I stretched my hands out behind me and felt the rough bark of an oak tree under my icy fingers. I slumped backwards and leaned against it, my eyes looking sightlessly up to the branches and the blue sky beyond, where the courting birds criss-crossed with full beaks. Every time I thought I had reached the worst point of this year, another gulf opened up beneath my feet and I could do nothing but step bravely, bravely into it, and hold on to all my bright courage during the long nightmare tumble. Every little, necessary act I took seemed to be followed with the consequences of a tragedy. The slight decision to turn a little part of the common over to wheat had led me to this oak tree and this black wall of despair. I was hated and reviled on the land I loved by the people I still thought of as mine.
My fingers dug like claws into the bark to keep my legs straight and my mind conscious. But I felt so ill with misery and with this blackness that I could do nothing more than stand. I could not walk home. And for the first time in all my life I wished that I could just go to sleep, here if needs be, on the sweet damp earth of Wideacre. And never wake up to this pain and this loneliness again. I stood, leaning back against the tree, aching with sorrow, and as immobile as if my legs had been caught in a trap and my lifeblood was seeping away as I watched in horror. I did indeed feel that I was bleeding to death. All my wise, loving common sense for Wideacre had drained from me, and all I had left was the empty knowledge that any fool could have. That idiots like John Brien and Harry could have. Men who never heard the deep dark heart of Wideacre beating in the earth. And now I could hear it no longer.
The cold brought me to my senses. At some time I had slid down the trunk and was on my knees in the soft loam. My dress was stained and damp, and the sun had gone down. The chill spring evening awoke me like a jug of cold water over my head and I shook myself like a soaked puppy and clambered to my feet. My legs were useless with cramps and I hobbled across the felled tree like an old lady. I made my slow, chilled, awkward way home and felt like an old lady too. Not the proud matriarch of my fantasy with her children and grandchildren round her, and her line stretching down through the mists of time to rule Wideacre for ever. But a defeated, miserable crone, very near death. And ready for death. And longing for death.
A week later, the post came, and I thought of death no more. It was the deed of entail. The lawyers had finally done it. My eyes scanned it as if I would eat it with my hungry mind. It transferred the entail from Charles Lacey to Julia and Richard. And it provided that the first-born child from Julia’s marriage or Richard’s line, girl or boy, would inherit for ever. I smiled at that. Another girl might yet come to own Wideacre outright. If my first grandchild was a copper-headed girl with green slanty eyes, she would own the land and have to pay no price for it. She would inherit by acknowledged right, and ride over the land with no thought of a threat to her ownership. If she had my wits she would marry some poor Squire to give her children for Wideacre, and then pack him off to Ireland or America with half an unkept promise to follow. And if she was like me — but did not break her heart and her wisdom as I feared I had done — she would laugh out loud in her freedom and her spirits and her love of the land. And the people of Wideacre would laugh too — for joy at having a good Mistress, fair pay, and food on the table.
Pinned to the change of entail deeds was the contract that would bring all this about. One half-written piece of vellum trimmed with the usual rash of red seals and glossy ribbons. But simple enough paragraphs considering what they would bring. And considering what they had cost.
It said only that herein and hereinafter was a contract between Richard MacAndrew and Julia Lacey, now aged one year and two years. That the estate, hereinafter known as ‘the estate’, should belong to the two of them jointly, and be inherited, jointly, by the first-born child of the marriage of either party.
I held it in my steady hands and sniffed at the smell of the wax and felt the texture of the thick vellum between my fingers. The red ribbons along the bottom were silk and they felt soft and warm to the touch. I scarcely read the two paragraphs; I savoured instead the very existence of the piece of paper that had cost me so much.
I dipped my head and laid my face against the document. The vellum was warm, smooth but textured. The seals were scratchy like scabs along the bottom. The ribbons smelled faintly of perfume as if they had been bought by the yard in some haberdasher’s whose perfumes and powder were kept beside his silks. A tear rolled down my face and I lifted my head to wipe it so that it should not blot this most precious piece of paper. Only one tear, no more. And whether I was weeping for relief that this struggle was now over and I could rest a little or because I had succeeded, I could not have said. The haze of pain that had cut me off from Wideacre had also cut me off from myself, and I no longer knew whether I was winning or losing. I could only go on and on and on. The sharp plough in the furrow, the sharp scythe in the field. And whether it was a toad killed, or a hare maimed, or my own life-blood on the bright blade, I could no longer tell.
Then I rang the bell and ordered the carriage for Chichester that afternoon, and bade Stride tell Harry that I needed him to escort me into town to transact some business.
And even at this late, last, final fence, Harry would have jibbed.
‘Why don’t we wait for John’s return?’ he said pleasantly as we bowled down the hard high road to Chichester, through the pretty downland villages, and dragged more slowly around the steep slopes of the shoulder of the downs.
‘Well, we don’t know how long he will be, nor in what state,’ I said, my tone equally light. ‘I should rather get this signed and sealed while it is still fresh in our minds. Then we can tell Celia and John together as a surprise.’
‘Yes,’ said Harry hesitantly. ‘But it’s damned bad from John’s point of view, y’know, Beatrice. I know he’s keen on Wideacre but we have spent his entire fortune to make Richard the heir. I do wish we could have consulted him.’
‘Oh! So do I!’ I said emphatically. ‘But what could we do? If we had left it very much longer there would have been rumours about Celia’s barrenness, and that would have distressed her beyond belief. Those rumours would have made Charles Lacey increase his price because they would have made him hopeful of inheriting the estate. We simply had to go on with it when we did. John will understand. It’s the decision he would have taken.’
‘Well, if you’re certain,’ Harry said comfortably. The carriage rocked slightly as he settled back in his corner. Harry was gaining weight alarmingly fast. He would have nothing in the Wideacre stables that could carry him if he continued to eat at his present rate and spend lazy afternoons with the children on his knee or taking them for little walks around the garden. And if his heart was weak like Mama’s, it must be strained.
‘But there’s no reason why we should not wait for his return to sign the contract,’ Harry said, still uneasy. ‘It looks so odd, Beatrice. It says “signature of Julia Lacey’s parent or guardian”, and there I put my name. And then it says “signature of Richard MacAndrew’s parent or guardian”, and there’s my name as well! Anyone who did not know us would think we were up to some sort of cheat.’
‘Yes, but everyone knows us,’ I said easily. ‘It is so obviously the most sensible and best arrangement for everyone, there could be no slurs cast on it. The only person who loses at all is Charles Lacey and even he has been well compensated.’
Harry chuckled at the thought. ‘Poor old Charles, eh?’ he said. ‘He must have started to get hopeful, d’you think, Beatrice?’
‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘You outwitted him finely then, Harry!’
‘We did,’ said Harry generously.
‘Well, it was your excellent “idea that started the plan,’ I said. ‘And now it is coming to fruition. How well you have ordered the future, Harry! What a certainty of happiness lies before the two children.’
Harry nodded and gazed out of the window. We were coming off the high ground now, dropping down a thickly wooded road which leads
to Chichester from the north. The de Courcey mansion stood behind high walls on our left, other great houses further down the road. Then there was the sprawl of little cottages of the poor. Then the wheels were rattling on the paved roads and we were among the town houses of the prosperous Chichester townsfolk with the spire of the Cathedral towering over it all.
Harry’s pride in his own quick wits walked his legs up the steps to the attorney and moved his hand across the precious piece of paper until he had signed it, as it had to be signed, in two places.
‘It looks a little odd,’ said our solicitor, presuming on our long relationship to challenge our actions. ‘Is it imperative that it be done without the signature of Dr MacAndrew?’
‘My husband is ill,’ I said, my voice low. The solicitor nodded. A grey man in a shady office, even he had heard the gossip, and had pitied me, the prettiest girl in the county, married to a drunkard. ‘We felt we should press on without him,’ I said. ‘We cannot tell when he will be well enough to come home again.’ I stopped because my voice had become hoarse with suppressed tears.
The solicitor pressed my hand. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mrs MacAndrew,’ he said kindly. ‘I wish I had not voiced my concern. Think no more of it, I beg of you.’
I nodded and gave him a sweet forgiving smile on parting when he took my hand in a warm handclasp and bent and kissed it. I drooped ever so slightly down the stairs and then laid my head against the cushions of the carriage as if I were weary. Harry saw my face and took my hand comfortingly in his.
‘Don’t be too sad, Beatrice,’ he said. ‘John will soon be better, I am sure. Perhaps you two can be happy again. Celia is certain there is a future for the two of you together. And whatever happens to your husband, you and your son at least are safe on Wideacre.’
I nodded and returned the squeeze of his hand.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We have done a good day’s work today, Harry!’
‘Indeed, yes,’ he said. ‘When shall we tell Celia?’
I thought fast. I did not want to tell Celia, but equally I knew I never would be ready to tell her. When we announced the joyful news of the change of entail and the inheritance of Julia and Richard as contracted partners I anticipated opposition from her. She knew of them only as half-brother and sister, both of them my children. She could not know, would never guess, that they were both sired by her husband. But she did not like their intimacy. And she did not like my touch upon Julia.
‘Let me speak to Celia first, Harry,’ I said, considering. ‘She is bound to be distressed to learn that you know she is barren. I think it would be better if I told her that although you know, you are not troubled, because you have so cleverly found a way to make Julia your heir.’
Harry nodded. ‘Whatever you think best, Beatrice,’ he said. ‘You sort it out as you please. All I can think of is my dinner. How cold these April evenings are. D’you think there will be soup?’
‘Almost certainly,’ I said equably. ‘I shall speak to Celia in the parlour after dinner, Harry, so you may sit long over your port. Don’t come in until I send for you.’
‘Very well,’ he said, obediently. ‘I shall have some cheese with my port. I shall be in no hurry to leave, I can assure you.’
Harry’s cheese proved to be so potent that Celia actually suggested that we withdraw as soon as it arrived at the table.
‘I agree,’ I said, laughing. I got to my feet and pocketed an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘I would rather have my fruit in the parlour than share a table with that cheese, Harry!’
Harry chuckled, quite unrepentant.
‘You are far too nice,’ he said. ‘Go and have your talk. Celia, I think Beatrice has some good news for you which I know will make you happy.’
Celia’s eyes flashed to my face and her ready smile illuminated her.
‘Oh, Beatrice, is it John?’ she said as soon as the parlour door had closed behind us.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not yet. But the last letter I had was most encouraging. Dr Rose was talking in terms of months rather than an indefinite stay.’
Celia nodded, but the light had died from her eyes. She looked bitterly disappointed. I could not help wondering, with the spice of my habitual malice, if Harry’s increased interest in food, and his growing bulk, was turning him from the golden prince of their early married life into a dreary, unexciting gourmand. And whether John’s thin tension, his desperate grief, his nervous, passionate struggle against his drinking and against my control of him had inspired a love in Celia that was more than sisterly.
But I was not ready to tease that truth out of Celia. I had to take a most difficult fence, and all the thought and care I had put into the approach might not carry me safe over.
‘It is good news though,’ I said. I crossed to the fire and sat in the winged armchair beside it. I pulled up a footstool and lifted my feet up so they felt the warmth of the fire. Celia sank into a chair opposite, her eyes on my face. In the flickering firelight and lit by a branch of candles behind her she looked like some young serious schoolgirl. Far too young to be enmeshed in this complex conspiracy of lies and beguiling half-truths. Far too serious to be able to break away and be free when I had her in my grasp.
‘Harry knows that you are barren, and he has despaired of having a male heir,’ I said baldly.
Celia gave a little gasp and her hand flew to her cheek as if the pain in her heart was toothache.
‘Oh,’ she said. Then she was silent.
‘But he has hit on the most wonderful plan to sign the estate over for Julia,’ I said. ‘It was all his idea, but I have helped with it, of course. We kept it from you in the early stages because we needed to discover first if it could be done. But it can be done. It is possible for Harry to buy the entail from our cousin Charles Lacey and to entail it instead upon Julia. She and Richard are jointly to inherit Wideacre, and to run it together.’
Celia’s face was a picture of amazement, then dawning horror.
‘Run it together?’ she said. ‘How would they be joint heirs?’
I kept my voice steady and cheerful, but I was conscious of choosing my words with care. I felt awkward. I felt nervous. It was like taking a horse you do not know to a fence you do not know in a county you do not know.
‘As joint partners,’ I said lightly. ‘Like Harry and I do now.’
‘Like Harry and you,’ said Celia. ‘Like Harry and you,’ she repeated. She had turned back to me but her eyes were on the fire. Something in their hazy brownness made me wonder what she was seeing in a pile of glowing logs.
‘No,’ she said abruptly.
I jumped in unfeigned surprise.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I do not give my consent, I do not wish it. I do not think it is a good idea.’
‘Celia, what are you saying?’ I said. I disliked the speed of her words. The breathlessness, the stillness of the little figure in the pale parlour.
‘I do not wish that this contract be signed,’ she said clearly. ‘I am Julia’s mother and I have a right to a voice in the decision on her future. I do not wish this to go ahead.’
‘Celia, why not?’ I asked. ‘Whatever are you thinking of, to stand against Harry’s intentions in this way?’
That did not stop her, though it should have given her pause. But her eyes were fixed on the fireplace as if reflected on the coals she could see Harry and me frantically coupling on that very hearth, as my mama had done.
‘It is hard to explain,’ she said. ‘But I do not wish Julia to be involved in the running of Wideacre in the way that you have been.’ I could hear the restraint in her voice, which came from her anxiety not to hurt me. But I would have been deaf not to hear the certainty too.
‘Wideacre means so much to you, Beatrice, that you cannot understand that there is any other life open to a girl. But I should like Julia to love this place as her girlhood home, and to leave it with a light heart when she marries the man of her choice.’
&nb
sp; ‘But this way she is an heiress, Celia!’ I exclaimed. ‘She can marry the man of her choice and he can live here as John and I and you and Harry do. She will be joint owner of Wideacre. You could not bless a child with a better gift!’
‘You could! You could!’ said Celia, speaking fiercely though her voice was low. ‘The greatest blessing I shall give Julia will be to keep her free from the idea that Wideacre is the only place in the world to live. That it is the only thing in the world that could make her happy. I want her to be happy anywhere. I want her to be happy because she leads a good life and has a clean conscience and because she can freely give and freely receive love. I don’t want her to think that her life’s happiness is bound up with a handful of acres and a starving, miserable village!’
‘Celia!’ I gasped, and I stared at her in horror. ‘You don’t know what you are saying!’
‘I do,’ she said emphatically, looking at me directly now. ‘I have thought long and hard on this, Beatrice. I have thought about it ever since we came home to England. I should not want Julia to share her home with another couple, however dear they may be to her. When she marries I should want her to live with her husband and live with him alone. I should not want her to come into another woman’s house as I did, and to see her husband absorbed and working with someone else as I did. If she loved him with her whole heart I should want her to have all his time and all his love.’
‘But we have been so happy,’ I said weakly. ‘We all were so happy.’
‘There was something wrong!’ burst out Celia. She took three swift strides to my chair and pulled me to my feet to scan my face as if she would read my soul. ‘There was something wrong,’ she said certainly. ‘You know what it was and I do not. John knew what it was, but he could not tell me and I think it was that which sent him half mad and made him drink. I can feel it everywhere I go in the house. I can breathe it in the air. And I do not want my child touched with one feather of it.’
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