The Clouded Hills

by Brenda Jagger

  ‘Thank you, Miss Boulton, and so do you.’

  ‘But that dress, Mrs Barforth – if I have ever seen anything so exquisite I really can’t remember when.’

  ‘How kind,’ I said, making no explanation, wondering why I was being so cruel when I did not hate her, when it would be so easy for me to say, ‘It was a gift from my mother – totally unexpected,’ and relieve her mind of the agony of wondering why I had set aside the dress she had made me herself.

  Did I know about her and Joel? And if I did, could I put a stop to it? Would he abandon her all over again to please me? Those questions, I knew, would haunt her throughout the dance, would torment her until she could snatch a few words with him, ask him, warn him, plead with him, annoy him, since he would not take kindly to her fears and jealousy tonight. And, knowing this, understanding the how and the why of it, I kept silent and let her go.

  Sir Giles Flood and his party, quite naturally, were not expected until the last, and when a breathless lad came running upstairs to tell us their carriages were in the street, I knew a moment of alarm, quickly suppressed, since Sir Giles Flood was but another arrogant, overbearing, rich old man, and I had known plenty of those. But perhaps I was unprepared for the size of his party, the size of the man himself – a full six feet and a half, or so it seemed, of aristocratic ennui – a manorial lord indeed, his cousin, Colonel Corey, whom I often saw in Blenheim Lane, faded to insignificance beside him. Colonel Corey’s daughter, Estella, was there too, now the wife of a dashing Captain Chase, who had come in full-dress uniform; and, behind them, a half dozen young men and several young ladies, none of whom could possibly be Lady Flood.

  ‘My dear Mrs Barforth,’ Colonel Corey said, coming towards me, bringing a rich odour of brandy and cigars, a certain bluff geniality, with him. ‘My word, this is all very nice – and very nice of you to have us too – very civil, enemies in the camp, eh? But we won’t worry about that tonight. Are you not acquainted with my cousin, Sir Giles? No, I imagine not, for you would have been in the schoolroom the last time he came among us. Giles, dear boy, let me present Mrs Barforth to you. You won’t regret it.’

  ‘Mrs Barforth?’ the lord said, offering me two limp and languid fingers by way of greeting. ‘Now then – let me see – there’s a Samson Barforth somewhere, as I recall – pushy kind of a fellow – he’ll be your husband, ma’am, I reckon?’

  ‘My grandfather,’ I told him, my nerves jangling but my voice quite cool. ‘He died some years ago.’

  ‘Did he, by Jove,’ he said, and as he glanced down at me, his lordly lips began to twitch slightly at the corners with the birth of a smile.

  ‘Very happy to make your acquaintance, Mrs Barforth,’ he said, the two limp fingers becoming a hand, holding mine far too long with lordly privilege, until his cousin, Colonel Corey, who appeared eager to hold my hand too, said, ‘Don’t frighten the girl, Giles,’ and elbowed him aside.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Chase,’ I said, very much amused. ‘Captain Chase.’ And then, assuming that I knew no one else, I paused, waiting to be introduced, and found myself holding out a hand to Crispin Aycliffe.

  ‘My goodness,’ Elinor said, forgetting both her manners and the impression she too was making on our ground landlord. ‘Oh my goodness.’

  But Sir Giles’s arrival had brought the entire Assembly Rooms Committee out onto the landing, Morgan Aycliffe and Joel among them, and, in the shadow of Sir Giles’s august presence, there was nothing to do but smile.

  ‘Mrs Barforth,’ Crispin said to me, bowing formally over my hand.

  ‘Mr Aycliffe.’

  But Elinor gave him the very tips of her fingers, gingerly, as if she thought her husband might snatch them away again, while everyone else – except Lucy Oldroyd, who was too softhearted to snub anybody – managed, in the confusion of that overcrowded landing, not to greet him at all.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emma-Jane hissed into my ear. ‘I don’t want to make a scene, but I really can’t speak to him. After all those vile things he’s written about us I don’t know how he can show his face – upsetting me when I’m like this …’

  And Bradley, his mouth dangerous, muttered into my other ear, ‘Let him talk out of turn just once, Verity, and I’ll take him outside and thrash him. By God I will.’

  ‘I feel cold,’ Elinor breathed, pressing close beside me, using my body to shut out the sight of her husband making some tight-lipped, grey-faced remark to Mrs Chase, his mouth moving as if every word gave him pain. ‘Don’t you feel cold. Verity? I feel cold – perhaps I’ll just slip away and get my shawl.’

  But our manorial lord, having dined exceedingly well, I required now to be entertained, and, reaching out a commanding hand, he clasped my elbow and led me into the ballroom, the crowd parting before us with a docility I found astonishing and which he did not notice at all.

  ‘Let’s get things going, eh, Mrs Barforth – breathe a little life into the proceedings,’ he said, and, taking me to the centre of the room amidst a light flutter of applause, bowed and clicked his heels, knowing, with the supreme self-confidence of those born to greatness, that the orchestra would at once begin to play a waltz.

  And because there was nothing but Crispin in my mind, the fact that I was dancing with Sir Giles Flood, who had every intention of flirting and making love to me if he could – since he was known to be obliging in that direction – bothered me not at all. I could be in no doubt that had Crispin come alone, without the protection of Sir Giles, he would have been asked to leave; he would have been hustled roughly downstairs and booted out into the night as likely as not. And why was he here? What connection had he with the Floods and the Coreys, other than his association with Colonel Corey’s bastard son Mark? Had he known them in London, or in France? And would they stand by him if Bradley Hobhouse took too much wine and turned his threat into a promise? And if Bradley made trouble, who would stop him, for although Law Valley men were not barbarians they were riot too sophisticated to enjoy a rough and tumble; and, if it came to it, I knew that even Joel would be ready to take off his jacket, provided there was someone to hold it for him, and use his fists. And I did not want Crispin hurt – not by anyone, but most of all not by my husband.

  ‘Creating quite a stir, our young Mr Aycliffe, don’t you know,’ Sir Giles said, clearly well satisfied, and, sensing my interest as a man experienced with women can always do, he grinned broadly, ‘Ah, I see you are wondering about him too – just what he’s doing here with me and my cousin and those young sprigs. But he’s a bright young man, young Aycliffe; exactly what we need. A champion of the people, no less, and it’s the people we’re after, you see the little people who haven’t got the vote this time but are bound to get it sooner or later – and when they do it won’t be our fault, you know. No, no, it was the present government who lowered the drawbridge, and when that happens everybody is sure to get in sooner or later. And if one can’t keep them out – if one can’t beat them, m’dear, one joins them. No more than common sense, I should think. Yes, the industrialists will take this constituency in September, make no mistake about that, but we’ll put up a fight, make our impression, not on today’s voters, but on tomorrow’s – all those poor devils who work in your mills, m’dear. How long is it? Fourteen, seventeen hours a day? Can’t be allowed, you know; simply not decent – no wonder this Ten Hours Bill appeals to them. Never heard of it myself, I must confess, until young Mr Aycliffe let me know about it, for which I’m entirely grateful, since it sounds like a very good thing to me. And with Mr Aycliffe himself to spell it out for us, I don’t see how we can fail. No, the millmasters can win this time, but I’ll see a man of my own as member for Cullingford before I’m through, for when all’s said and done, m’dear, it is my manor and you can’t deny me my entitlement to have my say.’

  ‘You mean Mr Crispin Aycliffe is going to stand for office?’

  ‘Well, in a manner of speaking, I rather think he is. Young Captain Chase, my cousin’s son-in-law, is m
y official candidate, for he needs a job of work to do and I’m inclined to keep these things in the family as much as I can. But he’s from the South – Godfrey Chase – don’t understand the natives, and they can’t make head or tail of him – but with Crispin Aycliffe there, you see, to answer the questions and make the speeches, young Chase has no need to open his mouth at all. And if he does, we can rely on Crispin to tell him what to say. Aycliffe for the industrialists, m’dear, and Aycliffe and Chase for the squires. Well, if that don’t confuse them, I’ll be surprised, for it confuses me.’

  And there it was, the whole story; concise, obvious, quite dreadful. Morgan Aycliffe for the manufacturing interest, to enable him to get away from his wife; Crispin Aycliffe for the gentry, for his nuisance value and to interpret for the real candidate, Captain Chase. And my first thought was: Poor Elinor – poor little girl. They’ll crush her between them.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I danced next with Colonel Corey, while Sir Giles took Elinor; then Mr Corey-Manning the solicitor, Mr Lucius Attwood the brewer, Mr Roundwood, owner of the Cullingford Courier and Review, with Dr Overdale, and with a multitude of other worthy men who wished to dance with their hostess as good manners required and then to retire to the refreshment table as quickly as they could. And, on each occasion, when I had been complimented on my looks and the appearance of the rooms, I was asked if I had heard about Crispin Aycliffe.

  ‘Interesting times ahead,’ Colonel Corey told me. ‘Fine young man, our Crispin – met him through a relative of mine – not anyone I expect you’d know, Mrs Barforth – just a young man of my acquaintance. But yes, he’ll be a great help to my son-in-law. In fact, I doubt if the captain could manage without him.’

  Mr Attwood the brewer, who had a troublesome son of his own, considered the whole affair to be criminal and thought that Crispin should be publicly flogged at the cart tail as they’d known how to do in the old days.

  ‘Used to tie their wrists to the tailboard of some old wagon,’ he said with relish, ‘and then we’d drive it slow from the Old Swan to the Bee Hive at the top of Millergate, flogging all the way, with a gang of urchins chucking stones and dung and anything else they had a mind. And when a lad had been through that he soon found the way to mend his manners. We had more respect in those days, and more gratitude. Youngsters knew what they owed their fathers, and how to pay it. And now look where we’ve got to – a lad like Crispin Aycliffe, who looks as if he couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding, turning against his own class and setting out to make a fool of the man who raised him.’

  And, spluttering with indignation, Mr Attwood forgot the dance was over and went on holding my hand, muttering furiously, until Matthew Oldroyd came to claim me.

  Whirling around that polished floor, dazzled by the play of light from Joel’s chandelier, clasped in one set of middle-aged arms after another, I found that I needed no more than a fraction of myself to smile and play the polite game of question and answer, leaving the rest free to observe, to taste the atmosphere around me. And it was not sweet. I saw Elinor raise a hand to her lips to stifle a giggle and then, her husband’s eyes on her, back away towards the double doors, seeking escape. I saw the huddled outrage of the Hobhouse and Oldroyd ladies, a closing of ranks, stone-cold stares and hastily drawn-in skirts as Crispin Aycliffe passed by. I saw Rosamund Boulton edging towards Joel, raising an enquiring eyebrow, possibly the only person in the room who was too intent on her own affairs to care, or even to have heard about the Aycliffes, But Joel, although well aware of Morgan Aycliffe’s position, had no intention of allowing it to spoil his evening. After all, no one would be heckling Joel Barforth at the hustings. Appearing not to see Miss Boulton – although I imagine he saw her very clearly – he strolled across to the manorial party, standing every inch as tall as Sir Giles Flood, and, having made himself generally pleasant – having nodded with a certain grim amusement to Crispin – he began a lighthearted but prolonged conversation with the real Tory candidate, Colonel Corey’s son-in-law, Captain Chase. And Miss Boulton knew as well as I did that Joel’s interest in the gallant captain extended no further than his wife.

  She was fair and sharp-featured and somewhat distant in her manner, Mrs Chase – Estella Corey, who had ordered her wedding gown from Rosamund Boulton; a girl of twenty, perhaps, who knew her own worth, since her mother had been a Flood, and whose languid airs and graces contained their fair share of Flood arrogance. Not a beautiful girl, not even pretty with her pale, watery eyes and her abundant teeth, but a thoroughbred, a challenge, the kind of girl that Joel, in his Low Cross days, had never dreamed of being able to afford – which would, in itself, be enough. And as he bowed over Estella Chase’s limp, well-bred hand and led her into the dance, I saw Miss Boulton’s face stripped, just for a moment, of the smile, the wit, the brilliance, the bold sparkle, and become a brittle mask of anguish.

  But then there was Morgan Aycliffe, appearing in the doorway, looking very much as he always did, a long, grey, mournful man, no stranger to distress, and Hannah, striding purposefully towards him with the Reverend Mr Ashley trailing far behind. Planting herself before him, shielding him from the public view, she began to talk earnestly, telling him, no doubt, that the shame was Crispin’s, not his, and that if any awkward questions should be asked she would be glad to deal with them on his behalf.

  Crispin did not approach me. By now, my mother and Squire Dalby had joined the Floods in the charmed circle of chairs they had installed near the refreshment table – where, for the rest of the evening, until they left immediately after supper, they remained, drinking quantities of claret and champagne, talking and dancing exclusively with each other – a party within a party – Estella Chase breaking the rule only to dance again with Joel. Crispin sat with apparent ease among them, with one of Sir Giles’s young ladies on either side of him, and gradually, since most people were intent on enjoying themselves and it was a personal matter anyway, everyone but his father and Hannah and the hot-tempered Emma-Jane managed to forget him.

  Supper was served downstairs on a long table cover with white damask and a multitude of expensive dishes – veal, chicken and oyster patties, cold roast turkeys and hams, trifles and creams and mountainous ruby-coloured jellies, a veritable feast – with Emma-Jane Hobhouse installed in an armchair at the head of it, placidly eating one plateful for herself and the next for the baby, kicking quite visibly inside her.

  ‘I cannot help thinking that Mrs Hobhouse would have done better, in her condition, had she remained in the security of her own home,’ I heard Morgan Aycliffe say to Hannah and, meeting his cold, fastidious eyes and the protective blaze in Hannah’s, I understood that sympathy would not be well received by either. Clearly, for both of them, It was a case of what could not be mended must be ignored and since one could not take one’s only son by the throat, call him ‘Judas,’ and sink a carving knife into his heart – as Mr Aycliffe may well have liked to do – the next-best thing was to pretend that he did not exist at all.

  ‘Elinor has gone upstairs,’ Hannah told me, ‘to the retiring room, to rest.’ Then, as Mr Aycliffe went off to fetch her a glass of lemonade, she lowered her voice and said, quite crossly, ‘She says she is unwell, but I have just been to see her, and there she is, curled up on a sofa, chatting away to Emma-Jane Hobhouse’s maid and your Mrs Stevens – having her forehead rubbed with rose water and her supper brought up on a tray. And when I told her I thought she should come down she said, Oh, I’m comfortable here, and I’ve seen everything I want to see downstairs – it wasn’t really so exciting, was it, as one might have thought. Do you know, Verity, it’s my belief she’s actually bored – bored, when this awful thing has happened to her husband – and I can’t tell you how much it grieves me to see my own sister with so little sense of, – well – duty, responsibility. She should be here shouldn’t she, at his side – not leaving it to others. Oh dear, Mr Ashley is over there looking quite forlorn, trying to make conversation with Miss Bou
lton – and why she should be in such a sulk I can’t imagine. Do go and rescue him, Verity, for women of her sort positively intimidate him – and my conscience would not allow me to leave Mr Aycliffe just now.’

  But Miss Boulton, her smouldering, snarling temper just barely under control, intimidated me too and, escaping from Hannah, I let the crowd engulf me, carry me into the hallway and up the stairs towards the ballroom, where I concluded – from Miss Boulton’s state of mind – that Joel was dancing with Estella Chase again. But before I reached the doorway a couple standing close together in a corner of the landing caught my eye: a girl I didn’t know who had clearly just been paid a compliment, her young face looking upwards, beginning to smile, displaying the inviting curve of a young neck and shoulders, and Crispin smiling down at her, aware of the invitation. And my whole body suffered such a pang of sheer physical anguish that I rushed forward, quite blind, heedless of anything but my need to get away, not to look, not to know that he could and did desire someone else.

  This, I thought wonderingly, is jealousy. This is the suffering you wanted to feel for Joel and could not. This is what Rosamund Boulton is feeling. And it was as terrible to me as that first clawing agony of childbirth, which, in my panic, I had thought would never end I had expected to die, then, in the hours before Blaize was born and, for a brief moment, I expected to die now. But one does not die so easily and, biting my lip, breathing for an instant as deeply as I could, I made my eyes see again, forced them to pick out of the haze before me the slender, azure shape that was my mother, the stumpy black and white of Squire Dalby, the brittle, arrow-fine silhouette of Estella Chase, her eyes interested, calculating, her own thoroughbred curiosity aroused, as Joel led her back to her chair.

  ‘My dear,’ my mother said, hurrying towards me, ‘what is it? You have turned quite pale.’ And because she thought my concern was for Joel and Mrs Chase, I smiled and was calm again – so calm that even when Crispin came through the door alone and stared hard at me, questioningly, I did not flinch.