s mill—’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her cheeks, always highly coloured, flooding with crimson. ‘He has told me so.’

  ‘You are acquainted with him yourself, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said harshly, angry suddenly, as if it were none of my business; furious, I think, at her own tonguetied, girlish confusion. ‘You may recall, some eight or twelve weeks ago, that a Dr Blackstone came to Ramsden Street to speak to us about the abolition of the slave trade? Certainly you recall it, for I remember telling you how pleased we were at the attendance. Mr Aycliffe was there. No, he is not a member of our congregation, but we had extended our welcome to everyone, and he was there with Mr and Mrs Rawnsley, who presented him to me and asked me to take tea with them afterwards, which I thought most kind. Mr Aycliffe was impressed by the speaker and remarked how well the meeting had been organized, which caused me some embarrassment when Mrs Rawnsley failed to restrain herself from telling him I had been the organizer. In short, we had some conversation about abolition, and about Sunday Schools – which he considers a good thing – and since then we have met several times, under the supervision of Mrs Rawnsley – and once in the street, by chance, when I saw no harm in pausing a moment, since Elinor was with me. There was no harm, surely?’

  ‘Surely not.’

  ‘His wife died a year ago,’ she said, flinging the words at me as if they were stones. ‘Naturally he has observed the full mourning period, as I have. In fact, he came out of black armbands only ten days ago—’

  And, understanding that she was drowning in embarrassment, pleading to be rescued and too proud to cry for help, I said quickly, ‘And has he spoken to you?’

  She looked, for a moment, quite horrified, very much on the brink of tears, but instead of weeping she straightened her back and said resolutely, ‘I think you know what your brother and I meant to each other. I will not dwell on it. And I daresay you are very much shocked to hear me mention Mr Aycliffe – or anyone – when it has been little more than a year. And I would like you to understand that it is in no way the same – that my feelings, as such, are not involved – merely that we appear to have a great deal in common, a certain similarity of thought—’

  ‘But has he spoken to you – of marriage?’

  ‘No,’ she said, her chin very firm. But unless he had that intention – taking into account his strict code of conduct – I do not think he would have approached me at all. And he has singled me out most particularly. Mrs Rawnsley herself has remarked on it – she is always remarking on it, which is really why I felt obliged to tell you.’

  ‘And if he does speak to you? Will you take him?’

  ‘Oh – as to that – The correct procedure would be for him to speak to Joel, and I am undecided as yet. I can only I say he is a good man who champions a great many charitable causes, and I could be of use to him in that And he has had much suffering, with which I am well able to sympathize. His wife died of some lingering malady off the nerves which greatly distressed him, and he has a most unsatisfactory child. Perhaps I could help him there too.’

  ‘Hannah,’ I told her, ‘the Aycliffe boy is hardly a child he must be well turned twenty – easily twenty-two.’

  But the idea of a stepson very nearly her own age did not seem to deter her, and at the end of an hour I was in no doubt that however thoroughly she had convince herself that this marriage could be no more than a Christian duty, in reality she was as eager to escape of mill yard of Low Cross as Elinor. While the prospect allying herself to the rich, highly regarded Mr Aycliffe of being a married lady able to dispense charity instead of receiving it, filled her with a wild delight.

  ‘I’ll tell Joel,’ I promised, and, when I did, his answer was immediate, triumphant.

  ‘By God, Verity, if she can land Morgan Aycliffe she’ll do well for herself – and for me. How far can we rely on it?’

  ‘Far enough, I think. He must have made his intentions fairly clear if Ramsden Street Chapel is taking notice.’

  ‘But he could still cry off. Is there a way to fix him?’

  ‘Hardly,’ I said, remembering that not even Rosamund Boulton had found a way to fix her man; and, just possibly catching the drift of my thought, Joel gave a short laugh.

  ‘No, I suppose not. No way Hannah would be prepared to take, at any rate. So – what’s to be done? How does an old stick like that go about his courting?’

  ‘I don’t see what we can do. But if he’s serious, then I suppose he’ll do something himself. He could call on me, suppose. He must know she comes here a great deal, and if he calls to see me, then he has a chance of seeing her and you.’

  ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘He’ll call. And when he does, take care your grandfather knows nothing of it.
I don’t know what Morgan Aycliffe’s worth but being his brother-in-law would do me no harm if I ever had to go cap in hand again to Rawnsley’s bank. And if he’s even considering marrying her – knowing there’s nothing much to come with her and I’ve not much to add to it – then he must have confidence in me. And that wouldn’t please your grandfather. Is that Marth-Ellen of yours fit to serve him tea, if he comes?’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I believe you will.’ And, in a high good humour, he reached out his hard hand and, with a cousinly gesture of affection, pinched my chin.

  The millhouse had been designed for the convenience of a millmaster who wished to keep an eye on his operatives, not for the entertaining of guests, and so, in anticipation of Mr Aycliffe’s call, I had them clear the front parlour of the paraphernalia of housekeeping, got out my wedding china and washed it myself, supervised the preparation, every teatime, of wafer-thin bread and butter, the polishing of silver spoons, dressed myself carefully, daintily, brought flowers into the house, created as best I could an atmosphere of tranquillity and grace that would, surely, induce romance. But I could have spared myself the pains, for romance seemed to be neither in Morgan Aycliffe’s mind nor in his nature.

  I had seen him a hundred times before, but, because his life had had no bearing on mine – and because he was of another generation – I had never noticed him, and, when he finally rode up to my door and got stiffly, almost huffily I down from his tall roan, it was as if I were seeing his, thin, I grey face and his long, grey body for the first time. He was somewhere between forty-five and fifty, with a back so stiff that I wondered, with a seventeen-year-old’s inclination to giggle, how he would ever manage to sit down, and then watched, with the respect he easily inspired as he folded himself neatly into a chair, with his long, rather bony hands placed precisely, one on each knee.

  ‘Dear Mrs Barforth,’ he said, his voice somehow dry and bony, too, ‘I feel this visit to be sadly overdue. Indeed, I have long meant to call with my congratulations on the birth of your son. My word, what exquisite roses, the very first of the season – such a tasteful blending of colour—’

  Watching him closely, only half listening to the easy, oily flow of his voice, I had the same impression suppressed energy that Joel gave me, except that in Morgan Aycliffe’s case, the suppressing was by his own hand, as if his own virility made him uneasy. And it occurred to me that he may not be so straitlaced as seemed.

  His clothes, it was true, were of a clerical sobriety, sombre in the extreme, but the fabric was expensive and the cut excellent; the watch chain across his dark, unpatterned waistcoat was solid gold, and the black onyx ring on his finger elaborate and costly, his fingers themselves many years away from any actual contact with bricks and mortar. And, in those first few moments, I did not find him a comfortable man.

  But, like most men of business, he knew how to make himself pleasant, and, having paid my bread and butter the compliment of eating it and allowing me to send for more, he crossed one leg with meticulous neatness over the other, pressed the tips of his skinny fingers together, and commenced the true purpose of his visit, the delicate business of presenting his credentials as a prospective bridegroom without in any way committing himself should his intentions change or the lady herself prove unworthy.

  A cautious man, Mr Aycliffe, and a lonely one, he – told me; the more so since he and his late wife had enjoyed a rare harmony, which had made his bereavement doubly hard to bear. He had kept his wife’s room exactly as it had been in her lifetime, her toilet articles remaining just as she had left them, her pincushion and embroidery frame in their accustomed places. He had not really expected, he told me, to recover from so tragic a blow, but, needless to say, there had been his business to consider, contracts to fulfil, workmen to be kept in employment, and, recognizing his responsibilities, he had not shirked.

  ‘Life must go on,’ he said, and I had the impression, most discreetly conveyed, that for Morgan Aycliffe life was going very well indeed.

  He did not, of course, mention the soundness of his – financial position, although his references to his good relations with Mr Rawnsley the banker were enough to convince me of that. But, knowing Hannah’s connection with Ramsden Street, he confessed to me, with a rueful smile, that his own religious views were somewhat unusual. He was, in fact, a little of one thing, a little of the other; a Dissenter, I concluded, when he was among Dissenters, yet a man who, aware of the privileges conveyed by the Anglican Church, saw no reason to shun them. Not that he, personally, wished to attend the universities of Oxford and Cambridge – open only to Anglicans – yet his instinct was always to be on the winning side, to keep his options open. A subtle man, then; a clever man who, although he would not say so, and no doubt for vastly different reasons, was as eager for marriage as my cousin.

  ‘My wife was a most unworldly person,’ he told me, one who preferred the security of her own home and was never plagued by curiosity as to the hurly-burly of life outside. Her anxieties were all of the kitchen and the store cupboard, and it was my pleasure and my pride to be able to shield her from other cares. She has been sorely missed.

  ‘I daresay your son has been a comfort to you,’ I said, and, his lips parting in the smile of an indulgent father, he replied, ‘Yes, indeed. We stand very close together, Crispin and I, although sons, my dear Mrs Barforth, as you will soon discover, have minds and wills of their own. An excellent boy, Crispin – something of a dreamer, and with his mother’s delicate disposition, but a fine son. I had him trained an architect, you know, at some inconvenience and expense, but he has no head for the building trade – he dreams of building castles instead of houses for honest working folk to live in. But that’s his mother in him, for she was often fanciful, and he’ll learn. She indulged him, I fear, almost to excess, for he was her pride and joy, and although the effects of her pampering on his character have not all been for the best, I could deny her nothing in her later years. And so my son has been somewhat spoiled, I confess. Yes – spoiled – but we are, little by little, setting ourselves to rights. I hope you may come to know him, Mrs Barforth.’

  ‘I hope so too.’

  ‘Most kind,’ he said, beaming his approval, taking my hand on leaving with a fulsome warmth that was clerical in feeling and left me in no doubt that he would come again.

  And, while I was mulling him over, my door opened and Elinor came into the room, complaining bitterly because the Rawnsleys and the Hobhouses had set her down in the top road, above my grandfather’s house, so that she had been obliged to walk and had mud on the hem of her dress.

  ‘The old cat,’ she said, referring to the highly suspicious Mrs Rawnsley. ‘She could have set me down at the door. She could see that roan horse as plain as I could – obviously a gentleman’s horse – and she wasn’t even curious. All she wanted was to send me walking down the hill; putting me in my place, I expect she calls it. And it’s not my fault if people look at me instead of her fat Emma-Jane. Three gentlemen raised their hats to me today in Market Square – complete strangers – and I didn’t smile at them first, whatever Mrs Rawnsley says. Well, so he’s been to declare himself, has he? Aycliffe, I mean. What do you think to him?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure,’ she said, and, swinging her reticule in one hand and her frilled parasol in the other, she spun round slowly in a dancing movement, her skirts billowing like the wings of a yellow butterfly, showing off her beauty and grace, her lightness of heart, until she stopped moving and I saw the tense, resentful anger in her face.

  ‘I’ll will tell you what I think, Verity. It’s disgusting, sermonizing and sighing and making eyes, and his wife not cold in her grave—’

  ‘Well, not too warm either, darling, since he wore black for a twelvemonth—’

  But my attempt at lightness did her no good, and, stamping her small foot, her cheeks scarlet with her doll’s anger, she almost shouted, ‘I’ll tell
you about him. He’s old and stale and his wife hated him. Lingering malady of the nerves, he calls it, but the truth is, he frightened her to death. And his son hates him, too. They say his son wouldn’t speak to him at the funeral and not for a long time after. He’s rich and he’s mean and he’s old and what I want to know is, if Hannah marries him, what is going to happen to me? You haven’t thought of that, have you? No. No one has. Let’s get Hannah married, that’s the great thing – let’s get Hannah settled. But there’s me, Verity. What’s going to happen to me?’

  Chapter Nine

  Joel had expressed his ignorance of Morgan Aycliffe’s exact worth, but, in the days that followed, he hastened to inform himself and was well pleased with the answers. About Mr Aycliffe’s building enterprises we already knew, since he was responsible for the newer part of Cullingford, somewhat larger than the old, but Joel, after a few visits to the Piece Hall and the Old Swan and other hostelries where businessmen were wont to congregate, was able to track down hints of Aycliffe involvement in canals, turnpikes, and coal mines, of inherited money and money still to inherit, which filled him with a pure and lasting delight. And, Law Valley men being notoriously closedmouthed, much inclined to ‘hear all and say nowt,’ we knew such hints were to be relied on. Admittedly the existence of a son, the spoiled, fanciful Crispin, was something of a drawback, since, when the time came to carve up his father’s estate, he would be bound to take the lion’s share.

  ‘He could live somewhere between ten and twenty years,’ Joel calculated happily. ‘Call it fifteen – which would bring Crispin well into his thirties, with Hannah’s children, if she has any, still too young to have got their hooks into the business. Well, I’d like it better if there was a chance of Hannah’s getting the lot, but there’s plenty for all, I reckon, and I’ll have it in writing from him, once we get started, that she’s to be well provided for.’